Vanished like a fleet of cloud, Like a passing trumpet-blast, Are those splendors of the past, And the commerce and the crowd! Fathoms deep beneath the seas Lie the ancient wharves and quays, Swallowed by the engulfing waves Silent streets, and vacant halls, Ruined roofs and towers and walls Hidden from all mortal eyes Deep the sunken city lies Even cities have their graves! Where are now the freighted barks From the marts of east and west? Where the knights in iron sarks Journeying to the Holy Land, Glove of steel upon the hand, Cross of crimson on the breast? Where the pomp of camp and court? Where the pilgrims with their prayers? Where the merchants with their wares, And their gallant brigantines Sailing safely into port, Chased by corsair Algerines?
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On its terraced walk aloof Leans a monk with folded hands, Placid, satisfied, serene, Looking down upon the scene Over wall and red-tiled roof Wondering unto what good end All this toil and traffic tend, And why all men cannot be Free from care, and free from pain And the sordid love of gain, And as indolent as he. Lord of vineyards and of lands, Far above the convent stands. Toiling up from stair to stair Peasant girls their burdens bear Sunburnt daughters of the soil, Stately figures tall and straight What inexorable fate Dooms them to this life of toil?
’T is a stairway, not a street, That ascends the deep ravine, Where the torrent leaps between Rocky walls that almost meet. In the middle of the town, From its fountains in the hills, Tumbling through the narrow gorge, The Canneto rushes down, Turns the great wheels of the mills, Lifts the hammers of the forge. Sweet the memory is to me Of a land beyond the sea, Where the waves and mountains meet Where amid her mulberry-trees Sits Amalfi in the heat, Bathing ever her white feet In the tideless, summer seas.
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