Piano di Sorrento

   Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one,

           Sit here 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;                                10

   All the Plain saw me gather, I garland

           —The flowers or the weeds.

   Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn

           Had net-worked with brown

   The white skin of each grape on the bunches,

           Marked like a quail's crown,

   Those creatures you make such account of,

           Whose heads—speckled white

   Over brown like a great spider's back,

           As I told you last night—                             20

   Your mother bites off for her supper.

           Red-ripe as could be,

   Pomegranates were chapping and splitting

           In halves on the tree:

   And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone,

           Or in the thick dust

   On the path, or straight out of the rockside,

           Wherever could thrust

   Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower

           Its yellow face up,                                    30

   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 before

   I 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.                             40

   Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles,

           While, busy beneath,

   Your priest and his brother tugged at them,

           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 trying

   To get out the boats and go fishing,

           For, under the cliff,                                  50

   Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock.

           No seeing our skiff

   Arrive about noon from Amalfi,

           —Our fisher arrive,

   And pitch down his basket before us,

           All trembling alive

   With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit;

           You touch the strange lumps,

   And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner

           Of horns and of humps,                                 60

   Which only the fisher looks grave at,

           While round him like imps

   Cling screaming the children as naked

           And brown as his shrimps;

   Himself too as bare to the middle

           —You see round his neck

   The string and its brass coin suspended,

           That saves him from wreck.

   But to-day not a boat reached Salerno,

           So back, to a man,                                     70

   Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards

           Grape-harvest began.

   In the vat, halfway up in our houseside,

           Like blood the juice spins,

   While your brother all bare-legged is dancing

           Till breathless he grins

   Dead-beaten in effort on effort

           To keep the grapes under,

   Since still when he seems all but master,

           In pours the fresh plunder                             80

   From 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 bed

   Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple

           Lies pulpy and red,

   All the young ones are kneeling and filling

           Their laps with the snails                             90

   Tempted 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)

   With lasagne so tempting to swallow,

           In slippery ropes,

   And gourds fried in great purple slices,

           That colour of popes.                                 100

   Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you:

           The rain-water slips

   O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe

           Which the wasp to your lips

   Still 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, each smoother and whiter;

           Next, sip this weak wine                              110

   From 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 juice

   The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth.

           Scirocco is loose!

   Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives

           Which, thick in one's track,

   Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them,

           Tho' not yet half black!                              120

   How the old twisted olive trunks shudder,

           The medlars let fall

   Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees

           Snap off, figs and all,

   For here comes the whole of the tempest!

           No refuge, but creep

   Back again to my side and my shoulder,

           And listen or sleep.

   O how will your country show next week,

           When all the vine-boughs                              130

   Have 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 sorbs

   A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous,

           Those hairy gold orbs!                                140

   But my mule picked his sure sober path out,

           Just stopping to neigh

   When he recognized down in the valley

           His mates on their way

   With the faggots and barrels of water;

           And soon we emerged

   From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow;

           And still as we urged

   Our way, the woods wondered, and left us,

           As up still we trudged                                150

   Though 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 teeth

   Of some monster which climbed there to die

           From the ocean beneath—

   Place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weed

           That clung to the path,

   And dark rosemary ever a-dying

           That, 'spite the wind's wrath,                        160

   So loves the salt rock's face to seaward,

           And lentisks as staunch

   To the stone where they root and bear berries,

           And... what shows a branch

   Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets

           Of pale seagreen leaves;

   Over all trod my mule with the caution

           Of gleaners o'er sheaves,

   Still, foot after foot like a lad

           Till, round after round,                              170

   He climbed to the top of Calvano,

           And God's own profound

   Was above me, and round me the mountains,

           And under, the sea,

   And within me my heart to bear witness

           What was and shall be.

   Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal!

           No rampart excludes

   Your eye from the life to be lived

           In the blue solitudes.                                180

   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 turn

   And, before they escape you surprise them.

           They grudge you should learn

   How the soft plains they look on, lean over

           And love (they pretend)                               190

   —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 ever

   Those isles of the siren, your Galli;

           No ages can sever                                     200

   The Three, nor enable their sister

           To join them,—halfway

   On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses—

           No farther to-day,

   Tho' the small one, just launched in the wave,

           Watches breast-high and steady

   From under the rock, her bold sister

           Swum halfway already.

