Ravenna

Ravenna

　　（Newdigate prize poem recited in the Sheldonian Theatre Oxford¹ June 26th， 1878.

　　To my friend George Fleming author of 'The Nile Novel' and'Mirage'）

　　I.

　　A year ago I breathed the Italian air， -

　　And yet， methinks this northern Spring is fair，-

　　These fields made golden with the flower of March，

　　The throstle singing on the feathered larch³，

　　The cawing rooks， the wood-doves fluttering by，

　　The little clouds that race across the sky；

　　And fair the violet's gentle drooping⁴ head，

　　The primrose⁵， pale for love uncomforted，

　　The rose that burgeons⁶ on the climbing briar，

　　The crocus-bed， （that seems a moon of fire

　　Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring）；

　　And all the flowers of our English Spring，

　　Fond snowdrops， and the bright-starred daffodil.

　　Up starts the lark⁷ beside the murmuring mill，

　　And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew；

　　And down the river， like a flame of blue，

　　Keen as an arrow flies the water-king，

　　While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing.

　　A year ago！ - it seems a little time

　　Since last I saw that lordly southern clime，

　　Where flower and fruit to purple radiance blow，

　　And like bright lamps the fabled⁹ apples glow.

　　Full Spring it was - and by rich flowering vines，

　　Dark olive-groves and noble forest-pines，

　　I rode at will； the moist glad air was sweet，

　　The white road rang beneath my horse's feet，

　　And musing¹⁰ on Ravenna's ancient name，

　　I watched the day till， marked with wounds of flame，

　　The turquoise¹¹ sky to burnished¹² gold was turned.

　　O how my heart with boyish passion burned，

　　When far away across the sedge and mere¹³

　　I saw that Holy City rising clear，

　　Crowned with her crown of towers！ - On and on

　　I galloped¹⁴， racing¹⁵ with the setting sun，

　　And ere the crimson¹⁶ after-glow was passed，

　　I stood within Ravenna's walls at last！

　　II.

　　How strangely still！ no sound of life or joy

　　Startles the air； no laughing shepherd-boy

　　Pipes on his reed， nor ever through the day

　　Comes the glad sound of children at their play：

　　O sad， and sweet， and silent！ surely here

　　A man might dwell apart from troublous fear，

　　Watching the tide of seasons as they flow

　　From amorous¹⁷ Spring to Winter's rain and snow，

　　And have no thought of sorrow； - here， indeed，

　　Are Lethe's waters， and that fatal weed

　　Which makes a man forget his fatherland.

　　Ay！ amid lotus-meadows dost thou stand，

　　Like Proserpine， with poppy-laden head，

　　Guarding the holy ashes of the dead.

　　For though thy brood of warrior¹⁸ sons hath ceased，

　　Thy noble dead are with thee！ - they at least

　　Are faithful to thine honour：- guard them well，

　　O childless city！ for a mighty¹⁹ spell，

　　To wake men's hearts to dreams of things sublime²⁰，

　　Are the lone²¹ tombs where rest the Great of Time.

　　III.

　　Yon lonely pillar， rising on the plain，

　　Marks where the bravest knight²² of France was slain²³， -

　　The Prince of chivalry²⁴， the Lord of war，

　　Gaston de Foix： for some untimely star

　　Led him against thy city， and he fell，

　　As falls some forest-lion fighting well.

　　Taken from life while life and love were new，

　　He lies beneath God's seamless veil of blue；

　　Tall lance-like reeds wave sadly o'er his head，

　　And oleanders bloom to deeper red，

　　Where his bright youth flowed crimson on the ground.

　　Look farther north unto that broken mound²⁶， -

　　There， prisoned now within a lordly tomb

　　Raised by a daughter's hand， in lonely gloom，

　　Huge-limbed Theodoric， the Gothic king，

　　Sleeps after all his weary conquering.

　　Time hath not spared his ruin， - wind and rain

　　Have broken down his stronghold； and again

　　We see that Death is mighty lord of all，

　　And king and clown to ashen²⁷ dust must fall

　　Mighty indeed THEIR glory！ yet to me

　　Barbaric king， or knight of chivalry，

　　Or the great queen herself， were poor and vain，

　　Beside the grave where Dante rests from pain.

