I know not whether it be incipient illness, or the enervating effects of this soft climate, but I feel unusually weak, and the least exertion or excitement is not only disagreeable but painful. While the rest were at Capo di Monte, I stood upon my balcony looking out upon the lovely scene before me, with a kind of pensive dreamy rapture, which if not quite pleasure, had at least a power to banish pain: and thus hours passed away insensibly—
"As if the moving time had been
A thing as stedfast as the scene,
On which we gazed ourselves away."[N]
All my activity of mind, all my faculties of thought and feeling and suffering, seemed lost and swallowed up in an indolent delicious reverie, a sort of vague and languid enjoyment, the true "dolce far niente" of this enchanting climate. I stood so long leaning on my elbow without moving, that my arm has been stiff all day in consequence.
"How I wish," said I this evening, when they drew aside the curtain, that I might view the sunset from my sofa, and sky, earth and ocean, seemed to commingle in floods of glorious light—"how I wish I could transport those skies to England!" Cruelle! exclaimed an Italian behind me, ôtez-nous notre beau ciel, tout est perdu pour nous.
THE LAST EVENING AT NAPLES
Yes, Laura! draw the shade aside
And let me gaze—while yet I may,
Upon that gently heaving tide,
Upon that glorious sun-lit bay.
Land of Romance! enchanting shore!
Fair scenes, near which I linger yet!
Never shall I behold ye more,
Never this last—last look forget!
What though the clouds that o'er me lour
Have tinged ye with a mournful hue,
Deep in my heart I felt your power,
And bless ye, while I sigh—Adieu!