Classic Poem

Still , Clitumnus, down from the mountain, dark with
Waving ash-trees, where 'mid the branches perfumed
Breezes whisper, wafting afar the scent of
Wild-thyme and wood-sage,

Still descend the flocks in the misty ev'ning
Unto thee; and still do the boys of Umbria
Dip the struggling sheep in thy gleaming waters,
While from the bosom

Of the sunburnt mother, who sits barefooted
By her cottage singing, the smiling baby
Turns towards his brothers his chubby features
Radiant with laughter:

And the father, wrapped in his shaggy goatskins
Like the Fauns of old, doth direct with thoughtful
Gaze the painted waggon and team of sturdy,
Beautiful oxen:

Beauteous oxen, massive of shoulder, mild-eyed,
White as snow, with horns that above their foreheads
Curve like crescent moons, such as gentle Virgil
Loved for their beauty.

Even now, like columns of smoke, the clouds rise
Dark o'er Apennine: 'mid her zone of gently
Sloping hills how lovely, austere, and verdant
Umbria lieth!

Hail, green land of Umbria! hail, pure fountain,
God Clitumnus, hail! In my heart I feel the
Ancient Fatherland, and my fevered forehead
Brushed by the pinions

Of th' Italian Deities. Who hath darkened
This, thy hallowed stream, with the weeping willow?
May the wind, degenerate tree, uproot thee,
Hateful to heroes.

Here let holm-oaks battle with winter, murmur
When the earth is throbbing with spring their secret
Stories — holm-oaks black and o'ergrown with gay green
Garlands of ivy.

Here, like giant sentinels round the rising
God, let lofty cypresses crowd to hide him;
Chant thou then thine oracles, O Clitumnus,
Veiled in their shadow.

Tell us, O thou witness of three great empires,
How the stubborn Umbrian, fiercely fighting,
Sank 'neath Velite lances, how strong Etruria
Grew ever stronger:

Tell how then Gradivus descended swiftly
On the twelve confederate cities, leaving
Conquered Mount Ciminius, how he planted
Rome's haughty standards.

Yet did'st thou, th' indigenous native Godhead,
Reconcile the conquerors and the conquered
When from Trasimene Carthaginian fury
Thundered towards Rome.

Then arose a cry from thy caverns, then the
Twisted horn woke echoes among the mountains:
" Ye that in the gloomy Mevanian hollow
Pasture fat oxen;

" Ye that by the banks of the Nar to leftward
Plough the slopes, and ye that cut down the copses
O'er Spoleto; ye that in Martian Todi
Celebrate nuptials,

" Leave the full-fed ox in the rushes, leave the
Tawny bull to stand in mid-furrow, leave the
Wedge stuck fast in tottering oak-tree, leave the
Bride at the altar:

" Run ye, run ye, run ye with axe and javelin!
Run with spears, with bludgeons, and fresh-cut lances!
Run, your household gods to defend from dreadful
Hannibal's onslaught!"

Ah, how fair it shone in the gracious sunlight
This retreat encircled by lovely mountains,
When Spoleto's citadel saw the shrieking
Rout of those ruthless

Moorish hordes, Numidian horses, mingled
All in horrid carnage, and o'er them hurtling
Steel, and burning rivers of oil, and thundrous
Shouts of the victors.

All is silent now. I can watch the tiny
Thread that gushes up thro' the smooth, clear eddies;
Watch it sway and stamp little bubbles on the
Mirror-like surface.

Deep below a miniature forest slumbers;
Motionless, with branches together woven:
Amethyst and jasper in loving curves of
Beauty seem mingled.

And the flowers seem tinged with the hue of sapphire,
Flashing back a sparkle of diamond brilliance.
Radiant, cool, inviting me down to green, deep,
Silent abysses.

On the hills, by streams, in the shade of oak-trees
Seek the springs of Poetry, O my country!
Nymphs have lived, have lived: and this is indeed a
God's marriage-chamber.

Azure Naiads rose from the water, dimly
Seen thro' flowing veils: in the windless twilight
Came they, loudly calling their brown-haired sisters
Down from the mountains.

'Neath the moon, that hung like a lamp in heaven,
Wove they dances, chanting in joyful chorus
Of eternal Janus: how love o'ercame him,
Love for Camesna.

He from Heav'n, autochthonous, manlike, virgin
She: the misty Apennine was her bride-bed:
Clouds concealed that wondrous embrace, whose fruit was
Italy's people.

All is silent now, O bereaved Clitumnus,
All: and only one of thy lovely temples
Now remains, yet thou art no more enthroned there,
Toga-clad, awful.

Now no longer, sprinkled with holy water,
Bullocks proudly bear to the altar Roman
Trophies: fall'n the shrines of our fathers: Rome now
Triumphs no longer,

Triumphed nevermore, from the day when first that
Red-haired Galilean the Capitolian
Heights ascended, threw her his cross, and bad her
" Bear it and serve Me."

Fled the nymphs dismayed to their fountains weeping,
Or within the sheltering tree-trunks vanished:
Shrieking, all the Oreads melted, like the
Mist on the mountains,

When a weird black company through the ruined
Marble shrines and fall'n colonnades came chanting
Mournful psalms and litanies, slowly pacing,
Clothed in dark sackcloth.

And of plains resounding with human labour,
Hills that once imperial glories witnessed,
Made a dreadful desert, and called the desert
" Kingdom of Heaven."

Multitudes were torn from the sacred ploughshare,
Torn from girlish brides and from aged parents:
All that ever basked in the blessed sunlight
Banning with curses,

Cursing all the business of life, nay, cursing
Very Love, they raved of repulsive unions,
Agony and pain with their God on lonely
Rocks and in caverns;

Then descending, frenzied with self-wrought ruin,
Citywards, fear-smitten, would dance and beg the
Crucifix with impious prayer that men might
Scorn and reject them.

Hail, O Human Spirit, serenely dwelling
On Ilissus' banks, and by Tiber's gracious
Shores enshrined as Justice, the night is over:
Rise again, rule us.

Thou, too, pious mother of matchless bullocks
Strong to break the glebe and upturn the fallow,
And of neighing steeds that delight in battle,
Italy mother,

Thou of corn and vines and of everlasting
Laws and arts far-famed, civilising nations,
Mother, hail! for thee I renew the ancient
Songs to extol thee.

Mountain, wood, and stream of this verdant Umbria
Shout applause; before us in smoke and thunder,
Herald of new industries, rusheth onward,
Shrieking, the engine.