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Full text of "The Complete Poetical Works of Samuel Rogers: With a Biographical Sketch, and Notes"

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GIFT OF COOPER MEDICAL COLLEGE 




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COMPLETE 



POETICAL WORKS 



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SAMUEL ROGERS; 



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BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY. 

NEW YORK : JAMES C. DEBBY. 
1854. 






Eniered aooording to Act of Congrem, in the year ISM, by 

EPES SAKOENT, 

In ibe Clerk*! Office of the Diftrlct Coiirt of the District of MassacbusettA. 



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stereotyped by 

HOBABT 4 BOBBIN^, 

nw BsroLAin) ttpb a:(d stibiottpb rorsDmr. 

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PREFACE. 



It is now more than a third of a century smce Lord 
Bjron alluded to the author of "Human Life" as the 
Nestor of the liyiog poets. Since that time moat of hia 
then celehrated brethren have passed away ; but the ven- 
erable bard still lives, to enjoy the society he adorns, and 
the fame which brightens with his years. He has taken 
leave of Byron, and Campbell, and Moore, and all his po- 
etical rivals and contemporaries ; but he has kept alive the 
eentimenta and sympathies of his nature, and is still cheered 
by the company of younger poets, who regard him with the 
genial warmth of old friendship. 

It was the consolation of Campbell, in his declining years, 
that be had never written a line against religion or virtue. 
We may say, with e*jual truth, of Rogers, that ho leaves no 
verso which, " dying," he could " wish to blot." Exquisite 
taste and judgment pervade everything from his pen. But, 
, while this purity of style and sentiment renders him a fa^ 
Torile poet for the study of the young, hia great and pecu- 



IV PREFACE. 

liar merits, we think, are better felt and appreciated, in later 
years, by those who have become wearied with the intense 
straining for effect, and the passionate eccentricities, of some 
of our more recent schools of verse, and recur with fresh 
pleasure to pages that are marked everywhere with sim- 
plicity, refinement, and tranquil beauty. 

It has been our object to furnish an edition of the Com- 
plete Poetical Works of Samuel Rogers, in a form so hand- 
some that everybody might be pleased to possess it, and so 
cheap that anybody might be able to buy. We have thrown 
together, in a pre&tory memoir, such materials for the per- 
sonal and literary life of the author as were within our 
reach ; and, among them, we are sure that the admirable 
critiques of Mackintosh and Jeffi^y will be considered as 
unparting additional value to the volume. 



CONTENTS. 



IRMOIR, 

roXMS, 

Pmsraiaor MnioiT.— Put L, . . 

Pirtir., . 

Ai EroTLi TO 1 FuiiD, 

" " " C«iiloTIL, 

» " ■' CinloTm., 

" " " CmHoX,, . 

*• - •' CutoXI., . 

" " " CioloXIL, 

JicqcnjH 

MuciLLiincB Poiw, . 

Oils to Sapenlition, 

An lullu Boog. 

Tbc Alp> U Dij-brak, 

Wriuen In > Sick Clumber, . . . 

TotiroSiuai 

ToiVrteDilnililiHvTlsit', . . . 
ITritUo to be spolwD bj Mn. SldJ< 
To •••■'• -, 

Pmn ■ GiHk Bpliniii, 

rmm Xaripldn, 

ItBa u Italiu Bonnet, 

Captlrilir, 

WrtBCB u Hldslibt, 

1* 



COKTUTIB. 



i-fibmcOr 

To u (Hd Otk, 

To Uh r/aattU UtailOa <it JuAt • ' 

ToUwOnU, 



To Oh BntterBj, . 
An BpUapli on ■ B 
To Uh IngnHDt ff ■ SUtna of Henulgl, . 

To 

Tholk.i..rEt-rinio,«l 

WritUalnlht HlgUudlorSHtlud,. . . 

An Inicrlption In Uw (Mohk, 



Writta at DnimDn, 

WrlHeo a Strulineld Svci ' ■ 
Wrinm In JalT, 1831, . . . . 
WrillHiinlgM, 

TbcLiUHiDracDeTm 



Tba Gnu 8L Bcrurd, . 



The BroChen, > . - . 

nwAips 

CoU'ilu, 

LuJsi, 

Tbe Onodrilis 

TtMBrMaoCVeniiK, . 









Ibe fIn-Rji . . . 

ForfdgD ^mve^ . , 
nw FvDDtaln, p . 
BudltlJ, . . . . 
An AdTcnlan, . . 
N.pl«, 

A ChuicUr, ■ ■ . 
MoonOHdnOk . . 



MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGEBS. " 



Siiiina. BoGiRB was bora U Nemngton Green, & Tillage now fbnn- 
fag part of London, about the year 1763, and is now (1864) 
upwafda of ninetj-one jrara of age. His birth-pliuie was in a local- 
it]r diBtinguisbed by man; saeociations of interest. " In tiiis DMgh- 
borhood," taja William Howitt, m his Bntortaining work on the 
Homes and liaunta of the Most Eminent British Pouts, " the Tador 
princes usod to live a good deal. Canonburj, between this green 
and Islington, was a faTOrite hunting-seat of Elizabeth , and no doubt 
the woods and wash« extended all round this neighborhood. There 
it Eingsland, now aU built on, there ia Henry TIII.'b walk, and 
Qneea Elizabeth's walk, all in the vicinity ; and this old, quiet green 
aeems to retain a feeling and an aspeot of those dmes. It is built 
lonnd with bouses, evidently of a considerable age. There an trees 
and qaietnesB about it still. In the centre of the south ride is an old 
boose standing bauk, which is s^d to haro beeif inhabited by Henry 
TIU. At the end next to Stoke Newington stands an old Presbyte- 
rian chapel, at which the eelobrated Dr. Price preached, and of 
wiiich, afterward, the husband of ftlrs. Barbauld was the minister. 
Near this chapel De Foe was educated, and tlie house still remains. 
In Utis green lited, too, Mary Wolstoncrofl, bdng onga.ged with 
another lady ia keeping school. Samuel Rogers was bom in the 
ttnoooed bouse at the south-west comer, which te much older than it 
■earns. Adjoining it is a large, old garden. Here his father, and 
hii mother's father, lived before him. By the mother's side he was 
d &om tiie celebrated Hiilip Henry, the father of Muttbew 




\mJmo"ms 



I 



10 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL R0OER3 

Henry, and was therefore of an old non-con fomiiBt femily. Mr. 
Rogers' grandfather wils a gentleman, pursuing no profisaion, but 
his father engagi-d in banking." In the hanking-housu the elder 
Bo^irs amassed considerable wealth, which with his busineea de- 
scended to ilia eon. 

But little is known of the early life of the poet. His education 
was liberal, nod from an early age he woe familiar with the best 
society of the metropolis. In the year 1780 he publiehed his first 
volume, with the title of "An Ode to Superstition, and other Poems," 
in which a critic of the time, writing in the Monthly Recieu>, thought 
be perceived the " hand of a ma«l«t." 

Si years afterwards ho published Tho Pleaautos of Memory, a 
poem that attained an immediate popularity, both in England and 
in this country. This poem was elaborated with the most consummate 
care and art. lie submitted it very freely to tho ocnimro of his 
friends before publication, ono of whom, Mr. Richard Sharpe, since 
member of Parliament, has said that during the preparation of the 
first and second editions he had read it with the poot SL-reral hun- 
dred timo!, at home and on the continent, and in orery temi>pr of 
mind that varied company and varied scenery (x>uld produce?. '' To 
the spirit of original obserration," says Mr. Allan Cunningham of 
this poem, in his History of British Literature, " to the fine pictures 
of men and manners, and to the remarks on the social and domeetio 
condition of the country, which mark the disciples of the nower 
■ohool of verse, arc added the tcTBcness, smoothnesB and harmony, of 
the old. The poem aliounda with capital and brilliant hits ; with 
passages which raniain on the memory, and may bo said to please 
lather than enchantr one, — to take ulent possteeion of the heart, 
ntber than fill it with immediate rapture. Iloilitt, with some of 
that pervereenees which even talent is not without, said the chief 
fault of Rogers was want of genius and taste. Perhaps in the whole 
list of living men of genius no one can bo named whose taste m 
poetry is so just and delicate. This is apparent in every page of his 
compositions ; nny, he is even fastidious in his taste, and rejects 
much, in the picture* of maunetsand feelings which he paints, which 
other authoni, whose taste is unqueationcd, would have used without 
•cruple. nis diction is pure, and his language has all the necessary 
■tmgth, without bdng swelling or redundant : his words are always 




I 

I 

I 



MEMOm OF SAMUEL KOQBRS. 

In kocping with tho ecntimeDt. lie lum, in truth, great strength : 
he HijB mut^h in Hmall coiBpaaa, nnd may eometunea be uliargeii with 
A too great aciietj to be brief anil terse. It vrae tho error of tha 
■ohool in which liis taste was formed to bo over auiioue about tho 
harmonj and poliali of the verso ; and he may be acuused of erring 
with tiis teachers. Concerning the compoeition of The Ilaisurcs of 
Memory, it is related that he corrected, transposed and changixl, 
tUI ho oibauBt«d his own patieuco ; and then, turning to his Iri^nds, 
he demanded then- opinions, listening to overy remark, and wcif^hing 
every obacrvation. ' This plan of correction is liable to serious objee- 
tions. The poet is almost auro of losing in dasli and vigor more than 
what he gtdna by correctness ; and, as a whole, the work ts apt to In 
iojured, whilo individual parts are bettered. Poetry is bmt hit off at 
one heat of the fancy ; the more it is hammered and wrought on, the 
dolder it becomes. The sale of The Flea^ures of Memory coa- 
tioued to be large, though The Pluoauree of Hope come into tho 
market." 

This production gave ite author a high poutiou among the men of 
letterB who flourished in London during the early part of tho present 
century. Cumberland, the dramatic author, in the supplement to 
bia Memoirs, published nearly half a century ago, advised Moore, 
who was then known as the translator of Anacreuu and tho author 
of Little's Poems, to "subject his composition to the rc\iew of his 
correct and judidous friend, Mr. Ht^ers, (and when so done) he may 
tarrender himself without fear to thecritidsmof the world at hirgc.'' 
iat," said tho veteran reminiscent, " the justly-admired 
lUthor of The Pleasures of Memory, and find myself with a friend 
^vho together with the brightest genius possesses elegance of manners 
excellence of heart. He tells me ho remembers the day of our 
meeting at Mr. Dilly's ; I also rememltor it, and, though his 
■odeat, unassuming nature held liack and shrunk from all appear- 
of ostentation and display of talents, yet even then I tuke 
endit for discovering a promise of good tilings to come, and sus- 
pected him of holding secret commerce with tiie Muse, before the 
inoof appeared in shape of one of the most beautiful ond haraonioua 
poems in out language. I do not say that ho has not ornamented 
Ibe age he lives in, though he were to atop where ho is ; but I hope 
ta will not so totally deliver himself over to the Aita, as to neglect 



12 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGBBS. 

the MuBQB ; and I now publicly call upon Samuel Rogers to answer 
to hb name, and stand forth in the title-page of some future work, 
that shall be in substance greater, in dignity of subject more sublime, 
and in purity of versification not less charming, than his poem above 
mentioned." 

In November, 1805, Moore wrote to his mother, <* I am just 
going to dine third to Rogers and Cumberland : a good poetical step- 
ladder we make ; the former is past forty, and tlic latter past seven- 
ty. " It was in the pages of the Anthohgia Hibemica^ for the months 
of January and February, 1793, that Moore first read, as a school- 
boy, Rogers^ Pleasures of Memory ^ little dreaming that ho should 
one day become the intimate friend of the author ; and such an im- 
pression did it then make upon him, as he tells us in his Memoirs^ 
that the particular type in which it is there printed, and the very 
color of the paper, were through life associated with every line of it 
in his memory. 

Rogers was an early friend of Lord Byron. The noble poet had 
excepted him from the somewhat indiscriminate abuse of the English 
Bttrds and Scotch Reviewers, and had complimented him in lines 
which will well bear transcription : 

*< To the famed throng now paid the tribute due. 
Neglected genius ! let me turn to you. 
Come forth, Campbell !* give thy talentA scope; 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope 1 
And thou, melodious Rogers ! rise at last — 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past. 
Arise ! let blest remembrance still inspire. 
And strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre ; 
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 
Assert thy country's honor and thine own." 

This eulogy Moore thinks the disinterested and deliberato result of 
the young poet's judgment, as at that time he had never seen Rogers 

* It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader the authors 
of « The Pleasures of Memory " and « The Pleasures of Hope,'* the most 
beautiful didactic poems in our language, if we except Pope's '* Essay on 
Man ; " but so many poetasters have started up, that even the names of 
Campbell and Rogers are become strange. — Byron*s Note, 



MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROOEKS. 



18 



I 




(with wtiom be nfuirwarda becajno intimuto) ; and tho opiutOQ ke then 
expreeBsd remnmed ttic iame through life. 

It wiM in the year IT'JS that Rogers published " Aa Epiatta to & 
Priend, with other PoomH,"and bo did not appear again eeaa author 
till the jeur 1812, when he lonturcd beforo the world with a frag- 
mcuturj poeni outillcd Tlio Yojage of Culumhus. This poem was 
HHwived bj tho entice with various (aior. In a letter written froiu 
Bombay, before it« appearance. Sir James Macicintotib bad begged to 
Im pikftiuularly remcmlicrad to Itogors, and added, " I hoiio Culutu- 
bua will soon undertake u new voyiigu to tho East, and that ho will 
^imatu t!io dulnes of tiko one Indivs more quicklj than lie eon- 
qaored tho barliariBm of thu other." When the pocto appeared, tho 
great whig jurist and stnteaiuan, no lees eminent as a man of letters 
And a critic, pronouncod bis judgment of its morits in tho Edinlmrgk 
BeeioB for October, 1S13 ; and wo feel that wo cannot better occupy 
the pages wo have reserved for a literary memoir of the poet than 
fcy giving this article cuUro : 

" FoKMS Br S.IHUH. Rogers : Including Fragments tifa Puem called 
Tfm Voyage »/ Ciibind^. Loudon, isiz 

" It seems very doubtful whether tlie progress and the viuissitudea 
of tho client art^ can be referred to the operation of gosorul laws, 
irith the same ptausihility aa tbo excttions of Uie more robust facul- 
ties of the human loind, in the sovorer forms of ecienco and of uaeful 
Ut. The actirm of foncf and of taste seems to tio afiectod by causes 
too voriuos and minute to be enumerated with suffioent completencn 
for the porposea of philosophical theory. To cxpkin them, may 
ftppcttr to be as hopeless Jtn attempt as to account for one summer 
bdng moro warm and gouial than another. Tho difficulty would be 
iuaurmountftUe, even in framing tho m<jst general outline of a tho- 
cny, if tho various forms assumed by imagination, in thu Gno arte, 
did not depend on some of the moat conepiouaua as well as powerful 
the. moral world. But these arieo from revolutions of pop- 
■entimeDts, and are connected with the opinions of tlie ago, and 
frith the manners of the re&ned cli\ss, as certainly, though not in so 
great a degree, as with tho passions of tho multitude. The comedy 
«f a polished monarchy never eon bo of the samo ubamcttir with that 
2 



i 




MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

of a bold and tumiiltuoiu democracy. Changes of religion and of 
goTemment, civil or foreign wura, miiqucsta which derive splendor 
from dialance or eitent or difficulty, long tranquillity, — all these, 
and indeed erery conceivable mndifiutitian uf the etate of a commu- 
nity, show tlicmselvea in tbe tone of iU poetry, and leave long and 
doep traces on every part of tte literature. Geometry is the same, 
not only at London and Paris, but in tho eitremea of Athens and 
Saiuoreand ; but the state of the general feeling in Enghind, at thia 
moment, requires a different poetry from that wliich delighted our 
anctnton in the time of Luther or Alfred. 

" During tho greater part of the eighteenth century, the connection 
of tho cbatocter of English poetry with tho atalo of the country waa 
reij eaaily traced. The period which extended from the Englitdi to 
the French Revolution waa tho golden ago of authentic history. 
GovenuDonta were secure, nations tranquil, improvements ra^d, 
mannera mild beyond the example of any former age. The English 
nation, which possecBod the greatest of all human bleesings, a 
widely constructed popular government, neoeetmrily enjoyed the 
largest share of every other liendit. The tranquillity of that for- 
tnnato prriod was not disturbed by any of thoao oilamitouti, or even 
extraordinary events, which excite the imagination and inflame tho 
passions. No ago waa more exempt from the prevalence of any spo- 
cifB of popular cnthurioMn. Poetry, in this state of things, partook 
of that catM, argumcntntive, moral, and directly useful character, 
into which it naturally eubsidea when there are no events bi cull up 
the higher patrions, — when every talent is allured iuto the imme- 
diate Borvico of a prosperous luid improving society, — and when wit, 
ta«!e, dUHued literature, and faatidious criticism, combine to deter 
the young writer from the more arduous enti?rpriscs of ptn'tieul 
genius. In such an age, evay art becomes rational. Reason is tho 
power which presidts in a calm. Rut reoaiin guidee, nithfr than 
impck : and, though it must regulate every cicrtiou of genius, it 
never can rouse it to vigorous action. 

" The school of Dryden and Pope, which prevailed till a very late 
period of the kst century, is neither the most poetical norlthe most 
national part of our literary annals. These great poets iwmctimes, 
indeed, ventured into the regions of pure poetry ; but their general 
character is, thai ■ not in fancy's muio they wandered lung ; ' and 





MKMOIR UF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

I that tlii'y rjtliiT approached the elcgtiDt «)iTectnr>*a of our 
I Denial ncighlnn, than Bapported the during flight, wbicb, in the 
!, had borne English ixwtry to u sublimM eliivation than 
P' that of liny other modem people of the West. 

" Towards the iniildle of the century, great, though quiet ohttngea, 
began bo manifust themwivea iu the n'public of letteiB in eveiy Euro- 
pean nation which retained nnj portion of mental octixity. About 
A timo, the eiduaive authority of our great rliyming pouts began 
I to be weukem<il, while new toBtes and faahiona began to show thcui- 
[ Klves in tho political world. A achool of poetry must have prcvoilod 
T long enough to bo probably on the Tcrgc of downfall, before its pruc- 
« is embodied iu a correapondent eyatem of critieism. 
'• Juhnsun wiia the critio of out second poetical school. Aa far as 
, bia prejudices of a political or religious kind did not dijiqualiiy him 
I §ot all mttcism, be was admirably litted by nature to be tho critic 
of this species of poetry. Without moro imagination, seuBibiiity or 
I delicacy, than it required, — not always with perhaps quite enough 
' fiw its higher parts, — ho poflBCBScU sagacity, Bhrewdnejia, experience, 
I knowledge of mankind, a tiuto for rational and orderly compoEitiona, 
1 and a dispoation to act»pt, instead of poetry, that lofty and vigorous 
I declamation in hnrmonious Tcrae, of which be himself was capalile,- 
Mai to which his great master sometimes descended. IBs spontane- 
oas admiration scarcely soared abore Dryden. ' Merit of a loftier 
claia he talber saw than felt.' Shakspoare has tranaoondent excel- 
lence of crery sort, and for every critic, eioept tlioae who are repelled 
by the Inults vrhicli usually attend sublime virtues, — chaniclerand 
matmen, monlity and prudence, oa well aa iuuigcry and posdou. 
Jtiinsun dill, indeed, perform a vigoroos act of reluctant Juatico 
Is Miitiin ; hut it was a proof, to use hit own words, that 

■ At lenEth oor nigbt; btrd'a vioturiunt ]a.js 
VU\ the load Toioo gf uulven&l prnlna ; 
And bafflsd ^pite, witli faiipeleaa uittuiah dumb, 



le dolbrmities of the Life of Gray ought not to be ascri))ed to jeal- 
— for Johnson's mind, though coaree, waj not mean, — but to 
^dioM of his university, hia poiitioil faction, and hia poetical 



16 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

sect ; and this last bigotry is the more remarkable, becaode it is 
exerted against the most skilful and tasteful of innovators, who, in 
reviving more poetical subjects and a more splendid diction, has em- 
ployed more care and finish than those who aimed only at correct- 
ness. 

" The interval which elapsed between the death of Goldsmith and 
the rise of Cowper is perhaps more barren than any other twelve 
years in the history of our poetry since the accession of Elizabeth. 
It seemed as if the fertile soil was at length exhausted. But it had 
in fact only ceased to exhibit its accustomed produce. The estab- 
lished poetry had worn out either its own resources, or the constancy 
of its readers. Former attempts to introduce novelty had been either 
too weak or too early. Neither the beautiful fancy of Collins, nor 
the learned and ingenious industry of Warton, nor even tlie union 
of sublime genius with consummate art in Gray, had produced a 
general change in poetical composition. But the fulness of time vms 
approaching ; and a revolution has been accomplished, of which the 
commencement nearly coincides — not, as we conceive, accidentally 
— with that of the political revolution which has changed the char- 
acter, as well as the condition, of Europe. It has l^een a thousand 
times observed, that nations become weary even of excellence, and 
seek a new way of writing, though it should be a worse. But, besides 
the operation of satiety, — the general cause of literary revolutions, — 
several particular circumstances seem to have affected the late changes 
of our poetical taste ; of which, two are more conspicuous than the 
rest. 

" In the natural progress of society, the songs which are the effusi(»i 
of the feelings of a rude tribe are gradually polished into a form of 
poetry still retaining the marks of the national opinions, sentiments 
and manners, from which it originally sprung. The plants are im- 
proved by cultivation ; but they are still the native pro<luce of the 
soil. The only perfect example which we know, of this sort, is 
Greece. Knowledge and useful art, and perhaps in a great measure 
religion, the Greeks received from the East ; but, as they studied no 
foreign language, it was impossible that any foreign literature should 
influence the progress of theirs. Not even the name of a Persian, 
Assyrian, Phenician, or Egyptian poet is alluded to by any Greek 
writer. The Greek poetry was, therefore, wholly national. The 




I 



UEMOtH OF B&HUBL HOaERS. 



Pelaegic ballads ware insEnablj formeil into Epic, and Tragic, and 
Ljric poems ; but tho hero«e, the 'opiniuns, and thu custoins, con- 
tinaed as eidusirelj Grcciaa as thej had been vhna tlio llflleDiu 
mmstrelH knuir little bejond the AdriaUc aud the ^gcan. Tho lit- 
erature or Rome wuB a copy from tliat of Greece. When the tlaiei- 
col studiue Toviyed amid tlio uliivalrouB manners aiid feudal in^titu- 
iioiiB of Gothic Euiupe, the imitation of ancient poets etruggli^l 
■^iiiBt tlie power cif mndcm eentunctite, with ratious event, in 
4iQi!T«iit times and countries, but ererjn'hcre in auch a manner an 
to give somewhat of an artiScial bdU exuttu character to fioctrj. 
iJupiter and the Muses appearod in tho pooms of Ghristiau nations. 
The feelings and prineiples of democracies vera copinl by c!ie gootle- 
men of Teutonic inooiirchius or ariatocnicice. The Bentiments of the 
poet in his veive 'wure not those wliich actuated him in his eonduet. 
The furrat and ruiiM of eompijfdtion wore borrowed from antiijuitj, 
instead of tpunl&oGoudy arimig from the maooer of thinking of 
modern communities. In Italy, when letters Grst revived, the chiv- 
aliouB principle was too near the ijeriud of its full vigor to be 
oppreesed by his foreign learning. Ancient ornaments were bor- 
rowed ; but the romantic form was prevalent ; and where the forma 
were clanical, the sprit continued to bo romantic. The atructurO 
of Ta«Bo's poem was tlmt uf tlut Groi'ian epic ; hut his heroes were 
Christian knights. French poetry, having bt'on somewhat unae- 
oountahly late in iti) riae, iia-l »[<m in its progrcai, reached its uiost 
Inilliant period when all Kurope had coiisidumbly lost its ancient 
cbarscteriHtic prioeiplus, aud was fully imbued with oloieical ideas. 
B«n«e it acquired faultlcas oleganeo : hence also it became le^ 
hMtural, — more timid and more imitative, — more like a feeble 
'tnnslation of Roman poetry. The first age of English poetry, in 
tberdgnof Elixulicth, displayed a combination, &nlaatia enough, 
of ohivalrouB fiincy and feeling with claaaieal pedantry; but, upon 
Ihe whole, lis native genius was unsubdued. The poems of that age, 
' 'i all their fniilt«, and portly pcrhapfl from their &ult£, are the 
t national part of our iioctry, us they undoubtedly contain its 
■est lieuiities. From the aucession of Jami<s, to tho Civil War, 
glory of Shakspeare turned the whole national genius to the 
; ami, after the rcetotuUon, a new and claaucul suhool arose, 
whuiu our old and peculiar literature won abandoned, aud 



18 MEMOI& OF SAMUEL BOOERS. 

almost forgotton. But all imported tastes in literature must be in 
some measure superficial. The poetry which once grew in the bosoms 
of a people is always capable of being reviyed by a skilfiil hand. 
When the brilliant and poignant lines of Pope b^an to pall on the 
public ear, it was natural that wo should reyert to the cultivation of 
our indigenous poetry. 

