Bells and Pomegranates, Second Series/England in Italy
ENGLAND IN ITALY.
(Piano di Sorrento.)
Fortù, Fortù, my loved one, Sit by my side,On my knees put up both little feet! I was sure, if I tried,I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco: Now, open your eyes—Let me keep you amused till he vanish In black from the skies,With telling my memories over As you tell your beads;All the Plain saw me gather, I garland —Flowers prove they, or weeds.
'Twas time, for your long hot dry Autumn Had net-worked with brownThe white skin of each grape on the bunches, Marked like a quail's crown,Those creatures you make such account of, Whose heads,—speckled with whiteOver brown like a great spider's back, As I told you last night,—Your mother bites off for her supper; Red-ripe as could be,Pomegranates were chapping and splitting In halves on the tree:And 'twixt the loose walls of great flintstone, Or in the thick dustOn the path, or straight out of the rock side, Wherever could thrustSome starving sprig of bold hardy rock flower Its yellow face up,For the prize were great butterflies fighting, Some five for one cup:So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, What change was in store,By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets Which woke me beforeI could open my shutter, made fast With a bough and a stone,And look thro' the twisted dead vine-twigs, Sole lattice that's known;Sharp rang the rings down the bird-poles While, busy beneath,Your priest and his brother were working, The rain in their teeth.And out upon all the flat house-roofs Where split figs lay drying,The girls took the frails under cover: Nor use seemed in tryingTo get out the boats and go fishing, For under the cliff,Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock— No seeing our skiffArrive about noon from Amalfi, —Our fisher arrive,And pitch down his basket before us, All trembling aliveWith pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit, —Touch the strange lumps,And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner Of horns and of humps,Which only the fisher looks grave at, While round him like impsCling screaming the children as naked And brown as his shrimps,Himself too as bare to the middle —You see round his neckThe string and its brass coin suspended, That saves him from wreck.But to-day not a boat reached Salerno, So back to a manCame our friends, with whose help in the vineyards Grape-harvest began:In the vat, half-way up in our house-side, Like blood the juice spinsWhile your brother all bare-legged is dancing Till breathless he grinsDead-beaten, in effort on effort To keep the grapes under,For still when he seems all but master In pours the fresh plunderFrom girls who keep coming and going With basket on shoulder,And eyes shut against the rain's driving, Your girls that are older,—For under the hedges of aloe, And where, on its bedOf the orchard's black mould, the love-apple Lies pulpy and red,All the young ones are kneeling and filling Their laps with the snailsTempted out by this first rainy weather,— Your best of regales,As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, When, supping in state,We shall feast our grape-gleaners—two dozen, Three over one plate,—Maccaroni so tempting to swallow In slippery strings,And gourds fried in great purple slices, That colour of kings,—Meantime, see the grape-bunch they've brought you,— The rain-water slipsO'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe Which the wasp to your lipsStill follows with fretful persistence— Nay, taste while awake,This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball, That peels, flake by flake,Like an onion's, each smoother and whiter— Next sip this weak wineFrom the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, A leaf of the vine,—And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh That leaves thro' its juiceThe stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. . . . Scirocco is loose!Hark! the quick pelt of the olives Which, thick in one's track,Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them Tho' not yet half black!And how their old twisted olive trunks shudder! The medlars let fallTheir hard fruit—and the brittle great fig-trees Snap off, figs and all,For here comes the whole of the tempest! No refuge but creepBack again to my side and my shoulder, And listen or sleep.
