The Dying Improvisatore

The spirit of my land,
It visits me once more!--though I must die
Far from the myrtles which thy breeze hath fann’d,
My own bright Italy!

It is, it is thy breath,
Which stirs my soul e’en yet, as wavering flame
Is shaken by the wind,--in life and death
Still trembling, yet the same!

Oh! that love’s quenchless power
Might waft my voice to fill thy summer sky,
And through thy groves its dying music shower,
Italy! Italy!

The nightingale is there,
The sunbeam’s glow, the citron flower’s perfume,
The south wind’s whisper in the scented air--
It will not pierce the tomb!

Never, oh! never more,
On thy Rome’s purple heaven mine eye shall dwell,
Or watch the bright waves melt along thy shore--
My Italy! farewell!

Alas!--thy hills among
Had I but left a memory of my name,
Of love and grief one deep, true, fervent song,
Unto immortal fame!

But like a lute’s brief tone,
Like a rose-odour on the breezes cast,
Like a swift flush of dayspring, seen and gone,
So hath my spirit pass’d--

Pouring itself away
As a wild bird amidst the foliage turns
That which within him triumphs, beats, or burns,
Into a fleeting lay;

That swells, and floats, and dies,
Leaving no echo to the summer woods
Of the rich breathings and impassion’d sighs
Which thrill’d their solitudes.

Yet, yet remember me!
Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung,
When from my bosom, joyously and free,
The fiery fountain sprung.

Under the dark rich blue
Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea,
And when woods kindle into spring’s first hue,
Sweet friends! remember me!

And in the marble halls,
Where life’s full glow the dreams of beauty wear,
And poet-thoughts embodied light the walls,
Let me be with you there!

Fain would I bind, for you,
My memory with all glorious things to dwell!
Fain bid all lovely sounds my name renew--
Sweet friends! bright land! farewell!