Poem by Samuel Rogers

Italy: 52. A Farewell

And now farewell to Italy -- perhaps
For ever!  Yet, methinks, I could not go,
I could not leave it, were it mine to say,
'Farewell for ever!'  Many a courtesy,
That sought no recompense, and met with none
But in the swell of heart with which it came,
Have I experienced; not a cabin door,
Go where I wouldl, but opened with a smile;
From the first hour, when, in my long descent,
Strange perfumes rose, rose as to welcome me,
From flowers that ministered like unseen spirits;
From the first hour, when vintage-songs broke forth,
A grateful earnest, and the Southern lakes,
Dazzlingly bright, unfolded at my feet;
They that receive the cataracts, and ere long
Dismiss them, but how changed -- onward to roll
From age to age in silent majesty,
Blessing the nations, and reflecting round
The gladness they inspire.
Gentle or rude,
No scene of life but has contributed
Much to remember -- from the Polesine,
Where, when the south-wind blows, and clouds on clouds
Gather and fall, the peasant freights his boat,
A sacred ark, slung in his orchard-grove;
Mindful to migrate when the king of floods
Visits his humble dwelling, and the keel,
Slowly uplifted over field and fence,
Floats on a world of waters -- from that low,
That level region, where no echo dwells,
Or, if she comes, comes in her saddest plight,
Hoarse, inarticulat -- on to where the path
Is lost in rank luxuriance, and to breathe
Is to inhale distemper, if not death;
Where the wild-boar retreats, when hunters chafe,
And, when the day-star flames, the buffalo-herd,
Afflicted, plunge into the stagnant pool,
Nothing discerned amid the water-leaves,
Save here and there the likeness of a head,
Savage, uncouth; where none in human shape
Come, save the herdsman, levelling his length
Of lance with many a cry, or, Tartar-like,
Urging his steed along the distant hill
As from a danger.  There, but not to rest,
I travelled many a dreary league, nor turned
(Ah then least willing, as who had not been?)
When in the South, against the azure sky,
Three temples rose in soberest majesty,
The wondrous work of some heroic race.
      But now a long farewell!  Oft while I live,
If once again in England, once again
In my own chimney-nook, as Night steals on,
With half-shut eyes reclining, oft, methinks,
While the wind blusters and the peltering rain
Clatters without, shall I recall to mind
The scenes, occurrences I met with here
And wander in Elysium; many a note
Of wildest melody, magician-like
Awakening, such as the Calabrian horn,
Along the mountain-side, when all is still,
Pours forth at folding-time; and many a chant,
Solemn, sublime, such as at midnight flows
From the full choir, when richest harmonies
Break the deep silence of thy glens, Lay Cava;
To him who lingers there with listening ear,
Now lost and now descending as from Heaven!

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And now a parting word is due from him
Who, in the classic fields of Italy,
(If haply thou hast borne with him so long,)
Through many a grove by many a fount has led thee,
By many a temple half as old as Time;
Where all was still awakening them that slept,
And conjuring up where all was desolate,
Where kings were mouldering in their funeral urns,
And oft and long the vulture flapped his wing --
Triumphs and masques.
Nature denied him much,
But gave him at his birth what most he values;
A passionate love for music, sculpture, painting,
For all things here, or grand or beautiful,
A setting sun, a lake among the mountains,
The light of an ingenuous countenance,
And what transcends them all, a noble action.
      Nature denied him much, but gave him more;
And ever, ever grateful should he be,
Though from his cheek, ere yet the down was there,
Health fled; for in his heaviest hours would come
Gleams such as come not now; nor failed he then
(Then and through life his happiest privilege)
Full oft to wander where the Muses haunt,
Smit with the love of song.
'Tis now long since;
And now, while yet 'tis day, would he withdraw
Who, when in youth he strung his lyre, addressed
A former generation.  Many an eye
Bright as the brightest now, is closed in night,
And many a voice how eloquent, is mute,
That when he came, disdained not to receive
His lays with favour. 

1. Italy: 44. A Character
2. Italy: 1. The Lake of Geneva
3. Italy: 7. Marguerite De Tours
4. The Boy of Egremond
5. Jacqueline

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