AT SUNSET

Belov'd Meran, supremely fair!

With joy I greet thy peaks anew,

And quaff again the crystal air

That fills thy snow-rimmed bowl of blue.

Once more through miles of trellised vines

The purple bloom of vintage glows;

Once more amid my palms and pines

I breathe the perfume of the rose.

Once more, as snow-crests far and wide

Flush crimson in the Alpine glow,

I sit and muse at eventide

On Roman days of long ago.

Across the valley, steeped in light,

Uplifted toward the western skies,

And flanked by many a snow-crowned height,

The stately “Roman Terrace” lies;

Whose fair expanse hath been a stage

Where actors for two thousand years

Have played, by turns, in every age

Their varying roles of smiles and tears.

Still through its mighty Vintschgau door

The sunset streams in floods of gold;

Still winding o'er its emerald floor,

The river sparkles as of old.

I watch the distant torrent leap

From ledge to ledge, yet hear no sound;

A ghostly path it seems, whose deep,

Swift channel cleaves enchanted ground.

Beside its waves, whose glittering spray

Begems the gorge its flood hath worn,

Rome's conquering legions made their way

A score of years ere Christ was born.

On yonder mound where frowns the wood,

And curves the road with steep incline,

A temple to Diana stood

Before the age of Antonine.

Near Schloss Tyrol's dismantled frame

I see the ancient watchtower stand,

Whence Caesar's guards with smoke or flame

Flashed signals into Switzerland.

And, nearer yet, Forst's stately walls

Loom grandly from the darkening moor,

Where still a dungeon-keep recalls

The last Tyrolean Troubadour.

Belov'd Meran! the splendid dower

That Nature gave to South Tyrol

Cannot alone explain thy power

To captivate both mind and soul;

I love thy sunshine, fruits and flowers,

I love thy mountain-peaks sublime,

But, best of all, thine agèd towers,—

The ivied protégés of Time.

Thus favored, while my sun of life

Moves calmly toward a cloudless west,

I crave no more the New World's strife

And ceaseless turmoil of unrest;

Content, within my garden walls,

To let the Present's uproar cease,

While on my tranquil spirit falls

The Past's sweet benison of peace.