by Thomas Hood.
Originally published in St. James's Magazine (W. Kent) vol.2 #2 (Sep 1861).
It's Journey.
The cold grey dawn was beginning to shine
Over the Austrian frontier-line.
From a streak of pink on the water's edge,
It climbed up the cloud-cliffs, ledge by ledge;
Till at last the day rose broad and bright,
Routing the scattered ranks of night.
The rays of the sun crept down and down
From the roof-tops into the streets of the town;
Where, on either side of the guard-house entry,
An imperturbable Austrian sentry,
Clad in grimed white coat and breeches,
Stood upright in the watch-box niches.
They were smoking their morning pipe; and sweet-
Curled the odorous incense along the street:
The morning air blew fresh but soft,
And lifted the tiny blue ringlets aloft,
Preserving their flavour soothing and bland,
Rich and mellow—So that, poor fellow,
The beggar, distant some hundred feet
From the sentry-boxes black and yellow,
Tasted the relish at second hand.
And now, soon after the morning's break,
The little town is beginning to wake,
Shutters swing backward, and blinds arise,
As the drowsy houses open their eyes.
Heads peep forth at the windows, and yawn
In the smiling face of the rosy dawn,
Soon the urchins, knuckling sleep
Out of their eyelids, school-ward creep;
Then the girls for water going
Set the tongues and fountains flowing;
And last a general busy hum
Tells that the time of toil is come.
Hark! on the daybreak breezes borne,
Rings the note of a distant horn;
And rattle of wheel and rythm of hoof
Come faint from the high-road far aloof.
But ever approaching nearer and nearer,
The sound grows louder, the horn rings clearer;
For the Mail with its fiery horses eight
Is galloping up to the frontier-gate,
Over the bridge with a roll like thunder.
Then with a roar the archway under,
And clattering, pattering over the stones,
While the heavy Diligence sways and groans,
Tossing the foam o'er their tangled manes,
And guided by chances rather than reins,
The eight little sturdy plunging nags
Slide and scramble over the flags.
When the journey commenced, in Italy's sky
The sunset's glory began to die;
Their hurrying hoofs the whole long night
Have scattered the flint-sparks left and right;
And now when the moon has sunk to rest
The strong little horses two abreast
Pull up on the Austrian frontier line,
Just as the day is beginning to shine.
The sentries have smuggled their meerschaums away—
Never were sentries stiffer than they;
When the Corporal fierce at the door appears,
With a red moustache, and rings in his ears.
Quick at his call the frontier-guard
Comes wheeling out of the barrack-yard,
The Drummer smart raps out "The Surround,"
And the butts of the muskets ring on the ground.
Then each sleepy passenger climbs from his perch,
And the Emperor's servants begin the search.
So out come the keys, and down on his knees
Goes a soldier devoutly at every box;
And cords are unknotted, and opened are locks;
While the things inside get tumbled about,
As the contraband trifles are handed out:
And the traveller's patience expires by degrees.
At length the search approaches its close,
When the fat little Corporal, poking his nose
O'er the door of the Mail, as he goes to unlock it,
Finds a parcel there in the pocket!
What it is he cannot discover—
He turns it, and twists it, and feels it all over;
And finishes up his careful inspection
By spelling out the whole direction.
"Ha! this is a man we ought to watch—
This exile in England—ready to hatch
Any treason against the State!"
So he orders the Diligence still to wait
While he takes the package in, to see
What its hidden contents may be.
In those crafty fingers what knots could hold?
The seals give way, and the wraps unfold:—
And the Corporal grunts in wonder, "Well!
I thought it was something else than a shell!"
Only a shell, that in former time
Had a tiny habitant, wont to climb
'Mid the coral and weed of the azure deep,
On whose bosom the shadows of Venice sleep.
No great wonder—the Corporal's smile,
As he cast his eye on the simple toy,
Which, as he guessed, was meant to beguile
The exile's heart with a foolish joy,
And empty remembrance of once-on-a-while!
"Let it go!" said the Corporal stout,
As he carried the little parcel out.
So away went the Mail, with its eight fresh steeds,
Out of the town, and over the meads;
Till the sound of its going died away
And the sun had reached to the middle-day.
Oh, the Corporal laughed as he entered the door,
With its two stiff sentries standing before.
"Had it been a crazy Englishman, well
Could I understand such folly. A shell!"
It's Message.
Over the land, and over the sea,
The little parcel travelled to me.
Quickly I tore the cover away
And saw the shell that within it lay;
Ah, I knew a friendly hand
Had culled it on that distant strand!
Ten long years ago, when I,
From my native land, by night,
Hurried in a secret flight,
Such a shell as this did lie
On the last verge of the shore
I might tread again no more!
Then in foolish idle fashion,
In the homeliness of passion,
Up I snatched the shell, and cast
Far into the waters vast;
Murmuring, "When the waves restore thee
To the strand: from which I tore thee,
From my exile o'er the main
I, too, shall return again."
That was ten long years ago—
Years how heavy-paced and slow!—
And again I see a shell,
Like that one—remembered well—
On the dear Italian strand
When I left my native land!
Spite of Austrian prohibition,
Spite of frontier inquisition,
Hearts Italian o'er the sea
Send their messenger to me:
And the shell has done its mission.
With a holy deep delight,
As at some great sacred rite,
Reverently I raised the shell
That its errand it might tell—
Placed its pink lips to mine ear—
Heard its whisper low and clear.—
Faintly of the sea it sighed,
That dark blue, that distant tide—
Adria's wave, that swells and falls
Round the fair Venetian walls.
And the murmur of the sea
Spoke the message sent to me:—
"Patience! Venice will be free!"