The Garden of Boccacio
- 1Or late, in one of those most weary hours,
- 2When life seems emptied of all genial powers,
- 3A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known
- 4May bless his happy lot, I sate alone;
- 5And, from the numbing spell to win relief,
- 6Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or grief.
- 7In vain! bereft alike of grief and glee,
- 8I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy!
- 9And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache,
- 10Which, all else slumb'ring, seem'd alone to wake;
- 11O Friend[478:2]! long wont to notice yet conceal,
- 12And soothe by silence what words cannot heal,
- 13I but half saw that quiet hand of thine
- 14Place on my desk this exquisite design.
- 15Boccaccio's Garden and its faery,
- 16The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry!
- 17An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm,
- 18Framed in the silent poesy of form.
- 19Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep
- 20Emerging from a mist: or like a stream
- 21Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,
- 22But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream,
- 23Grazed by an idle eye with silent might
- 24The picture stole upon my inward sight.
- 25A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest,
- 26As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast.
- 27And one by one (I know not whence) were brought
- 28All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought
- 29In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost
- 30Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost;
- 31Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above,
- 32Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love;
- 33Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan
- 34Of manhood, musing what and whence is man!
- 35Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves
- 36Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves;
- 37Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids,
- 38That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades;
- 39Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast;
- 40Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest,
- 41Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array,
- 42To high-church pacing on the great saint's day:
- 43And many a verse which to myself I sang,
- 44That woke the tear, yet stole away the pang
- 45Of hopes, which in lamenting I renew'd:
- 46And last, a matron now, of sober mien,
- 47Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen,
- 48Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd
- 49Even in my dawn of thought--Philosophy;
- 50Though then unconscious of herself, pardie,
- 51She bore no other name than Poesy;
- 52And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee,
- 53That had but newly left a mother's knee,
- 54Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone,
- 55As if with elfin playfellows well known,
- 56And life reveal'd to innocence alone.
- 57Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descry
- 58Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,
- 59And all awake! And now in fix'd gaze stand,
- 60Now wander through the Eden of thy hand;
- 61Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear
- 62See fragment shadows of the crossing deer;
- 63And with that serviceable nymph I stoop,
- 64The crystal, from its restless pool, to scoop.
- 65I see no longer! I myself am there,
- 66Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.
- 67'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,
- 68And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings:
- 69Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells
- 70From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.
- 71With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,
- 72And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.
- 73The brightness of the world, O thou once free,
- 74And always fair, rare land of courtesy!
- 75O Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills
- 76And famous Arno, fed with all their rills;
- 77Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy!
- 78Rich, ornate, populous,--all treasures thine,
- 79The golden corn, the olive, and the vine.
- 80Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old,
- 81And forests, where beside his leafy hold
- 82The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn,
- 83And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn;
- 84Palladian palace with its storied halls;
- 85Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls;
- 86Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span,
- 87And Nature makes her happy home with man;
- 88Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed
- 89With its own rill, on its own spangled bed,
- 90And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head,
- 91A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn
- 92Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn;--
- 93Thine all delights, and every muse is thine;
- 94And more than all, the embrace and intertwine
- 95Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance!
- 96Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance,
- 97See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees
- 98The new-found roll of old Maeonides;[480:1]
- 99But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart,
- 100Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart![480:2]
- 101O all-enjoying and all-blending sage,
- 102Long be it mine to con thy mazy page,
- 103Where, half conceal'd, the eye of fancy views
- 104Fauns, nymphs, and wingéd saints, all gracious to thy muse!
- 105Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,
- 106And see in Dian's vest between the ranks
- 107Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes
- 108The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves,
- 109With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves!