"By Arno, when the tale was o'er,
At sunset, as in days of yore,
I wandered forth and dreamed.
The sky above, the town below.
The solemn river's silent flow,
The ancient story-haunts I know,
In varied colours gleamed.
By Arno calm my steps I stayed,
Just where the river's bank displayed
A tangled growth of weeds;
Tall houses near, and on the right
An arched bridge upreared its height,
And boats drew near, and passed from sight--
I heard the tramp of steeds.
I heard, and saw, but heeded not;
My feet were rooted to the spot,
A fancy checked my breath.
'Twas here that Tito lay, I knew.
His fair face upward to the blue,
His velvet tunic soaking through,
Most beautiful in death.
But Baldassarre was not there,
'Twas I that stooped to kiss the hair,
Besprent with ooze and dew.
Ah, God! light gold the locks caressed--
I saw no Greek in velvet dressed--
But wildly to my bosom pressed--
Not Tito, love, but you!
The massive, godlike head and throat
Belonged not to those days remote,
The fine grey eye--the limb;
It was the soul I know so well,
So full of earth, and heaven, and hell,
That came from out that time to dwell
In you and make you him.
Pages:
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301