I do recall some sad days spent By borders of the Orient, 'Twould make a tale. It matters not. I sought the loneliest seas; I sought The solitude of ruins, and forgot Mine own life and my littleness Before this fair land's mute distress. Slow sailing through the reedy isles, Some sunny summer yesterdays, I watched the storied yellow sail, And lifted prow of steely mail; 'Tis all that's left Torcello now, -- A pirate's yellow sail, a prow. I touch'd Torcello. Once on land, I took a sea-shell in my hand, And blew like any trumpeter. I felt the fig leaves lift and stir On trees that reach from ruin'd wall Above my head, -- but that was all. Back from the farther island shore Came echoes trooping -- nothing more. By cattle paths grass-grown and worn, Through marbled streets all stain'd and torn By time and battle, lone I walk'd. A bent old beggar, white as one For better fruitage blossoming, Came on. And as he came he talk'd Unto himself; for there were none In all his island, old and dim, To answer back or question him. I turn'd, retraced my steps once more. The hot miasma steam'd and rose In deadly vapor from the reeds That grew from out the shallow shore, Where peasants say the sea-horse feeds, And Neptune shapes his horn and blows. Yet here stood Adria once, and here Attila came with sword and flame, And set his throne of hollow'd stone In her high mart. And it remains Still lord o'er all. Where once the tears Of mute petition fell, the rains Of heaven fall. Lo! all alone There lifts this massive empty throne. I climb'd and sat that throne of stone To contemplate, to dream, to reign -- Ay, reign above myself; to call The people of the past again Before me as I sat alone In all my kingdom. There were kine That browsed along the reedy brine, And now and then a tusky boar Would shake the high reeds of the shore, A bird blow by, -- but that was all. I watch'd the lonesome sea-gull pass. I did remember and forget, -- The past roll'd by; I lived alone. I sat the shapely, chisell'd stone That stands in tall, sweet grasses set; Ay, girdled deep in long, strong grass, And green alfalfa. Very fair The heavens were, and still and blue, For Nature knows no changes there. The Alps of Venice, far away, Like some half-risen late moon lay. How sweet the grasses at my feet! The smell of clover over-sweet. I heard the hum of bees. The bloom Of clover-tops and cherry-trees Was being rifled by the bees, And these were building in a tomb. The fair alfalfa -- such as has Usurp'd the Occident, and grows With all the sweetness of the rose On Sacramento's sundown hills -- Is there, and that dead island fills With fragrance. Yet the smell of death Comes riding in on every breath. That sad, sweet fragrance. It had sense, And sound, and voice. It was a part Of that which had possess'd my heart, And would not of my will go hence, 'Twas Autumn's breath; sad as the kiss Of some sweet worshipp'd woman is. Some snails had climb'd the throne and writ Their silver monograms on it In unknown tongues. I sat thereon, I dream'd until the day was gone; I blew again my pearly shell, -- Blew long and strong, and loud and well; I puff'd my cheeks, I blew as when Horn'd satyrs piped and danced as men. Some mouse-brown cows that fed within Look'd up. A cowherd rose hard by, My single subject, clad in skin, Nor yet half-clad. I caught his eye, -- He stared at me, then turn'd and fled. He frighten'd fled, and as he ran, Like wild beast from the face of man Back o'er his shoulder threw his head. He stopp'd, and then this subject true, Mine only one in all the isle, Turn'd round, and, with a fawning smile, Came back and ask'd me for a @3sou!@1 | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PROMETHEUS by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE PIONEER WOMAN by EVA K. ANGLESBURG THE LAMENT: A BALLAD by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE AUTO-DA-FE; A LEGEND OF SPAIN by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM THE FROZEN GRAIL (TO PEARY AND HIS MEN) by ELSA BARKER THE SECOND DAYES LAMENTATION OF THE AFFECTIONATE SHEPHEARD by RICHARD BARNFIELD |