No More Learning

3.
Come male buona notte ci suona
Con sospiri e parole interrotte! -- _10
Il modo di aver la notte buona
E mai non di dir la buona notte.

NOTES:
_2 sara]sia 1834.
_4 buona]bene 1834.
_9 Come]Quanto 1834.

***


ORPHEUS.

[Published by Dr. Garnett, "Relics of Shelley", 1862; revised and
enlarged by Rossetti, "Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S. ", 1870. ]

A:
Not far from hence. From yonder pointed hill,
Crowned with a ring of oaks, you may behold
A dark and barren field, through which there flows,
Sluggish and black, a deep but narrow stream,
Which the wind ripples not, and the fair moon _5
Gazes in vain, and finds no mirror there.
Follow the herbless banks of that strange brook
Until you pause beside a darksome pond,
The fountain of this rivulet, whose gush
Cannot be seen, hid by a rayless night _10
That lives beneath the overhanging rock
That shades the pool--an endless spring of gloom,
Upon whose edge hovers the tender light,
Trembling to mingle with its paramour,--
But, as Syrinx fled Pan, so night flies day, _15
Or, with most sullen and regardless hate,
Refuses stern her heaven-born embrace.
On one side of this jagged and shapeless hill
There is a cave, from which there eddies up
A pale mist, like aereal gossamer, _20
Whose breath destroys all life--awhile it veils
The rock--then, scattered by the wind, it flies
Along the stream, or lingers on the clefts,
Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide there.
Upon the beetling edge of that dark rock _25
There stands a group of cypresses; not such
As, with a graceful spire and stirring life,
Pierce the pure heaven of your native vale,
Whose branches the air plays among, but not
Disturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn grace; _30
But blasted and all wearily they stand,
One to another clinging; their weak boughs
Sigh as the wind buffets them, and they shake
Beneath its blasts--a weatherbeaten crew!

CHORUS:
What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint, _35
But more melodious than the murmuring wind
Which through the columns of a temple glides?

A:
It is the wandering voice of Orpheus' lyre,
Borne by the winds, who sigh that their rude king
Hurries them fast from these air-feeding notes; _40
But in their speed they bear along with them
The waning sound, scattering it like dew
Upon the startled sense.

CHORUS:
Does he still sing?
Methought he rashly cast away his harp
When he had lost Eurydice.

A:
Ah, no! _45
Awhile he paused. As a poor hunted stag
A moment shudders on the fearful brink
Of a swift stream--the cruel hounds press on
With deafening yell, the arrows glance and wound,--
He plunges in: so Orpheus, seized and torn _50
By the sharp fangs of an insatiate grief,
Maenad-like waved his lyre in the bright air,
And wildly shrieked 'Where she is, it is dark! '
And then he struck from forth the strings a sound
Of deep and fearful melody. Alas! _55
In times long past, when fair Eurydice
With her bright eyes sat listening by his side,
He gently sang of high and heavenly themes.
As in a brook, fretted with little waves
By the light airs of spring--each riplet makes _60
A many-sided mirror for the sun,
While it flows musically through green banks,
Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and fresh,
So flowed his song, reflecting the deep joy
And tender love that fed those sweetest notes, _65
The heavenly offspring of ambrosial food.
But that is past. Returning from drear Hell,
He chose a lonely seat of unhewn stone,
Blackened with lichens, on a herbless plain.
Then from the deep and overflowing spring _70
Of his eternal ever-moving grief
There rose to Heaven a sound of angry song.