What other spot could I exchange for this? Alemæon, when he had found the Echinades, would not wander farther. Letters of ST. BASIL, 829-879. When I see every ledge of rock, every valley and plain, covered with new-born verdure, the varied beauty of the trees, and the lilies at my feet decked by Nature with the double charms of perfume and of color, when in the distance I see the ocean, toward which the clouds are borne onward, my spirit is overpowered by a sadness not wholly devoid of enjoyment. When in autumn the fruits have passed away, the leaves have fallen, and the branches of the trees, dried and shriveled, are robbed of their leafy adornments, we are instinctively led, amid the everlasting and regular change in Nature, to feel the harmony of the wondrous powers pervading all things. He who contemplates them with the eye of the soul, feels the littleness of man amid the greatness of the universe. ST. GREGORY of Nyssa, 396. A VISION. FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH. I. Being one day at my window all alone, Two eager dogs did her pursue in chase, Fell to the ground, and there untimely dide. II. After, at sea, a tall ship did appeare, Made all of heben and white yvorie; The sailes of golde, of silk the tackle were; Milde was the winde, calme seemed the sea to bee, But sudden storme did so turmoyle the aire, And perished past all recoverie. III. The heavenly branches did I see arise Out of the fresh and lustie lawrell tree, Amidst the yong greene wood of Paradise; Some noble plant I thought my selfe to see, Such store of birds therein yshrowded were, Chaunting in shade their sundrie melodie, That with their sweetness I was ravisht nere. While on this lawrell fixed was mine eie, The skie gan everie where to overcast, And darkened was the welkin all about, When sudden flash of heaven's fire out brast, And rent this royall tree quite by the roote; Which makes me much, and ever, to complaine, For no such shadowe shal be had againe. IV. Within this woode, out of a rocke, did rise The homely shepherd nor the ruder clowne, That my glad heart thereat did much reioyce. The spring, the place, and all cleane out of sight; V. I saw a phoenix in the wood alone, With purple wings and crest of golden hewe; Strange bird he was, whereby I thought anone, That of some heavenly wight I had the viewe; Untill he came unto the broken tree, And to the spring, that late devoured was. Himself smote with his beake, as in disdaine, VI. At last so faire a ladie did I spie, That thinking yet on her I burn and quake; Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake; A stinging serpent by the heele her caught; But bitter griefe and sorrowful annoy; Which make this life wretched and miserable, VII. When I beheld this tickle trustles state Of vaine worlde's glorie, flitting to and fro, In restless seas of wretchednesse and woe, And shortly turn into my happie rest, Be vext with sights that doo her peace molest. And ye, faire ladie, in whose bounteous brest All heavenly grace and vertue shrined is, When ye these rymes doe read, and vow the rest, Loath this base world, and thinke of heaven's bliss; And though ye be the fairest of God's creatures, Yet thinke that Death shall spoyle your goodly features. Translation of EDMUND SPENSER. FRANCESCO PETRARCA, 1804-1374. THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME. Perhaps there is no more impressive scene on earth than the solitary extent of the Campagna of Rome under evening light. Let the reader imagine himself for a moment withdrawn from the sounds and motion of the living world, and sent forth alone into this wild and wasted plain. The earth yields and crumbles beneath his foot, tread he never so lightly, for its substance is white, hollow, and carious, like the dusty wreck of the bones of men. The long, knotted grass waves and tosses feebly in the evening wind, and the shadows of its motion shake feverishly along the banks of rivers that lift themselves to the sunlight. Hillocks of moldering earth heave around him, as if the dead beneath were struggling in their sleep; scattered blocks of black stone, four square, remnants of mighty edifices, not one left upon another, lie upon them to keep them down. A dull purple, poisonous haze stretches level along the desert, vailing its spectral wrecks of massy ruins, on whose rents the red light rests like dying fire on defiled altars. The blue ridge of the Alban mount lifts itself against a solemn space of green, clear, quiet sky. Watch-towers of dark clouds stand steadfastly along the promontories of the Apennines. From the plain to the mountains, the shattered aqueducts, pier beyond pier, melt into the darkness, like shadowy and countless troops of funeral mourners passing from a nation's grave. MUTABILITY. From low to high doth dissolution climb, Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail; A musical but melancholy chime, Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear Its crown of weeds, but could not even sustain WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. |