CARRARA THE HILLS OF CARRARA The mountains of Carrara, from which nearly all the marble now used in sculpture is derived, form by far the finest piece of hill scenery I know in Italy. They rise out of valleys of exquisite richness, being themselves singularly desolate, magnificent in form, and noble in elevation; but without forests on their flanks, and without one blade of grass on their summits. I AMIDST a vale of springing leaves, Where spreads the vine its wandering root, And cumbrous fall the autumnal sheaves, And olives shed their sable fruit, And gentle winds and waters never mute Make of young boughs and pebbles pure One universal lute, And bright birds, through the myrtle copse obscure, Pierce, with quick notes, and plumage dipped in dew, The silence and the shade of each lulled avenue, II Far in the depths of voiceless skies, Where calm and cold the stars are strewed, The peaks of pale Carrara rise. Nor sound of storm, nor whirlwind rude, Can break their chill of marble solitude; The crimson lightnings round their crest May hold their fiery feud They hear not, nor reply; their chasmed rest No flowret decks, nor herbage green, nor breath Of moving thing can change their atmosphere of death. III But far beneath, in folded sleep, Faint forms of heavenly life are laid, With pale brows and soft eyes, that keep Sweet peace of unawakened shade; Whose wreathed limbs, in robes of rock arrayed, Fall like white waves on human thought, In fitful dreams displayed; Deep through their secret homes of slumber sought, They rise immortal, children of the day, Gleaming with godlike forms on earth, and her decay. IV Yes, where the bud hath brightest germ, And broad the golden blossoms glow, There glides the snake, and works the worm, Ah! think not thou the souls of men to know, By outward smiles in wildness worn; The words that jest at woe Spring not less lightly, though the heart be tornThe mocking heart, that scarcely dares confess, Even to itself, the strength of its own bitterness. V Nor deem that they whose words are cold, Of thoughts they keep, and throbs they feel, From distant shores, of winds unfelt by thee? What sounds may wake within the winding shell, Responsive to the charm of those who touch it JOHN RUSKIN. well! LERICI LINES WRITTEN NEAR SHELLEY'S HOUSE AND here he paced! These glimmering pathways strewn With faded leaves his light, swift footsteps crushed; The odour of yon pine was o'er him blown; He walked at noon, or silent stood and hushed When the ground-ivy flashed the moonlight sheen Back from the forest carpet always green. Poised as on air the lithe elastic bower Now bends, resilient now against the wind Recoils, like Dryads that one moment cower And rise the next with loose locks unconfined; Through the dim roof like gems the sunbeams shower; Old cypress-trunks the aspiring bay-trees bind, And soon will have them wholly underneath: Types eminent of glory conquering death. Far down upon the shelves and sands below The purple waves swell up or backward flee; While, dewed at each rebound with gentlest shock, The myrtle leans her green breast on the rock. And here he stood; upon his face that light, Streamed from some furthest realm of luminous thought, Which clothed his fragile beauty with the might Of suns forever rising! Here he caught Visions divine. He saw in fiery flight "The hound of Heaven," with heavenly ven geance fraught, "Run down the slanted sunlight of the morn❞—-Prometheus frown on Jove with scorn for scorn. He saw white Arethusa, leap on leap, Plunge from the Acroceraunian ledges bare With all her torrent streams, while from the steep Alpheus bounded on her unaware: Hellas he saw, a giant fresh from sleep, Break from the night of bondage and despair. Who but had sung as there he stood and smiled, "Justice and truth have found their winged child!" |