The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1875-02-02
MONTE CASINO.
BY HENRY W. LoSeFELLow.
From the Atlantic for FebruaryJ

From the Atlantic for February.l
Beautiful valley, thIough:whose yerdant meads
IInheard the Garigliano gl1des along
The Lfris nurse of rushes aud OF reeds
The river taciturn OF classic song!
The Land of Labor, and the Land OF Rest,
Where medieval towns are white on 81 crest
The hfll-sides, and where every mouh'1in N's'
Is an Etrurian or a Roman wani
There is Aiagna, where Pope Boniface ,e.
was dragged with contumely nom ms 'ni0He'
sciarra COIonna, was that day 8 disgrace
The Pontiffs only, or In part thine OWN
There is Ceprano. where a renegade
was each Apulian, as great Dante s Sa,rsvsd
When Manfred, by his men alarms oSehaScU,
Squared on to Benevento and 10 death-
T,ere is Aouinum, the old Volscian town
Where Juyenai was born, whose lurid light
stiil movers Ger his birthplace like his crown
or splendor over cities seen at Night
Double the splendor is, that in its streets
Inc sS pepbaps the dreams that he repeats
In ponderOus folios for scnoiasucs maue'
And there. upIif, ed like a passing cloud
That pauses on a noun tain summit high,
Monte Casino convent rears us pr0uu
And venerable walls against the SKY
Wen remember how on foot climbed
The stony pathway leading to its gate;
Above. the convent bells for vespers chimedi
Below, the darkening town grew uesOlate'
Well II remember the low arch ard dark,
Tire court ward with its well, the terrace woe,
From which, far down, diminished 10 PARK
The valley yelled in mist was olm oescriOeu'
The day was dying, and with feeble hands
Caressed the mountain top; the Vales setWeeh
Darkened !: the river in the meadow lands
Sheathed itself as a sword and was not seen'
The silence of the place was like a sleep,
SO full OF rest it seemed; each passing tread
Was a reverberation from the deep
Recesses OF the ages that are DEAD
For more than thirteen centuries ago
from a Rome.
Ayouth disgusted with its vice and woe,
Sought in these mountain soitudes hsme.
Hefounded here his Convent and his Rule
OF prayer and work, and counted work as
His pen became clarion, and his school
Planned like beacon in the mldnlght an
What though Boccaccio, in its reckless way
Mocking the lazy brotherhood, deplores
The Illuminated manuscripts tnat lay
Torn and neglected on the dusty noorsY
Boccaceio was a novelist child
of fancy and of fiction at the best;
This the urbane librarian said. and smiled
Incredulous, as at some idle JEST
IJpou such themes and these with one young frtar
sat conversing late into the night,
Till in its carvernous chimney the wood hre
Had burned its heart out like an anchorlle'
And then translated, in my convent cell,
Myself yet not myself in dreams lay
And as a monk who hears the matln Del,
Started from sleep-already II was day.
From the high window beheld the scene
ON which Saint Benedict so Oft had gaZedi
The mountains and the valley in the sheen
Ofthe bright sun, and stood as one amazed.
Gray msits were rolling rising, vanishing;
The wood lands glistened with their Jewelee
Far OF the mellow bells began to ring
For mathis in the half-awakened towns,
The conflict of the Present and the Past,
The ideal and the actual in our life,
Ason a field of battle held me fast,
Where this world and the next world were
strife
For as the valley from its sleep awoke,
Isaw the iron-hOrses of the steam
Toss to the morning air their plumes of smoke
And woke as one awaketh from dream.