SINCE you resolve, dear Byron, once again To taste the far-eyed freedom of the main, And as the coolness lessens in the breeze, Strike for warm shores that bathe in classic seas, -- May all that hastens, pleases, and secures, Fair winds and skies, and a swift ship, be yours, Whose sidelong deck affords, as it cuts on, An airy slope to lounge and read upon; And may the sun, cool'd only by white clouds Make constant shadows of the sails and shrouds; And may there be sweet, watching moons at night, Or shows, upon the sea, of curious light; And morning wake with happy-blushing mouth, As though her husband still had "eyes of youth;" While fancy, just as you discern from far The coasts of Virgil and of Sannazzar, May see the nymphs emerging, here and there, To tie up at the light their rolling hair. I see you now, half-eagerness, half-ease, Ride o'er the dancing freshness of the seas; I see you now (with fancy's eyesight too) Find, with a start, that lovely vision true, While on a sudden, o'er the horizon's line Phoebus looks forth with his long glance divine, At which old ocean's white and shapely daughters Crowd in the golden ferment of the waters, And halcyons brood, and there's a glistering show Of harps midst bosoms and long arms of snow; And from the breathing sea, in the God's eye, A gush of voices breaks up to the sky To hail the laurell'd bard, that goes careering by. And who, thus gifted, but must hear and see Wonders like these, approaching Italy? -- Enchantress Italy, -- who born again In Gothic fires, woke to a sphery strain, And rose and smiled, far lovelier than before, Copier of Greece and Amazon no more, But altogether a diviner thing, Fit for the Queen of Europe's second spring, With fancies of her own, and finer powers Not to enslave these mere outsides of ours, But bend the godlike mind, and crown it with her flowers. Thus did she reign, bright-eyed, with that sweet tone Long in her ears; and right before her throne Have sat the intellectual Graces three, Music, and painting, and wing'd poetry, Of whom were born those great ones, thoughtful-faced, That led the hierarchy of modern taste; -- Heavenly composers, that with bow symphonious Drew out, at last, music's whole soul harmonious; Poets, that knew how Nature should be woo'd, With frank address, and terms heart-understood; And painters, worthy to be friends of theirs, Hands that could catch the very finest airs Of natural minds, and all that soul express Of ready concord, which was made to bless, And forms the secret of true amorousness. Not that our English clime, how sharp soe'er, Yields in ripe genius to the warmest sphere; For what we want in sunshine out of doors, And the long leisure of abundant shores, By freedom, nay by sufferance, is supplied, And each man's sacred sunshine, his fire-side. But all the four great masters of our song, Stars that shine out amidst a starry throng, Have turn'd to Italy for added light, As earth is kiss'd by the sweet moon at night; -- Milton for half his style, Chaucer for tales, Spenser for flowers to fill his isles and vales, And Shakspeare's self for frames already done To build his everlasting piles upon. Her genius is more soft, harmonious, fine; Our's bolder, deeper, and more masculine: In short, as woman's sweetness to man's force, Less grand, but softening by the intercourse, So the two countries are, -- so may they be, -- England the high-soul'd man, the charmer Italy. But I must finish, and shall chatter less On Greece, for reasons which yourself may guess. Only remember what you promised me About the flask from dark-well'd Castally, -- A draught, which but to think of, as I sit, Makes the room round me almost turn with wit. Gods! What may not come true, what dream divine, If thus we are to drink the Delphic wine! Remember too elsewhere a certain town, Whose fame, you know, Caesar will not hand down. And pray, my Lord, in Italy take care, You that are poet, and have pains to bear, Of lovely girls, that step across the sight, Like Houris in a heaven of warmth and light, With rosy-cushion'd mouths, in dimples set, And ripe dark tresses and glib eyes of jet. The very language, from a woman's tongue, Is worth the finest of all others sung. And so adieu, dear Byron, -- dear to me For many a cause, disinterestedly; -- First, for unconscious sympathy, when boys, In friendship, and the Muse's trying joys; -- Next for that frank surprise, when Moore and you Came to my cage, like warblers kind and true, And told me, with your arts of cordial lying, How well I look'd, when you both thought me dying; -- Next for a rank worn simply, and the scorn Of those who trifle with an age free-born; -- For early storms, on fortune's basking shore, That cut precocious ripeness to the core; -- For faults unbidden, other's virtue's own'd; Nay, unless Cant's to be at once enthroned, For virtues too, with whatsoever blended, And e'en were none possess'd, for none pretended; -- Lastly, for older friends, fine hearts, held fast Through every dash of chance, from first to last; -- For taking spirit as it means to be, For a stretch'd hand, ever the same to me, And total, glorious want of vile hypocrisy. 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