Frater Ave Atque Vale

Frater Ave atque Vale

Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row!
So they rowd, and there we landedO venusta Sirmio!
There to me thro all the groves of olive in the summer glow,
There beneath the Roman ruin where the purple flowers grow,
Came that Ave atque Vale of the Poets hopeless woe,
Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen-hundred years ago,
Frater Ave atque Valeas we wanderd to and fro
Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the Garda Lake below
Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive-silvery Sirmio!

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Alfred Lord Tennyson was a renowned British poet of the Victorian era, born on August 6, 1809, in Somersby, Lincolnshire. He is best known for his works like 'In Memoriam A.H.H.', 'The Charge of the Light Brigade', and 'Ulysses'. As one of the most popular poets of his time, he was appointed Poet Laureate of Great Britain and Ireland in 1850. Tennyson's poetry is characterized by its rich imagery, deep emotion, and classical themes. He passed away on October 6, 1892.

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O love, what hours were thine and mine,
In lands of palm and southern pine;
In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.

What Roman strength Turbia showd
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What slender campanili grew
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A milky-belld amaryllis blew.

How young Columbus seemd to rove,
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To Virgil

I.

Roman Virgil, thou that singest
Ilions lofty temples robed in fire,
Ilion falling, Rome arising,
wars, and filial faith, and Didos pyre;

II.

Landscape-lover, lord of language
more than he that sang the Works and Days,
All the chosen coin of fancy
flashing out from many a golden phrase;

III.

Thou that singest wheat and woodland,
tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd;
All the charm of all the Muses
often flowering in a lonely word;

IV.

Poet of the happy Tityrus
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Catullus: XXXI

(After passing Sirmione, April 1887.)



Sirmio, thou dearest dear of strands
That Neptune strokes in lake and sea,
With what high joy from stranger lands
Doth thy old friend set foot on thee!
Yea, barely seems it true to me
That no Bithynia holds me now,
But calmly and assuringly
Around me stretchest homely Thou.

Is there a scene more sweet than when
Our clinging cares are undercast,
And, worn by alien moils and men,
The long untrodden sill repassed,
We press the pined for couch at last,
And find a full repayment there?
Then hail, sweet Sirmio; thou that wast,
And art, mine own unrivalled Fair!

Thomas Hardy

To E.L., On His Travels In Greece

Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls
Of water, sheets of summer glass,
The long divine Peneïan pass,
The vast Akrokeraunian walls,

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,
With such a pencil, such a pen,
You shadow forth to distant men,
I read and felt that I was there:

And trust me while I turnd the page,
And trackd you still on classic ground,
I grew in gladness till I found
My spirits in the golden age.

For me the torrent ever pourd
And glistendhere and there alone
The broad-limbd Gods at random thrown
By fountain-urns;and Naiads oard

A glimmering shoulder under gloom
Of cavern pillars; on the swell
The silver lily heaved and fell;
And many a slope was rich in bloom

From him that on the mountain lea
By da...

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Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - XVIII. - At Vallombrosa

"Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
In Vallombrosa where Etrurian shades
High over-arch'd embower."
- Paradise Lost.


"Vallombrosa, I longed in thy shadiest wood
To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor!"
Fond wish that was granted at last, and the Flood,
That lulled me asleep bids me listen once more.
Its murmur how soft! as it falls down the steep,
Near that Cell, yon sequestered Retreat high in air
Where our Milton was wont lonely vigils to keep
For converse with God, sought through study and prayer.

The Monks still repeat the tradition with pride,
And its truth who shall doubt? for his Spirit is here;
In the cloud-piercing rocks doth her grandeur abide,
In the pines pointing heavenward her beauty austere;
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Translations From Catullus. Carm. 29.

peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle.


Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye
    Of all peninsulas and isles,
That in our lakes of silver lie,
    Or sleep enwreathed by Neptune's smiles--

How gladly back to thee I fly!
    Still doubting, asking--can it be
That I have left Bithynia's sky,
    And gaze in safety upon thee?

Oh! what is happier than to find
    Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lightened mind
    Lays down its load of care at last:

When tired with toil o'er land and deep,
    Again we tread the welcome floor
Of our own home, and sink to sleep
    On the long-wished-for bed once more.

This, this it is that pays alone
    The ills of all life's former track.--

Thomas Moore