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.