<* Nor was this the solo, or perhaps the chief agent which was work- 
ing a poetical change. As the condition and character of the former 
age had produced an argumentatiye, didactic, sententious, prudential 
and satirical poetry, so the approaches to a new order (or rather at 
first disorder) in political society were attended by correspondent 
movements in the poetical world. Bolder speculations b^an to pre- 
vail. A combination of the science and art of the tranquil period 
with the hardy enterprises of that which succeeded gave rise to 
scientific poems, in which a bold attempt was made, by the mere 
force of diction, to give a political interest and elevation to the cold- 
est parts of knowledge, and to those arts which have been hitherto 
considered as the meanest. Having been forced above their natural 
place by the wonder at first elicited, they liave not yet recovered from 
the subsequent depression. Nor will a similar attempt be successful, 
without a more temperate use of power over style, till the diffusion 
of physical knowledge renders it familiar to the popular imagina- 
tion, and till the prodigies worked by the mechanical arts shall have 
bestowed on them a character of grandeur. 

*' As the agitation of men's minds approached the period of an 
explosion, its effects on literature become more visible. The desire 
of strong emotion succeeded to the solicitude to avoid disgust. Fic- 
tions, both dramatic and narrative, were formed according to the 
school of Rousseau and Goethe. The mixture of comic and tragic 
pictures once more displayed itself, as in the ancient and national 
drama. The sublime and energetic feelings of devotion began to bo 
more frequently associated with poetry. The tendency of political 
speculation concurred in directing the mind of the poet to the intense 
and undisguised passions of the uneducated, which fastidious polite- 
ness had excluded from the subjects of poetical imitation. The liis- 
tory of nations unlike ourselves, the fantastic mythology and fero- 
cious superstition of dbtant times and countries, or the legends of 
our own antique faith, and tlie romances of our fabulous and heroic 



MEMOIR OF SAllUEL P.OliEHS. 



V.) 



Trtuxe of a, higher onSer or fevliiif; 
which the jmet indulged, bjuI ill 



I agw, bemiue thoines of poetiy. 
I ftppooied in the otmtcmphitiODi 

T tlic PTents nod tnitui which he deUghttid to dcHcribe. The tire »it)i 

I irliicb B chivalrous tale woe told mode the reader inatlciitivc tu 

BlU^ligHaces in the glory or Ibe s^-Ie. Pbetrj bccamo mora dcTout, 

Mitemplatiro, mure mjstical, more Ti^onuTj, — taon alien 

K from the taste of those whoae poetry is onlj a. polished proraiu tutbo, 

Eviure lull of ai]tic[uc supn«Utiun, and more prouo to daring iono- 

Iftlion. — paiDting both eoarscr realities and purer imE^^inuUonB 

a alie hod bvfiire hamrdod, — eamotimes buried in the profound 

|uiift rn^uirod bj the dn.<ains of fnnoy, sometinics turbiilnnt and 

^BionJal, — (<y>kiug 'fieruo mus and Ihithful loves' in thosu timis 

■.long [nst, when the frequency of the most dreadful dungora productnl 

Ic energy and the ardor of fUitliful aSeution. 

" Ewn Ihe dirtvtion given to the Iniveller by the acddenta of war 

|kss not heea tricbuut ibi influence. Greece, the mollier of freedom 

id of poetry iu tlte West, which liod long employed only the anti- 

ry, tbo artist and the philologist, was at length destined, afW 

n inttTTid aTnuiny nient and inglorious ages, to awaken the gonjus 

rfapoou Full ofenthuniasm for those perfect forms of heroism and 

~ J which hi« iiuaglDalion had pLtcod in the reccHscsof ontiipity, 

le gni* rent to bb impatience of tho imperfections of living men and 

d iDBiitutiuns in an uriginol atntin uf snhlinie aatiro, which clothes 

r iu imagery of an almost horrible grandeur : uml which, 

ttinngh it cannot cuiiicido with the cslimate of reason, yet could only 

w fran that worship of [lerfcGtian which is thu soul of all true 

<*iry. 

•' TliB t«idency of jcotry to liocome national wns in more than oiio 
kable. Whilo the Scottish middle age inspired the ni'wt 
lahr prwt, ixrhaps, of the eightoonth wintory, tho national gnnius 
r Inland at length found u poedcul roprceenlatiTC, whose cxqululo 
■r^anil flexihln fancy, wanltinud ia all tha varieties of poetical lux- 
F, fK>in tho leviliva b> the foudn-m of We, from polisbixl ptou- 
a ardent [osmon, and from tho sonal joys of private life tu a 
and mournful patriotism, taught by the niehuicholy furtuueu 
) illostriuiia wuntry, — with a range adapt"! to OTfry nerve in 
m coaipauiion of a ]>poplc auaceptible of all fuolings which hurc the 



20 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

color of generosity, and more exempt, probably, than any other from 
degrading and unpoetical vices. 

" The failure of innumerable adventurers is inevitable, in literary, 
as well as in political, revolutions. The inventor seldom perfects his 
invention. The uncouthness of the novelty, the clumsiness with 
which it is managed by an unpractised hand, and the dogmatical 
contempt of criticism natural to the pride and enthusiasm of the 
innovator, combine to expose him to ridicule, and generally termi- 
nate in his being admired (though warmly) by a few of his contem- 
poraries, remembered only occasionally in after times, and sup- 
planted in general estimation by more cautious and skilful imitators. 
With the very reverse of unfriendly feelings, we observe that errone- 
ous theories respecting poetical diction, — exclusive and prescriptive 
notions in criticism, which, in adding new provinces to poetry, would 
deprive her of ancient dominions and lawful instruments of rule, — 
and a neglect of that extreme regard to general sjrmpathy, and even 
accidental prejudice, which is necessary to guard poetical novelties 
against their natural enemy, the satirist, — have powerfully counter- 
acted an attempt, equally moral and philosophical, made by a writer 
of undisputed poetical genius, to enlarge the territories of art, by 
unfolding the poetical interest which lies latent in the common acts 
of the humblest men, and in the most ordinary modes of feeling, as 
well as in the most familiar scenes of nature. 

" The various opinions which may naturally be formed of the merit 
of individual writers form no necessary part of our consideration. 
We consider the present as one of the most flourishing periods of 
English poetry ; but those who condemn all contemporary poets 
need not on that account dissent from our speculations. It is suffi- 
cient to have proved the reality, and in part perhaps to have ex- 
plained the origin, of a literary revolution. At no time docs the 
success of writers bear so uncertain a proportion to their genius, as 
when the rules of judging and the habits of feeling are unsettled. 
^ " It is not uninteresting, even as a matter of speculation, to observe 
the fortune of a poem which, like The Pleasures of Memory, appeared 
at the commencement of this literary revolution, without paying 
court to the revolutionary tastes, or seeking distinction by resistance 
to them. It borroweil no aid either from prejudice or innovation. 
It neither copied the fashion of the age which was passing away, nor 



HEHOIB or SAHCEL ROOERS. 



21 



1 flfltoed any homage to the rising novcltiea. It resembles, onlj in 

T Buosuic. the poema of the dghteenth century, wliieli wore written 

in heroiv rhyme. Noithcr the brilliant aenteatiauencee of Pupe, nor 

' the frequent laoguor and ncgligauco perbnpa inseparublo frorn tbci 

esqaiidce nature of Guldsmith, could be traci-d in a poem from 

which tnste and lalior equullj bonlBhod maniu'riHm and inequiLlit^r. 

It wae patronized bj no aect or fnetion. It vae neitlicr imptK^ad on 

the public by anj literary cabal, nor Forced into nntio] by tlic noL<y 

anger of conepieuoua CDcmi«. Yet, destitute na it was of e^cry 

I foreign help, it acquired a popularity originally very great ; and 

r which has not only continued amidst extiaordinarj fluetuation uf 

general toate, but boa jncieiisod amtd a sucee«eion of formidable ciim- 

pelitors. No production, so popuhir, wus probably ever bo llttlo 

oenaurcd by critieiam ; and thus is combined the appUiuso of cuntcm- 

poraries with Che suffrage of the reprwentatiTes of posterity. -> 

" It ia needless lo make extracts from a poem wliicb » familiar to 
creiy reader. In selectioQ, indeoJ, no two readers would probably 
agree ; but the description of the Qypeiee, of the Buy quitting liig 
I Father's house, and of the Savoyard recalling tlte mountainous 
I ■oenery of liis country, and the descriptive conuncncencnt of the 
I We in Cumberland, have rcnuuncd most deeply impremed on onr 
I tninds. We should be disposed to qnotc the following veiscs, as not 
I wirpased, in pure and chaste elegance, by any EngtitJi lines : 

' When Jdj's bright lan hsi ehed hia avcnlng nj. 
And nape's dcIaslTO motoura cnaao to pta; ; 
When oloudj on sloaila the BmillBe proiptsC oluac. 



" The coaclurion of the lino pas8.ig6 on the Vctorona at nroenwich 
i and Cbclaea has a pensive dignity whiuh benutifully corresponds 
L with the scene : 



■Long hoto je Iedowd Itefloatlon'i genii 



'21 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

** And we cannot resist the pleasure of quoting the moral, tender, 
and elegant lines which close the poem : 

' Lighter than air, Hopo*s sammor-risions flj. 
If bat a fleeting oloiid obscure the sky ; 
If but a beam of sober Reason play, 
Lo ! Fancy *s fairy frost-work melts away ! 
But can the wiles of Art, ttie grasp of Power, 
Snatch the rich relics of a wcll-spont hour 1 
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, 
Pour round her path a stream of living light ; 
And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest. 
Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest ! ' 

" Tlie descriptive passages require, indeed, a closer inspection, and a 
more exercised eye, than those of some celebrated contemporaries who 
sacrifice elegance to effect, and whose figures stand out, in bold relief, 
from the general roughness of their more unfinished compositions ; 
and in the moral parts there is often discoverable a Virgilian art, 
which suggests, rather than displays, the various and contrasted 
scenes of human life, and adds to the power of language by a certain 
air of reflection and modesty, in the preference of measured terms to 
those of more apparent energy. . 

" In tlie View from the House, the scene is neither delightful from 
very superior beauty, nor striking by singularity, nor powerful from 
reminding us of terrible passions or memorable deeds. It consists of 
the more ordinary of the beautiful features of nature, neither exag- 
gerated nor represented with curious minuteness, but exhibited with 
picturesque elegance, in connection with those tranquil emotions 
which they call up in the calm order of a virtuous mmd, in every 
condition of society and of life. The verses on the Torso are in a 
more severe style. The Fragment of a divine artist, which awakened 
the genius of Michael Angelo, seems to disdain ornament. It would 
be difficult to name two small poems, by the same writer, in which 
he has attained such high degrees of kinds of excellence so dissimi- 
lar, as are seen in the Sick Chamber and the Butterfly. The first 
has a truth of detail, which, considered merely as painting, is admir- 
able ; but aasumes a higher character, when it is felt to be that 
minute xemembnuioe with which aflBsction xecollects every circum* 




with 



that could have aQbct«d a beloved sufferer. Though tlio 
nwnlitj -which concludes tiie eeeaoi bo in itself vorf benutirul, it 
maj be doabted whether the Tortiee would nut hare luil a moro iin- 
miiod delight, if the nddrea had remained as a men i>purt of liincv, 
olijuct, or an appliention. The wtvm 
in WeetnuuHlcr Abbey nre Burroimdod hj diingetoiut rrcol- 
tliGj fwpire b) commomorate Fox, and to copy suiae ut the 
thonghts in the moet Hublime work of Boaiuot. Nothiii>; 
isa ntiif; tho expectation avmkcned by such nanios ; yet we ure 
aosared that ther* are eomo of them -which would be vnvicd by thu 
Ui«t writers of this ago. The eccnerj of Locli Long is among tlio 
gmulrst in Scotland ; and the dcscriptian of it ahows the power of 
fculing and painting. In liiia island the taste fur nature haa grown 
with thu ptagKfe of mfinoiucDt. It is most alira in thusu who am 
brilUiiDtly distinguiabod in socio.! and nctivo life. It eluTatfs 
ninJ obuTD tbu nuumiua which it might contract in tha rjval- 
foT praina : and prcscrreB those haUts of rcflucticm and scnsl- 
Mch recravn ho many rude shocks in the coww contosls of 
wurld. Not many suuimw honn can be passed in the most 
DUNintainoiU) silitudcs of Scoilond, without meeting boiuq who are 
worthy ta lie mucubcrad with Iho eublime objects of nature which 
had tnirelled bo fkr li) admire. 
Tfao BUM conKpiciiouB of the noveltiee of this volume is the poeiu, 
itittod ■Fragments of the Voyage of ColumhuH,' Thn 
nf UiiK {locm is, piiliUcully or philoBojihicnlly cunsidi-Tcd, 
he must impirtunt in the unnalii of mankind. The intro- 
of Chri»tiaiiity (huionnly viewed), the irruption of tlio 
iMihamiw, tlic ODDHst between the ChristiDn and Musenl- 
Syriii.thc two inrentioniiorgunpuwdur and printing, 
(nutdpntiun uf tlie huirin understanding by tiie Iteruriiialiun, 
" uf AmcrLn, and of a maritime pouago to A«ia, in tha 

irx if Hic Dftennth ccntuij, arc tlie ovente which haia 
iiiid most durable eTuels (ince the <»tiihlish- 
luil tlie consequoDt cummonocuiQnt of authentic 
' i :;il cjpabilitioi of an orcnl boar uo proportion 

- , i.i'. None of the conscquciicia that do nut strike 

<ir the bucy can iaterot the poet. ' The gnMtcet of the 
in obviously inwipable of entering into 



24 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

pootry. Tho Crusades wcro not without ponnanent effects on the 
state of men ; but their poetical interest docs not arise from these 
effects, and it immeasurably surpasses them. 

" Whether the voyage of Columbus bo destined to be forever inca- 
pable of becoming the subject of an epic poem, is a question which we 
have scarcely tho means of answering. Tho success of great writers 
has often so little corresponded with the promise of their subject, 
that we might bo almost tempted to think the choice of a subject 
indifferent. The story of Ilamlot, or of Paradise Lost, would before- 
hand have been pronounced to be unmanageable. Perhaps tho genius 
of Shakspeare and of Milton has rather compensated for the incorri- 
gible defects of ungrateful subjects, tlian conquered them. The 
course of ages may produce the poetical genius, tho historical mate- 
rials and the national feelings, for an American epic poem. There 
is yet but one state in America, and that state is hardly become a 
nation. At somo future period, when every part of tho continent 
has been the scene of memorable events, when the discovery and con- 
quest have receded into that legendary dimness which allows fancy 
to mould them at her pleasure, the early history of America may 
afford scope for the genius of a thousand national poets ; and while 
somo may soften the cruelty which darkens the daring energy of 
Cortcz and Pizarro, — while others may, in perhaps new forms of 
IK>etry, ennoble the pacific conquests of Pcnn, — and while the gen- 
ius, the exploits, and the fate of Raleigh, may render his establish- 
ments probably the most alluring of American subjects, every inhab- 
itant of tho New World will turn his eyes with filial reverence towards 
Columbus, and regard with equal enthusiasm the voyage which laid 
the foundation of so many states, and peopled a continent with civil- 
ized men. Most epic subjects, but especially such a subject as Colum- 
bus, require cither the fire of an actor in the scene, or the religious 
reverence of a very distant posterity. Homer, as well as Ergilla and 
Camoens, show what may bo done by an epic poet who himself feels 
the passions of his heroes. It must not be denied that Virgil has 
borrowed a color of refinement from the court of Augustus, in paint- 
ing the age of Priam and of Dido. Evander is a solitary and exqui- 
site model of primitive manners divested of grossness, without losing 
their simplicity. But to an European poet, in this age of the world, 
the Voyage of Columbus is too naked, and too exactly defined by his- 



MEMOIB OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 25 

toy. It has no varietj, — scarcely any HuocBSsion or events. It 

I of one eceno, during which two or three simple paadons con- 

tinae in a state of the highest excitement. It isn voyitgo with intonsa 

■niioty in overy bosom, controlled by magnanimous rurtitudc in the 

L leader, &nd prududng among his follotrers a fear, — eonicliuies suh- 

, Bomctimee mutinous, always i^^oblc. It admits of no vari- 

I et; oF aharacC«r, no unoxpoctod roToIutions. And even the issue, 

. thoagh of UDspeakablo impurtimcc, and aduiirably adi^iiled to snino 

" da of poetry, is not an ovent of such outward dignity and B(iKinJur 

ought naturally to clotM the active and brilliiLnt cuursi: of an ci>iu 

*■ It a natural that the Fragments should give a Bpocinicn of tiio 
' auurellous, as well as of the other cou»titucnts of ojiic Ucciiin. AVu 
, may otjsorve that it ia neither the intention uor the tendency of 
I poetical machinery to supersede eccondoty causes, to futtcr the will, 
make human creaturos appear oa the more instrumunts of 
i destiny. It is introduced Co satisfy that ioeatiabls demand fur a 
L nature more eialwd Uian tliat which wo know by oijierionco, which 
L oreatca all poetry, and which La most ocUru in its highest spccicx, 
its most perfect productions. It is not to account for tlioughts 
I ftnd feelings that superhumun agents are brought down upon earth ; 
is ralber for the contrary purpose, of lifting them into a mystori- 
ons dignity beyond the cognizance of reason. There is a matcriitl 
diEcnmce bettrevn tho acts which superior lyings perform and the 
oenUinentB which tliey inspire. It is true, that when a gud fights 
ttgoinst men, there can bo no uncertainty or anxiety, and conse- 
quently no interest about the event, — unless, iiidc-ed, in tiio rude 
theology of Homer, where Minerva may animate the Greeks, while 
Man excitet tho Trojans ; but it is quite otherwise with these divine 
prasuns inspiring pSMioD, or represented as agents in the great phc- 
Domcna of nature. Venus and Mara inspire love or valor ; thuy give 
a noble origin and a digniGud character to these sentiiiieuls ; but the 
Mntiments thomselvea act according to the laws of our nature ; and 
thdr celestiul source has no tendency to impair their power over 
human sympathy. No event, which has not loo much modem vul- 
guity to be susceptible of alliance with poetry, can bo incapable of 
g ennobled by that ominontly poeticiil act which ascribte it either 
O the Supreme Will, or to the agency of beings who arc greater than 



26 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

human. The wisdom of Columhus is neither leas venerahle nor lew 
his own hecauso it is supposed to flow more directlj than that of 
other wise men from the inspiration of heaven. The mutiny of his 
seamen is not less interesting or formidable because the poet traoee it 
to the suggestion of those malignant spirits in whom the imaginfr- 
tion, independent of all theological doctrines, is naturally prone to 
personify and embody the causes of evil. 

*< UnlcHs, indeed, the marvellous be a part of the popular creed at 
the |>eriod uf the action, the reader of a subsequent age will refuse 
to Hympiithizo with it. His poetical faith is founded in sympathy 
witli that of the i)octical personages. Still more objectionable is a 
niarvelli)U8 influence neither believed in by the reader nor by the 
hero ; — like a great part of the machinery of the Henriade and the 
Lusiad, which, indeed, is not only absolutely ineffective, but rather 
disennoblcs heroic fiction, by association with light and frivolous 
ideas. Allegorical persons (if the expression may be allowed) are 
only in the way to become agents. The abstraction has received a 
faint outline of form ; Ijut it has not yet acquired those individual 
marks and characteristic peculiarities which render it a really ex- 
isting being. On the other hand, the more sublime parts of our 
own religion, and more especially those which are common to all 
religion, are too awful and too philosopliical for poeticjil effect. If 
we except Paradise Lost, where all is supernatural, and where the 
ancestors of the human race are not strictly human beings, it must 
be owned that no successful attempt has been made to ally a human 
action with the sublimer principles of the Christian theology. Some 
opinions, which may, perhaps, without irreverence, be said to be 
ratiier appendages to the Christian system than essential parts of it, 
are in that sort of intermediate state which fits them for the purposes 
of poetry ; — sufficiently exalted to ennoble the human actions with 
which they are blended, but not so exactly defined, nor so deeply 
revered, as to ])e inconsistent with the liberty of imagination. The 
guardian angels, in the project of Dryden, had the inconvenience of 
having never taken any deep root in popular belief ; the agency of 
evil spirits was firmly believed in the age of Columbus. With the 
truth of facts poetry can have no concern ; but the truth of manners 
is necessary to its jiersons. If the minute investigations of the Notes 
to this poem had related to historical details, they would have been 



MBMOnt or BAMUEL ROOBRS. 



27 



I 



iDBignificaDt 1 but they are intended to justify tbe human aud the 
nperoatural partt of it, bj an appeal to the mannera aud to the 
opinioDR of the age. 

" PerbapB there is no volume in our language of whieh it can lie an 
truly said aa of the present that it h equally eicmpt from thn frail- 
ties of negligimce and the tieee of affijctation. Eiquisite polish ii( 
■tyla is, indoed, moTo admiretl by the artist Chan by the penjili-. Tliu 
gentle and elegant pleasure which it iniparta can only ho felt |iv ii 
nlm Teoaon, an exercised tiutte, and a miod free from turbulent pax- 
iioiia. But tht»o bcnutiee of elocution can exist only in combiniiliim 
with much of the priioary beauliee of thought and feeling ; and poels 
of the first rank depend on them fur no smull part of the perpetuity 
of tlieir fame. In poetry, though not in eloquence, it is less to rouse 
the pa«8ioas of a rnumeut than to satisfy the ta«te of all agee. 

" In cslimating the poetical rank of Mr. Rogers, it must not be 
ib^tten that popularity never eon arise from elt^nce alone. The 
of a poem may render it popular ; and virtues of a faint cbar- 
ftcter may be sufBcient to preserve a languishing and cold reputation. 
~ , to be both popular poota and clasacol writers is the raro lot of 
e few who arc released from uU solicitude about their literary 
). It often bappns to auecoeaful writere tbiit the lustre of their 
productions throws a, temporary cloud over some of thoae which 
fitUow. Of ail Literary misfortunes, this is the most easily endured, 
■nd the most speedily repaired. It is generally no more than a 
Botaentaty illusion produced by disappointed admiration, which 
CKpucted more Irom the talents of the admired writer than any tal- 
ents could per(brm. Mr. Ifogers has lung passed that period of 
probation during which it may be eicusablo to feel some iJoinTul 
■olicitude about the reception of every new work. Whatever may 
ha the mok naaigood hereafter to his writings, wlicn compared witli 

ih other, the writer has most certainly taken his place «mong the 
ioul poets of his country." 