　　His gilded²⁸ shrine²⁹ lies open to the air；

　　And cunning sculptor's hands have carven there

　　The calm white brow， as calm as earliest morn，

　　The eyes that flashed with passionate³⁰ love and scorn，

　　The lips that sang of Heaven and of Hell，

　　The almond-face which Giotto drew so well，

　　The weary face of Dante； - to this day，

　　Here in his place of resting， far away

　　From Arno's yellow waters， rushing down

　　Through the wide bridges of that fairy town，

　　Where the tall tower of Giotto seems to rise

　　A marble lily under sapphire³¹ skies！

　　Alas³²！ my Dante！ thou hast known the pain

　　Of meaner lives， - the exile's galling³³ chain，

　　How steep the stairs within kings' houses are，

　　And all the petty miseries³⁴ which mar²

　　Man's nobler nature with the sense of wrong.

　　Yet this dull world is grateful for thy song；

　　Our nations do thee homage³⁵， - even she，

　　That cruel queen of vine-clad Tuscany，

　　Who bound with crown of thorns thy living brow，

　　Hath decked thine empty tomb with laurels³⁶ now，

　　And begs in vain the ashes of her son.

　　O mightiest³⁷ exile！ all thy grief is done：

　　Thy soul walks now beside thy Beatrice；

　　Ravenna guards thine ashes： sleep in peace.

　　IV.

　　How lone this palace is； how grey the walls！

　　No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls.

　　The broken chain lies rusting³⁸ on the door，

　　And noisome³⁹ weeds have split the marble floor：

　　Here lurks⁴⁰ the snake， and here the lizards⁴¹ run

　　By the stone lions blinking in the sun.

　　Byron dwelt here in love and revelry

　　For two long years - a second Anthony，

　　Who of the world another Actium made！

　　Yet suffered not his royal soul to fade，

　　Or lyre to break， or lance to grow less keen，

　　'Neath any wiles⁴² of an Egyptian queen.

　　For from the East there came a mighty cry，

　　And Greece stood up to fight for Liberty，

　　And called him from Ravenna： never knight

　　Rode forth⁴³ more nobly to wild scenes of fight！

　　None fell more bravely on ensanguined field，

　　Borne like a Spartan⁴⁴ back upon his shield！

　　O Hellas！ Hellas！ in thine hour of pride，

　　Thy day of might， remember him who died

　　To wrest⁴⁵ from off thy limbs the trammelling chain：

　　O Salamis！ O lone Plataean plain！

　　O tossing waves of wild Euboean sea！

　　O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylae！

　　He loved you well - ay， not alone in word，

　　Who freely gave to thee his lyre and sword，

　　Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon：

　　And England， too， shall glory in her son，

　　Her warrior-poet， first in song and fight.

　　No longer now shall Slander's venomed⁴⁶ spite

　　Crawl like a snake across his perfect name，

　　Or mar the lordly scutcheon of his fame.

　　For as the olive-garland of the race，

　　Which lights with joy each eager runner's face，

　　As the red cross which saveth men in war，

　　As a flame-bearded beacon⁴⁷ seen from far

　　By mariners⁴⁸ upon a storm-tossed sea， -

　　Such was his love for Greece and Liberty！

　　Byron， thy crowns are ever fresh and green：

　　Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene

　　Shall bind⁴⁹ thy brows； the myrtle blooms for thee，

　　In hidden glades⁵¹ by lonely Castaly；

　　The laurels wait thy coming： all are thine，

　　And round thy head one perfect wreath will twine⁵².

　　V.

　　The pine-tops rocked before the evening breeze

　　With the hoarse⁵³ murmur⁸ of the wintry seas，

　　And the tall stems were streaked⁵⁴ with amber⁵⁵ bright； -

　　I wandered through the wood in wild delight，

　　Some startled bird， with fluttering wings and fleet，

　　Made snow of all the blossoms； at my feet，

　　Like silver crowns， the pale narcissi lay，

　　And small birds sang on every twining spray.

　　O waving trees， O forest liberty！

　　Within your haunts at least a man is free，

　　And half forgets the weary world of strife⁵⁶：

　　The blood flows hotter， and a sense of life

　　Wakes i' the quickening veins⁵⁷， while once again

　　The woods are filled with gods we fancied slain.

