VILLA PLINIANA

It stands where darkly wooded cliffs

Slope swiftly to the deep,

And silvery streams from ledge to ledge

In foaming splendor leap,—

A broad expanse of saffron walls,

A wilderness of mouldering halls.

The torrent's breath hath spread its blight

On every darkened room,

And oozing mosses drip decay

Through corridors of gloom,

While Ruin lays a subtle snare

On many a yielding rail and stair.

There seats, which beauty once enthroned,

In tattered damask stand;

In gray neglect a faun extends

A mutilated hand;

And silence makes the festal board

Mute as the stringless harpsichord.

The boldest hesitate to tread

Those gruesome courts at night;

‘ Tis whispered that a spectral form

Then haunts the lonely height;

For he who built this home apart

Had stabbed his rival to the heart.

Oblivion's boon is vainly sought

Amid those scenes sublime;

Forever lurked within his breast

The nemesis of crime;

Not all that flood of limpid spray

Could wash the fatal stain away.

Yet certain fearless souls have dwelt

Within that haunted pile;

Among them she, whose portrait still,

With enigmatic smile,

Lights up the mansion, like a gem

Set in a tarnished diadem;—

The princess, at whose thrilling call

Unnumbered patriots rose

To drive from fettered Lombardy

Her immemorial foes,—

A woman, loved from sea to sea,

As Liberty's divinity.

But now the old, historic site

Lives only in the past;

Neglected and untenanted,

Its life is ebbing fast;

Each crumbling step, each mossy stone

Is marked by Ruin for her own.

Yet one mysterious charm abides,—

The spring, whose ebb and flow

Were praised in Pliny's classic prose

Two thousand years ago,—

A fountain, whose perennial grace

Millenniums could not efface.

Thrice daily in their polished cup

Its crystal waters sink;

Thrice daily do they rise again

And overflow the brink,—

Since Pliny's day no more, no less,

Unchanged in rhythmic loveliness.

Sweet Larian lake, and sylvan cliffs,

Cascade, and storied spring,

Ye are the same as when he loved

Your varied charms to sing;

‘ Tis man alone who sadly goes!

The lake remains, the fountain flows.

Like drops in its exhaustless flood,

Our little lives emerge,

Swirl for an instant, and are gone,

Sunk by another surge!

Whence come they? Whither do they go?

O Roman poet, dost thou know?