This was, no doubt, a very acceptable offset to a cr t q o on tl e 
puem which !md found its way into tlie Quarlrrtj ifc pio f r 
month of Maroh, in the sumo year. It was wr tt n by Mr 
Wvd, afterwards Lord Dudley, and was alluded to many years 
ttftonrarda by the Quartcrli/, as a " mastcrpicco of dunning by falnl 



28 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

pxuisG." The review nettled the poet not a little, as we leam firom 
a letter of Byron's, written in September : 

" Rogers has returned to town, but not yet recovered of the Q^ar' 
terly. What fellows these reviewers are ! * These boys do fear us 
all ! ' They made you fight, and me (the milkiest of men) a satirist, 
and will end by making Rogers madder than Ajax. I have been 
reading Memory again, the other day, and Hope together, and retain 
all my preference of the former. His elegance is really wonderful ; 
there is no such thing as a vulgar line in the book. • • Rogers 
wants me to go with him on a crusade to the Lakes, and to besiege 
you on our way. This last is a great temptation, but I fear it will 
not be in my power, unless you would go on with one of us some- 
where — no matter where. 

"P. S. No letter — nUmporte, Rogers thinks the Quarterly wi^ 
be at m6 this time ; if so, it shall be a war of extermination — tu 

m 

quarter. From the youngest devil down to the oldest woman of tha^ 
review, all shall perish by one fatal lampoon. The ties of nature 
shall be torn asunder, for I will not even spare my bookseller ; nay, 
if one were to include readers also, all the better." 

We do not know if this review prompted a celebrated epigram 
upon its author by the offended poet, or if the epigram prompted 
the review. From an allusion to it in Medwin's Conversations with 
Lord Byron, we should imagine that the poet revenged himself by 
the satire ; but from an allusion in the Quarterly Review we infer 
that Rogers was the first offender. ** Rogers is the only man," said 
his lordship to Captain Mcdwin, " who can write epigrams, and sharp 
bone-cutters, too, in two lines." For instance, that on an M.P. who 
had reviewed his book, and said he vnrote very well for a banker : 

" Ward has no heart, they say, bat I deny it ; 
lie has a heart, and gets his speoohcs by it." 

The Quarterly says that Ward would sometimes quote this dis- 
tich, admit the point, and return usually a Roland for an Oliver- 
But even Mr. Ward did not fail to recognize the position which the 
poet had already secured by The Pleasures of Memory. " The first 
poem in this collection," ho says, '* does not fiaiU within the province 
of our criticism. It has been published many years, and has ao- 



MEMOIR OF SAMDEL ROQEKS. 






qnircd that sort or populntity wbicfa iB, perhaps, more Jecisive thnn 
anj other :iinglc tcet of merit. It has been g«nem]lj admired, and, 
what is not alwuja a certain c(mBGi;|Uence of being admired, it lias 
leen geopmlij rend. Tlie drculatiotj ol' it has not been eonfinwl to 
highljH^iucaied and critical part of the public, hut it has ro- 
Kired the apjilauae which to works of the imagioation is quite na 
ittering, — of that fat more numerous class, who, without atletnpt- 
fng to judge bj accurate ood philosophical rules, read poetry only 
Ibr the pleasure it affuTds them, and pnuse because thej are delighted, 
'fi is to l>e found in nil libraries, and in most parlor win<low8." In 
i«BOther part of the rotiew, the critic sajs,'"' Endowed with an ear 
Bftturally correct, and attuned by practice to the measures of his 
ftrarile masters, nice to tlie verj verge of fastidiousness, occuratu 
almost Ui uinuteness, habitually attentive to the finer turns of ex- 
pres^oQ and tho more delicate shades of thouglit, Mr. Bogera was 
■Iways liarmoniouB, always graceful, and often pathetic. JJut bis 
beauties are all beauties of eiecution and detail, arising from the 
charm of skilful versification, the ' curiosa felicitas ' of expression, 
colled with infinite cnro and selection, and upplied with no Tulgnr 
judsment, and with the retincd tendcmeai of a poliahed and (eeling 

IT cite a. few sentences in a different veiu, to aliow how 
ir tho Qiuirti-rlff was right in its estimate of tliis eriti([ue, and to 
rtat extent it uiigbl well bare annoyed the poet. " We have ulways 
doiiroUB," siiys the reviewer, oiler alluding to the poet's early 
tions, " to see something more from the hand of an author 
fiist appearance was so anspicious. Bui year utter year 
)u, and we began to fear that indolence, the occupations of a 
busy life, or the dread of detracting from a reputation already so 
high, would furever prevent our wishes from being gratified. We 
were, therefore, Iwlb pkaud and turprised when, upon ociiduntally 
biking up Ibo last edition of Mr. Itogers' pocui, wc found that it was 
, not only leUh srveral very elegant woorlen cult, but with an 
new perlbrmiince in cluvcn cuntus, called ' Fru^ucnts ufU 
» the Voyag" of Coluiubus.' " 

a minute analyms of the poem, the critic thus sums up its 
■ And bnlts : " Still, however, and with all its defects bath 
ibject and of execution, the po«ni is by no niHins nndcserving 



80 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

attention. Mr. Rogers has not boon able to depart from his former 
manner, that which use had made natural to him, so mudi as he, 
perhaps, intended. He is oflen himself, in spite of himself. Habity 
good taste and an exquisite car, are constantly bringing him bock to 
the right path, even when he had set out with a resolution to wander 
from it. Uencc, though the poem will not bear to be looked at as a 
whole, and though there runs through it an affectation of beauttes 
which it is not in the author's power to produce, yet it contains 
passages of such merit as would amply repay the trouble of reading 
a much larger and more faulty work. It will be the more pleasing 
part of our task to select a few of them, with an assurance to our 
readers that they are not the only ones, and with a strong recom- 
mendation to read the whole, — a recommendation with which they 
will very easily comply, as the poem docs not exceed seven or eight 
hundred lines." 

In this connection the following contemporaneous memoranda of 
Lord Byron's, touching the poet and his critic, will be read with 
interest : 
^*^Nov, 22, 1813. — Rogers is silent ; and, it is said, severe. When 
he docs talk, he talks well ; and, on all subjects of taste, his delicacy 
of expression is pure as his poetry. If you enter his house, his draw- 
ing-room, his lil>rary, you of yourself say, this is not the dwelling of 
a common mind. There is not a gem, a coin, a book thrown aside 
on his chimncy-piccc, his so&, his table, that does not bespeak an 
almost fiistidious elegance in the possessor. But this very delicacy 
must be the misery of his existence. 0, the jarrings his disposition 
must have encountered through life ! -, 

'' Noo. 23. — Ward. I like Ward. By Mahomet! I b(^n to 
think I like everybody, — a disposition not to be encouraged ; a sort 
of social gluttony that swallows everything set before it. But I like 
Ward, lie is piquant ; and, in my opinion, will stand very high in 
the liouse, and everywhere else, if he applies regularly. By the by, 
I dine with him to-morrow, which may have some influence on my 
opinion. It is as well not to trust one's gratitude after dinner, i 
have heard many a host libelled by his guests, with his Burgundy 
yet recking on their rascally lips." 

In 1814 the poem of Jaccjueline appeared, in the same volumo with 
the Lara of liOrd Bvron. 





I 



" Rogera and I," wrote hia lordship to Moons, in July, 1814, 
" have almost coiilvscnl into a juint invaaon of tiic public. Whether 
H vriU take plaoo or not, I do not yet know ; and I lun afraid Jac- 
queline (which ii very beautiful) will be in bad company. But in 
caao tho liidj will not bo the auffuror." To the author ho had 
WritleD a few days preriouslj : " You could not have mode mo a 
acceptable present than Jooquclino ; she is all grace, and sofV 
jum, nnd poetry ; th(.-ro is so much of the laat that wo do not feel 
do want of story, which is simple, yot enough, I wonder that you 
4o not onener unbrad to mora of the nunc kind. I havo some aym- 
|iBthy with tho softer affections, though very little in my way ; and 
•o ono can depict them ho truly and soccesafully as yourself. 1 havo 
lulf a mind lo pay you in kind, or rather un-kind, for I have just 
•supped full of horror' in two cantos of darkness and dismay." In 
Angust ha wrote to Moore, " Rogers I hare not seen, but Larry and 
Jacky come out a few days ago. Of their effect I know nothing." 
He odds in the same letter, " Murruy talks of divorcing Larry and 
Jacky, — a bod sign for tho authors, who, I suppose, will bodivorce<l 
too, and throw the blame upon one another. Seriously, I don't 
can a dgar about it, and 1 don't soe why Sam should." 

" I believe I told you of Larry and Jacky," he again wrote to 
Hoore. " A friend of mine was reading — at boat a friend of his 
was reading — said Larry and Jacky, in a Brighton coach. A pas- 
Mnger took np the Iwok.and queried as to the author. The proprie- 
tor Hvid ' there were tioo,' to which tlic answer of tho unknown was 
* Ay, ay, a joint conoern, I suppose ; mmmal like Stemhold and 
BopkJDS.' la not this eicellent? I would not have missed the 'vile 
eompariHon ' to have 'scaped being one of the ' arcades amtn, et can- 
tttrepuvs.' " 

Byron Hecms to have lived on terms of the most cordial intimacy 
nitb Sogers, wfao is one of the few persons of whom he always spoke 
with kindncs and respect. The full-length portrait of his lordship, 
by Sanders, was presented to him, " You are ono of tho few per- 
sons," Byrun wrote to him in March, ISlli, " with whom I havo llvod 
in what is called incimaey." "It is a conshk-ralJa time," Byron 
wrote in the year following, ■■ sinoo I wrote to you lost, and I hardly 

ow why I should trouble you now, except that I think you will not 

sorry to hear trom me now and then. You and I were novor 



I 



r 




UEMOIR Of 8AM0KL BOOEKS. 



yery ( 



Hia diaries and lot(«ra frcqaentlj refer to their Boclal meetiDgs. 
" On Tue«daj laat," lie wril^a under dute of Mftreh 6, 1814, " I 
dined with Rogers, — Madame de Stnel, Mnckiutosli, Sheridan, Ere- 
kine itnd Fujne Knigiit, Lad; Donisgal and Mim R., there. Sheri- 
dan t«ld a Ycrj good story of hinieelf and Madame de Becamier's 
handkerchief 1 Erakine a few etori«B of himself only. " " Tha 
party went off very well, and the fish was very much to my gusto. 
But we gut up too soon af^er thu women ; and Mrs. Corinne always 

lingers bo long after dinner, that wo wish her in the drawing- 

iMum." The neit week he wakes another entry. "On TueKlaj 
dined with Rogers, Mackintosh, Sheridan, Shurjie, — much talk end 
good, all eiccpt my own little prattlomont. Much of old times. 
Home Tooke, the Trials, evidence of Sheridan, and anecdotes of 
thoee times, when 7, atos ! was an infant." 

Of the nature of the relations between his lordahip, Rogers, and 
thinr common friend hloore, the loat mi'ntioned givM us a vivid im- 
preBsion in his acoount of an evening in St. James '-street. We quol« 
from Moore's Ijfo of Byron : 

" Among tha many gay hours we pasxed together this spring 
(1813), 1 remember particularly the wild flow of his spirila one 
evening, when we had accompanied Mr. Rogers home from some 
early oesembly, and when J»rd Byron, who, oceording to his fre- 
quent custom, liad not dined for the hist two days, found his hunger 
DO longer govemahle, and called aloud fur ' something lo eut.' Onr 
leput, of his own choosing, woa siuiple bread and cheese ; and sel- 
dom have I partaken of so joyous a supper. It happened that our 
host had just received a presentation copy of a volume of poems, 
written profissrdly in imitation of the old English writers, and con- 
taining, like many of these models, a good deal that was striking and 
beautiful, mixed up with muoh that was trifling, fimtustic and ult- 
snrd. In our moud at the moment, it was only with these Utter 
qaftUtiis that f-itlier Lord Byron or I fult disposed to indulge our- 
■dvea ; and, in turning over the pages, we found, it must lie owned, 
kbnndant matter for mirth. In vain did Mr. Roger*, in justice lo 
Dm aothor, endeavor to direct our attention to some of the heautiea 
^ flf the work. It suited better our purpoeo (as is too often the «aa 





MBMOm OF SAUDEL ROQERS. 



with more deliberate critics), to pounce onljr on BDch poaaagM as 
miiiiatcrud to thu Uugliiug humor tbat poaseseod ua. In thi« surt of 
hunt througli the volume, wc &t longth lighted on tbo iliHcoverj tlint 
oar host, in addition to bis sincere ttfiprolmtion of boihq of its con- 
tents, bad alau the niotiro of gratitude for standing bj its author, as 
one of the poems was a warm, and, I need not add, well-deucn'cd 
peiK^jTio on bimsolf. ^Ve were, bowuver, too fiir gone in nonsengc, 
for ercn this eulogy, iu wlii^th we both lieartilj agreed, to stop us. 
The opening line of tbe poem was, as well as I can recollect, ' Wbcn 
RogeiH o'er this labor bent.' And Lord Bjron undortoolc to read it 
aloud : hut he found it imposri'ile to get bejund tlie first two worda. 
Our laughter lutd duw increased to such a pitch that nothing could 
restrain it. Two or tlir^ times he began ; but no sooner hod tbu 
words ' When Rogers ' passed bis lips, than our Ot buret forth afresh, 
d)l CTcn Mr. Rogers hiniBelf, with ult Ids feeling of our injustice, 
found it impossible not to join us ; and wo were, at lost, all tlm» in 
Buch a state of inextinguishable laughter, that, bad the author him- 
self been of the port;, I question mucb wlictbor he could huve resisted 
tbe infection." 

Bjron alwajs entertained and eipresEDd an elevated opinioa of 
BogCTB as a man of taste and genius. In one of bis letters to Moore 
he sajE, " I wrote to Rogers the other day, with a message to jou. 
I hope that lie flourishes. He is tiieTithonus of poetry, — immortal 
already. Tou and I must wait fur it." Again he sajB, " Will jou 
remember mc to Rogers ? — whom I presume to bo flouriebing, and 
whom I regard as our poetical papa. Voa are hiri lawful son, and 
I bis iUcgitimate." So in his journal, under date of NoTi^mbcr 24, 
1813, Byron writ« : 

" I huve nut answered W. Scott's last letter, but I will. I regret 
to hoar from others that he lias ktely been unfortunate in pecuniary 
iavoWcments. He is, undoubtedly, the Uonarch of Parnassus, and 
tbu most English of bards. I should plaro Rogers next in the living 
Hut (I cnlne hiiu more as tho 1:ut of the bout school); Moore and 
Campbell, Ixith tliird ; Suuthey and Wordsworth and Coleridge i tbe 
rest, ui auUui — thus : 



84 MEMOIR OF SAMU£L ROGKRS. 

W. SOOTT. 




Rogers seems to have cultivated the kindest personal relations w^th 
most of his distinguished poetical contemporaries. He was on the 
most friendly terms with Campbell, who speaks with cordial warmth 
of the generosity and kindliness of his nature, and his constant search 
for opportunities of manifesting his benevolence of disjxisition. With 
Crabbe, also, he was intimate. This '* sternest painter " of nature 
was introduced to the family of Landsdowne by Bowles, the friend 
of his latter days ; and here he ]x\.'ame the acquaintance and friend 
of Rogers, who invited him to pay a summer visit to London. " He 
accepted this invitation, and, tjiking lr)d;];ings near liLs new friend's 
residence, in St. Jumos' Place, was cordially welcomed by the circle 
distinguished in politics, f;whion, science, art and literature, of which 
Mr. R. was himself the l;riglit«ist ornament." The following mem- 
oranda from Crablxi's diary show how largely he was indebted to 
the attentions of Rogers for the enjoyment of his liOndon visit : 

** June 24, 1817. — Mr. Rogers, his brother and family. Mr. and 
Mrs. M(jorc, very agreeable and jileasant peoj>le. Foscolo, the Itvl- 
ian gentleman. Dante, &c. Play, Kemble in Coriolanus. 

»* 20M. — Mr. Rogers, and the usual company, at breakfast. LAdy 
Holland comes and takes me to Holland House. • • Meet Mr. 
Campliell. Mr. Moore with us. ^Ir. Rogers j<jin8 us in the course 
of the day. 

** 27th. — RreakHist with Mr. Brougham and ria<ly HoUand. liord 




MEHOIB OF SAHUEL BOOEBS. 

^JfoUand to speak at Eemble's retiring, at the mccUtig at Frcetnoeon's 
I Avem, to-moirow. Difficulty oT procuritig me an odioifflioD ticket, 
■aa all are distributed. Trial made lij eomebody, I knew not who, — 
&iled. Thia reprceonted to Lodj Holland, who makes no reply. 
Morning, interriew vith Mr. Brougbuiti. Mr. CatnplicU's letter- 
He inritea at to Sydenbato, I rvrur it to Mr. ItogenuodMr.Mooro. 
Return to town. The porter dolivcre to me a paper containing the 
■dtnimion ticket, procured by Ludy Holland's raeaoB ; whether re- 
quest or' command, I know not. Call on Mr. Rogers. We go to 
the Freomaeon's Tavern. The room fiUed. We find a place about 
hftir-wuy down the common seats, but not where the managers dim-, 
aboTo the steps. By us, Mr. Smith, one of the authors of the Rc- 
jpcted Addmees. Known, but no introduction. Mr. Perry, cJitor 
of the MonuHg Chronicle, and Mr. CumpN^U, lind us, and we aro 
invited into the committee room. Kcmble, Perry, Lord Erekine, Mr. 
Lord Holland, Lord Ossory, whom I saw at Holland Uousc, 
announced. Muidc. Lord Erskine BitD between me and a 
man whom I find to be a son of Boswell. Lord Holland's 
ih aflcr dinner. The ode recited. Campbeirsspeecb. Kcmblc'a 
Talma's. We leave the company, and goto Vauihatl lumeot Mit« 
and her ])arty. Slay late. 

tk. — Go to St. James' Pbco. Lord Byron's new works, Man- 
fred and Tvtu-o'K Lament. ■ * 

" Wlh.— Breakfast at the coffco-houee in Pull Mall, and go to Mr. 
Rogen atkd family. Agree to dine, and then joiu their party after 
"snar. 
" aOfA.^Firrt hour at Mr. Murray's. A much younger and more 
a than I had imagined. A handsome drawing-room, where 
^ \e ret-einw hin friends, uaually from two to five o'clock. Pictures by 
PhillipB of Lonl Byron, Mr. Scott, Mr. Southey, Mr. Campbell, 
Rogers (yet unllniBhed), Moore, by lawrence (his last picture). 
Mr. Murray wishes me to wt. Advise with Mr. Rogers, He recom- 

"Ju!y la. — I foresee a long train of engngemenla. Dine with 
Company : Kemble, Lord Erskinc, Lord Ossory, Sir 
;, Mr. Campbell and Mr. Moore. Miss R. retires 
oen any more at home. Meet her at the gallery in 
ifWithMr. Weatotl. 




86 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

^^2d, — Duke of Rutland. List of pictures burned at Belvoir O&s- 
tlo. Dine at Sydenham with Mr. and Mis. Campbell, Mr. Moore 
and Mr. Rogers. Poet's Club. 

** 4/A. — Morning view, and walk with Mr. Hober and Mr. Stan- 
hope. Afterwards , Mr. Rogers, Lady S., Lady II. A good picture, 
if I dare draw it accurately ; to place in lower life would lose thp 
peculiarities which depend upon their station ; yet, in any station. 
Return with Mr. Rogers. Dine at Landsdowne llouse. Sir Jamce 
Mackintosh, Mr. Gronville, elder brother to Lord Grcnvillo. • • 

** C/A. — Call at Mr. Rogers', and go to Lady Spencer. Go with 
Mr. Rogers to dine at Ilighbury with his brother and family. Miss 
Rogers the same at Iliglibury as in town. * * Mr. Rogers says 
I must dine with him to-morrow, and that I consented when I was 
at Sydenham ; and now certainly they expect mo at Ilampsteod, 
though I haye made no promise. 

" 7ih, — Dinner at Mr. Rogers', with Mr. Moore and Mr. Camp- 
bell, Lord Strangford and Mr. Spencer. 

" 14/A. — Go to Mr. Rogers', and take a farewell visit to High- 
bury. Miss Rogers. Promise to go when . Return early. 

Dine there, and purpose to see Mr. Moore and Mr. Rogers in the 
morning when they set out for Calais. 

" 15th. — Was too late this morning. Messrs. Rogers and Moore 
were gone. Go to church at St. James'. The sermon good ; but 
the preacher tliought proper to apologize for a severity which he had 
not used. Write some lines in the solitude of Somerset House, not 
fifty yards from the Thames on one side, and the Strand on the other ; 
but as quiet as the sands of Arabia. I am not quite in good humcnr 
with this day ; but, happily, I cannot say why." 

The dinner at Sydenham, alluded to under the' date of July 2d, 
made a lasting impression on more than one of the party ; and Mooro 
has immortalized it in one of his most graceful and exquisite poems, 
the Verses to the Poet Crabbe's Inkstand. We transcribe the stan- 
zas in which the poet describes the subject of this sketch : 

« How freshly doth my mind recall, 

'Mong the few days I 've known with thee. 
One that most buoyantly of all 
Floats in the wake of memory ! 




In 1819 RogpTB appcnred again befura the world of letlcrs, nitij 
"le poem ootiUed Ilumiui Lift, which fouiwi u rriondij critic in tli<; 
DnpliBhod editor of the Edinburgh RevicjB. Fiom his beautiful 
« copy the foUowiog eitracta ; 

" Theae too very Bweet vcraeB. They do not, indeed, stir the spirit 
like the etrong-liaca of Byron, nor make out hcortu daaca within an. 
Eke ttie ioBpring EtroinB of Scott ; but they come over ub with 1 
bewitching sonDces that, in certain moodH, ia etill more delightfnl, 
Bnd BOotho the trouhled epirita with a refreshing Bonae of truth, 
pntitj, and eli^nce. They are pcnMve ratlior than paauioniite ; 
■ad more full of wisdom and tcnilerncsB tlianof high flightnof fani.'y, 
or oTerwheiming bursts of emotion ; while they are moulded iutn 
gnuo at leoet as mnuh by the eGTcet of the mural beauties they dis- 
oloee,aaby the tast« and judgment with which they are constructed. 

" The theme is Upjian Ijn; .' — not only ' the subject of all versu,' 
but the great centre and Houroc of all interest iu the works of human 
bdngs, to whi':h both verse and proee invariably bring us back. 



i{8 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

when tlicj succeed in rivctiQg our attention, or roufdng our emo- 
tions, and which turns everything into poetry to which its sensibili- 
ties can 1>e ascrilHHl, or by which its vicissitudes can be suggested ! 
Yet it is not by any means to that which, in ordinary language, is. 
termed the poetry or the romance of human life, that the present 
work is directed. The life which it endeavors to set before us is not 
life diversilied with stninge adventures, em})odied in extraordinary 
fluiracters, or aj^itated with turbulent pissions; not the life of war- 
like jialadiiis, or desi>erate lovers, or sublime ruffians, or jnping shei)- 
lierdn, or sentimental savages, or bloody bigots, or preaching pinl- 
lers, or conquerors, jjoets, or any other species of madiuen ; Imt the 
ordinary, practical, and amiable life of social, intelligent and affeo- 
tionate men in the upj>er ranks of society, — sudi, in short, as multi- 
tudes may Iw seen living every day in tliis country ; for the picture 
is entirely English, and though not i>erhai)8 in the choice of every 
one, yet ojKjn to the judgment, and familiar to the sympathies, of 
all. It contains, of course, no story, and no individual characters. 
It is properly and peculiarly contemplative, and consists in a series 
of reflections on our mysterious nature and condition upon earth, 
and on tlie manellous though unnoticed changes which the ordi- 
nary course of our existtMice is continually bringing about in our 
l)eing. Its marking piiculiarity in this respect is, that it is free from 
the least alloy of acrimony or harsh judgment, and deals not at all, 
indeed, in any species of Siitirical or sarcastic remark. The poet looks 
here on man, and tciiclics us to look on him, not merely w4th love, 
}>ut with reverence ; and, mingling a si)rt of considerate pity for the 
sliortness of his busy little career, and the disappointments and weak- 
nesses by which it is In^SL't, with a genuine admiration of the great 
capicities he unfolds, and the high destiny to which he seems to }ye 
reserved, works out a very ljc;iutirul and engaging picture, l)oth of 
the affections hy which life is endeared, the trials to which it is 
exposed, and the pure and pciiceful enjoyments with which it may 
often Ih) filled. 

