Walter Savage Landor (Уолтер Сэвидж Лэндор)
To Charles Dickens
Go then to Italy; but mind To leave the pale low France behind; Pass through that country, nor ascend The Rhine, nor over Tyrol wend: Thus all at once shall rise more grand The glories of the ancient land. Dickens! how often, when the air Breath'd genially, I've thought me there, And rais'd to heaven my thankful eyes To see three spans of deep blue skies. In Genoa now I hear a stir, A shout ... _Here comes the Minister!_ Yes, thou art he, although not sent By cabinet or parliament: Yes, thou art he. Since Milton's youth Bloom'd in the Eden of the South, Spirit so pure and lofty none Hath heavenly Genius from his throne Deputed on the banks of Thames To speak his voice and urge his claims. Let every nation know from thee How less than lovely Italy Is the whole world beside; let all Into their grateful breasts recall How Prospero and Miranda dwelt In Italy: the griefs that melt The stoniest heart, each sacred tear One lacrymatory gathered here; All Desdemona's, all that fell In playful Juliet's bridal cell. Ah! could my steps in life's decline Accompany or follow thine! But my own vines are not for me To prune, or from afar to see. I miss the tales I used to tell With cordial Hare and joyous Gell, And that good old Archbishop whose Cool library, at evening's close (Soon as from Ischia swept the gale And heav'd and left the dark'ning sail), Its lofty portal open'd wide To me, and very few beside: Yet large his kindness. Still the poor Flock round Taranto's palace door, And find no other to replace The noblest of a noble race. Amid our converse you would see Each with white cat upon his knee, And flattering that grand company: For Persian kings might proudly own Such glorious cats to share the throne. Write me few letters: I'm content With what for all the world is meant; Write then for all: but, since my breast Is far more faithful than the rest, Never shall any other share With little Nelly nestling there.
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