   Fortù, shall we sail there together

           And see from the sides                                210

   Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts

           Where the siren abides?

   Shall we 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 explore,

   On the largest, the strange square black turret

           With never a door,                                    220

   Just a loop to admit the quick lizards;

           Then, stand there and hear

   The birds' quiet singing, that tells us

           What life is, so clear?

   —The secret they sang to Ulysses

           When, ages ago,

   He heard and he knew this life's secret

           I hear and I know.

   Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano;

           He strikes the great gloom                            230

   And flutters it o'er the mount's summit

           In airy gold fume.

   All is over.  Look out, see the gipsy,

           Our tinker and smith,

   Has arrived, set up bellows and forge,

           And down-squatted forthwith

   To his hammering, under the wall there;

           One eye keeps aloof

   The urchins that itch to be putting

           His jews'-harps to proof,                             240

   While the other, thro' locks of curled wire,

           Is watching how sleek

   Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall

           —Chew, abbot's own cheek!

   All is over.  Wake up and come out now,

           And down let us go,

   And see the fine things got in order

           At church for the show

   Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening.

           To-morrow's the Feast                                 250

   Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means

           Of Virgins the least,

   As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse

           Which (all nature, no art)

   The Dominican brother, these three weeks,

           Was getting by heart.

   Not a pillar nor post but is dizened

           With red and blue papers;

   All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar

           A-blaze with long tapers;                             260

   But the great masterpiece is the scaffold

           Rigged glorious to hold

   All 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 pomp                                    270

   Thro' the plain, while in gallant procession

           The priests mean to stomp.

   All round the glad church lie 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.                                280

   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 fall

   A scorpion with wide angry nippers!

           —"Such trifles!" you say?

   Fortù, in my England at home,

           Men meet gravely to-day

   And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws

           Be righteous and wise                                 290

   —If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanish

           In black from the skies!

   NOTES:

   "The Italian in England."  An Italian patriot who has taken

   part in an unsuccessful revolt against Austrian  dominance,

   reflects upon the incidents of his escape and flight from

   Italy to the end that if he ever should have a thought

   beyond the welfare of Italy, he would wish first for the

   discomfiture of his enemies and then to go and see once

   more the noble woman who at the risk of her own life

   helped him to escape.  Though there is no exact historical

   incident upon which this poem is founded, it has a

   historical background.  The Charles referred to (lines 8,

   11, 20, 116, 125) is Charles Albert, Prince of Carignano, of

   the younger branch of the house of Savoy.  His having

   played with the patriot in his youth, as the poem says, is

   quite possible, for Charles was brought up as a simple

   citizen in a public school, and one of his chief friends was

   Alberta Nota, a writer of liberal principles, whom he

   made his secretary.  As indicated in the poem, Charles

   at first declared himself in sympathy, though in a somewhat

   lukewarm manner, with the rising led by Santa Rosa against

   Austrian domination in 1823, and upon the abdication of

   Victor Emanuel he became regent of Turin.  But when

   the king Charles Felix issued a denunciation against the

   new government, Charles Albert succumbed to the king's

   threats and left his friends in the lurch.  Later the Austrians

   marched into the country, Santa Rosa was forced

   to retreat from Turin, and, with his friends, he who might

   well have been the very patriot of the poem was obliged

   to fly from Italy.

   19.   Metternich:  the distinguished Austrian diplomatist

   and determined enemy of Italian independence.

   76.  Tenebrae: darkness.  "The office of matins and

   lauds, for the three last days in Holy Week.  Fifteen

   lighted candles are placed on a triangular stand, and at the

   conclusion of each psalm one is put out till a single candle

   is left at the top of the triangle.  The extinction of the

   other candles is said to figure the growing darkness of the

   world at the time of the Crucifixion.  The last candle

   (which is not extinguished, but hidden behind the altar

   for a few moments) represents Christ, over whom Death

   could not prevail.'' (Dr. Berdoe)