" Tliis, after all, we believe, is the tone of true wisdom and true 

» 

virtue ; and that to which all good natures draw nearer, as they 
approach the close of life, and come to act less, and to know and to 
moditato more, on the varying and crowded scene of human ezist- 
enoe. When the inordiuato hopes of early youth, which provoko 




MEMOIR OF SAUUBL HOGEHS. 89 

r thcu own disappointmeDt, have been sabered down bj longer expm- 
L nco and more exModed viowB ; when the keen conUmtioDs, and eager 
J liralriee, which employed our riper uge, hnTe expired ur i)een abin- 
I doned; when we have Been,yeiir after year, the objocts of our flereost 
I IwBtilitj, and of our Toadcet aSccCiuDn, lie down together in the hal- 
d peace of tlic grave ; when ordinary pleaaurea and amugements 
1 to be insipid, and the gay derision which geoaoiied them to 
or flat and importunate ; wlien wa reflect liow oftou wo have 
['Boumed and been comforted ; what opposite opinions we have eue- 
nvelj maiatoioed and abandoned ; to what inoonostent habits we 
,Te gradually been formed, and how frev[uently the objects of our 
f pride liaro proved the sources of our Bhome, — we arc naturally led to 
to the carelera dayn of our childhood, and, &om that distant 
I itarting place, to retrace the whole of our career, and that of our 
L tentiunpomrieB, with feelings of*far greater humility and indulgence 
I ttan tboec by which it hod been actually accompanied ; — to think 
W tU Tain but affection and honor, the simplest and cheapest pleasures 
I <Le truest and moit precioui, and generosity of sentiment the only 
\ BKntal gnpcriority which ought ^ther to be wished for or admired. 

" We are aware that wo have said ' something too much of this ; ' 

V'Kid that OUT readers would probably have been more edified, as well 

ore delighted, by Mr. Rogers' text, than with our preachment 

I'^ion it. But we were anxious to convoy to them our sense of the 

■ MriC in which this poem is written ; — and conceive, indeed, that 

Fwhat we have now said fliUs more strictly within the line of our 

critical duty than our general remarks can always be said to do ; 

because the true character and poetioal cfieet of the work seems, in 

this instance, to depend much more on its moral eiprossion than on 

mny of its merely literary qualities. 

" The author, perhaps, niny not think it any compliment to Iw thus 
told that bis verses are likely to bo greater favorites with the old 
than with the young; — and yet it is no small compliment, we think, 

(to say that they are likely to be more Givoritca with bis readers every 
•ear they live. And it is, at all events, true, whether it bo a coupli- 
■ent or not, that as readers of all ages, if they are any way worth 
pfeaang, hare tittle glimpses and occasional visitations of those 
troths which longer experience only renders mora familiar, so no 
works ever dnk so deep into amiahb mindu, or recur so often to their 



i 





40 HEHOm OF SAMUEL ROQERS. 



nmembnmcc, m thoM which cmBody simple, and solemii, and recon- 
ciling trullia, in nnphatic and elegant kngnago, and uiticipatG, aa 
it were, and bring out with effect, those salutary Icssans which it 
seems to be tho great end of our life to inculcate, A The pictures of 
viulent posaion and terrible emotion, the breathing chontcttus, the 
iplendid inu^erj and bewitching fiincj, of Sbakapeoro himself, an 
lelB frequently recalled, than those great moral apliorisms in which 
he has BO often 

ToI<] ai tbe fiuhion of oar own estats. 



and, in spite of all that ma; Iw said, by gravo pcisoos, of the frivo- 
loumees of poetry, und of its admirers, we are persuaded that tho 
moat memorable and the moat generally admired of all ita produo- 
tions ore these which are chiefly recommended by theii deep prao- 
tioed wisdom, and their coincidence with thoeo salutary imitations 
irith which nature herself seema to furnish uafrom thepaadng Bcenes 
of our oiiatenoe. 

" The literary character of the work is akin to its moral charaoter ; 
and the diction is as soft, elegant and simple, as the scntimeiits are 
^nerouB and true. The whole piece, indeed, is throughout in admir- 
able keeping ; and its beauties, though of a delicate, rather than an 
obtmsiTe character, set off each other, to an attentive obserrer, by the 
■kill with which they are harmonized, and the awectneas with which 
thoy slide into each other. The outline, perhaps, is oflon rather 
timidly drawn, and there is an occasional want of force and bril- 
liancy in the coloring ; which we are rather inclined to ascribe to 
tbe rsBned and mmewhat fastidious toatu of tho artist, than to any 
defect of skill or of power. . We huTO none of the broad and blodng 
tints of Scott, nor the startling contrasts of Byron, nor the aniiouB 
and endleail; repented touch of Siiuthey, but something which coinei 
much nearer to the soft and tender manner of Campbell ; with still 
more reserve ami caution, perhaps, and more frequent aocrilicceof 

I Mrong and popular effect to an abhorrence of glaring beauties, and 

I K disdain of vulgar K«ourcea." 

Soon after this appearance as u poet, we find him acting in a char- 
ir which he seems almost aa much to have affected, — that of a 

t peaoe-maker. Among the men of letters whom Dr. Parr vidted in 





UilMOtR OP SiMUEL ROGERS. 



Iionilon, we are told by oDeof hia biographcra tliat ho " always nicn- 
tioned with marked dUtiDction Saniud Itogers, irliom lio admired as 
I ft piwt, and greutlj esteemed as & fricud." A clauan in bis will ia 
1 {u the Ibllowing words : " I giTe a riug in token of high rt^ard tu 
f Bomud 'Bogfm, author of the juntlj celebrutod poem, Tlie Pleasures 
r 'Bf Mi>inorj." Rogers had been the medium of reconeiliiig the doctor 
r to Sir James Mackintosh, with wbom ho had difiiired, aad whom he 
I Bnt m^t, after a long eoldnes, at Ihc hospitable hoard of the poet. 
I The biographer of Mackintosh, after alluding to this diSercnee, says, 
'' It maj be intermtiag to mention that the occaaioD on wliioh the 
I Intimai^ wiw renewed was offored by an acceplance of the followiug 
J mvitulion from one whoso 'Memory' is prodigal in such ' Plfaaurw.' 



L Aagiut, ind be wishes to a 
I a*7 b« for tbg lut time. 



«s with mo on Thurfrlay, tho 3d of 
hia Did friEDds undiir la; ruof, m it 
med Wiihuw, nnd Bliarp, und Lord 
ikko haniU irilb Jommy ^ukiiitosh 



4 




n hie diary, that in 1824 he passed on evsning in 
eoking over Rogers' Common Place Book with him, where be found 
igbly curioua records of his tKinversationB with eminent inun, par- 
Bularly Fox, Gratlan and the Duke of Wellington. A diury of 
I, with his opportunitiw, und his admirable faculty of com- 
^"fmsBlon in his prose style, could hardly full to be the most enk'rtaiu- 
ing literary hJHtory that ever appcar»l. He has been more familiar 
withalargenuinlierof disdngulBhed persons, for a longer period, than 
any other man of letters whom wo now remember. There is hardly 
in distinguished in English history for the hut sixty or seventy 
I, whose name is not in sonw way connected with that of the 
4» 



I 



42 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

Tonerablo poet, — if not otherwise, at least as the partaker of hia 
liberal and elegant hospitality. Ilis social sphere has always been a 
very large one. It included whigs and torics, wits and statesmen, 
poets and philanthropists ; not only the habitu^ of society, but 
men who were but seldom seen in worldly circles. Sir Samuel Rom- 
illy enters in his diary, a few months before his lamented death, — 
"To-day I dined with Rogers (the poet). A very pleasant dinner 
with Cral)be (whom I had never before seen), Frere and Jekyll." 
An extract from the diary of Wilberforce shows that he did not think 
so well of this dining i^dth poets : 

" Feb. 19, 1814. — Dined Duke of Gloucester's, to meet Madame 
de Stael, at her desire. Madame, her son and daughter, duke, two 
aides-de-camp, Vaneittart, Lord Erskine, poet Rogers, and others. 
Madame de Stael quite like her book, though less hopeful. Compli- 
menting me highly on abolition, and all Europe, &c. But I must 
not spend time in writing this. She asked me, and I could not well 
refuse, to dine with her on Friday, to meet Lord Harrowby and 
Mackintosh, and poet Rogers on Tuesday sennight. 

** 23</. — Breakfast, Mr. Barnett a}x)ut the poor. Letters. Wrote 
to Madame de St^icl and poet Rogers, to excuse myself from dining 
with them. It docs not seem the line in which I can now glorify 
God. Dinner quiet, and letters afterwards." 

In Ills diary, under date of the 5th Novemlxjr, 1821, Moore makes 
thtj following entry : " By the by, I received the other day a manu- 
script from the Longmans, requesting me (as they often do) to look 
over it, and give my opinion whether it would \>o worth publishing 
anon^Tnously. Upon opening it, found, to my surprise, that it was 
* RogcTs' Italy,' which he has sent home thus privately to !» pub- 
lished." Thl^ work was published in the following year, and is the 
last and best of its author's productions. Its merits have l>een set 
fortli with exquisite taste and skill, by a "WTiter in the New Monthly 
Magazine : 

** Turn we to the hist and greatest of our autlior's poems, * Italy.' 

** The great character of this poem (Italy) as it is in The Pleasures 
of Memory, is simplicity ; but here simplicity assumes a nobler shape. 
Although to a ccrtiiin degree there is an alteration in the tone of 
the liist from that of the lirst published poem, an alter.ition seem- 
ingly mor«.< inarkiil fr«»m the ditftTencw Ijetween blank verso and 




lO ; nad although there is aamething or tlio oew Peniait odors, 
ti««Uiing from the inptlo wieatlisof u rnnsu, whom 'dwpticunt noia) 
{iliUrrd MrdnfD,' yet, uolike what we tvlt ini-linnd to bUme in < Jitc- 
(|urJin(i ' and the * llaman Life,' wo see DOthIng that remiodii ub of 
indifiihial tntita in another ; uotliiog that t'eminda m of BjFun, 
though lud Uiung hiH harp ki the mme theme ; nothing that recoils 
any cnnlnmfKinuioinu wriler, unless it be oocaaonallj Wordsworth, 
'^Wtirdawurth't purer, if not lollicr vein : we see no harsh, cun- 
1 nbruptneas, uniukting vigor ; no childish miramleries, Uitit 
d gladl; puBB tlieniselvoa off for ritnplicitj. Along the ahoincB 
■ |MtaMfl of old glidiOB one culm and Bori^nc tide of verse, wooing 
bu waters CVCI7 l<^cnd and every stream that cim hallow uuii 

* Tluit poem diSurs widi'ijf from the poeiau of the du.;, in that it U 
nollf vuiil uful] that is ueretriuioue. Tiiough nature itself could 
iiiit Ut lew iMked of ornament, jet nature il«clf i:«uld out be more 
rim IrutD bU ornament that is tinsel or inapjiropriulo. A coiitom- 
latiiv and wiau nuui, skilled in all the arts, and nursing all the 
[I uaditiuns of the jiost, hnTlng seen enough of the world to 
alito Jiwiljr, having so for advanced in the circle of life oa to 
I supplied imi'itioa with meditation, telling you, in swK't and 
e itnins, nil tliat ha sees, bears and feels, in journeying through 
'hich nuturc und liistor; eomMne to cuDsccmto, — this is 
1 of Hogcni' Italy ; and the reader will see at onoo bow 
mjJesion from the solemn Harold, or the im- 
lotl Corinni'. Tbis poem is perfect as a whole ; it is as a whole 
•t be jadgfll ; ita tone, its depth, its hoard of thought and 
1. make its main excellence, and these are the merits thnt 
itntold enii Hdoi|iial«ly convey. 
r ftU ibiugH, pnrhajie the hardost in the world for a poet to 
ir) in gnwip poetically. We are those who think it is in this 
ft WordswurUi rarely sucouwls, and Cowper as rarely fiiils. This 
fal and difficult art Kogent bos mode liIs own to a dfgrcu almuet 
mIImI in the kiiguage. 

emthoTof The Pleasures of Memory — a Imik-ir. u wit, 

^soeiai ruputation — wo- find it is from llie slimy benrt 

'd that the living wntetn "f a pure anil trimspurcnt 



44 MEMOIR OF SAJIOEL EOOESS. 

poctrj have been stricken. ¥ew men of letten have been more peiv 
aonally known in their day, or more generally courted. A vein of 
agreoahlc cunversation, Bomctimce amene, and more oflcn cauatic ; & 
polished manner, a liemsc quickly alive to ail that passea around ; 
and, above all, {M^rhape, a (aste in the arte, a knowledge of painting 
and of Bculpture, — very rare iu this country, — have contributed to 
make the author of Italy scarce lees dixtinguiahed in society than in 
letters." 

Moore's diary is full of alluraona to his social intcrcourae with 
Rogers and hin friends. One day the fasliionable poet was invited to 
dine in St. James' I'lacc, to meet Barnes, tlio editor of the Times, in 
company with Lords TiaiulsilowTie and Holland, Luttrell and Tiemey : 
and Moojo, on Rogers' advising that ho was well worth cultivating, 
broke oS* an engagement for tlio neit Sunday with Miss White, and 
refused Ijord LandsUovrao, to accept an invitation from Bamee. 
Another day he would brcaltfast at Rogers' with Sydney Smith, 
Sharpc, Luttrell and Lord John ; or amuse himscirwith reading the 
notca from Sheridan, or passages from tho unpublished works of his 

On 10th April, 1823, he writes, " Dined at Rogers'. A distin- 
guished party: S. Smith, IVard, Luttreil, Pnyna Knight, Lord 
Aberdeen, Al«rcronibio, Lord Clifden, &c. Smith particuhuly 
amusing. Have rather held out against him hitherto ; but this day 
he conquered me ; and I am now his victim, in the laughing nay, 
for life. " " What Rogers says of Smith, i-ery true, that wbm- 
ever the conversition is getting doll he throws in some touch which 
mukiv it rclH)und, and rise again as light as ever. Ward's artificial 
cflbrtM, which to me are always painful, made still more so by their 
contnuit to Smith's natural and overflowing exuberance. Luttrell, 
too, (^imiiilcnilily extingiiislied to-day ; but there is this difference 
iKJtwei'ii Lutln^ll and Smith, — that after the former you remember 
what go:)d thin;;* he mid, and after the latter you merely remember 
liuw luueh you laughed. June 10th. — Itreakfustcd at Roars', to meet 
Luttrell, I.ady Diivy, Miss Rogiira and William Rankes. • • Rogers 
sliiiwud us ' Gray's I'oc^ms' in his original band- writing, with a. letter 
to the juinter ; also the original MS. of one of Sterne's sermons." 
Again, lie dined with Rogers at tho Athonsum, the first time tho 
latter ever dined at a club. lie dined with himat Ro1xTte',in Pari«, 




UEUOIR OF SAMUEL ROQERS. 



45 



I'ttte-^-tete, at a iplendid dinsDr " at fiflecn franca a head, eiclusivo 
I «f trioe. Foeta did not feed no in the olduii time." But tho diuncra 
t ia the poot'a own modEdt but elegant mansion will he romemberGd us 
I :BOdela of refined and intollcctual boepitolitj, as long ils the niunee 
Kjive of the great men who bare delighted to guthci round hia tnlilo. 
Wo have alluded to Rogera' talent lor epigram ; a talent which ho 
baa vetj diacrccUy employed. Uie cout^raation aecma to have been 
I iij and sarcastic, though he is not to bo held reapanaiblo for maet 
m gt the hon-moCd and repartees that have boen attributed to him. It 
.0 time the habit of aome of the London nuvrspapcrs to mon- 
l n&ctuTe thcee thin^, and ascribe them to Itogora. Of this manu- 
I &ctaie, DO doubt, ia a rwt that has found ita waj into a book ao 
I seapectable as Mr. E. H. Barker's Literary Anecdotes. "Rogers, 
■ qtcaking to Wilberibrce of the naked Achilles in the park, auid it 
ta Etnuige that ono who had made ao manj breachea in Troj should 
|. aot have a mnglo pair tor himself." Moore reconia aomc of hia obser- 
I nation, which are [utfay and pertinent. On one occodoD, speaking 
^ tf tho sort of conscription of pcreons of all kinds that was put in 
fbrce for the dinner of the llollanda, Rogers said, " There are tno 
partiea before whom everybody must appear — them and the police." 
Again, speaking of their friend Miaa White, Rogers said, "IIow 
wonderfully she does hold out ! They may say what thoy will, but 
Hiss Wliite and Mj<-oloDghi are the most remarkable things going." 
In toUdng of the gsmo-lans at a party at IloUand Uonao, Rogers 
■aid, " If a partridge, on arriTing in this country, were to ask what 
an the g^me-laws, and somebody would toU him they are kws for 
tke protection of game, ' What on excellent country to live in,' the 
partridgo would say, ' where there are bo many laws Tor our pro- 
tsction!'" On somebody remarking that Payne Knight had got very 
^gat — " 'T is from want of practice," said Rogers ; Knight being a 
aotorionsly bod listener Rogers thus described Lord Ilolhind's feel- 
ing for tho arts : " Painting givee him no pleasure, and music abso- 

From thcreportsuf his couTecsation, we are inclined toboliere tliat 
it is entitled to a good deal of the praise miiich the Qitarlerly Review 
bestows upon the Notes to Us poems. In referring to tho TOnorablo 
t, the reviewer says, " This most elegant and correct of writen, 
kste matured b} the oonstant study of the claaaics of our 



I 



r 




MBUOTR OF SAMUEL BOQEBB. 



tongue, hoB amueed his leisure hoars bj tryin); iuto how small & 
compBis wit, wisdom and elt^nce, maj bo packed. The notes to the 
lost oditinn of his poems eao not merely trcivBurc-housea o{ anecdote 
and illuBtiation, but admimble studiee in composition for those who 
will bo at the pains of oaoertaining the proctso language in wliich ths 
samo thoughu ur inuidetit^ liare been cxpresaiMl iti voreo or related bj 
others." Of nn csraj on uBBOBsinatian, written for insertion among the 
paoms on Italy, Mackintosh wrote him that " Humo could not im- 
pruTe the thoughts, nor Addison the language." And Moore says, 
in hia diary, that he feete it would do one good to studjauch writ- 
ing, if not oa a model, yet as a chostener and ompliGor of style, it 
being the very reverse of onibition or ornament. 

It is welt said, by a «ritor in the Quarlcrly Eericto, that there ore 
few precepts of taale wliich arc not practised in Sir. Rogers' eetftb- 
lialmieut, as well as recommended in his works. In illustration of 
the remark, he aUudix to a novel and ingenious mode of lighting k 
dining-room, tihich might be well imitated wherever there ore fine 
[ueturee. Lamps above or candles on the table there are none, bnt 
all the light ia reflected by Titians, Reynolds', &o., from lamps pro- 
jecting out of the frame of the pictuna, and screened from the com- 
pany. Hie bouse in St. Jamee' I'loco is small, but overflowing with 
the choicest specimens of the Gnc arts, pictures, anUquo bronxes, 
BCulptarcfl and literary curioiiiUesof uncount<id value. The following 
detailed description of the works of art which adoru this hospitable 
maosion is from the pen of Profesur Waagcn, of Berlin ; 

" By the kindness of Mr. Solly, wlio continues to emhraco every 
opportunityof doing me service, I have been introduced to Mr. Rogen 
the poet, a very distinguiahed and amiable man, lie is one of the 
few hoppy mortals to whom it haa been granted to be able to grutiff , 
in a worthy manner, the must lively sensibility to everything noble 
and beautiful. He has accordingly found means, in the course of Ids 
lung life, to impress this sentiment on everything about him, In his 
house you are evcrywheni surrounded and excited with the higher 
productions of art. In truth, one knows not whotlior more to admire 
the diversity or t)ie purity of Ida taste. Pictures of the most diSi^r- 
ent Kbools, ancient and modem sculptures, Greek vaws. alternately 
attract tlie eye ; and ore so arranged, with a judicious rc^rd to their 

), in proportion to the place anigned them, tlu>t every room is 





)hl]r nnd pictamquolj aruaraentod, without liaving the appcariui<« 
of B ma^une from being orerfilled, ae we Ireijueiitly find. Among 
all iLioe ol'joct*, iK>n« is iougnificant ; several cnhiavta and pOTtfolioa 
o^otaiu, bedde Uic chnicGst coUectionH of antique orBamiaite id gold 
that I haTc hitherto seen, mlaablc ninjatures of the middle ogee, fiue 
drawings h; the old maitorB, and tho moat agreoabb prints of tho 
frraalnl at the old engniTcn, Marcaatonia, Durur, etc., in the finiwt 
iui[iir(i«ei(ina. Tho enjojniont of all these trcoBurce vme hcightom-d tu 
the owner hy the ooiifidentiBl interoooisswith the most eminent, now 
dMOued. Engliirii niiAaW, Flusmun and Stothard : both hitvo M\ biin 
a manorial uf their friundsliip. In two little murlile Eliitues of Cupid 
wid Piycho, and a mantel-piece, with a bae-rclii^f reprtwutinj; a muw 
witli a lymtind Mnemonjnebj'FlaxmtkD.Ihc^ra in tht ntm<i noble luiil 
gnujrfal [t«ling which hua ao greatly attracU-d m«, from mj cliild- 
hiK>l, Id hia oolfhrated ooinpudlions after Ilouier and .-Eschjlus. 
Ttin bnir and draperies are tnuteil witli grent, alnaost too pictumcquc 
KifliKai. Among all the English paintern, none, perhaps, hua so 
much prrnrcr of iuTentiun an Stuthurd. Wu Tcrsatile talent ha« auu- 
oewfalljr made easajB in the domains of history, or fancy and poetry, 
of huiiKir. and, lutly, eieo in donlmlic tceitM, in the atyle of VViit- 
(eati. To this may be added much feeling for gmeeful movements, 
and cfaoorTuL, ImghC niloring. In bis pictures, which adorn a chim- 
tuFt-firee, prind|iil aharocteni from ShakBpearo's plajK are rcpru- 
pntnd will) igr<stl s{iirit aud humor ; among them, Faletuff mnkvs a 
Trry distiiiguixbcd and (omieal figure. There is also a merry com- 
puy, in tli« Myli) of Wntteau ; the least attnictive is an allegorical 
n-(n«mtation uf I'oiiv returning to the eartli,for the brilliant color- 
inc, BppTDodung to Kubons, catmot make up for the poomes of tho 
k Batl tbe wuaknue of the druwin;;. 
a tlure are among the pictures some of the bust works of Sir 
■ Kfiynoldi, fine spevimcns of tb'O works of three of the mo«t 
tnt British artists uf lu) ewUcr ikto axis here untied, 

• portnulfl, properly so called, Sir Joahou Reynolds was 

It in tho f^KScntation of ehildren, where he woa able, iu 

It tnaaia fiiithrul tu nature, and in gcnenil an indi^crcnt 

* acnapation alone was nooeeeary. In such pio- 

y mouocded in representing the youthfiil bloom 

of tlic fine English cluldren. This it is which 



48 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. 

makes hU n'l-^liratcd Btrawlxjiry-girl, which is in this collection, M 
attniotivo. AVith hor liands pimply rolded, a Ixiskct under her arm, 
she stands in a wliito frock, and loDks full at tho Hpoctator, with her 
fine, lar;;o eyes. Tho admiraldo imjuisto, the bright, gtddon tone, 
cksir as I^omhrandt, and the dark landscajxs Kick-ground, have a 
striking rll;*ct. Sir Joshua hiiiisidf looked ufion this as one of his \>wi 
jiirturi'S. A Klooping girl is also uncommonly charming, the color- 
ing very glowing ; many cracks in the painting, both in the Ixick- 
ground and tho drapory, show the uncertainty of the artist in the 
moi'lianiral prinH'ss-'s of the art. Another girl with a bird doen not 
give mo w) much pleasuri.'. Tho rather aff.'ctiHl laugh is, in this in- 
stam'r', not stol"n from nature, Init from tlie not happy invention of 
the jMiintor ; in tiio gli)wing color there is Hoinethiiig sjKJeky and 
false. l*uek, the merry elf in Shaksj-eari^'s Midsummer Night's 
Dream, calliid by tho Knglisli llobin GV>dr«'llow, repres^^nted as a 
child, with an arch look, sitting on a mushn»om, and full of wanton- 
m.'ss, 8tret<;liing out arms «and K»gs, is another much adminnl work of 
Sir Joshua. }$ut, though this picture is paintetl with much M-iirmth 
and clearness, tlie conception dtx-s not at all jdr.ise me. 1 find it ti>o 
childish, and not fantastic enough. In the back-ground. Titunia is 
seen with the ass-hea<led weaver. Psycho with tiie lamp, lookhig at 
Cupid, figures as large as life, is of tho most brilliant ellect, ami, in 
tiie tender, gnn-nish half-tints, also of great delicary. In the reganl 
for Ix'autiful heading lines, there is an affinity to the nither exagger- 
ate*! grace of P.irnicggiano. In such pictun.^s by Sir Jashua, the 
incorrect drawing always injures the cffe«:t. I was nnieh int<.*n>to<.l 
at mwting with a landscape by this uiiistvr. It is in tho style of 
Rembrandt, ami of very strong efT.iet. 

