O, BELLA fior del mondo! to-morrow
I'll leave thee to follow the path of the sun,
No more to return, yet departing in sorrow—
The stranger may go as the stranger hath done.
I've met the hot breath of the scorching siroc
As I guarded thy ramparts that frown on the sea,
I've lain 'neath the shade of the vine-covered rock
Weaving bright fancies of glory and thee....
Old Notabile[A] stands upon a hill
With olive groves and vineyards at its base,
Its lofty wall, half-ruined, beareth still
Of siege and battle many a cruel trace;
The centre of this lovely isle,—
The home of song and story,—
Whose tranquil beauty seems to smile
Forgetful of its glory.
Deserted streets of marble halls,
And temples grand and olden,
Where startled Echo rarely calls
Strange sounds thro' sunlight golden:
High convent walls in ivy wrapt,
Shrines of our blessed Lady,
In melancholy silence lapt,
In lanes of cypress shady.
And now and then
Queer aged men
Pass where the bastions moulder,
And seem to me,
So strange they be,
Old as the place or older.
And carved in stone above each door
Is many a knightly crest,
That flamed in hostile fields of yore—
But now the sparrow's nest.
The wingËd hand still grasps the sword
Before the ancient palace;
In dungeons underneath is stored
Verdala's burning chalice.
And BellfiorÈ's ruined wall
Frowns on the peasant's labor,
While from its brow strange echoes call
Of song, and pipe, and tabor.
Oh! what a host of shadows wait
Before yon dark unopened gate;
Heroes from the east and west,
In their iron armor drest,
The white cross gleaming on each breast;
Stern warriors of the cross are they—
Those shadows of a former day!
