Classic Poem

It was an hour of universal joy.
The lark was up and at the gate of heaven,
Singing, as sure to enter when he came;
The butterfly was basking in my path,
His radiant wings unfolded. From below
The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively;
And odors, such as welcome in the day,
Such as salute the early traveller,
And come and go, each sweeter than the last,
Were rising. Hill and valley breathed delight;
And not a living thing but blessed the hour!
In every bush and brake there was a voice
Responsive!
From the T HRASYMENE , that now
Slept in the sun, a lake of molten gold,
And from the shore that once, when armies met,
Rocked to and fro unfelt, so terrible
The rage, the slaughter, I had turned away;
The path, that led me, leading through a wood,
A fairy-wilderness of fruits and flowers,
And by a brook that, in the day of strife,
Ran blood, but now runs amber — when a glade,
Far, far within, sunned only at noon-day,
Suddenly opened. Many a bench was there,
Each round its ancient elm; and many a track,
Well known to them that from the highway loved
A while to deviate. In the midst a cross
Of mouldering stone as in a temple stood,
Solemn, severe; coival with the trees
That round it in majestic order rose;
And on the lowest step a pilgrim knelt
In fervent prayer. He was the first I saw
(Save in the tumult of a midnight-masque,
A revel, where none cares to play his part,
And they, that speak, at once dissolve the charm) —
The first in sober truth, no counterfeit;
And, when his orisons were duly paid,
He rose, and we exchanged, as all are wont,
A traveller's greeting.
Young, and of an age
When youth is most attractive, when a light
Plays round and round, reflected, while it lasts,
From some attendant spirit, that ere long
(His charge relinquished with a sigh, a tear)
Wings his flight upward — with a look he won
My favor; and, the spell of silence broke,
I could not but continue. — " Whence, " I asked,
" Whence art thou? " — " From Mont' alto, " he replied,
" My native village in the Apennines. " —
" And whither journeying? " — " To the holy shrine
Of Saint Antonio in the city of P ADUA .
Perhaps, if thou hast ever gone so far,
Thou wilt direct my course. " — " Most willingly;
But thou hast much to do, much to endure,
Ere thou hast entered where the silver lamps
Burn ever. Tell me...I would not transgress,
Yet ask I must...what could have brought thee forth,
Nothing in act or thought to be atoned for? " —
" It was a vow I made in my distress.
We were so blest, none were so blest as we,
Till sickness came. First, as death-struck, I fell;
Then my beloved sister; and ere long,
Worn with continual watchings, night and day,
Our saint-like mother. Worse and worse she grew;
And in my anguish, my despair, I vowed,
That if she lived, if Heaven restored her to us,
I would forthwith, and in a pilgrim's weeds,
Visit that holy shrine. My vow was heard;
And therefore am I come. " — " Blest be thy steps;
And may those weeds, so reverenced of old,
Guard thee in danger! " — " They are nothing worth.
But they are worn in humble confidence;
Nor would I for the richest robe resign them,
Wrought, as they were, by those I love so well,
Lauretta and my sister; theirs the task,
But none to them, a pleasure, a delight,
To ply their utmost skill, and send me forth
As best became this service. Their last words,
" Fare thee well, Carlo. We shall count the hours!"
Will not go from me " — " Health and strength be thine
In thy long travel! May no sunbeam strike;
No vapor cling and wither! May'st thou be,
Sleeping or waking, sacred and secure;
And when again thou com'st, thy labor done,
Joy be among ye! In that happy hour
All will pour forth to bid thee welcome, Carlo;
And there is one, or I am much deceived,
One thou hast named, who will not be the last " —
" O, she is true as Truth itself can be!
But, ah! thou know'st her not. Would that thou couldst!
My steps I quicken when Ithink of her;
For, though they take me further from her door,
I shall return the sooner. "