** Of older Knglish painters, there arc hen.; two pn'tty pictures by 
Gainsborougii, one by Wilson ; of the moni nnxnt, 1 found only one 
by the nirc and spirited l^mington, of a Turk fallen asleep over his 
pil>o, admirably executed in a deep, harmonious chiaro-oscuro. Mr. 
Rogers* taste and knowledgi; of tho art ore too gi.^nenil for him not to 
feel the profound intellectual ^-alne of works of art in which the man- 
agement of the materials was in son^o degree rcstrietcil. lie has, 
ftherofore, not disdained to place in his collection the half-figures of 
St. PewI and St. John, and fragments of a fresco painting from tho 
OHmelito Ohuroh at Floronoe, by Giotto ; Salome dancing before 




UEMOIK or SAUUEL ROGERS. 



HMod, and the beheading of St. John, l>y Fiexole ; a coronation of 
the Virgin, bj LorenEo de Condi, the tellow-flcholar and (tiecid of 
Lomaiilo do Vmci, whoee pcoductiuns and personal chitracter were 
BO (stisublc- Next to theee [HCtiiree ie a Christ on the Mount of 
OliToi. by Raphael, at tlie time when, be hod not abaudoiiMl the 
manim of Perugio. This little picture wua once a part of the prc- 
dcUa tn tho alUu*i>i«* whioh Raphael painted in the year 1505, for 
Ihn nuUB of .Si. Anthony, at Penigio. It came with tho Orleans 
ffM'^ Ui EngUuid, and wm laat in the poeacsrion of I/ird Eldin, in 
Ufabdi^. Unhappily it has been much injured by cleaning and 
ig, bat in mvoy puis, porticubu'lj' in tho aimH uf tbu ango], 
n defecta in the drawing, such as we du not find !□ Raphael 
■ ftt thii pcriiMl. Ho that, most probably, tho oompusitiun alone 
■Id ho uKrilicd to him, and the execution Ui one of tlie oafiiBtantf, 
spkintul the tnru euintB belonging to thu same prodcUa now in 
■ich Culti^i. 

P Frwm the Orleans gallery, Mr. Bogore hae Rapboers Madonna, 

wrfl kntnm by FHpnrfa engraving,. with the cyis rather (xnt down, 
aa wtxMi the child aUnding by her Ibndly hnns. The eipreMion of 
yuymuBic^ to Ibo ohild in very pleutdng. The gray color of the under- 
■Irm of the Virgin, with red aleeves, famifl an agreeable harmony 
with tbR bluo mantle. To judge by the character and drawing, the 
(TMnpaaitiua way bo of the early period of Itapbad'e rasidcncc at 
BdUe. In uther rL«p(xta, this picture admits of no judgmont, he- 
CMUt Busy parta havo ImMme quite Sat by cleaning, and othera arc 
puntod gTor. The Undacupe i« in a lilue-greuntfih tune, differing 
fata Baplutd'a nuinner. 

■Of 111*) B«man school 1 will mention only ooe more- Christ 
Ing Ui erow, liy Andrea Suocht, a mudcratc-eizod pieturu from 
)ili>ii» gkUny, ID one of tJie capital pictures of tliis master, in 
^liuD, depth uf coloring, and hannony. 
** Till' crown, how^rnr, of the whole collection, is Christ appearing 
to Mary Uaedalme, liy Titian. It wa« formerly in the posseodon of 
lb* Emily of Muaolli at Verona, and afterward adorned the Orleans 
fiOtrj- In thi- dear, bright, golden tone of the flesh, the careful 
OHidiua, tbs mfioed feeling, in the irapOMioned demre of the kneel- 
hg MBgdaltmo to toueh the Lord, and the ralm, dignified refuaa] of 
~ ~ ~ te neognlKC the earlier time of this master. The bcAO- 



50 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGEBS. 

tiful landscape, ^rith the reflection of the glowing horizon upon the 
blue sea, which is of great importance here, in proportion to the 
figures, proves how early Titian obtained extraordinary mastery in 
this point, and confirms that he was the first who carried this branch 
to a higher degree of perfection. This poetic picture is, on the whole, 
in very good preservation ; the crimson drapery of the Magdxilenc is 
of unusual depth and fulness. The lower part of the legs of Christ 
have, however, suffered a little. The figures are about a third the 
size of life. 

" The finished sketch fur the celebrated picture, known by the 
name of La Gloria di Tiziano, which he afterward, by the command 
of Philip II., King of Spain, painted for the church of the convent 
where the Emperor Charles V. died, is also very remarkable. It ia 
a rich, but not very pleasing composition. The idea of having the 
coffin of the emperor carried up to heaven, where God the Father 
and Son are enthroned, is certainly not a happy one. The painting 
is throughout excellent, and of a rich, deep tone in the flesh. Unfor- 
tunately, it is not wanting in re-touches. The largp picture is now 
in the Escurial. 

** As the genuine pictures of Giorgione are so very rare, I will 
briefly mention a young knight, — small, full-length, noble and 
powerful in face and figure ; the head is masterly, treated in his 
glowing tone ; the armor with great force and clearness in the 
chiaro-oecuro. 

" The original sketch of Tintoretto, for his celebrated picture of St. 
Mark coming to the assistance of a martyr, is as spirited as it is full 
and deep in the tone. 

*' The rich man and Lazarus, by Giacomo Bassano, is, in execution 
and glow of coloring, approaching to Rembrandt, one of the best 
pictures of the master. 

'* There are some fine cabinet pictures of the school of Carracci : 
a Virgin and Child, worshipped by six saints, by Lodovico Carracci, 
18 one of his most pleasing pictures in imitation of Corregio. Among 
four pictures by Domenichino, two landscapes, with the punishment 
of Marsyas, and Tobit with the fish, are very attractive, from the 
poetry of the oomposition and the delicacy of the finish. Another 
likewise yerj fine one of Bird-catohing, from the Borghese Palace, 




MEHOIS OS SAMUEL ROOEBS. 



inroTtunatelj turned quite dBrk. A Christ, by Quido, is l>roadlj 
Kltnd Bpritcdly touched in hiii finest silver tone. 

'■ Tiiere IB an uqiiisite little gem by Cluude Lorraine. In a sod 
Isfening light, a lonel; shepherd, with his peaceful Qockx, is playing 
e pipe. Of the mnater'a earlier time , admirable iu the impuetu, 
Ifoueful and delicate, decided and soft, all in a warm, golden tone. 
Utile Liber Veritatia, marked No. 11. Few pictures inspire like 
Ih a liicling for the delicious atillnesB ofa auinmcr'B eveniDg. 
" A landaonpe hj Nioolua Pousain, ratliLT largo, of a T(tj poetio 
npostiun and careful oiecDlion, inspires, un the other hand, in 
e hrowniah mlver tone, the Beneation of tlie freshness of morning, 
■e is quite a reviying coolness in the dark water and under the 
B of the fore-ground . 
'■Two tnutllor hiHtoricat pictures by Pousain, uf Lis earlier time, 
■ among his careful and goud works. 
'' Of the Flemish school there are a few, but Tory good, speci 

There is n highly interesting picture by Kubcns. During his 
Mantua, he was so pleased with the triumph of Julius 
CsBsar, by Mantegna, that ho made a fine copy of one of the nine 
poturos. Uis loTB for the fantastic and pompous led him to chooso 
that with the elephants carrying the candelabra ; hut his ardenC 
itnsi^nation, ever directed to the dramatic, coiijd not be content with 
this. Instead of a harmless sheep, which in Mantegna is walking by 
the ride of the foremost elephant, liubens made a lion and a lionew, 
which growl angrily at the elephant. The latter, on his part, is not 
idle, but, l'ir>king furiously round, is on the point of striking the lion 
a blow with Ilia Irunfc. The severe pattern which he had before hini 
Mantegna has moderated Rulfcns in his usually very fall forms, sc 
they are more noble and slender than they generally are. T hs 
Ining, as in all his earlier pictures, is more subdued than in the 
and yet powerful. Rubens himself seems to have set much 
on ^is study; fur it was among the eSbcts at his death. 
Dning the revolution, Mr. Champcmowne brought it from tlin 
Balbi Rilaw, at Genoa. It is throe feet high, and five feet Gve 
Jnebai wide. 

" The study for the celubratal picture, the Terrors of War, in the 
llti Polnee, at Florence, and respecting which we have a letter in 



^^^loe 



52 MEMOIB OF SAlfTEL ROGERS. 

Rabens' own hand, is likewise well worth notice. Rubens painted 
this picture for the Grand Dnke of Tuscany. Venus endeaTors, in 
Tain, to keep Mars, the insatiable warrior, as Homer calls him, from 
war ; he hurries away to prepare indescribable destruction. This 
picture, one fdot eight inches high, and two feet six and a half inches 
wide, which I have seen in the exhibition of the British InstitutioDy 
is, 1>y the warmth and power of the coloring, and the spirited and 
careful execution, one of the most eminent of Rubens' small pictures 
of this period. 

^* Lastly, there is a Moonlight by him. The clear reflection of the 
moon in the vrater, its effect in the low distance, the contrast of the 
dark mass of trees in the fore-ground, are a proof of the deep feeling 
for striking incidents in nature which was peculiar to Rubens. Am 
in another picture the flakes of snow wore represented, he has here 
marked the stars. 

^< I have now become acquainted with Rembrandt in a new depart- 
ment ; he has painted in brown and white a rather obscure allegory 
on the deliverance of the United Provinces from the union of such 
great powers as Spain and Austria. It is a rich composition, with 
many horsemen. One of the most prominent figures is a lion 
chained at the foot of a rock, on which the the tree of liberty ig 
growing. Over the rock are the words, * Solo Deo gloria.^ The 
whole is executed with consummate skill, and the principal eSSdCi 
striking. 

'* His own portrait, at an advanced age, with very dark ground 
and shadows, and, for him, a cool tone of the lights, is to 1^ classed, 
among tlie great num})er of them, with that in the Bridgewater Gal- 
lery ; only it is treated in his broadest manner, which borders on 
looscnoRR. 

** A landscape, with a few trees upon a liill, in the fore-ground, 
with a horHCinan and a pedestrian in the back-ground, a plain with 
a bright horizon, is clearer in the 8ha(lo>v8 than other landscapes by 
Rembrandt, and, therefore, with the most powerful effect, the more 
harmonious. 

^* Among the drawings, I must at least mention some of the finest. 

** Raphael. — The celebrated Entombment, drawn with the utmost 
spirit with the pen. From the Crozat collection. Mr. Rogers gave 
one hundred and twenty pounds for it. 



MBMOTR OF SAHTIEL ROOERS. 



53 



"Andbe* del Sabto. — Some studiea in bluck clialks, for bia fresco 
I iiUDtin^ in the Chapel del Sualzo. Thut for the jouog man nlio 
I nrrieH tbe baggage in tbo visitation of tbo Virgin \a rcmarkalily 
I afiimated. 

" Lucas Y\h Letdks. — A pen drawing, executed in the moat per- 
I'ftct and mastvrl; manner, for his celebrated and eiceedvuly raro 
1 te^rnving of the portrait of the Emperor Maximilian 1. Thin 
I ^ondcriul drawing hoe hiibcrtu been crroncoualf oacribed to All>erC 

" Albbbt Dckkr.— a child weeping. In chalk, on colored paper, 
P'fcnghlencd with white ; almost unploasantlj true to realitj. 

" Among the odmirahlo engravings, I mention onlj u single female 

Kpgure, very delicately treated, which ]a so entirely pervaded witli the 

■4^rit of Frandsco Froncia, that I do not he^tat« to nscribe it to him. 

IVtancia, originally a goldEmitb, is well known to have been pueu- 

K]iarly skilled in executing larger compoutions in niello. How easily, 

■ Iherufore, might it tuivo occurred to him, instead of working as hith- 

u lilver, to work with his graver in copper, especially as in hia 

,e the engraving on copper had been brought into more general 

n«e in Italy, by A. Manuka and others ; and Francia had such 

enfirg^F and diversity of talents that, in bis mature age, he succeBs- 

fulty made himself master of the art of painling, which was bo much 

more remote from bis own original profession. Beside this, the Gnc 

delicate lines in which the engraving is executed indicate an artist 

who had Iseea previously accustomed to work fur niel]o-plal*«, in 

which this manner is usaally practised. Tlie circumstance, too, that 

Marcantonio was educated in the workshop of Franda, is favorable to 

tbe presumption that he himself had practised engraving. 

" Among the old miniatures, that which la framed and glared and 
hong up, rwpresenting, in a landscap, a knight in golden armor, 
kneeling down, to whom God the Father, surrounded by churuhiui 
and seraphim, uppe«n in tbe air, while the damned are tormented 
by devils in the abyss, is by fur tbe most important. As has been 
aliendy observed by Paseavant, it belongs to a series of forty minia- 
tures, in tbe poBscesion of Mr. George Brentano, at Frankfort-on- 
Maine, which were executed for Maitre Etiennc Chevalier, treasurer 
f France under King Charles VII., and may probably have adorned 
it prayer-book. They arc hy the greatest French miniature-painter 



54 MEMOIB OF SAMUEL R0GBB8. 

of tho fiftoenth century, Johan Fouqaet de Tours, painter to King 
Louis XI. In regard to the admirable, spirited invention, which 
betrays a great master, as well as the finished execution, they rank 
uncommonly high. 

'< An antique bust of a youth, in Carrara marble, which, in form 
and expression, resembles the Meet son of Laocoon, is in a yery noble 
style, uncommonly animated, and of admirable workmanship. In 
particular, the antique piece of the neck and the treatment of the 
hair are very delicate. The nose and ears are new ; a small part of 
the chin, too, and the upper lip, are completed in a masterly manner 
in wax. 

'* A candelabrum in bronze, about ten inches high, is of the most 
beautiful kind. The lower part is formed by a ratting female figure 
holding a wreath. This fine and graceful design belongs to the period 
when art was in its perfection. This exquisite relic, which ¥ras pur- 
chased for Mr. Rogers in Italy, by the able connoisseur, Mr. Millln- 
gen, is, unfortunately, much damaged in the epidermis. 

^* Among the elegant articles of antique ornament in gold, the 
earrings and clasps, by which so many descriptions of the ancient 
poets are called to mind, there are likewise whole figures beat out in 
thin gold leaves. The principal article is a golden circlet, about two 
and a half inches in diameter, the workmanship of which is as rich 
and skilful as could be made in our times. 

*^ Of the many Greek vases in terra cotta, there are five, some of 
them largo, in the antique taste, with black figures on a yeUow 
ground, which arc of considerable importance. A flat dish, on the 
outer side of which five young men are rubbing themselves with the 
strigil, and five washing themselves, yellow on a black ground, is to 
l)e claijsed with vases of the first rank, for the gracefulness of the 
invention, and the l)eauty and elegance of the execution. In this 
collection, it is excelled only l)y a vase, rounded below, so that it 
must be placed in a peculiar stand. The coml)at of Achilles with 
PentheHilia is represented upon it, likewise, in red figures. This 
composition, consisting of thirteen figures, is by far the most distin- 
guished, not only of all representations of tho subject, but, in gen- 
eral, of all representations of combats which I have hitherto seen on 
vases, in tlie beauty and variety of tho attitudes, in masterly draw- 
ing, as well as in the spirit and delicacy of the execution, It is in 



UEMOIB OF SAMtTKL ROGERS. 



55 




■fij tnediom between tbo ae?ere and the quite Tree style, eo 
tliK hoea there are some traoeia of the nntiqUD miLitner.''' 
atinutioti In whiuh the veneruble poet is beU, nsa judge of 
; be itiTerreil i>j Ibu fuHuwiag citroct from a letUir addressed 
bj Sir Datid WUlde, under date of CunBtanlinople, 30th 
her, IMO : 

lUt nnj claim for this invasion upon your valuable timp, 
than being in tliU distant oapilal in presence of t>o manj objects 
wliiuli jour knowlodge of life and mnterials for art would so enable 
ytta to apiirwiaiit and put upon record, you will jct, pcrbaps, eicuaa 
(cw idatu 1 try U> put (ogether, viahing only tbut I had your 
to me, iritb j'uur tasle and judgment to select irbiit ncra best to 
down, utd what luoet worthj to remember.'' 

oondoUng with him on the Idbb of Lord Holland, whom ha 
wrt in rompajiy with Mooro and Rogers, WiUtic proceeds : 
Cuuld I see jou in quiet, aa in Brighton and in St. Jaiuee' Place, 
I suitable frame of mlod for lighter subjects, what a deal tlie 
we bare made would suggoat for diBCUHsion ! Mr. Willium 
Woodburo, who ia with me, frequently speaks of jou ; and your 
Bane wiu often mentioned, as we passed in review at the league, 
Amelfiilam,at Aluniehaad at Vionna, the richest stores of European 
art ; among which we saw in tliosc places two great maatera, almost 
in thm grcnitst triumjihs — liulieoH and Itembnuidt ; and we scarco- 
Ijf know an* one who could better judge of their splendors than 
irlf." ' 

■liauld not he forgvitton that Rc^rs was one of the few who 

)>y Sheridan iu his but days ; supplying liis pecuniury needs 

gimt eitvnl, aud niauitestiiig a timely syiuiutby towards hini. 

tUwoii-rwl. alter ttheridan's death, that sums of money which 

bucn sup^wcd (o come tiwa other lugh quarl^'n Ui ujiuistt-'r lo 

\y DO mauu slender wants were in reality contributed by Kogers. 

article t^ntitlnl Goru House, publusbed in the New MoniMi/ 

in 1^9. WD tntnBrril>e a passage of gossip, that may {huw 

Tfaa nuioK^r of guests was nut jet complete. They arrived in 
Iba liilli'Wiiig iirdur : 

■■Stiwiy, with tho foot of age, his head bent forwiird and bis 
luwi* PXt-TiilBt, cnnie Mr. S R , endowed alike with tbo 




66 HBMOIR OF SAHDEL BOQERS. 

gjAs of nntus Knd Apollo, and enjojing, peth&pi, a higher repaU- 
tion for the poMe«Bion of each than he dewrred. If tte ooaplet 

nacribed to lady B bo nally hera, her kdyihip aeeiiig to haw 

thought hb most celebrated poem somewhat OTer-prsiaed ; it nn 
thug: 



In thia opnioD I do not, however, coincide, beliering some oT hii 
AuBoniau fragments — above all, those descxiptive of Tenioe — to he 
the finest he ever wrote, and worthy, of tbemselTCa alone, to place 
him high amongst poets. Of the peculiaritiGH of which I bod heard 
BO much, but one woe Btrikiugly cxempliBed — his fondneoifor fbmala 
admiration. Other men have been anxiouB to cngnm the attentim 
of a beautiful womau, before it fell to the lot of Mr. R to at- 
tempt it ; but very few, t ima^e, have tried to torn it in the Bama 
direction. Like a young Frenchman whom I formerly knev in 
Paris, his motto has been, — not 'comme jel'aime! ' but 'comma 
ellc rn'odoic ! ' Goldsmith is sud to have been jealous if a pret^ 
woman attracted more notice than himself j and it was no uncom- 
mon thing for R. to sulk for a whole evening, if the prettieBt troman 
in the company failed to make much of him." 

We have the curtain agreeably lifted from the social converse of 
Rogers, in the following little paange from Mr. Bryant's account of 
his visit to the veteran bard : "There are not," says Mt. B., " many 
mora beautiful lines in the English language, — there are certainly 
none so beautiful In the writdngs of the author, — as those of Mra. 
Barbauld, which the poet Rogers is fond of repeating to his (rienda, 
in his fine, deliberate manner, with just enough of trcmulousnees in 
that grave voice of his to give his retatation the effect of deep 
feeling : 

■ Lira 1 wo 've been long together, 
Ibrongb pleuant end through clondj woetber. 

T ia hud to part irhen friSDdi kre deer ; 

Petbapi 't Kill ootb a >lgb, a te^r ; 

Then ete>l nmj, give tittle vnrDlng, 

10 happier olime. 



UEHOIB OF SAMUEL ROQERS. 57 

It iii^:m the thooght of death oheerfiil to represent it thus, aa Liro 
looking in upon joa witb a. glad greeting, amidst TrtHb uira nod 
gloriouB light. The lines, we infer, were written by Mre. Barbnuld 
in bar late old age, and I do not wonder tbut the aged poet, who 
Km« jvam aince unterud apou the fifth score ol'hisjaira, ^uuid tind 
tbem lutnntiiq; hia uiemoi^." 

titog m»j it be before the decease of the venerable poet mu; 
op«n to the vorld the rich stores for Ms biography, which must, nii 
doabt, taitt in his correspondence and conimonpkce l>uoki> ! Till 
that time oomn. vo must be vont«Dt tiiith the memoranda which am 
bete and there through the literary history of the iwtitury, 
feet and un^tia&ctoiy, but furuisbing an index to what rc- 



^■Wnsh 



it DOW we cannot biing this skeloh to a more acceptable ucm- 
by copying the latest notice wo have seun of a. spot 
thai will long remain cla^c ground, Irom the pen of an American 
tisnllur. Mr. Tockcrman baa been speaking of St. James' Pork, 
awl its rarioui associations, which cuuld not long withdiuw the 
liifTuj «iihiiMast from the bit of green-eward before tlic window 
of Itog«t*i wbich every spring morning, before the poet's health 
sent him into suburban oiito, was co^^red with sparrows, expectant 
pf tlieir food from bis kindly hand. " The view of the park," ho 
from thiadiftwing-room bow-window instantly diBenchants 
ti(^t of all town aanciationa. The room where this viata 
gcooine Engliah aspect opens, is the same so memor- 
for the breakfaats for many years enjoyed by the hospitable 
anil hb fortuoate gucgta. Ao air of wdneas pervaded tho 
it, in the absence of him whuse taste and urhani^ were yet 
in mery objctt around. The wintry sun threw a gleam, 
I tbe light of the fund reuiiniM'ence he au giaccfully aung, 
tbv Turkey caqjct and veined mahogany. It fell, as if in pcn- 
the bmouB Titian, lit up the cool tints of Watteau, 
Mid mode the bmrt found in the aea near Fozzoli wear a creamy hue. 
WbcB the dd hoosekeeper left tho room, and 1 glanced irom tho 
[■imliiw cam** or claauc um to the twinkling turf, all warmed by 
Ike carnal ninahine, the acnaatiun of comfort, never so completely 
H*KiM 01 in a genuine London breakfast-room, was touclied to finer 
■anm by the atmoaphoe of beau^ and tho memory of genius. Tho 




58 HBHOIR OF SAMDXL BOOBBS. 

groupa of poet>, artists &nd wits, 'whoM ooouDnDe h&d filled ttSa 
toom vith the elecbio glow of intellectiiKl life, with genu of Ut, 
glimpMtof DBtuTC, and tbe charm of iatelligent hoapitolity, toevoka 
All thftt HU most gifted and cordial, reinemttlwl once more. I 
could not but appreciate the auggeetive character of ercry ornament. 
There was a Murillo, to ingpire the Sponiah traTGller with half~fot- 
gotten anecdotea ; a fine Rejnolda, to whisper of the literarfr dinners 
where Garrick and Burke diectused the theatre knd the araiate ; Hil- 
ton's agreement for the sale of < Patadiae Loot,' emphatic STmbol of 
the uncertainty of fome ; a sketch of Stonehenge by Turner, proTOcar- 
Utc of endless discuadon to artist and antiquary ; bronxes, medals 
and choice volomea, whow very names would iospire an affluent 
talker, in this moat charming imaginable nook for a morning collo- 
quy and a social break&st. I noticed, ia a glass vase over the fire- 
place, numerous f^rigs of orange-blonoma in every grade of decay, 
aome tarumbling to duit, and otheia but partially faded. These, it 
appeared, were all plucked Irom bridal wreaths, the gif^ of their ^r 
wearers, on the wedding-day, to the good old poet-friend ; and he, 
in bia bachelor &nlaay, thna preserred the withwed trophies. They 
spoke at once of sentiment and of solitude." 



