the complete poetical works-第122节
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Then from the fatal field
Upon a nation's heart
Borne like a warrior on his shield！
So should the brave depart。
Death takes us by surprise；
And stays our hurrying feet；
The great design unfinished lies；
Our lives are incomplete。
But in the dark unknown
Perfect their circles seem；
Even as a bridge's arch of stone
Is rounded in the stream。
Alike are life and death；
When life in death survives；
And the uninterrupted breath
Inspires a thousand lives。
Were a star quenched on high；
For ages would its light；
Still travelling downward from the sky；
Shine on our mortal sight。
So when a great man dies；
For years beyond our ken；
The light he leaves behind him lies
Upon the paths of men。
TRAVELS BY THE FIRESIDE
The ceaseless rain is falling fast；
And yonder gilded vane；
Immovable for three days past；
Points to the misty main；
It drives me in upon myself
And to the fireside gleams；
To pleasant books that crowd my shelf；
And still more pleasant dreams；
I read whatever bards have sung
Of lands beyond the sea；
And the bright days when I was young
Come thronging back to me。
In fancy I can hear again
The Alpine torrent's roar；
The mule…bells on the hills of Spain；
The sea at Elsinore。
I see the convent's gleaming wall
Rise from its groves of pine；
And towers of old cathedrals tall；
And castles by the Rhine。
I journey on by park and spire；
Beneath centennial trees；
Through fields with poppies all on fire；
And gleams of distant seas。
I fear no more the dust and heat；
No more I feel fatigue；
While journeying with another's feet
O'er many a lengthening league。
Let others traverse sea and land；
And toil through various climes；
I turn the world round with my hand
Reading these poets' rhymes。
From them I learn whatever lies
Beneath each changing zone；
And see； when looking with their eyes；
Better than with mine own。
CADENABBIA
LAKE OF COMO
No sound of wheels or hoof…beat breaks
The silence of the summer day；
As by the loveliest of all lakes
I while the idle hours away。
I pace the leafy colonnade
Where level branches of the plane
Above me weave a roof of shade
Impervious to the sun and rain。
At times a sudden rush of air
Flutters the lazy leaves o'erhead；
And gleams of sunshine toss and flare
Like torches down the path I tread。
By Somariva's garden gate
I make the marble stairs my seat；
And hear the water； as I wait；
Lapping the steps beneath my feet。
The undulation sinks and swells
Along the stony parapets；
And far away the floating bells
Tinkle upon the fisher's nets。
Silent and slow； by tower and town
The freighted barges come and go；
Their pendent shadows gliding down
By town and tower submerged below。
The hills sweep upward from the shore；
With villas scattered one by one
Upon their wooded spurs； and lower
Bellaggio blazing in the sun。
And dimly seen； a tangled mass
Of walls and woods； of light and shade；
Stands beckoning up the Stelvio Pass
Varenna with its white cascade。
I ask myself； Is this a dream？
Will it all vanish into air？
Is there a land of such supreme
And perfect beauty anywhere？
Sweet vision！ Do not fade away；
Linger until my heart shall take
Into itself the summer day；
And all the beauty of the lake。
Linger until upon my brain
Is stamped an image of the scene；
Then fade into the air again；
And be as if thou hadst not been。
MONTE CASSINO
TERRA DI LAVORO
Beautiful valley！ through whose verdant meads
Unheard the Garigliano glides along；
The Liris； nurse of rushes and of reeds；
The river taciturn of classic song。
The Land of Labor and the Land of Rest；
Where mediaeval towns are white on all
The hillsides； and where every mountain's crest
Is an Etrurian or a Roman wall。
There is Alagna； where Pope Boniface
Was dragged with contumely from his throne；
Sciarra Colonna； was that day's disgrace
The Pontiff's only； or in part thine own？
There is Ceprano； where a renegade
Was each Apulian； as great Dante saith；
When Manfred by his men…at…arms betrayed
Spurred on to Benevento and to death。
There is Aquinum； the old Volscian town；
Where Juvenal was born； whose lurid light
