Swaying and solitary, above
The hills yon cypress beckons: chance
Francesca here her burning glance
Once softened to a smile of love.
Sheer stands the cliff, yet threatens not:
The boatman, glancing up on high,
Ponders; his oars seem wings that fly
From darkling Adria: yonder cot
Smokes, where the peasant for his rude
Repast stirs grain like yellow gold
In the bright cauldron — there, where old
Guido's grim eagle used to brood.
Beauty's the shadow of a flower
O'er which the white moth Poetry
Flutters: as in the valley die
A trumpet's echoes, dieth Power.
Time's flight and barbarous ages naught
Hath conquered, save one thing alone,
That beacons out the past upon
The coming years — poetic Thought.
There stands the church built when, by name
Unknown, beneath Rome's yoke still bowed
Polenta's future lords, endowed
By Dante with eternal fame.
Knelt Dante here in ages gone?
With lofty brow, which once had seen
God's face, now hidden both hands between,
He wept for his own fair St. John;
And sunlight flashed out o'er the main
From the vast woods. About him rise
Bright Forms, his guests from Paradise,
And beat upon the exile's brain.
From these low arches angels sang,
And through yon white aisle opening to
The East the psalm In exitu
Israel de Ægypto rang.
O many-lived Italian race,
Where'er day conquers night, where'er
Flash gleams of your old glory, there
The Poet's influence may ye trace.
But stretched by open tombs through all
These churches did old men, in frocks
Of grey, with black, dishevelled locks
Defiled by filthy ashes, call
Upon the ghastly, white-eyed, lean
Byzantine crucifix, and pray
For mercy in her evil day
On Rome, the world's deposed Queen.
From sculptured capitals peered forth,
Carved by some hand that dimly apes
The Grecian chisel, horrid Shapes,
Foul Nightmares of the grisly North,
Monstrosities degenerate,
Born of the lawless East, half seen
Through flickering lamplight, in obscene
Embraces twisted, glared and spat
Upon the prostrate throng: behind
The baptist'ry, beyond the font
A small red devil with horned front
Maliciously gazed down and grinned.
The winter of barbarians roared
Without o'er hill and plain; the black
Ships, shooting down their wind-swept track,
Each with a howling god aboard,
Fierce Odin's fire and fury rain
On towns that smile betwixt two bright
And glassy seas, and stretch their white
Arms to the Earth-shaker in vain.
Woe upon woe! For onward sweeps
The Hunnish army, a whirlwind
Of shaggy-coated steeds; behind,
The gleaner, Death, laughs as he reaps.
Ah, Jesu! Sepulchres unclosed
Black mouths, and with indignant groans
Lay e'en the blessed martyrs' bones
To wind and rain and sun exposed.
Down from each still unstormed redoubt
The bearded Lombard comes again,
And with his lance what doth remain —
Ruins, ashes, desert — portions out.
O slaves, despoiled and smitten, yet
One thing — your Church — is left you! This
Your home, your tomb, your country is:
Here see ye naught, here all forget.
One day shall those who spoil and smite,
Themselves, despoiled and smitt'n, come here.
As at the vintage disappear
Within the seething vats our white
And purple grapes, torn from the vine,
Which, trampled on and crushed, at length
By mingling their peculiar strength
Mature into the perfect wine;
So here, before that God who said:
" Vengeance is Mine, forgive thy foes!"
The victors and the vanquished — those,
By Queen Theodolinda led
Through prayer to Christ; these, made immune
From bonds, O Rome, by Gregory
Thund'ring thy word — united by
Old strength, new love, formed the Commune.
Hail, thou, enterraced high between
Bertinoro and that sweet plain,
O'er which, far as the sea, doth reign
Cesena, of brave men the queen!
Hail, little church of this my song!
O many-lived Italian race,
Reborn once more, to this dear place,
That mothered thee of old, now throng
To pray: and let the bell ring clear
Its warning note: from hill to hill
Let the bell-tower, re-risen, still
Peal o'er the land " Ave Maria."
Ave Maria! When down the air
That lowly greeting runs, with brow
Uncovered tiny mortals bow,
Dante and Byron breathe a prayer.
Unseen a slow, sweet melody
Of flutes thro' earth and heaven flows:
Is it perchance the souls of those
That have been, are, and yet shall be?
Then doth a slow forgetfulness
Of weary life, a dreamy sense
Of deep peace after pain, which vents
Itself in tears, men's souls possess
All things are silent, far and near
The after-glow fades from the sky:
Only the swaying tree-tops sigh:
Ave Maria, Ave Maria!