POEMS. 



O ! (uUM) my mind, unfolded in my pAge» 

Knlighton cliuicii, and mould a future ago ; 

There b« it glowed, with noblest frenzy fraugbi 

I>ii<|)enHe the treasures of exalted thought ; 

Tu virtue wake the puliicd of the heart, 

And bid the tear of emulation :start ! 

! could it still, through each succeeding year, 

My lifo, my manner.^, and my mime endear ; 

And, when the poet tfleejis in ttilent durit, 

Still hold camniniiiun with the wise and just ! — 

Yet should this Verse, my leisure**! be^t reMiurce, 

When through the world it steals its secret ctmrsr, 

Kevive but itnce a generou.-* wish supprest, 

Chase but a sigh or charm a care to rest ; 

In one gnod deed a fleeting hour employ. 

Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy ; 

Blest were my lines, though limited their sphere, 

Though short their date, as his who traced them here* 

1793. 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



IN TWO PARTS. 



AKALTSIS OF THS FUtST PAHT. 



In Poem begins with the diKriptioa of an oUcnn Tillsge, ud of Ui* 
Jileuing maluiBhol; vbioh it eicitsl on being lerisited ^Tter ■ long kIwiTiM. 

Imll; uceiid to tbe »uia ; und ttie labjeot propoied i> than nnfalded, witb 
an inrostlgiiLtiDD of the nature and leading prineiplea of thi) facnlty. 

It ii eTident that out idoai flow in continanl eaoceuian, and introdnoo 
each other nith a oertain dogree of regularitj. Tbey are luuietimea eiaited 
hj aenaiblo ohJooU. anil wiuetiuios h; aa iotornal operatiun of the mind. 
Of (ho former spociBB Ii must prububl; the utmory of bratoa ; aod ila many 
■ounX9 of pletuure to them, as well as to us, are coniiderod In the Bnt 
part. Tbe latter ia tho moat i>erfect degree of memory, and fonna Iha inb- 
Jeotoftheaoeoud. 

When ideaa hare any relation nhatevor, Ibej are attraotiie of each olhsr 
in the mind ; and the poroeption of any object Datnrull; lead) to the idea 
of another, whieb wu coonectod with it either In time or l^et, ot whidi 
nan be compared or oontraated ni(h it. Hence ariaci onr atlaohment to 
Inaalmiite objecta; benee.also. in some degree, the love of onr oonntr7,and 
the emotion with which we eontomplate tho celebrated acenea of antiqnitj, 
Honee a picture directa our thoughta to the original ; and, aa eold and 
darknesi euggest foroibl; the ideaa of heat and light, he who i^ele tho 
inBrmitiei of age dwells inoit on whatever rcmmda hiui of tbe vigor and 
viTaoityorbiejouth. 

Tho aeaooiatlng principle, as here cmplnycd, is no less oonduoiye to Tirtna 

tumultuoua acones of life. It nddresMS our finer feclingr, and givea eier- 

Not conhned to man, it oilcnds through all animated nature ; and ill 
eSeoti are peculiarly atriking in tlie doiueatio tribea. 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



Twn,IGHT's Hoft dcw9 Hteal o'er the villnge-green, 
With magic tints to harmonizo the scene. 
Stilled ia tlie hum that through the hamlel broke, 
Wlien roand the ruina of th&ir ancient oak 
The peaauats flocked to bear the minstrel play, 
And games ntid carols closed the hnsj d)iy. 
Her wheel at real, tlie luatrou thrills no mora 
With treasured talea, and legendary lore. 
All, all are fled ; nor mirth Qor music flows 
To chaee the dreams of innocent repose. 
All, all are fled ; yet still I liogcr here ! 
What secret charms this silent spot endear ? 

Mark yon old Mansion fro'wning through the trees, 
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. 
That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade, 
Fiiat to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. 
The mouldering gatevray strews the grass-grown court, 
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
When all things pleaeed, for life itself was new, 
And the bean promised what the Ikncy drew. 



PLKASCItBS OF HBHORT. 

See, through the fractured pediment revealed, 
Where moss inlays the mdely-BCulptuted shield, 
The martin's old, hereditary nest 
Long may the ruiD spare its hallowed guest ! 

Ab jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! 
0, haste, — unfold the hospitable hall ! 
That hall, where tmce, in antiquated state, 
The chw <^ justice held the grave debate. 

Mow stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung. 
Oft has its roof with poab of rapture rung ; 
When round yon ample board, in due degree. 
We sweetened every meal with social glee. 
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest ; 
And all was sunshine in each little breast 
'T was here we chased the slipper by the sound ; 
And turned the blindfold hero round and round. 
'T was here, at eve, we formed our &iry ring ; 
And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. 
Giants and Genii chained each wcndering ear; 
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. 
Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, 
Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood : 
Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour. 
With startling step we scaled the lonely tower ; 
O'er in&nt innocence to bang and weep, 
Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. 

Ye Household I>eitie3 ! whose guardian eye ' 
Marked each pure thought, ere registered on high ; 
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground. 
And breathe the soul o! Inspiration round. 

Afl o'er the dusky furniture I bend, 
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. 



FLEASDBBS OF MEMORY. 



65 



I The stoned ama, aonrce of foad deliglit, 
I Witli old achievement charms tlio wildcrod sight ; 
I And still, with Heraldry's rich hues imprest, 
On the dim window glows the pictured crest. 
The screen nnlblds its many-colored chart. 
The cloek still points its moral to the heart. 
(That fuithful monitor 't was heaven to hear, 
a Boft it spoke a promised pleasure nejir ; 
has its sober hand, its simple chime, 
IForgot to trace the feathered feet of Time 1 

lire hesm, with curious carTings wrought, 
lience the caged linnet soothed mj pensive thought ; 
a muskets, cosed with venerable rust ; 
VThoae oocc-loved forms, still breathing through their dust, 
■fittll, from the &amc iq mould gigantic cast, 
t&rting lo life — all whisper o f the Past ! 
As through the garden's desert paths I rove, 
1 fond illusions swarm in every grove ! 
■How oft, when purple evening tinged the west,' 
I "Wo watched the emmet to her grainy nest ; 
1 Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, 
KX«ilen with sweets, the choicest of the spring ! 
tjlow oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme, 
■The boT^ now silvered by tlte touch of Time ; 
I Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid, 
I Through sister elms that waved their aummer-shadu 
lOr strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven scat, 
{To lure tlic redbreast from his lone retreat ! 
Childhood's loved group revisits cveiy scene ; 
5ie t&Dgled wood-walk and the tufted green ! 

lulgent Memory wakes, und, lo! they live ! 
[Hothed with for softer hues than Light can give. 



66 PLRASURBS OF MEMORY. 

Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below 
To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know ; 
Whose glad suggesticms still each vain alarm, 
When nature &des and life forgets to charm ; 
Thee would the Muse invoke ! — to thee belong 
The sage's precept and the poet's song. 
What softened views thy magic glass reveals, 
When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals ! 
As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, 
Long on the wave reflected lustres play ; 
Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned 
Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. 

The School's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, 
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. 
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn. 
Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn ; 
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air. 
When the slow dial gave a pause to care. 
Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear,' 
Some little friendship formed and cherished here ; 
And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems 
With golden visions and romantic dreams ! 

Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed 
The Gypsy's fagot — there we stood and gazed ; 
Gazed on her sunburnt &ce with silent awe. 
Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw ; 
Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er ; 
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore. 
Imps, in the bam with mousing owlet bred, 
From rifled roost at nightly revel fed ; 
Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of blackest shade, 
When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed : — 



PLEASURES OF USUOBT. 



67 



Arid heroefl fled the Sibyl's muttered coJl, 

Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. 

As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, 

And traoed tlie line of life with searching Tiew, 

How throbbed my flattering pulae with hopes and fears, 

To learn the color of my fature years ! 

Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast; 
This truth once known — To bless is to be blest ! 
We led the bending beggar on his way 
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray), 
Soothed the keen pangs bis aged spirit felt, 
And on his tale wilh mute attention dwelt. 
As in Ida scrip we dropt out little atoro. 
And sighed to think that little was no more, 
He breathed hJs prayer, "Long may anch goodn«JB8 live ! " 
'T was all he gave, 't was all he had to give. 
Angela, when Mercy's mandate winged their flight. 
Had stopt to dwell with pleasure on the sight. 

Bat bark .' through those old firs, with sullen swell, 
The church-clock strikes ! ye tender scenes, farewell ! 
It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to trace 
The few fond lines that Time may soon efface. 

On yon gray stone, that fronts the cliancel-door, 
Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more, 
Each eve we shot the marble through the ring, 
When the heart danced, and life was In its spring ; 
Alaa ! unconscious of the kindred earth, 
That &intly echoed to the voice of mirth. 

The glow-worm loves her emerald-light to abed 
Wliere now the sexton rests his hoary head. 
Oft, as he turned the greensward with his spade. 
He lectured every youth that round him played; 



! COULD my mind, unfolded in my page, 

Kulighton climes, and mould a future ago ; 

There as it glowed, with noblest frenzy fraught 

DiMpenso the treneures of exalted thought ; 

To virtue wake the pulses of the heart, 

And bid the tear of emulation start ! 

! could it still, through each succeeding year. 

My life, my manners, and my name endear ; 

And, when the poet sleeps in silent dust, 

Still hold Communion with the wise and just ! — 

Yet should this Verse, my leisure's best resource, 

When through the world it steals its secret course, 

Revive but once a generous wish supprest. 

Chase but a sigh or oharm a care to rest ; 

In one good deed a fleeting hour employ, 

Or flush one faded cheek with honest joy ; 

Blest were my lines, though limited their sphere. 

Though short their date, as his who traced them here. 

1793. 



THB 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



IN TWO PARTS. 

1792. 

. . Doe at 



PAUT I. 

DqIw mtkr 

i\i||e. rho at \nacrmi, . . 
Or* mnrur |kt nnrm Amor mi ma 
Bm liAKKiaru in \ti V ante farmCj 
N.Mi, L«jw*i, in Bif PcntAi 



1 



70 PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Long o'er the wave a wistRiI look he cast, 
Long watched the streaming signal &om the mast ; 
Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye, 
And fairy-forests fringed the evening sky. 

So Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawned the day,' 
Rose on her couch and gazed her soul away. 
Her eyes had blessed the beacon's glimmering height. 
That faintly tipt the feathery surge with L'ght ; 
But now the mom with orient hues portrayed 
Each castled cliff and brown monastic shade : 
All touched the talisman's resistless spring, 
And, lo ! what busy tribes were instant on the wing ! 

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire,* 
^ As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire. 

And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth, 

Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. 

Hence home-felt pleasure prompts the Patriot's sigh ; ^ 

This makes him wish to live, and dare to die. 

For this young Foscari, whose hapless fate^° 

Venice should blush to hear the Muse relate. 

When exile wore his blooming years away. 

To Sorrow's long soliloquies a prey. 

When reason, justice, vainly urged his cause, 

For this he roused her sanguinary laws ; 

Glad to return, though Hope could grant no more. 

And chains and torture hailed him to the shore. 

And hence the charm historic scenes impart ; ^^ 
Hence Tiber awes, and Avon melts the heart. 
Aerial forms in Tempe's classic vale 
Glance through the gloom and whisper in the gale ; 
In wild Vaucluse with love and Laura dwell. 
And watch and weep in Eloisa's cell.^^ 



PLBA80BBB OF MEMORY. 



n 



'T wafl ever thu3. Young Ammos, wLen he Bougbt" 

Where Ilium stood and where Pelides fought, 

Sate at the helm himself. No meaner band 

Steered through the waves ; and, when he struck the land. 

Such in liis soul the ardor tt> explore; 

PELiDES-like, lie leaped the first ashore. 

'T was ever tlius. As now at Viboil's tomb" 

We blesa the shade and bid the verdure bloom ; 

So Tl'LLY paused, amid the wrecks of time,'"' • 

On the rude atono to trace the truth sublime ; 

When at his feet, in honored dust disclosed, 

The immortal Sage of SynicusD reposed. 

And as he long in sweet delusion hung, 

Where once a Plato taught, a Pislab sung; 

Who now but mecta him musing, when he roves 

Ilia ruined Tusculan's romantic groves? 

In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll 

His moral thunders o'er the subject soul i 

And hence that calm delight the portrait gives: 
We gaze on every feature till it lives ! 
Still the fond lover sees the absent maid ; 
And the lost friend still lingers in bis shaile ! 
Say why the pensive widow lovos to weep,'" 
When on her knee she rocks her babe to sleep : 
Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace 
The father's features in his infant face. 
The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away, 
Won by the raptures of a game at play ; 
He benda to meet each artless burst of joy, 
Forgets his age. and acte again the boy. 

What though tho iron school of War erase 
Eueh milder virtue and each softer grace ; 



72 PLBA8UBBS OF MBMOBT. 

What though the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest 
Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast ; 
Still shall this active principle preside, 
And wake the tear tx) Pity's self denied. 

The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign shore. 
Condemned to climb his mountain-clifis no more, 
K chance he hears the song so sweet, so wild,^' 
His heart would spring to hear it when a child, 
Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him rise, 
And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs. 

Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the charm : 
Say why Vbspasian loved his Sabine fiwm;" 
Why great Navarrb, when Prance and Freedom bled,'* 
Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed. 
When Diocletian's self-corrected mind** 
The imperial fasces of a world resigned. 
Say why we trace the labors of his spade 
In calm Salona's philosophic shade. 
Say, when contentious Charles renounced a throne^ 
To muse with monks and meditate alone," 
What fix)m his soul the parting tribute drew? 
What claimed the sorrows of a last adieu ? 
The still retreats that soothed his tranquil breast 
Ere grandeur dazzled, and its cares oppressed. 

Undamped by time, the generous Instinct glows 
Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows ; 
Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest. 
On every form of varied life imprest. 
The social tribes its choicest influence hail : — 
And when the di:um beats briskly in the gale. 
The war-worn courser charges at the sound, 
And with young vigor wheels the pasture round 



FLEAS0BSS OF UEHOKY. 



Ofl has the aged tenant of the vale 
Leaned on his staff to lengthen out the tale; 
Oft have hifl lips the grat«ful tribute breathed. 
From aire to son with pious zeal bequeathed. 
When o'er the blastM heath the da; declined, 
And on the scathed oak warred the winter-vind ; 
When not a diatMit taper's twinkling raj 
Oleamed o'er the furao to light him on his way; 
When not a ehecp-bcll soothed his listening ear, 
And the big rtun-drops told the tempest near; 
Then did Lis horse the homeward track descry," 
Tlte track that shunned bis sad, Inquiring eye ; 
jVnd win each wavering purpose to relent, 
With wBJBith so mild, so gently violent, 
That his charmed fattnd the careless rein resigned, 
And doubts and terrors vsni^ed from his mind. 

Recall the traveller, whose altered form 
Has borne the bufiet of the mountaln-gtorm ; 
And nho will firat his fond Impatience meet? 
His faithfij dog 's already at his feet ! 
Yes, though the porter spurn him from the door. 
Though all, that knew him, know his face no more. 
His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each, 
With that mute eloquence which passes speech. — 
And see, the master but returns to die ! 
Yet who shall bid the watchful servant &j1 
The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews of earth, 
The wanton insulls of nnfeelmg mirth. 
These, when to gnani Misfortune's sacred grave. 
Will firm Fidelity exult to brave. 

Lod by what chart, tranaporta the timid dove 
He wreaths of conquest, or the vowB of love 1 
7 



74 PLSASURES OF MEMORY. 

Say, through the cloads what compass points.her flight? 
Monarchs have gazed, and nations blessed the sight. 
Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise. 
Eclipse her native shades, her native skies : — 
'T is vain ! through Ether's pathless wilds she goes, 
And lights at last where all her cares repose. 

Sweet bird ! thy truth shall Harlem's walls attest,^ 
And unborn ages consecrate thy nest. 
When, with the silent energy of grief. 
With looks that asked, yet dared not hope relief, 
Want with her babes round generous Valor clung. 
To wring the slow surrender from his tongue, 
'T was thine to animate her closing eye ; 
Alas ! 't was thine perchance the first to die, 
Crushed by her meagre hand when welcomed from the sky. 

Hark ! the bee winds her small but melbw hom,^ 
Blithe to salute the sunny smile of mom. 
O'er thymy downs she bends her busy course, 
And many a stream allures her to its source. 
'T is noon, 't is night. That eye so finely wrought, 
Beyond the search of sense, the soar of thought. 
Now vainly asks the scenes she left behind ; 
Its orb so full, its vision so confin^ ! 
Who guides the patient pilgrim to her cell ? 
Who bids her soul with conscious triumph swell 1 
With conscious truth retrace the mazy clue 
Of summer-scents, that charmed her as she flew 1 
Hail, Memory, hail ! thy universal reign 
Guards the least link of Being's glorious chain. 






TBI 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY 



PART II. 

Ddle oote eoatode e dispensicnu 

Taimk 



ANALYSIS OF THE SBOOND PART. 



Thi Memory has hitherio acted only in snbeenrienoe io the senses, and 
so far man is not eminently distingnished from other animals ; hat, with 
respect to man, she has a higher prorinoe, and is often busily employed 
when excited by no extemid cause whatever. She preserres, for his use, 
the treasures of art and science, history and philosophy. She colors all the 
prospects of life ; for we can only anticipate the future by concluding what 
is possible from what is past. On her agency depends every efiusion of the 
Fancy, who with the boldest effort can only compound or transpose, aug- 
ment or diminish, the materials which she has oollected, and still retains. 

When the first emotions of despair have subsided, and sorrow has soft- 
ened into melancholy, she amuses with a retrospect of innoeent pleasures, 
aad inspires that noble confidence which results from the consciousness of 
having acted well. When sleep has suspended the organs of sense from 
their office^ she not only supplies the mind with images, but assists in their 
eombination. And, even in madness itself, when the soul is resigned over 
to the tyranny of a distempered imagination, she revives past peroepiions, 
and awakens that train of thought which was formerly most familiar. 

Nor are we pleased only with a review of the brighter passages of life. 
Events the most distressing in their immediate consequences are often 
oherished in remembrance with a degree of enthusiasm. 

But the world and its occupations give a mechanical impulse to the pas- 
sions, which is not very favorable to the indulgence of this feeling. It is 
in a calm and well-regulated mind that the memory is most perfect ; and 
solitude is her best sphere of action. With this sentiment is introduced a 
Tale illustrative of her influence in solitude, sickness, and sorrow. And the 
subject having now been considered, so far as it relates to man and the 
animal world, the Poem concludes with a conjecture that superior beings 
are blest with a nobler exercise of this faculty. 



TQB PLBASUilES OF MEMORY. 



, PART II. 

Sweet Memory, wafted by tby gentle gale, 
Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail, 
To view tile fbiry-haunta of long-lo3t houra, 
Blest with fur greener shades, for ireshcr flowers. 

Ages and climes remote to tfaec import 
Wiiat charms in Genius and refines m Art ; 
Thee, in whose hands the keys of Science dwell, 
The pensive portress of her holy cell ; 
Whose constant vigils chase the chilling damp 
Oblivion steals upon her vc3tal-1amp. 

They in their glorious course the guides of Youth,' 
Whose language breatlied the eloquence of Truth : 
Whose life, beyond preceptive wisdom, taught 
The great in conduct, and the pure in thought ; 
These still exist, by thee to Fame couaigned,- 
8till speak and act, the models of mankind. 

Fi-om thee gay Hope ht r airy coloring drawa ; 
And Fancy's flights are subject to thy laws. 
From tiec that bosom-spring of rapturo flows. 
Which only Virtue, tranquil Virtue, knows. 

When Joy's bright sun haa Khcd his evitning-ray, 
And Hope's delusive meteors cea^ to play ; 
When clouds on clouds the smiling prospect close. 
Still llirough tlie gloom tby star serenely glows : 
Like yon &ir orb, she gilila the brow of night 
With the mild magic of reflected light. 



78 THB PLBABUBBS OF MBMORT. 

The beauteous maid who bids the world adieu. 
Oft of that world will snatch a fond review : 
Oft at the shrine neglect her beads, to trace 
Some social scene, some dear, fiuniliar &ce : 
And ere, with iron tongue, the v^per-bell 
Bursts through the cypress-walk, the convent-cell. 
Oft will her warm and wayward heart revive, 
To love and joy still tremblingly alive ; 
The whispered vow, the chaste caress prolong. 
Weave the light dance and swell the choral 8(»^ ; 
With rapt ear drink the ^ichantmg serenade, 
And, as it melts along the moonlight-glade, 
To each soft note return as soft a sigh. 
And bless the youth that bids her slumbers fly. 

But not till Time has calmed the ruffled breast, 
Are these fond dreams of happiness confest. 
Not till the rushing winds f<^get to rave. 
Is Heaven's sweet smile reflected on the wave. 

From Guinea's coast pursue the lessening sail. 
And catch the sounds that sadden every gale. 
Tell, if thou canst, the sum of sorrows there ; 
Mark the fixed gaze, the wild and frenzied glare, 
The racks of thought, and freezings of despair ! 
But pause not then — beyond the western wave. 
Go, see the captive bartered as a slave ! 
Crushed till his high, heroic spirit bleeds, 
And from his nerveless frame indignantly recedes. 

Yet here, even here, with pleasures long resigned, 
Lo ! Memory bursts the twilight of the mind. 
Her dear delusions soothe his sinking soul, 
When the rude scourge assumes its base control ; 



THB PLEASURES OF HSMDRT. 



And o'er Fttturity'B blaiik page diffuse 

The full reflection of lier vivid hues. 

'T ia but to die — and then, to weep no more, 

Then will ho wake on Congo's distant shore ; 

Beneath his ptaataoD's ancient shade reneir 

The simple transports that with freedom flew; 

Catch the cool breeze that muakj Evening blows, 

And quaff the palm's rich nectxir as it glows ; 

The oral tale of elder time rehearse, 

And chant the rude, traditionary verse 

With those, the loved companions of his youtli, 

When life was luxurj, and friendship truth. 

