Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 22 1828/The Dying Improvisatore
The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 22, Pages 403-404
THE DYING IMPROVISATORE.*[1]
"My heart shall be pour'd over thee—and break."
Prophecy of Dante.
The spirit of my land!
It visits me once more!—though I must die
Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann'd,
My own bright Italy!
It is, it is thy breath,
Which stirs my soul e'en yet, as wavering flame
Is shaken by the wind;—in life and death
Still trembling, yet the same!
Oh! that Love's quenchless power
Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky,
And through thy groves its dying music shower,
Italy, Italy!
The nightingale is there,
The sunbeam's glow, the citron-flower's perfume,
The South-wind's whisper in the scented air—
—It will not pierce the tomb!
Never, oh! never more,
On thy Rome's purple Heaven mine eye shall dwell,
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore—
—My Italy, farewell!
Alas!—thy hills among,
Had I but left a memory of my name,
Of Love and Grief one deep, true, fervent song,
Unto immortal Fame!
But like a lute's brief tone,
Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast,
Like a swift flush of day-spring, seen and gone,
So hath my spirit pass'd!
Pouring itself away,
As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns
That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns,
Into a fleeting lay;
That swells, and floats, and dies,
Leaving no echo to the summer woods
Of the rich breathings and impassion'd sighs,
Which thrill'd their solitudes.
Yet, yet remember me!
Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung,
When from my bosom, joyously and free,
The fiery fountain sprung.
Under the dark rich blue
Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea,
And when woods kindle into Spring's first hue,
Sweet Friends, remember me!
And in the marble halls,
Where Life's full glow the dreams of beauty wear,
And Poet-thoughts embodied light the walls,
Let me be with you there!
Fain would I bind for you
My memory with all glorious things to dwell;
Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew—
Sweet Friends, bright Land, farewell!F. H.
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* Sestini, the Roman improvisatore, when on his death-bed at Paris, is said to have poured forth a farewell to Italy, in his most impassioned poetry.