The hills yon cypress beckons: chance
Francesca here her burning glance
Once softened to a smile of love.
Sheer stands the cliff, yet threatens not:
The boatman, glancing up on high,
Ponders; his oars seem wings that fly
From darkling Adria: yonder cot
Smokes, where the peasant for his rude
Repast stirs grain like yellow gold
In the bright cauldron — there, where old
Guido's grim eagle used to brood.
Beauty's the shadow of a flower
O'er which the white moth Poetry
Flutters: as in the valley die
A trumpet's echoes, dieth Power.
Time's flight and barbarous ages naught
Hath conquered, save one thing alone,
That beacons out the past upon
The coming years — poetic Thought.
There stands the church built when, by name
Unknown, beneath Rome's yoke still bowed
Polenta's future lords, endowed
By Dante with eternal fame.
Knelt Dante here in ages gone?
With lofty brow, which once had seen
God's face, now hidden both hands between,
He wept for his own fair St. John;
And sunlight flashed out o'er the main
From the vast woods. About him rise
Bright Forms, his guests from Paradise,
And beat upon the exile's brain.
From these low arches angels sang,
And through yon white aisle opening to
The East the psalm In exitu
Israel de Ægypto rang.
O many-lived Italian race,
Where'er day conquers night, where'er
Flash gleams of your old glory, there
The Poet's influence may ye trace.
But stretched by open tombs through all
These churches did old men, in frocks
Of grey, with black, dishevelled locks
Defiled by filthy ashes, call
Upon the ghastly, white-eyed, lean
Byzantine crucifix, and pray
For mercy in her evil day
On Rome, the world's deposed Queen.
From sculptured capitals peered forth,
Carved by some hand that dimly apes
The Grecian chisel, horrid Shapes,
Foul Nightmares of the grisly North,
Monstrosities degenerate,
Born of the lawless East, half seen
Through flickering lamplight, in obscene
Embraces twisted, glared and spat
Upon the prostrate throng: behind
The baptist'ry, beyond the font
A small red devil with horned front
Maliciously gazed down and grinned.
The winter of barbarians roared
Without o'er hill and plain; the black
Ships, shooting down their wind-swept track,
Each with a howling god aboard,
Fierce Odin's fire and fury rain
On towns that smile betwixt two bright
And glassy seas, and stretch their white
Arms to the Earth-shaker in vain.
Woe upon woe! For onward sweeps
The Hunnish army, a whirlwind
Of shaggy-coated steeds; behind,
The gleaner, Death, laughs as he reaps.
Ah, Jesu! Sepulchres unclosed
Black mouths, and with indignant groans
Lay e'en the blessed martyrs' bones
To wind and rain and sun exposed.
Down from each still unstormed redoubt
The bearded Lombard comes again,
And with his lance what doth remain —
Ruins, ashes, desert — portions out.
O slaves, despoiled and smitten, yet
One thing — your Church — is left you! This
Your home, your tomb, your country is:
Here see ye naught, here all forget.
One day shall those who spoil and smite,
Themselves, despoiled and smitt'n, come here.
As at the vintage disappear
Within the seething vats our white
And purple grapes, torn from the vine,
Which, trampled on and crushed, at length
By mingling their peculiar strength
Mature into the perfect wine;
So here, before that God who said:
" Vengeance is Mine, forgive thy foes!"
The victors and the vanquished — those,
By Queen Theodolinda led
Through prayer to Christ; these, made immune
From bonds, O Rome, by Gregory
Thund'ring thy word — united by
Old strength, new love, formed the Commune.
Hail, thou, enterraced high between
Bertinoro and that sweet plain,
O'er which, far as the sea, doth reign
Cesena, of brave men the queen!
Hail, little church of this my song!
O many-lived Italian race,
Reborn once more, to this dear place,
That mothered thee of old, now throng
To pray: and let the bell ring clear
Its warning note: from hill to hill
Let the bell-tower, re-risen, still
Peal o'er the land " Ave Maria."
Ave Maria! When down the air
That lowly greeting runs, with brow
Uncovered tiny mortals bow,
Dante and Byron breathe a prayer.
Unseen a slow, sweet melody
Of flutes thro' earth and heaven flows:
Is it perchance the souls of those
That have been, are, and yet shall be?
Then doth a slow forgetfulness
Of weary life, a dreamy sense
Of deep peace after pain, which vents
Itself in tears, men's souls possess
All things are silent, far and near
The after-glow fades from the sky:
Only the swaying tree-tops sigh:
Ave Maria, Ave Maria!