Still hovers o'er his birthplace like the crown
Of splendor seen o'er cities in the night。
Doubled the splendor is； that in its streets
The Angelic Doctor as a school…boy played；
And dreamed perhaps the dreams； that he repeats
In ponderous folios for scholastics made。
And there； uplifted； like a passing cloud
That pauses on a mountain summit high；
Monte Cassino's convent rears its proud
And venerable walls against the sky。
Well I remember how on foot I climbed
The stony pathway leading to its gate；
Above； the convent bells for vespers chimed；
Below； the darkening town grew desolate。
Well I remember the low arch and dark；
The court…yard with its well； the terrace wide；
From which； far down； the valley like a park
Veiled in the evening mists； was dim descried。
The day was dying； and with feeble hands
Caressed the mountain…tops； the vales between
Darkened； the river in the meadowlands
Sheathed itself as a sword； and was not seen。
The silence of the place was like a sleep；
So full of rest it seemed； each passing tread
Was a reverberation from the deep
Recesses of the ages that are dead。
For； more than thirteen centuries ago；
Benedict fleeing from the gates of Rome；
A youth disgusted with its vice and woe；
Sought in these mountain solitudes a home。
He founded here his Convent and his Rule
Of prayer and work； and counted work as prayer；
The pen became a clarion； and his school
Flamed like a beacon in the midnight air。
What though Boccaccio； in his reckless way；
Mocking the lazy brotherhood； deplores
The illuminated manuscripts； that lay
Torn and neglected on the dusty floors？
Boccaccio was a novelist； a child
Of fancy and of fiction at the best！
This the urbane librarian said； and smiled
Incredulous； as at some idle jest。
Upon such themes as these； with one young friar
I sat conversing late into the night；
Till in its cavernous chimney the woodfire
Had burnt its heart out like an anchorite。
And then translated； in my convent cell；
Myself yet not myself； in dreams I lay；
And； as a monk who hears the matin bell；
Started from sleep； already it was day。
From the high window I beheld the scene
On which Saint Benedict so oft had gazed；
The mountains and the valley in the sheen
Of the bright sun；and stood as one amazed。
Gray mists were rolling； rising； vanishing；
The woodlands glistened with their jewelled crowns；
Far off the mellow bells began to ring
For matins in the half…awakened towns。
The conflict of the Present and the Past；
The ideal and the actual in our life；
As on a field of battle held me fast；
Where this world and the next world were at strife。
For； as the valley from its sleep awoke；
I saw the iron horses of the steam
Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke；
And woke； as one awaketh from a dream。
AMALFI
Sweet the memory is to me
Of a land beyond the sea；
Where the waves and mountains meet；
Where； amid her mulberry…trees
Sits Amalfi in the heat；
Bathing ever her white feet
In the tideless summer seas。
In the middle of the town；
From its fountains in the hills；
Tumbling through the narrow gorge；
The Canneto rushes down；
Turns the great wheels of the mills；
Lifts the hammers of the forge。
'T is a stairway； not a street；
That ascends the deep ravine；
Where the torrent leaps between
Rocky walls that almost meet。
Toiling up from stair to stair
Peasant girls their burdens bear；
Sunburnt daughters of the soil；
Stately figures tall and straight；
What inexorable fate
Dooms them to this life of toil？
Lord of vineyards and of lands；
Far above the convent stands。
On its terraced walk aloof
Leans a monk with folded hands；
Placid； satisfied； serene；
Looking down upon the scene
Over wall and red…tiled roof；
Wondering unto what good end
All this toil and traffic tend；
And why all men cannot be
Free from care and free from pain；
And the sordid love of gain；
And as indolent as he。
Where are now the freighted barks
From the marts of east and west？
Where the knights in iron sarks
Journeying to the Holy Land；
Glove of steel upon the hand；
Cross of crimson on the breast？
Where the pomp of camp and court？
Where the pilgrims with their prayers？
Where
