Poems (Eckley)/On the Way to Rome
HE myrtle in green beauty flings Her lavish sweetness on the road;The briar tangled in the shrub, Bows down beneath its load.
ON THE WAY TO ROME.
HE myrtle in green beauty flings Her lavish sweetness on the road;The briar tangled in the shrub, Bows down beneath its load.The ivy clasps the sturdy oak, And still the rough bark loves to holdWith tight embrace, as up she climbs, In her green leafery bold.
Below us the Campagna lies, Wide stretching out her empty hands,As if she loved to count the wastes Of her unpeopled lands.
Far in the distance through the mist, The great St. Peter's dome hangs high,Poised like a bubble or a ball, Swung from the purple sky.
How like life's journey, swift unwind The myrtle hours, hope and youth,When little griefs—none greater seemed Could ever wound—forsooth!
Then as the ivy steadfast clings Around its own sepulchral urn,So tight we hold in clasp the hand That clasps not in return.
And down the shadowy road we wend, O'er drear Campagna wastes of life,Till through earth's mist at last we see Where ends this feverish strife.
1859.