O how will your country show next week, When all the vine-boughsHave been stripped of their foliage to pasture The mules and the cows?Last eve I rode over the mountains— Your brother, my guide,Soon left me to feast on the myrtles That offered, each side,Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious, Or strip from the sorbsA treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, Those hairy gold orbs!But my mule picked his sure, sober path out, Just stopping to neighWhen he recognised down in the valley His mates on their wayWith the faggots, and barrels of water; And soon we emergedFrom the plain where the woods could scarce follow And still as we urgedOur way, the woods wondered, and left us, As up still we trudgedThough the wild path grew wilder each instant, And place was e'en grudged 'Mid the rock-chasms, and piles of loose stones Like the loose broken teethOf some monster, which climbed there to die From the ocean beneath—Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume-weed That clung to the path,And dark rosemary, ever a-dying, That, 'spite the wind's wrath,So loves the salt rock's face to seaward,— And lentisks as staunchTo the stone where they root and bear berries, And—what shows a branchCoral-coloured, transparent, with circlets Of pale seagreen leaves—Over all trod my mule with the caution Of gleaners o'er sheaves:Foot after foot like a lady— So, round after round,He climbed to the top of Calvano, And God's own profoundWas above me, and round me the mountains, And under, the sea,And with me, my heart to bear witness What was and shall be!Oh heaven, and the terrible crystal! No rampart excludesThe eye from the life to be lived In the blue solitudes!Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! Still moving with you—For ever some new head and breast of them Thrusts into view To observe the intruder—you see it If quickly you turnAnd, before they escape you, surprise them— They grudge you should learnHow the soft plains they look on, lean over, And love, they pretend,—Cower beneath them—the flat sea-pine crouches, The wild fruit-trees bend,E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut— All is silent and grave—'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty— How fair, but a slave!So I turned to the sea,—and there slumbered As greenly as everThose isles of the syren, your Galli; No ages can severThe Three—nor enable their sister To join them,—half wayOn the voyage, she looked at Ulysses— No farther to-day,Tho' the small one, just launched in the wave, Watches breast-high and steadyFrom under the rock, her bold sister Swum halfway already.O when shall we sail there together And see from the sidesQuite new rocks show their faces—new haunts Where the syren abides?Oh, to sail round and round them, close over The rocks, tho' unseen,That ruffle the grey glassy water To glorious green,— Then scramble from splinter to splinter, Reach land and exploreOn the largest, the strange square black turret With never a door—Just a loop to admit the quick lizards; —To stand there and hearThe birds' quiet singing, that tells us What life is, so clear;The secret they sang to Ulysses, When ages agoHe heard and he knew this life's secret I hear and I know!
Ah see! O'er Calvano the sun breaks: He strikes the great gloomAnd flutters it o'er his summit In airy gold fume!All is over. Look out, see the gypsy, Our tinker and smith,Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, And down-squatted forthwithTo his hammering, under the wall there; One eye keeps aloofThe urchins that itch to be putting His jews'-harps to proof,While the other thro' locks of curled wire Is watching how sleekShines the hog, come to share in the windfalls —An abbot's own cheek!All is over! wake up and come out now, And down let us go,And see all the fine things set in order At church for the showOf the Sacrament, set forth this evening; To-morrow's the FeastOf the Rosary's virgin, by no means Of virgins the least—As we'll hear in the off-hand discourse Which (all nature, no art)The Dominican brother these three weeks Was getting by heart.Not a post nor a pillar but 's dizened With red and blue papers;All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar's A-blaze with long tapers;But the great masterpiece is the scaffold Rigged glorious to holdAll the fiddlers and fifers and drummers, And trumpeters bold,Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber, Who, when the priest 's hoarse,Will strike us up something that's brisk, For the feast's second course.And then will the flaxen-wigged Image Be carried in pompThro' the plain, while in gallant procession The priests mean to stomp.And all round the glad church stand old bottles With gunpowder stopped,Which will be, when the Image re-enters, Religiously popped.And at night from the crest of Calvano Great bonfires will hang,On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, And more poppers bang!At all events, come—to the garden, As far as the wall,See me tap with a hoe on the plaster Till out there shall fallA scorpion with wide angry nippers!
. . . "Such trifles" you say?Fortù, in my England at home, Men meet gravely to-dayAnd debate, if abolishing Corn-laws Be righteous and wise—If 'tis proper Scirocco should vanish In black from the skies!