Classic Poem

Golden the light on Parma's stately fanes;
And spicy-sweet the spring-time's early breath
Borne northward from the terraced Apennines,
O'er blossoming vines and snowy orchard flowers,
And broidered meadows sloping to the Po.

Golden the light; yet brighter still the eyes
Of a pale dreamer with uplifted face,
Lingering a moment on the strada broad —
Where stands the mighty angel's statue tall —
Then passing, silent, through Saint Michael's gate,
While yet the angelus vibrates to the noon.

What though his cheek with fever's subtle flush
Is hectic, and the way before him long?
His heart is stouter than his beechen staff;
Cheered by a friendlier wine than that distilled
From fair Romagna's grapes-of-paradise.

He sees the silvery river's twisted streams
Netted with flowery islands. On yon slope
Young children play with kids; and, whistling low,
The lithe-limbed, sinewy mulitieri drive
Their laden beasts along th' Emilian Way.

The triple crown, the lilied oriflamme,
The haughty standard of imperial Charles,
Flaunting its proud Plus Ultra to the sun,
The trumpet's boisterous blare, the flashing lance,
The glittering casque, are past, as in a dream.

War's turbulent clangour silences no more
The wild birds in their coverts. Peaceful stand
The sentinel poplars in their gold-green plumes
Beside the Enzo bridge where late the hoofs
Of flying squadrons scoured th' affrighted land.

The soft cloud-shadows chase each other now
O'er violet gardens; barefoot, laughing boys
Plash in the brook; beneath her cottage porch
A white-coifed woman stands with levelled hand
Shading her dark eyes from the westering sun.

All greet him as he passes. By the stile
The grandsire gray looks up and blesses him;
The low-voiced mother lifts her prattling babe
And prompts its sweet buon giorno; in the fields
The vintners doff their tall caps from afar.

Then to each other, one by one, they talk
Of that grand Easter morning, when, midst wreaths
Of incense, while the organ's thunders rolled,
They knelt in Parma's Duomo, every eye
Fixed on the pictured dome then first unveiled.

A miracle! No painted roof is there,
But this blue sky of Italy, these clouds
Curled by the south-wind, where with cherub wings
The little ones they dandle on their knees
Bear the white Virgin through the quickening air.
The saints wear household features. There they see
The grandsire in Saint Peter glorified;
While he, the grandsire gray, he kneels apart,
And sees, through tears, despite her new-made grave,
His daughter, in Our Lady's radiant form.

The day declines. On yonder sunny bank
Beyond the Crostolo for a while he rests,
The patient, worn Allegri, all his face
Kindling with benediction as he looks
Toward far-off Mantua's faint horizon line.

Not all in vain, throughout the battling strife
Of Guelph and Ghibelline has he broke the bread
Of sorrow, trusting the prophetic voice
Within him — keeping , earnest year by year,
Faith with himself , prime duty, seldom wrought!

To him, th' unsought, th' unseeking, there have come
No fine court favours. He has never seen
Lorenzo's gardens nor the Vatican;
Parma, Bologna, Modena, Mantua, these
Inscribe the limits of his narrow world.

Narrow yet boundless. Morning unto him
Unlocks her gates of pearl. The wizard Noon
Tells him deep secrets. Sunset, purple-robed,
Leads him through halls of chrysolite and gold,
And Midnight spins her silver in his dreams.

The shadows lengthen, yet, entranced, he sees
Only the visioned future as he rests;
Mindful no longer of the broken faith,
The grudging spite, the cruel scoff and taunt
Of recreant churchmen, scornful of his worth.

" Not all in vain, " he muses — " not in vain.
But yesterday Romano came and went,
The brave, frank Giulio, with his noble words
Calling the freshness of my boyhood back.
Good angels guard thee, Mantua, for his sake!

Giulio, by prince and cardinal sent, and bearing
A message from the mighty Florentine.
Girolama mia! We will go to Rome,
And the great Angelo shall see from whence
La Notte's and Saint Catherine's grace are caught.
Chaste mother of my boys! Whose wisdom rare,
Eclipsing even thy beauty, through these years
Of toil and trust my guiding star has been,
Well might Romano say I owe to thee
The brighter fortune dawning on us now. "

And she — all day within her quiet home,
In fair Correggio, she has thought of him;
Counting the busy hours till his return;
Pondering the wondrous message Giulio brought,
And singing at her work sweet, thankful hymns.

'Tis late. She goes to meet him at the spring,
Pomponio laughing gaily by her side,
Her baby at her breast. The brook is crossed,
The hill-path climbed. She sees him lying still
Under the fig-trees, in the reddening light.

She kneels beside him, hushing reverently
Her children's prattle as she brushes back
The tangled meshes of his nut-brown hair:
" So tired, so tired! O patient, steady heart,
Sleep yet a little, while we watch thy rest. "

Slowly his dark eyes open at her touch.
The sunset for a moment gilds her hair:
Her children shine transfigured. Still he lies,
Smiling with fixed, calm gaze, while darker grow
The shadows as he feasts upon her face.

O sky, whose lazuli ceiling roofs the world,
Brood with your tenderest grace of mist and star;
O Earth, whose motherly bosom holds us all,
Pour your most precious balsams as she bends
To catch his last low whisper — " Not in vain! "

It hangs there on the wall, Correggio's Night
Copied by thee, thou of the glorious soul
And dauntless spirit! All my lonely nights
Are brighter for its presence — may my life
Be better for the lesson it has taught!