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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
169
How
many
such
moments
come
back
to
me
as
my
thoughts
wander!
Dim
little
trattorie
in
city
byways,
inns
smelling
of
the
sun
in
forgotten
valleys,
on
the
mountain
side,
or
by
the
tideless
shore,
where
the
grape
has
given
me
of
its
blood,
and
made
life
a
rapture.
Who
but
the
veriest
fanatic
of
teetotalism
would
grudge
me
those
hours
so
gloriously
redeemed?
No
draught
of
wine
amid
the
old
tombs
under
the
violet
sky
but
made
me
for
the
time
a
better
man,
larger
of
brain,
more
courageous,
more
gentle.
'Twas
a
revelry
whereon
came
no
repentance.
Could
I
but
live
for
ever
in
thoughts
and
feelings
such
as
those
born
to
me
in
the
shadow
of
the
Italian
vine!
There
I
listened
to
the
sacred
poets;
there
I
walked
with
the
wise
of
old;
there
did
the
gods
reveal
to
me
the
secret
of
their
eternal
calm.
I
hear
the
red
rillet
as
it
flows
into
the
rustic
glass;
I
see
the
purple
light
upon
the
hills.
Fill
to
me
again,
thou
of
the
Roman
visage
and
all
but
Roman
speech!
Is
not
yonder
the
long
gleaming
of
the
Appian
Way?
Chant
in
the
old
measure,
the
song
imperishable
"dum
Capitolium
Scandet
cum
tacita
virgine
pontifex--"
aye,
and
for
how
many
an
age
when
Pontiff
and
Vestal
sleep
in
the
eternal
silence.
Let
the
slave
of
the
iron
gods
chatter
what
he
will;
for
him
flows
no
Falernian,
for
him
the
Muses
have
no
smile,
no
melody.
Ere
the
sun
set,
and
the
darkness
fall
about
us,
fill
again!
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