Ah, wby should Virtue fear the frowns of Fate?' 
Hera what no wealth can buy, no power create ! 
A little world of clear and cloudless day, 
Nor wrecked by storms, nor mouldered by decay ; 
A world, with Memory's ceaseless sunshine blest, 
The home of Kappincsa, an honest breast. 

But most we murk the wonders of her reign, 
When Sleep has locked the senses in her chain. 
When sober Judgment has his throne resigned. 
She smiles away the chaos of the mind ; 
And, as warm Fancy's bright Elysium glows, 
From her cacli image springs, each color flows. 
She is the sacred guest, the immortal friend, 
Oft seen o'er sleeping Innocence to bend, 
Iq that dead hour of night to Silence given, 
Whispering seraphic visions of her heaven. 

When the blithe son of Savoy, journeying round 
With humble warea and pipe of merry sound, 
From his green vale and sheltered cabin hies, 
And scales the Alps to visit foreign skies : 



80 THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Though &r below the forked lightnings play, 
And at his feet the thunder dies away, 
Oft, in the saddle rudely rocked to sleep, 
While his mule browses on the dizzy steep, 
With Memory's aid, he sits at home, and sees 
His children sport beneath their native trees. 
And bends to hear their cherub-voices call. 
O'er the loud fury of the torrent's fell. 

But can her smile with gloomy Madness dwell ? 
Say, can she chase the horrors of his cell ? 
Each fiery flight on Frenzy's wing restrain, 
And mould the coinage of the fevered brain 1 

Pass but that ^te, which scarce a gleam supplies. 
There in the dust the wreck of Genius lies ! 
He, whose arresting hand divinely wrought 
Eadi bold conception in the sphere of thought ; 
And round, in colors of the rainbow, threw 
Forms ever feir, creations ever new ! 
But, as he fondly snatched the wreath of Fame, 
The spectre Poverty unnerved his frame. 
Cold was her grasp, a withering scowl she wore ; 
And Hope's soft energies were felt no more. 
Yet still how sweet the soothings of his art ! * 
From the rude wall what bright ideas start ! 
Even now he claims the amaranthine wreath, 
With scenes that glow, with images that breathe ! 
And whence these scenes, these images, declare>. 
Whence but from Her who triumphs o'er despair? 

Awake, arise ! with grateful fervor fiuught, 
Go, spring the mine of elevating thought. 
He, who, through Nature's various walk, surveys 
The good and fair her faultless line portrays ; 



THE PLBASORES OP MEMOBT. 



Whose mind, profaned by no nnbailowed guest, 

Culls &otD the crowd tho purest and the beat ; 

May range, at will, bright Fancy's golden clime, 

Or, iQusing, mount where Science sits sublime, 

Or irake the Spirit of departed Time. 

Who acts thus wisely, mark the moral Muse, 

A blooming Eden in his life reviews ! 

So rich the culture, thoagh so small the space, 

Ita scanty limits he forgets to trace. 

Bttt the fond fool, when evening shades the sky, 

Turns but to start, and gazoa but to aigh ! ' 

The weajy waste, that lengthened as bo ran, 

IMes to a blank, and dwindles to a span ! 

All ! who can tell the triumphs of the mind, 
By truth illumined and by taste refined 1 
When ^ has quenched the eye and closed the ear, 
Still nerved for action in her native sphere, 
Oft will she rise — with searching glance pursue 
Some long-loved image vanished from her view; 
Dart through the deep recesses of tho Past, 
O'er dusky forms in cliains of slumber cast ; 
With giant-grasp fling back the folds of night, 
And snatch the faithless fugitive to light. 
So through the grove the impatient mother flics, 
Each sunless glade, each secret pathway, tries ; 
Till the thin leaves the tru&nt boy disclose. 
Long on the wood-moss stretched in sweet repose. 

Nor yet to pleasing objects are confined 
The silent feasts of the reflecting mind. 
Danger and death a dread delight inspire ; 
And the bald veteran glows with wont«d fire, 



82 THE PLBASUBES OF MEMORT. 

When, richly bronzed by many a summer-sun, 

He counts his scars, and tells what deeds were done. 

Gh>, with Old Thames, view Chelsea's glorious pile. 
And ask the shattered hero, whence his smile? 
Go, view the splendid domes of Greenwich — do, 
And own what raptures from Reflection flow. 

Hail, noblest structures imaged in the wave ! 
A nation's grateful tribute to the brave. 
' Hail, blest retreats from war and shipwreck, hail ! 
That oft arrest the wondering stranger's sail. 
Long have ye heard the narratives of age. 
The battle's havoc and the tempest's rage ; 
Long have ye known Reflection's genial ray 
Gild the calm close of Valor's various day. 

Time's sombrous touches soon correct the piece, 
Mellow each tint, and bid each discord cease : 
A softer tone of light pervades the whole. 
And steals a pensive languor o'er the soul. 

Hast thou through Eden's wild-wood vales pursued* 
Each mountain-scene, majestically rude ; 
To note the sweet simplicity of life, ^ 

Far from the din of Folly's idle strife ; 
Nor there a while, with lifted eye, revered 
That modest stone which pious Pembroke reared ; 
Which still records, beyond the pencil's power. 
The silent sorrows of a parting hour ; 
Still to the musing pilgrim pomts the place 
Her sainted spirit most delights to trace ? 

Thus, with the manly glow of honest pride. 
O'er his dead son the gallant Ormond sighed.' 
Thus, through the gloom of Shbnstone's feiry grove, 
Maria's urn still breathes the voice of love. 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 



I 



Aa the stem grandeur of a Gothic tower 
Aves UB leas deeply in iu moming-hour, 
Than when the shades of Time serenely fall 
On every broken arch and ivied wall ; 
The tender images we love to trace 
Steal from each year a melajicholy grace ! 
And as the sparks of social love expand, 
As the heart opens in a foreign land ; 
And with a brother's warmth, a brother's smile, 
The stranger greets each native of hia isle ; 
So scenes of life, when present and confcst, 
Stamp but their bolder features on the breast ; 
Yet not an image, when remotely viewed, 
However trivial, and however rude, 
But wins the heart, and wakes the social sigh. 
With every claim of close aflinity ! 

But tliese pure joys the world can never know ; 
In gentler climes their silver currents flow. 
Oft at the silent, shadowy close of day, 
When the hushed grove has snng its parting lay ; 
When pensive Twilight, in her duakj car. 
Cornea slowly on to meet the evening-star ; 
Above, below, aerial murmurs swell, 
From hanging wood, brown heath, and bushy dell -' 
A thousand nameless rills, that shun the light, 
Stealing soft music on the oar of night. 
So oft the finer movements of the soul. 
That shun the sphere of Pleasure's gay control, 
In the stilt shades of calm Seclusion rise. 
And breathe their sweet, seraphic harmonies ! 

Once, and domestic annals tell the time 
(Prcsen'cd in Cumbria's rude, romantic clime). 



84 THB PLEASURES OF HEMOBT. 

When Nature smiled, and oer the landscape threw 
Her richest fragrance, and her brightest hue, 
A blithe and blooming Forester explored 
Those loftier scenes Salvatob's soul adored ; 
The rocky pass half-hung with shaggy wood, 
And the cleft oak flung boldly o'er the flood ; 
Nor shunned the track, unknown to human tread. 
That downward to the night of caverns led ; 
Some ancient cataract's deserted bed. 

High on exulting wing the heath-cock rose, 
And blew his shrill blast o'er perennial snows ; 
Ere the rapt youth, recoiling from the roar. 
Grazed on the tumbling tide of dread Lodore ; 
And through the rift;ed clifts, that scaled the sky, 
Derwent's clear mirror charmed his dazzled eye. 
Each osier isle, inverted on the wave, 
Through mom's gray mist its melting colors gave ; 
And, o'er the cygnet's haunt, the mantling grove 
Its emerald arch with wild luxuriance wove. 

Light as the breeze that brushed the orient dew. 
From rock to rock the young Adventurer flew ; 
And day's last sunshine slept along the shore. 
When, lo ! a path the smile of welcome wore. 
Imbowering shrubk with verdure veiled the sky. 
And on the musk-rose shed a deeper die ; 
Save when a bright and momentary gleam 
Glanced from the white foam of some sheltered stream 

O'er the still lake the bell of evening tolled. 
And on the moor the shepherd penned his fold ; 
And on the green hill's side the meteor played ; 
When, hark ! a voice sung sweetly through the shade. 



THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY: 



It ceased — jet Btill in Florio'b fency aiing, 
Still on each note his captive spirit hung ; 
Till o'er the mead a cool, eotiueetered grot 
From ita rich roof a starry lustre shot. 
A coastal wator croaseil the pebbletl floor, 
Aitd on the firont these siiuplti lines it lioi'e. 
Hence away, nor dure intmilo ! 
In this secret, shadowy cell 
Musing Memory lovea to dwell. 
With her sister Solitude. 
Far from the busy world she flics, 
To taste that peace the world denies. 
Entranced she sits ; from youth to age, 
Reviewing Life's eventful }Mige ; 
And noting, ere they fade uway, 
The little lines of yoaterdiiy. 
Fi.OKio had gained a rude and rocky sent, 
When, lo ! the Genins of this still retreat ! 
F»ir was her form — but who can hope to trace 
The pensive sofVuess of her angel-face 7 
Can VliutiL's verse, can Raphael's touch, impart 
Those fiuer features of the feeling heart. 
These tenderer tint* that shun the careless eye. 
And in the world's c<Hilagioua climate die 1 

She lell the cave, nor nu)rke<l the stranger there ; 
Her pastoral beauty and her artless aJr 
Had breathed a soft enchantment e'er his soul ! 
In every nerve he felt her blest control ! 
What pure and wliito-winged agents of the sky, 
'Who rale the springs of sacred sympathy, 
Inibrm congenial spirits when they meet 1 
Sweet is their office, as their natures sweet ! 



86 PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

Florid, with fearful joy, pursued the msdd. 
Till through a vista's moonlight-checkered shade. 
Where the bat circled, and the rooks reposed 
(Their wars suspended, and their councils closed). 
An antique mansion burst in solemn state, 
A rich vine clustering round the Gothic gate. 
Nor paused he there. The master of the scene 
Saw his light step imprint the dewj green ; 
And, slow-advancing, hailed him as his guest. 
Won by the honest warmth his looks expressed. 
He wore the rustic manners of a Squire; 
Age had not quenched one spark of manly fire ; 
But giant Gout had bound him in her chain. 
And his heart panted for the chase in vain. 

Yet here Remembrance, sweetly-soothing Power ! 
Winged with delight Confinement's lingering hour. 
The fox's brush still emulous to wear, 
He scoured the county in his elbow-chair ; 
And, with view-halloo, roused the dreaming hound, 
That rung, by starts, his deep-toned music round. 

Long by the paddock's humble pale confined, 
His aged hunters coursed the viewless wind : 
And each, with glowing energy portrayed. 
The far-&med triumphs of the field displayed ; 
Usurped the canvas of, the crowded hall. 
And chased a line of heroes from the wall. 
There slept the horn each jocund echo knew. 
And many a smile and many a story drew ! 
High o'er the hearth his forest-trophies hung. 
And their &ntastic branches wildly flung. 
How would he dwell on the vast antlers there ! 
These dashed the wave, those &nned the mountain-air. 



PLB&StlBBS OF MEMORY. 



A H, as (hey frowned, unwritten records bore 
Of gallant feats and feslivala of yore. 

But why the tale prolong? — His only child, 
His darling Julia, oq the stranger emiled. 
Hot little arta a fretful gire to please, i 

Her gentle gayety and native case, 
Had won bis soul ; and rapturous Fancy abed 
Her golden lights and tints of rosy red. 
But, ah ! few days had passed, ere the bright vision 

When Evening tinged the lake's ethereal blue, 
And her deep shades irregnlarly threw ; 
Their shilling soil dropt gently from the cove, 
Down by St. Herbert's consecrated grove ; * 
Wlience erst the chanted hymn, the tapered rite, 
Amused the fisher's solitary night ; 
And still the mitred window, richly wreathed, 
A sacred calm through the brown foliage breathed. 

The wild deer, starting through the silent glade 
With fearful gaze their various course aurveyed. 
High hung in air the hoary goat reclined, 
His streaming beard the sport of every wind ; 
And, while the cool her jet-wing loved to lave. 
Rocked on the bosom of the sleepless wave, 
The eaglo rushed from Skiddaw's purple crest, 
A cloud still brooding o'er her giant-neat. 

And now the moon had dimmed with dewy ray 
The few fine Susbcs of (lepiirting day. 
O'er the wide water's deep serene she hung, 
And her broail lights on every mountain flung ; 
When, lo ! a sudden hlaat the vessel blew,^ 
And to the surge consigned the little crew 



88 PLBASURES OF MBMORT. 

All, all escaped — but eie the lover bote 

His &int and fided Julia to the shore, 

Her sense had fled ! — Exhansted by the stoim, 

A &tal trance hung o'er her pallid form ; 

Her closing eye a trembling lustre fired ; 

'T was life's last spark — it fluttered and expired ! 

The father strewed his white hairs in the wind, 
Called on his child — nor lingered long behind : 
And Florio lived to see the willow wave, 
With many an evening-whisper, o'er their grave. 
Yes, Florio lived — and, still of each possessed, 
The father cherished, and the maid caressed ! 

Forever would the fond Enthusiast rove, 
With Julia's spirit, through the shadowy grove ; 
Gaze with delight on every scene she planned, 
Ejss every floweret planted by her hand. 
Ah ! still he traced her steps along the glade. 
When hazy hues and glimmering lights bjBtrayed 
Half-viewless forms ; still listened as the breeze 
Heaved its deep sobs among the aged trees ; 
And at each pause her melting accents caught. 
In sweet delirium of romantic thought ! 
Dear was the grot that shunned the blaze of day ; 
She gave its spars to shoot a trembling ray. 
The spring, that bubbled from its inmost cell. 
Murmured of Julia's virtues as it fell ; 
And o'er the dripping moss, the fretted stone, 
In Florio's ear breathed language not its own. 
Her charm around the enchantress Memort threw, 
A charm that soothes the mind, and sweetens too ! 

But is her magic only felt below? 
Say, through what brighter realms she bids it flow; 



PLEASUBEB OF MEMOItV. 



To what pare beinga, in a nobler apliere,'" 
She jiehis delight but faintly imaged here : 
All that till now their rapt reaoarches knew, 
Not called in slow succession to review ; 
But, as a landscape meeta the eye of day, 
At once presented to their glad survey .' 

Each Bceoe of bliss revealed, since chaoa fled. 
And dawning light its dazzling glories spread ; 
Each chain of nonders that subliucly glowed, 
Since Brst Creation's choral anthem flowed; 
Each ready flight, at Mercy's call ilivine, 
To distant worlds that undiscovered shine ; 
Full on her tablet flings its living rays, 
And all, combined, with bleat oSulgence blaze. 

There thy bright train, immortal Friendship, soar; 
No more to part, to mingle tears no more .' 
And, as the softening hand of Time endears 
The joys and sorrows of our infant-years, 
So there the soul, released from human strife, 
Smiles at the little cares and ilia of life ; 
Its lights and shades, its sunshine and its showers; 
As at a dream that chartDcd her \-acant hours ! 

Oh may the spirits of the dead descend 
To watch the silent slumbers of a friend ; 
To hover round bis evening walk unseen. 
And hold sweet converee on the dusky green ; 
To hail the spot where first their friendship grew, 
And heaven and nature opened to their view ! 
Ofl when ho trims his cheerful hearth, and sees 
A smiling circle emulous to please ; 
There may these gentle ^esta delight to dwell, 
And bless the scene they loved in life so well I 



90 PLBASURBS OP MBMOHT. 

thou ! with whom my heart was wont to share 
From Beason's dawn c^h pleasure and each care ; 
With whom, alas ! I fondly hoped to know 
The humble walks of happiness below ; 
If thy blest nature now unites above 
An angel's pity with a brother's love, 
Still o'er my life preserve thy mild control, 
Correct my views, and elevate my soul ; 
Grant me thy peace and purity of mind,. 
Devout yet cheerful, active yet resigned ; 
Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise, 
Whose blameless wishes never aimed to rise, 
To meet the changes Time and Chance present 
With modest dignity and calm content. 
When thy last breath, ere Nature sunk to rest, 
Thy meek submission to thy God expressed ; 
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, 
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed ; 
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave. 
Its hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave? 
The sweet Remembrance of unblemished youth. 
The still inspiring voice of Innocence and Truth f 

Hail, Memory, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine 
From age to age unnumbered treasures shine ! 
Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, 
And Place and Time are subject to thy ^way ! 
•Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone ; 
The only pleasures we can call our own. 
Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die. 
If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky ; 
If but a beam of sober Reason play, 
Lo ! Fancy's feiry frost-work melts away ! 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 91 

But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, 
Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour 1 
These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, 
Poor round her path a stream of living light ; 
And gild those pore and perfect realms of rest. 
Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest ! 




an ipot <ir MRh, bj um Uua- 
mi uc IDaUnuUr lUaUng over hkn. QIOitK, 

Wm UM Cundlu InUuw wmt am ■oUctUd u mlgrUf . " VhM i - th^r npUnI, 
■•■iMllavHyMltokiiMef gorBUkoiL, AtIk, mil «o ulih ni inta u bn/^liulf' ■ 
n Be npl ; lal Ife* (<k>n AM kc mHe ta uiKml hii (cin coaiind vlth Uian In rln 



u. nil Walurliui «t Uh Di 



94 NOTES. 



<A Wbo can enovgh adBire tiie affectk»at« ■ttThinwnt of Plntardi, who thai eoi»- 
cbidef his enmneratkm of the tArwaUget of a great dtj to men of lettors : ** As to my- 
mU; I UTe in a Bttle town } and I chooee to Uve there, lest ttahould beoome stiU less.'* — 
Fit, DtmMlh, 

(1<9 Be was scHpeoted of mwrter, and at Tenioe siu^icloD was good erktonoe. Neither 
the interest of the Doge, his fiither, nor the intrepidity of conscious innocence, which be 
exhihitnd in the dungeon and on the rack, oouki procure his aoqaittaL He was Iwaished 
to the Island of Candia for Ufe. 

Bat liere his resolution failed him. At such a distance from home he ooold not lire ; 
and, as It was a criminal oflfenoe to solicit the intercession of any fbrelgn prince. In a fit of 
despair he addressed a letter to the Duke of Blilan, and intrusted it to a wretch whose 
porfldy, he knew, would occasion his being remanded a prisoner to Venice. 

(U) Whatever withdraws ns firom the power of our senses — whaterer makes the post, 
the distant or the ftitore, predominate over the present — advances ns In the dignity of 
thinking beings. Vw Cram me and firom my firiends be such fHgId philosophy as may 
conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground wliich has been dignified by wisdom, 
Ur av e i ' y or virtue ! That man is Uttle to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force 
cqpon the plain of Maratkoitj or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of 
Imuu "Johnson, 

(IS) The Paradete, founded by Abdard, In Champagne. 

08) Alexander, when he crossed the Hellespont, wss in the twenty-second year of his 
age } and with what feelings must the Sdiolar of Aristotle have approadied the ground 
described by Homer in that poem which had been his delight from his childhood, and 
which records the actilevements of him from whom he claimed his descent ! 

It was his fiuQcy, if we may believe tradition, to take the tiller from Menoetius, and be 
himadf the steersman during the jiassage. It was his fancy also to be the first to land, 
and to famd ftill-armed. — Arrian, 1. 11. 

04) Tows and pilgrimages are not peculiar to the religious enthusiast Bilius Italicus 
performed annual ceremonies on the mountain of PosQipo ; and it was there that Boccac- 
cio, qua»i da un divino ettro inapiratOy resohred to dedicate hto life to the Muses. 

QSi When Chsero wss qnaafttor In Sicily, he discovered the tomb of Arddmedes by its 
msthftnstiral inscriptton. — Ttue. QimbsI. v. 23. 

OQ)The Influence of the associating prindple is finely exempllfled In the fUthfkil 
Penelope, when she sheds tears over the bow of Ulysses. — 04. xzL 65. 

07) The celebrated Ranc des Yaches ; cet air si chM des Sulsses quMl fVit d^fendu sons 
peine de mort de la Jouer dans leurs troupes, parce qu'il faisoit fondre en larmes, deserter 
on mourir oeux qui l*entendoient, taut n exdtolt en enx I'ardent d^sir de revofa' lenr pays. 
— Rou9»eau. 

The maladie de pays is as dd as the human heart. Juvenal's little cup-bearer 

Suspirat longo non vlsam tempore matrem, 
£t casulam, et notos tristls desiderat hcedos. 

And the Arglve in the heat of battle 

Dulces moriens reminisdtur Argos. ' 

Nor b It exUngulshed by any injuries, however crud they may be. Ludlow, write as he 
would over his door at Yevey,* was still anxious to return home } and how striUng is the 

• Omne toluro forti patri« eat, quia Patri*. 




IhHB, Ptfttvipuq lu tJ^vriwn vmlt} moltia b^tE* ciriini«b, ubcnmm puLBruBm, mo- 
tunlt/mmt laien, bifloHb anliadb cirouodMli. — Uitt. Aufiat. t4. 
iBlltJlMiUot Oudliul BlcbeUni, ItuI, wbTDboluiUhb ■ucsUlwit (hUh iw Ihn 
B Mt sC eh« oM taai[1} diUna at KIdwUni, bn ueiUoKI Ui irsiiKtrf u prestttt Uu rvuu 
— M^. de JtfUi. da Mtnayautcr, i. It. 



le iM baajB 1 pulled tLnwu, (bi 



* Td ■ frlRpIt" toy* Jobn, IHil;* 

kb 1 tnllt In iLS tUsdr Ihoa^h a 
to l*c ii. a/Sk. 



^ JfivdrUvi rrlirnt lnU> hii nalltE provinrp, atvl Ihrrp a 
illii( iBd Rurdoilnf . Ul> iisor to Hudmlui l> ilncr 
" I omM •ho* hlBi IIk «Mi(«a iThkh I ban pUinloi] vi 



u ekolHitf to hlu in hb earlj yudtti. 



Mtht Wirr >r the b 



96 NOTES. 



(M) Daring the ■fflge of Bariam, when tlMi dtJVM fedooedtotfaetaMteirtnDRity, and 
on the point of opening Ite gales to a baaa and tiarbaroiia enemy, a design was Conned io 
reUflife it \ and the inteOigeDoe was oonT^jned to the ciUaens by a letter which was tied 
ondor the wing of a pigeon. — TkuemuByJr. 6. 

The sane messepger was employed at the siege of Hutina, as we are inlbnned by the 
elder PUny — Hi9t, JTof. z. 87. 

W) This little animal, firam the exkreme eonvezi^ of her «ye, eannot see many inches 
before her. 



PABT II. 

(1) True glory, says one of thv aneients, is to be aeqoired by doing what desenres to bp 
written, and w^Ung what deserTcsto be read } and by making the world tlie hapirier and 
the better for oar having Ured in it 

<X> Thore is a future existence eren in this world, — an existence io the hearts and minds 
of those who shall live after us.* 

It is a state of rewards and ponisbments } and, like tikal revealed to as in the gospel, 
lias the happiest infloence on otsr lives. The latter exdtes us to gain the flavor of Gkid, 
the former to gain the love and esteem of wiee and good men ; and both lead to the samo 
end ', for, in fnuning our concepUons of the Deity, we only ascribe to him exalted degrees 
of wisdom and goodness. 

0) The highest reward of vlitac is virtue herseU^ as the severest pm^afaanent of vice is 
vieeherselfi 

(4) The astronomer chalking his figm^s on the wall in Hogarth's view of Bedkui is on 
adrnir^HU exBn4>UfiGation of this idea. — 5ee the Rake^i Process, plate &. 