　　Long time I watched， and surely hoped to see

　　Some goat-foot Pan make merry minstrelsy

　　Amid the reeds！ some startled Dryad-maid

　　In girlish flight！ or lurking⁵⁸ in the glade⁵⁰，

　　The soft brown limbs， the wanton treacherous⁵⁹ face

　　Of woodland god！ Queen Dian in the chase，

　　White-limbed and terrible， with look of pride，

　　And leash⁶⁰ of boar-hounds leaping at her side！

　　Or Hylas mirrored in the perfect stream.

　　O idle heart！ O fond Hellenic dream！

　　Ere long， with melancholy⁶¹ rise and swell⁶²，

　　The evening chimes， the convent's vesper bell，

　　Struck on mine ears amid the amorous flowers.

　　Alas！ alas！ these sweet and honied hours

　　Had whelmed my heart like some encroaching sea，

　　And drowned all thoughts of black Gethsemane.

　　VI.

　　O lone Ravenna！ many a tale is told

　　Of thy great glories in the days of old：

　　Two thousand years have passed since thou didst see

　　Caesar ride forth to royal victory.

　　Mighty thy name when Rome's lean eagles flew

　　From Britain's isles⁶⁴ to far Euphrates blue；

　　And of the peoples thou wast noble queen，

　　Till in thy streets the Goth and Hun were seen.

　　Discrowned by man， deserted⁶⁵ by the sea，

　　Thou sleepest， rocked in lonely misery⁶⁶！

　　No longer now upon thy swelling⁶⁷ tide，

　　Pine-forest-like， thy myriad⁶⁸ galleys⁷⁰ ride！

　　For where the brass-beaked ships were wont⁷¹ to float，

　　The weary shepherd pipes his mournful note；

　　And the white sheep are free to come and go

　　Where Adria's purple waters used to flow.

　　O fair！ O sad！ O Queen uncomforted！

　　In ruined loveliness thou liest dead，

　　Alone of all thy sisters； for at last

　　Italia's royal warrior hath passed

　　Rome's lordliest entrance， and hath worn his crown

　　In the high temples of the Eternal Town！

　　The Palatine hath welcomed back her king，

　　And with his name the seven mountains ring！

　　And Naples hath outlived her dream of pain，

　　And mocks her tyrant⁷²！ Venice lives again，

　　New risen from the waters！ and the cry

　　Of Light and Truth， of Love and Liberty，

　　Is heard in lordly Genoa， and where

　　The marble spires⁷³ of Milan wound the air，

　　Rings from the Alps to the Sicilian shore，

　　And Dante's dream is now a dream no more.

　　But thou， Ravenna， better loved than all，

　　Thy ruined palaces are but a pall⁷⁴

　　That hides thy fallen greatness！ and thy name

　　Burns like a grey and flickering⁷⁵ candle-flame

　　Beneath the noonday splendour of the sun

　　Of new Italia！ for the night is done，

　　The night of dark oppression， and the day

　　Hath dawned in passionate splendour： far away

　　The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land，

　　Beyond those ice-crowned citadels⁷⁶ which stand

　　Girdling the plain of royal Lombardy，

　　From the far West unto the Eastern sea.

　　I know， indeed， that sons of thine have died

　　In Lissa's waters， by the mountain-side

　　Of Aspromonte， on Novara's plain， -

　　Nor have thy children died for thee in vain：

　　And yet， methinks， thou hast not drunk this wine

　　From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine，

　　Thou hast not followed that immortal⁷⁷ Star

　　Which leads the people forth to deeds of war.

　　Weary of life， thou liest in silent sleep，

　　As one who marks the lengthening⁷⁸ shadows creep，

　　Careless of all the hurrying hours that run，

　　Mourning some day of glory， for the sun

　　Of Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face，

　　And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race.

