HE myrtle in green beauty flings
Her lavish sweetness on the road;
The briar tangled in the shrub,
Bows down beneath its load.
ON THE WAY TO ROME.
HE myrtle in green beauty flingsHer lavish sweetness on the road;
The briar tangled in the shrub,
Bows down beneath its load.
The ivy clasps the sturdy oak,
And still the rough bark loves to hold
With tight embrace, as up she climbs,
In her green leafery bold.
And still the rough bark loves to hold
With tight embrace, as up she climbs,
In her green leafery bold.
Below us the Campagna lies,
Wide stretching out her empty hands,
As if she loved to count the wastes
Of her unpeopled lands.
Wide stretching out her empty hands,
As if she loved to count the wastes
Of her unpeopled lands.
Far in the distance through the mist,
The great St. Peter's dome hangs high,
Poised like a bubble or a ball,
Swung from the purple sky.
The great St. Peter's dome hangs high,
Poised like a bubble or a ball,
Swung from the purple sky.
How like life's journey, swift unwind
The myrtle hours, hope and youth,
When little griefs—none greater seemed
Could ever wound—forsooth!
The myrtle hours, hope and youth,
When little griefs—none greater seemed
Could ever wound—forsooth!
Then as the ivy steadfast clings
Around its own sepulchral urn,
So tight we hold in clasp the hand
That clasps not in return.
Around its own sepulchral urn,
So tight we hold in clasp the hand
That clasps not in return.
And down the shadowy road we wend,
O'er drear Campagna wastes of life,
Till through earth's mist at last we see
Where ends this feverish strife.
O'er drear Campagna wastes of life,
Till through earth's mist at last we see
Where ends this feverish strife.
1859.