50
l'ariccia. death in life.
"But most am I her cherished one,
She calls me to my rest,
To lay all toil and sorrow down
Asleep upon her breast!"
She calls me to my rest,
To lay all toil and sorrow down
Asleep upon her breast!"
I heard a cadence in this simple song,
Which echoed of the Etruscan age, most sweet
And yet most sad: such ever did belong,
To these, the early children of the earth,
Who from her affluent breasts derived their birth,
And knew no other source or end; complete
In them, the sensuous life, and oh! how fair,
The clime which poured its sunshine through their veins,
And with a passionate and raptured heart,
Of Beauty filled all earth, and sky, and air!
Beats that quick fiery pulse no more? remains
Of that intoxicating charm no part?
Ah! yes, there lives by mount and vale and stream,
The Pagan glory, and its soul throbs here
Voluptuous still—lo! where we catch the gleam,
Of yon Bacchante's dark far-floating hair,
Inebriate with joy and life and youth,
Which echoed of the Etruscan age, most sweet
And yet most sad: such ever did belong,
To these, the early children of the earth,
Who from her affluent breasts derived their birth,
And knew no other source or end; complete
In them, the sensuous life, and oh! how fair,
The clime which poured its sunshine through their veins,
And with a passionate and raptured heart,
Of Beauty filled all earth, and sky, and air!
Beats that quick fiery pulse no more? remains
Of that intoxicating charm no part?
Ah! yes, there lives by mount and vale and stream,
The Pagan glory, and its soul throbs here
Voluptuous still—lo! where we catch the gleam,
Of yon Bacchante's dark far-floating hair,
Inebriate with joy and life and youth,