　　Yet wake not from thy slumbers⁷⁹， - rest thee well，

　　Amidst thy fields of amber asphodel，

　　Thy lily-sprinkled meadows， - rest thee there，

　　To mock all human greatness： who would dare

　　To vent⁶³ the paltry⁸⁰ sorrows of his life

　　Before thy ruins， or to praise the strife

　　Of kings' ambition， and the barren pride

　　Of warring nations！ wert not thou the Bride

　　Of the wild Lord of Adria's stormy sea！

　　The Queen of double Empires！ and to thee

　　Were not the nations given as thy prey⁸¹！

　　And now - thy gates lie open night and day，

　　The grass grows green on every tower and hall，

　　The ghastly fig²⁵ hath cleft⁸² thy bastioned wall；

　　And where thy mailed warriors⁸³ stood at rest

　　The midnight owl⁸⁴ hath made her secret nest.

　　O fallen！ fallen！ from thy high estate，

　　O city trammelled in the toils⁸⁵ of Fate，

　　Doth nought⁸⁶ remain of all thy glorious days，

　　But a dull shield， a crown of withered⁸⁷ bays！

　　Yet who beneath this night of wars and fears，

　　From tranquil⁸⁸ tower can watch the coming years；

　　Who can foretell⁸⁹ what joys the day shall bring，

　　Or why before the dawn the linnets sing？

　　Thou， even thou， mayst wake， as wakes the rose

　　To crimson splendour from its grave of snows；

　　As the rich corn-fields rise to red and gold

　　From these brown lands， now stiff with Winter's cold；

　　As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star！

　　O much-loved city！ I have wandered far

　　From the wave-circled islands of my home；

　　Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome⁹⁰

　　Rise slowly from the drear Campagna's way，

　　Clothed in the royal purple of the day：

　　I from the city of the violet crown

　　Have watched the sun by Corinth's hill go down，

　　And marked the 'myriad laughter' of the sea

　　From starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady；

　　Yet back to thee returns my perfect love，

　　As to its forest-nest the evening dove.

　　O poet's city！ one who scarce has seen

　　Some twenty summers cast their doublets green

　　For Autumn's livery， would seek in vain

　　To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain，

　　Or tell thy days of glory； - poor indeed

　　Is the low murmur of the shepherd's reed，

　　Where the loud clarion's blast should shake the sky，

　　And flame across the heavens！ and to try

　　Such lofty themes were folly⁹¹： yet I know

　　That never felt my heart a nobler glow

　　Than when I woke the silence of thy street

　　With clamorous⁹² trampling⁹³ of my horse's feet，

　　And saw the city which now I try to sing，

　　After long days of weary travelling.

　　VII.

　　Adieu， Ravenna！ but a year ago，

　　I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow

　　From the lone chapel⁹⁴ on thy marshy⁹⁵ plain：

　　The sky was as a shield that caught the stain

　　Of blood and battle from the dying sun，

　　And in the west the circling clouds had spun⁹⁶

　　A royal robe， which some great God might wear，

　　While into ocean-seas of purple air

　　Sank the gold galley⁶⁹ of the Lord of Light.

　　Yet here the gentle stillness of the night

　　Brings back the swelling tide of memory，

　　And wakes again my passionate love for thee：

　　Now is the Spring of Love， yet soon will come

　　On meadow and tree the Summer's lordly bloom；

　　And soon the grass with brighter flowers will blow，

　　And send up lilies for some boy to mow⁹⁷.

　　Then before long the Summer's conqueror⁹⁸，

　　Rich Autumn-time， the season's usurer，

　　Will lend his hoarded⁹⁹ gold to all the trees，

　　And see it scattered¹⁰⁰ by the spendthrift breeze；

　　And after that the Winter cold and drear.

　　So runs the perfect cycle of the year.

　　And so from youth to manhood do we go，

　　And fall to weary days and locks of snow.

　　Love only knows no winter； never dies：

　　Nor cares for frowning storms or leaden skies

　　And mine for thee shall never pass away，

　　Though my weak lips may falter¹⁰¹ in my lay.

　　Adieu！ Adieu！ yon silent evening star，

　　The night's ambassador， doth gleam afar，

　　And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold.

　　Perchance before our inland seas of gold

　　Are garnered¹⁰² by the reapers¹⁰³ into sheaves，

　　Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves，

　　I may behold¹⁰⁴ thy city； and lay down

　　Low at thy feet the poet's laurel crown.

　　Adieu！ Adieu！ yon silver lamp， the moon，

　　Which turns our midnight into perfect noon，

　　Doth surely light thy towers， guarding well

　　Where Dante sleeps， where Byron loved to dwell.