On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows,
And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws.
Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales,
Alone, — at night, — the Italian boatman sails.
High o'er Mont Alto, walks, in maiden pride,
Night's queen: — he sees her image on that tide,
Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest,
Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest;
Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar,
Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore;
Now, far before him, on a liquid bed
Of waveless water, rest her radiant head.
How mild the empire of that virgin queen!
How dark the mountain's shade! how still the scene!
Hush'd by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep
On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep,
Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir
The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir,
Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver,
Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river.
Hark! — 'tis a convent's bell: — its midnight chime.
For music measures even the march of Time: —
O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore,
Gray turrets rise: — the eye can catch no more.
The boatman, listening to the tolling bell,
Suspends his oar: — a low and solemn swell,
From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies,
Rolls through the air, and on the water dies.
What melting song wakes the cold ear of Night?
A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, rob'd in white,
Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed,
To charm the parting spirit of the dead.
Triumphant is the spell! with raptur'd ear,
That uncaged spirit hovering lingers near; —
Why should she mount? why pant for brighter bliss,
A lovelier scene, a sweeter song than this!
And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws.
Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales,
Alone, — at night, — the Italian boatman sails.
High o'er Mont Alto, walks, in maiden pride,
Night's queen: — he sees her image on that tide,
Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest,
Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest;
Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar,
Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore;
Now, far before him, on a liquid bed
Of waveless water, rest her radiant head.
How mild the empire of that virgin queen!
How dark the mountain's shade! how still the scene!
Hush'd by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep
On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep,
Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir
The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir,
Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver,
Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river.
Hark! — 'tis a convent's bell: — its midnight chime.
For music measures even the march of Time: —
O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore,
Gray turrets rise: — the eye can catch no more.
The boatman, listening to the tolling bell,
Suspends his oar: — a low and solemn swell,
From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies,
Rolls through the air, and on the water dies.
What melting song wakes the cold ear of Night?
A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, rob'd in white,
Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed,
To charm the parting spirit of the dead.
Triumphant is the spell! with raptur'd ear,
That uncaged spirit hovering lingers near; —
Why should she mount? why pant for brighter bliss,
A lovelier scene, a sweeter song than this!