Naples

Samuel Rogers (1763–1855)

From “Italy”

THIS region, surely, is not of the earth.

Was it not dropt from heaven? Not a grove,

Citron or pine or cedar, not a grot

Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine,

But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings

On the clear wave some image of delight,

Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers,

Some ruined temple or fallen monument,

To muse on as the bark is gliding by,

And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide,

From daybreak, when the mountain pales his fire

Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top,

Till then invisible, a smoke ascends,

Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat,

When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood,

Was with his household sacrificing there,—

From daybreak to that hour, the last and best,

When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth,

Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow,

And, when the nets are thrown, the evening hymn

Steals o’er the trembling waters.
Everywhere

Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry,

Each her peculiar influence. Fable came,

And laughed and sung, arraying Truth in flowers,

Like a young child her grandam. Fable came;

Earth, sea, and sky reflecting, as she flew,

A thousand, thousand colors not their own:

And at her bidding, lo! a dark descent

To Tartarus, and those thrice happy fields,

Those fields with ether pure and purple light

Ever invested, scenes by him described

Who here was wont to wander and record

What they revealed, and on the western shore

Sleeps in a silent grove, o’erlooking thee,

Beloved Parthenope.
Yet here, methinks,

Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape

Filling the mind by turns with awe and love,

By turns inclining to wild ecstasy

And soberest meditation.