致我的朋友乔治·弗莱明(《尼罗河小说》和《幻影》的作者)一年前，我呼吸着意大利的空气——然而，我认为北方的春天是美好的，——这些田野被三月的花朵染成了金色，长着羽毛的落叶松上唱着啁啾的白鸦，振翅而过的斑鸠，天空中飘过的小云;美丽的紫罗兰温柔的低垂的头，樱草花，因爱而黯然失色，在攀缘的荆棘上开花的玫瑰，番红花的花坛，(仿佛一轮火月，围着紫色的结婚戒指);还有我们英国春天里所有的花，可爱的雪花莲，还有明亮的水仙花。云雀在嘀咕作响的磨坊旁起床，弄碎了早露的细丝;河的下游，像一团蓝色的火焰，水王像箭一样迅捷地飞过，绿林中的棕色红雀在歌唱。一年前!——自从我上次看到南方那高贵的气候，似乎有一段时间了，在那里，花朵和果实散发出紫色的光芒，传说中的苹果像明亮的灯一样发光。时值春意盎然——在茂盛的开花藤蔓、乌黑的橄榄园和高贵的森林松林之间，我随心所欲地骑马;湿润而愉快的空气是甜蜜的，白色的道路在我的马蹄下轰鸣，我沉思着拉文纳古老的名字，看着白天，直到绿松石般的天空被火焰的伤痕染成了光亮的金色。啊，我的心燃烧着孩子般的激情，远远地越过莎草和森林，我看见圣城冉冉升起，戴着她的高塔王冠! - On and on I galloped, racing with the setting sun, And ere the crimson after-glow was passed, I stood within Ravenna's walls at last! II. How strangely still! no sound of life or joy Startles the air; no laughing shepherd-boy Pipes on his reed, nor ever through the day Comes the glad sound of children at their play: O sad, and sweet, and silent! surely here A man might dwell apart from troublous fear, Watching the tide of seasons as they flow From amorous Spring to Winter's rain and snow, And have no thought of sorrow; - here, indeed, Are Lethe's waters, and that fatal weed Which makes a man forget his fatherland. Ay! amid lotus-meadows dost thou stand, Like Proserpine, with poppy-laden head, Guarding the holy ashes of the dead. For though thy brood of warrior sons hath ceased, Thy noble dead are with thee! - they at least Are faithful to thine honour:- guard them well, O childless city! for a mighty spell, To wake men's hearts to dreams of things sublime, Are the lone tombs where rest the Great of Time. III. Yon lonely pillar, rising on the plain, Marks where the bravest knight of France was slain, - The Prince of chivalry, the Lord of war, Gaston de Foix: for some untimely star Led him against thy city, and he fell, As falls some forest-lion fighting well. Taken from life while life and love were new, He lies beneath God's seamless veil of blue; Tall lance-like reeds wave sadly o'er his head, And oleanders bloom to deeper red, Where his bright youth flowed crimson on the ground. Look farther north unto that broken mound, - There, prisoned now within a lordly tomb Raised by a daughter's hand, in lonely gloom, Huge-limbed Theodoric, the Gothic king, Sleeps after all his weary conquering. Time hath not spared his ruin, - wind and rain Have broken down his stronghold; and again We see that Death is mighty lord of all, And king and clown to ashen dust must fall Mighty indeed THEIR glory! yet to me Barbaric king, or knight of chivalry, Or the great queen herself, were poor and vain, Beside the grave where Dante rests from pain. His gilded shrine lies open to the air; And cunning sculptor's hands have carven there The calm white brow, as calm as earliest morn, The eyes that flashed with passionate love and scorn, The lips that sang of Heaven and of Hell, The almond-face which Giotto drew so well, The weary face of Dante; - to this day, Here in his place of resting, far away From Arno's yellow waters, rushing down Through the wide bridges of that fairy town, Where the tall tower of Giotto seems to rise A marble lily under sapphire skies! Alas! my Dante! thou hast known the pain Of meaner lives, - the exile's galling chain, How steep the stairs within kings' houses are, And all the petty miseries which mar Man's nobler nature with the sense of wrong. Yet this dull world is grateful for thy song; Our nations do thee homage, - even she, That cruel queen of vine-clad Tuscany, Who bound with crown of thorns thy living brow, Hath decked thine empty tomb with laurels now, And begs in vain the ashes of her son. O mightiest exile!