POINT BALBIANELLO

From Lake Como's depths ascending,

With embankments steep

Stands a wooded headland, bending

With majestic sweep

Till its rugged shores, expanding,

Join two charming bays,

Now, as formerly, commanding

Universal praise.

Years ago a papal Primate

Built a hospice here,

Which, from its delightful climate,

Mild throughout the year,

Soon became for convalescence

A renowned retreat,

Where pure air and strict quiescence

Made all cures complete.

“Villa Balbi”,— appellation

Of the Primate's seat —,

Gave its name to this location

In a form more sweet,—

Soft, sonorous “Balbianello”,

Spoken, as if sung

In the speech, so smooth and mellow,

Of the Latin tongue.

Balbianello, Balbianello!

Point of liquid name,

With thy walls of golden yellow

And thy flowers of flame,

When thy varied charms enthrall me

Under summer skies,

Tenderly I love to call thee

Como's Paradise.

From thy base, where in profusion

Countless roses bloom,

To thy crest, where sweet seclusion

Reigns in leafy gloom,

All is beauty, uncontested

By a rival claim,

All is symmetry invested

With a storied fame.

Cool the paths, by plane-trees shaded,

Which thy slopes ascend;

Grand the loggia, old and faded,

Where those pathways end;—

Noble arches, well recalling

Mighty works of old,

Columns which, when night is falling,

Turn to shafts of gold.

In that loggia, fringed with roses,

All my soul expands;

Every arch a view discloses

Of historic lands;

Southward lies fair Comacina,

Famed in classic lore,

Northward Pliny's Tremezzina

And Bellagio's shore.

Miles of liquid opalescence

Stretch on either hand,

Curving into lovely crescents,

Each with sylvan strand;

While on Alpine peaks lie sleeping

Realms of stainless snow,

Whence the milk-white streams come leaping

To the lake below.

Many a far-off promontory

Melts in silvery haze,

Many a scene of song and story

Tells of Roman days;

Real and unreal, past and present,

Make the vision seem

Like the rapture evanescent

Of a happy dream.

Yet this point, so well selected,—

Peerless in its day —,

Now, abandoned and neglected,

Sinks to slow decay;

Sculptured saints, with broken fingers,

Line the ancient walls,

Like a loyal guard that lingers

Till the rampart falls;

Vases, o'er the portal standing,

Crumble into lime;

Steps, ascending from the landing,

Show the touch of time;

And its one lone gardener, weeping

As he tells his fears,

Faithful watch has here been keeping

Many, many years!

Even he must leave it lonely,

When the night grows late;

Then the mouldering statues only

Guard its rusty gate;

Then no eye its charm discovers,

And its moonlit bowers

Wait in vain for happy lovers

Through the silent hours.

Will no champion protect thee,

Fairest spot on earth?

Doth a busy world neglect thee,

Careless of thy worth?

Even so, thy site elysian

Still remains supreme,—

Acme of the painter's vision

And the poet's dream.