CS) The folowing stanzas t are said to have been written on a blank leaf of this poen. 
They present so aifcoting a reverse of the picture, that I cannot resist the opp«rianity of 
introducing them here, 

** Pleasures of Memory I ! supremely blest, 
And Justly proad beyond a poet's praise } 
If the pure confines of thy tranquil breast 
Contain, Indeed, the sul^ect of thy lays I 
By me how envied ! — for to me. 
The herald still of misery. 
Memory makes her influence known 
By sighs, and tears, and grief alone : 
I greet her as the fiend, to whom belong 
The vuttore's ravening beak, the raven*s fimeral song. 

** She Mis of time mlsqpent, of oooafort k)st, 
Of fUr occasions gone ftnrever by ; 
Of hopes too fondly nursed, too rudely croMed, 
Of tamaj a cause to wish, yet fear to die ; 

• Db too* \*n bicM huroaiu c*c«l U muI qu« U mort ne noua peul raTk. — Bo^mui, 
t Bjr Uitwtj F. R. iosBM, of Triaiiy GoUcf •, Casibtklg*. 



it, cnept Ibo ioiUDCtin tti 



Vliat, bul [b? de^ Inherent dread 

Lb( «ba bcTcn] tba gnwe renjne hw re 

And mUu ibe b^ ihu prieiU ud Md 

w nad iUs bstwin Ttarllh and Applebjr Uiere « 



tt putioff, in t3iij plKf 



n, ConnleM Dowser of Penbrok*, 



OouiMh Dowlfor of Cnmborliuvi, or 

■e hilh Mt u imiil^ 0( 4L la bo diKrltulol to Urn poor of 
' (eeaod dijr d April tbretn-, upoa Iho naoe Ubie pli 

n* Msi ia Uw prliidpal lim of GumbBluid, ind rlae* la 11m ■DdM 
O "Iirvald rut cicbwige nj dead dxi," aldlw, "foruyllTlagMa la 



UKmg iihJch wora fonaalt Iho rulu of ■ nll- 
n onon TloloDt oj>l EnmoituT. TlK wlnda bknr 



AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. 

1798. 

VnialA, . . . et paaper agellc. 

Me Ubi, ei hns oni mccnm, quo* semiicr aniavi. 

Commando. 



PREFACE. 



Every reader turns with pleasare to those passages of Horace, and Pope, 
and Boileau, which describe how they lived and whore thej dwelt ; and 
which, being interspersed among their satirical writings, derive a secret and 
irresistible grace Arom the contrast, and are admirable examples of what in 
painting is termed repose. 

We have admittance to Ilorace at all hours. We enjoy the company and 
oonyersation at his table ; and his sappers, like Plato's, " non solnm in 
prassentia, sed etiam postero die jucondsD sont." Bat, when wo look round 
as we sit there, we find ourselves in a Sabine farm, and not in a Roman 
villa. His windows have every charm of prospect ; but his furniture might 
have descended from Cincinnatus ; and gems, and pictures, and old marbles, 
are mentioned by him more than once with a scorning indifference. 

His English imitotor thought and felt, perhaps, more corroctly on the 
subject ; and emboUishod his gardon and grotto with great industry and 
success. But to these alone he solicits our notice. On the ornaments of 
his house he is silent ; and he appears to have reserved all the minuter 
touches of his pencil for the library, the chapel,' and the banqueting-room 
of Timon. " Le savoir de notro sidcle," says Rousseau, " tend beaucoup 
plus k d^truiro qu*& 6difier. On censure d*un ton de maltre ; pour pro- 
poser, il en faut prendre un autre.'* 

It is the design of this Epistle to illustrate the virtue of True Taste ; and 
to show how little she requires to secure, not only the comforts, but even 
the elegances of life. True Taste is an excellent economist. She confines 
her ohoioe to few objects, and delights in producing great effects by small 
means : while False Taste is forever sighing after the new and the rare ; 
and reminds us, in her works, of the Scholar of Apelles, who, not being 
able to paint his Helen beautiful, determined to make her fine. 






EPISTLE TO A PKIEND. 



ia InriUtion — The Approicli t<i 
iw Ai«rUDeiit9 — Farniihecl n 
iJniDK-iaam — Ths Library- 
umiasr Wklk — Tha Iniilation 



■red — Cuuoliuian. 



When, with n Reaumur's skill, thy curious mind 

Has classed the losect-tribcs of hunmu kind, 

Each with ita buay hum, or gilded wing, 

Its subtle web-work, or it« venomed sting ; 

Let me, to claim a few .unvalued hours, 

Point out the green lane rough with fern and flowers ; 

The sheltered gute that opens to my field, 

And the while front throagh mingling elms rerealed. 

Li vain, alas ! a village friend invites 
To simple comforta and domestic ritea, 
Vfbcn the gay months of Carnival resume 
Their annual round of glitter and perfume ; 
When London hails thee to its splendid mart. 
Its hives of sweets and cabinets of art ; 
And, lo ! majestic as thy manly song, 
Flows the full tide of human Ufe along. 

Still must my partial pencil love to dwell 
On the home- prospects of roy hermit-cell ; 
The mossy pales tbat skirt the orchard-green, 
Here bid by slirub-wood, there by glimpses seen ; 



• • .• • • 






102 EPISTLB TO A FRIEND. 

And the brown pathway, that, with careless flow, 
Smks, and is lost among the trees below. 
Still must it trace (the flattering tints forgive) 
Each fleeting charm that bids the landscape live. 
Oft o'er the mead, at pleasing distance, pass,^ 
Browsing the hedge by fits, the panniered ass ; 
The idling shepherd-boy, with rude delight. 
Whistling his dog to mark the pebble's flight ; 
And in her kerchief blue the cottage-maid. 
With brimming pitcher from the shadowy glade. 
Far to the south a mountain- vale retires. 
Rich in its groves, and glens, and village spires ; 
Its upland lawns, and cliffs with foliage hung. 
Its wizard-stream, nor nameless nor unsung : 
And through the various year, the various day,^ 
What scenes of glory burst, and melt away ! 

When April- verdure springs in Grosvenor-square, 
And the furred Beauty comes to winter there. 
She bids old Nature mar the plan no more ; 
Yet still the seasons circle as before. 
Ah ! still ns soon the young Aurora plays. 
Though moons and flambeaux trail their broadest blaze; 
As soon the sky-lark pours his matin-song. 
Though Evening lingers at the Masque so long. 

There let her strike with momentary ray. 
As tapers shine their little lives away ; 
There let her practise from herself to steal. 
And look the happiuess she does not feel ; 
The ready smile and bidden blush employ 
At Faro-routs that dazzle to destroy ; 
Fan with affected ease the essenced air. 
And lisp of fiishions with unmeaning stare. 



EPISTLE TO A FBIESD. 



103 



Be thine to meditate an hnmbler Sight, 
When morning fills the fields mth rosy light ; 
Be thine to blend, nor thine a vulgar aim, 
Repose with dignity, with Quiet £ime. 

Here no Btate-«hambers in long line unfold, 
Bright with broad mirrors, rough with fretted gold ; 
Yet modest ornament, with use combined, 
Attracts tho eye to exercise the mind. 
Small change of scene, small space, his home requires,' 
Wlio leads a life of satisfied deairea. 

\Vhat though no marble breathes, no canvas glows, 
From every point a ray of genius flows ! ' 
lie mine to bicas the more mechanic skill. 
That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will; 
And cheaply circulates, through distant climes, 
The fairest relics of the purest times. 
Here from tbe mould to consoioua being start 
Those finer forma, the miracles of art; 
Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine, 
That slept for ages in a second mine; 
And here the faithful graver dares to trace 
A Micilael's grajideur, and a KAPnAEL's grace ! 
Thy gallery, Florence, gilds my bumble walls ; 
And my low roof the Vatican recalls ! 

Soon aa the morning-dream my pillow flics, 
To waking scnao what brighter visions rise ! 
mark .' again the coursers of the Sun, 
At Gtnuo's call, their round of glory run ! ' 
Again tbe rosy hours resume their flight, 
Obscured and lost in floods of golden light ! 

Bat could tliine erring friend so long forget 
(Sweet eonreo of pensive joy and fond regret) 



104 EPISTLB TO A FRIBND. 

That here its warmest hues the pencil flings, 
Lo ! here the lost restores, the absent brings ; 
And still the few best loved and most revered * 
Rise round the board their social smile endeared?' 

Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours ; 
There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers ! ^ 
There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre streams, 
Bead ancient books, or dream inspiring dreams f 
And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there,^^ 
Pause, and his features with his thoughts compare. 
— Ah ! most that Art my grateful rapture calls. 
Which breathes a soul into the silent walls ; ^ 
Which gathers round the wise of every tongue," 
All on whose words departed nations hung ; 
Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet ; 
Guides in the world, companions in retreat ! 

Though my thatched bath no rich Mosaic knows, 
A limpid spring with unfelt current flows. 
Emblem of Life ! which, still as we survey, 
' Seems motionless, yet ever glides away ! 
The shadowy walls record, with Attic art, 
The strength and beauty which its waves impart. 
Here Thetis, bending, with a mother's fears 
Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his tears. 
There Venus, rising, shrinks with sweet surprise, 
As her fair self reflected seems to rise ! ^ 

Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife. 
And all the dull impertinence of life. 
These eyelids open to the rising ray," 
And close, when Nature bids, at close of day. 
Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape glows ; 
There noon-day levees call from fiunt repose. 



KriSTLB TO A FRIEND. 



105 



Here the fluabed vave 6iQge back the parting light; 

Thero glimmering lamps anticipate the night 

WLeo from his claseic droaniB the student steals," 

Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wbeeb, 

To nrnse imnotioed — while aronnd him press 

The meteor-forms of equipage and dress ; 

Alone, in wonder lost, he soems to stund 

A very stranger in his native land ! 

And (though perchance of current coin poaseat, 

And modem phrase by living lipa cxprest) 

Like those blest Youths, forgive the fabling page," 

Whose blameless lives deceived a twihght age, 

Spent in sweet slumbers ; till the miner's spade 

Uncloec"! thu cavern, and the morning played. 

Ah ! what their strange surprise, their wild delight ! 

New arts of life, new manners, meet their sight ! 

In a new world they wake, as from the dead ; 

Yet doubt the trance dissolve*!, the vision fled ! 

0, come, and, rich in mtelleetual wealth, 
Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge health ; " 
Long, in this sheltered scene of lettered talk, 
Wjth sober step repeat the pensive walk ; 
Nor Bcom, when graver triflings iUil to please, 
The cheap amusements of a miad at ease ; 
Here every care in sweet oblivion ciiat. 
And many an idle hour — - not idly pasaed. 

No tuneful echoes, ambushed ut my gate, 
Catch the blest accents of tlie wise and groat,'" 
Vain of its ^'arious page, no Album breathes 
The sigh that Friendship or the Muse bequeaths. 
Tot gome good Genii o'er my hearth preside, 
Oft the for friend, with secret biwII, to guide ; 



106 EPI8ILB TO A FBIEND. 

And there I trace, when the gray evening lowers, 
A silent chronicle of happier hours ! 

When Christmas revels in a world of snow, 
And bids her berries blush, her carola flow ; 
His spangling shower when Frost the wizard flings ; 
Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings, 
O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves, 
And gems with icicles the sheltering eaves ; 
— Thy muffled fnend his nectarine-wall pursues. 
What time the sun the yellow crocus woos, 
Screened from the arrowy North ; and duly hies 
To meet the moming-rumoi* as it flies ; 
To range the murmuring market-place, and view 
The motley groups .that fidthful Teniers drew."* 

When Spring burste forth in blossoms through the vale^ 
And her wild music triumphs on the gale, 
Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile ; * 
Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile, 
Framing loose numbers, till declining day 
Through the green trellis shoots a crimson ray ; 
Till the west wind leads on the twilight hours. 
And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers. 

Nor boast, Choisy ! seat of soft delight. 
The secret charm of thy voluptuous night. 
Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of power ! 
Lol here, attendant on the shadowy hour. 
Thy closet-supper, served by hands unseen. 
Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene,*^ 
To hail our coming. Not a step profane 
Dares, with rude sound, the cheerful rite restrain ; 
And, while the frugal banquet glows revealed. 
Pure and unbought^ — the natives of my field ; 



EPISTLE TO . 



107 



I 
I 



While blushing fruits through scattered Icavea invite, 
Still clad in bloom, and veiled in azure light; — 
With wino, as rich in years as Horace sings, 
With water, cleaj as his own fountain flioga, 
The shifting side-board plays its humbler part, 
Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art." 

Thus, in this calm recess, so richly fraught 
With mental light, and luxury of thought, 
My life steob on ; (0, could it blend with thine .') 
Careless my course, yet not without design. 
So through the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide," 
The light raft dropping witli the silent tide ; 
So, till the laughing bccdcs are lost m night. 
The busy people wing their various flight, 
Culling unnumbered sweets from nameless flowers. 
That scent the vineyard in its purple hoars. 

Rise, ere the watch-relieving clarions play. 
Caught through St James's groves at blush of day ; '^ 
Ere its full voice the choral anthem flings 
Through trophied tombs of heroes and of kings. 
Haste to the tranquil shade of learned ease," 
Though skilled alike to dazzle and to please ; 
Though each ^y scene be searched with anxious eye. 
Nor thy shut door be passed without a sigh. 

If, when this roof shall know thy friend no more. 
Some, formed like thoc, should once, like thee, explore ; 
Invoke the lares of his loved retreat, 
And his lone walks imprint with pilgrim-feet ; 
IDien be it said (as, vain of better days, 
Some gray domestic prompts the partial praise) , 
" Unknown he lived, nnenvied, not unblest ; 
BeasOD hie guide, and Happiness his guest. 



108 BPISTLB TO A FRIEND. 

In the clear minor of his moral page 
We taraoe the manners of a purer age. 
His soul, with, thirst of genuine glory fraught, 
Scorned the filse lustre of licentious thought 
— One fair asylum &om the world he knew, 
One chosen seat, that charms with various yiew ! 
Who boasts of more (believe the serious strain) 
Sighs for a home, and sighs, alas ! in vain. 
Through each he roves, the tenant of a day. 
And, with the swallow, wings the year away 1 " ' 



(D Well aitiutvl U the hnut, "Lvn^oe qiuB proaptdt JMcn«," IHitHDt rlovi i 
tlif (trUot nrictf, both Ui UuhueIth ukl In ihtir sntbtepUl Tsrlutang. 



a |Bilu7 of plctara, aud Ulk buL ■ Ibikliug cytalxl, mi 



Iqta Ikfl yUddatj «ix-Ii1> of ut i vbore I foeet irlUi ibkiInK liuwUcap<a» gilded trJampbf, 
k(MClMhoca,ud>UllioKfitberctiicclatliullU the nUDd Willi gajIdsM — MUnn. 
TlliiiMiitililii llnl AnUnr. Inhb (drenlif, jwhI huhi How in atmBll butijikndld 

PatllU biwMr, thU CiToriH splIrDnint, sd ran ic retire fsur Arc Irul, moll ait 



i«t fbr Uw Kdecr of on 



I 

i 



bADqwlirUta ba loren, lodduiDill/ cut bo 
hunf oppnvlbe to bcr mt i the luppT ctaanA 
irwIUiioLlnlju tones of bsr on iminitthliKM, Iha 
R(UIo( hflDc, baoMW om •Aemidi wi eumpl* a( 
n ofdcMuclKrjr. 



110 NOTES. 



(D**X long table and a iqaare table,** lays BaooD, *<Mcm things of fonn, baft aM 
thingB of sabatanoe } for at a Icmg table a feir at the upper end, in efliBct, nray all the 
bnsineei.*' Perhaps Arthur was right when he instituted the order of the round table. 
In the town^ouae of Aix4arGhapdle is still to be seen the round taUe which may almost 
literally be said to hate given peace to Europe in 1748. Nor is it only at a congres s of 
plenipotentlartos that place gives precedence. 

(8) apis Matinm 

More modoquo 
Qrata carpentis thyma . . . — Uor. 

ff) Before I begin to write, says Bossuet, I always read a little of Homer } for I lore to 
Ught my lamp at the sun. 

The reader will here remember that passage of Horace, Nunc veUrum libritf nunc 
aomnOf ^., whidi was inscribed by Lord Chesterfield on the fkiese of his library. 

(IQ) Siqnidem non solum ex auro argentore, aut oerbe ex »re in bibliothecis dicantur 
nil, quorum Immortales animaa in iladem lods Ibl loqunntur : quinimo etiam qun non 
sunt, ftnguntur, pariuntque desideria non tradlti rultus, sicut in Homero erenit. Quo 
majus (ut equidem arbitror) nullum est felidtatis specimen, quam semper omnes scire 
cupere, quaUs ftierit aliquis. — PUn. N(U. Hut, 

Cicero, in the dialogue entitled Brutus, represents Brutus and Atticus as sitting down 
with him In liis garden at Rome by the statue of Plato ; and with what delight does he 
Bpeak of a little seat under Aristotle in the library of Atticus ! *' Uteris sustentor et re- 
ereor ; maloque in ilia tua sedecula, quam babes sub imagine Aristotells, sedere, quAm in 
Istorum sella curuU !"—£/». Af J(Mv. 10. 

Nor should we forget that Dryden drew bupiration from the ** majestic fkoe ** of Shak- 
speare ; and that a portrait of Newton was the only ornament of the closet of BufTon. — 
Ep, to Kneller. Voyage A Monthart. 

In the chamber oi a man of g^us we 

Write all down : 
Such and such pictures ; — there the window ^ 

the arras, figures. 

Why, such and such. 

(U) Postea verd quAm Tyrannio mihl libros disposuit, mens addlta vldetur meis ndibus. 
— Cic. 

02) Quis tantis non gaudeat et glorietur hoepitibus, exclaims Petrarch. — Spectare, etsi 
nihil allud, cert^ Jurat — Homerus apud me mutus, imd rerd ego apod ilium surdus sum. 
Oaudeo tamen vel aspects sdo, et saepe Ulum amplexus ac suspirans dioo i magne rir, 
ke.—'Eput. Var. lib. 20. 

(13) After this line, in a former edition. 

But hence away ! yon rocky cave beware ! 

A sullen captive broods in silence there ! 

There, though the dog-star flame, condemned to dwell 

In the dark centre of its inmost cell, 

WiU Winter ministers his dread control 

To cod and crystallize the nectared bowl. 

His faded form an awftil grace retains ; 

Stem, though subdued, msjestic, though in chains ! 

(li> Tour bed-chamber, and also your library, says VitruTius, should hare an eastern 
a^wet j nsua enim matutinum postulat lumen. Not so the picture-gallery : which 






LCtirl* ct turli, lUitiiA ui 



QTi ftCHoq " *iu op Hd tOnlof^ en 



tepefcraa. — ffw. 



rHpertluDiiiqaf pererro 



netlmai ncploJiMJ to hold U|i 






Luer. iL Si. 



klto, fl DDU Iriippo pDCenbCf lani quflOo^ cbe nudffrA It pirtioole de' 
Trail. deJfa Pllluia di Lioaarda da f inci, c, ilL 
nqolrea « hroad uid Ugh Ufht. Htcbftel Au^la tued (o wrtrX wtth 
bu.~Ci>tulitiL rila di Michelofnolo. Btnce 41k, la > buiq;aet- 
of *a poeK hu Umim Ui Ugbl froni ths oJUnc.— .Xn. 



" lUrrT luip* " af HDloa, Ih 



te ot Cboiif ITU ant [nlradquvd tbou BdirJnMe plrwM ol 
rrlfd W prrfEdUoD by Lorlot, the ConadsDle ftud tha SoFTaDte { 

V Ow moM bmrloni onurt Ld fioroiie, iift« kD JU bouted rcODcntenU, vu f but 



HaU, nTHt SocUty t In cnifda uakrjowTi) 



118 NOTES. 



aairtMW thy MMtil and cbeeiftil caanKm ^mn, 
Bt Bdne to eotar, ere the diele doee. 
When in retreat Vox lajt his thonder by, 
And wtt Mid tMte their mingled chMrmi fopply ; 
When SiDDom, bom to mdt and fireeM the heart, 
Perfcnnt at home her more endearing part } 
When he, who beit InterpreCi to mankind 
The wingM meBsengwa from mind to mind. 
Leans on Us spade, and, plajftd as profound, 
Wm fsnias sheds its erenlog sonshlne roond, 
Be ndne to liiton ; ptoosed yet not date, 
■tw too modest or too proud to rate 
Myself by my oompanhmi. 

TiMie were written bi 1796. 

do An aDndon to the floatlnf bee-hoofe, wfaidi to seen bi Mme parti of VraiiM and 
Ftodmoot. 

<V) After this IhM, in the MS. 

GroTes that BeUnda*s star maminM still, 
And aodent oourts and fMed splendors flU. 

8*9 tU Mtof tftk§ Laelt, OMte T. 

QD Innoouas amo deUolas deotamqoA qioifStcm. 

on It was the boast ofLaoiians that be dmnged hli eUmate wHh the birds of passage. 
How oAen must ha hsre Ibll tfas tmth iMra Inoilosftud- that tbs ffitttr of many homtig 
has no boms I 



THE 



VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS 



1812. 

Chiie>ta,cheTieni — f 
Da me stesso non regno. 

Damtk. 



I have seen the day 
That I hare worn a viiwr, and could tell 
A tale — Bhaksf. 



PBBFAOB. 



Thk following Po«m (or, to speak more properly, what remains of it *) 
has here and there a lyrloal turn of thought and expression. It is sadden 
in its transitions, and full of historical allusions ; leaving much to be 
imagined by the reader. 

The subject is a voyage the most memorable in the annals of mankind. 
Columbus was a person of extraordinary virtue and piety, acting, as he con- 
ceived, under the sense of a divine impulse ; and his achievement the dis- 
covery of a New World, the inhabitants of which were shut out f^om the 
light of revelation, and given up, as they believed, to the dominion of 
malignant spirits. 

Many of the incidents will now be thought extravagant ; yet they were 
once perhaps received with something more than indulgence. It was an 
age of miracles ; and who can say that among the venerable legends in the 
library of the Escurial, or the more authentic rocords which fill the great 
chamber in the Arc/dw of Seville, and which relate entirely to the deep 
tragedy of America, there are no volumes that mention the marvellous 
things here described 1 Indeed, the story, as already told throughout 
Europe, admits of no heightening. Such was the religious enthusiasm of the 
early writers, that the author had only to transAise it into his verse ; and 
he appears to have done little more, though some of the circumstances, 
which he alludes to as well kno?m, have long ceased to be so. By using 
the language of that day, he has called up Columbus ** in his habit as he 
lived ;" and the authorities, such as exist, are carefully given by the 
translator. 

* The original in the Castilian language, according to the Inacrlptton that follows, was 
found among other MSS. in an old religious house near Palos, aitnated on an island formed 
by the river Tinto, and dedicated to our Lady of La Ribida. The writer describes himself 
as having sailed with Columbus } but his style and manner are eridently of an after-time. 



ON THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT. 

UscLASPme, Stranger; and unfold, 
With trembliDg care, my leaves of gold, 
Rich in Gothic porttulturo — 

If yet; ulna ! a. leaf endure. 

In Rabida's mouaatic tane 
I cannot aek, and ask in vain. 
The language of Castile I speak ; 
Mid many an Arab, many a Greek, 
Old in the days of Ciiarlemain ; 
When minstrel-music wandered round, 
And Science, waking, blessed the sound. 

No earthly thought has here a place, 
The cowl let down on every face ; 
Yet here, in consecrated dust, 
Here would I sleep, if sleep I must. 
From Genoa when Cohimjjus came 
(At once her glory and her shame), 
'T was here he caugLt the holy flame. 
'T waa here the generous vow he made ; 
nia bsnnera on tlte altar laid. 

Here, tompest-wom and desolate," 
A Pilot, journeying through the wild, 



116 COLUMBUS. 

Stopt to solicit at the gate 

A pittance for his child. 

'T was here, unknowing and unknown, 

He stood upon the threshold-stone. 

But hope was his — a &ith sublime, 

That triumphs over place and time ; 

And here, his mighty labor done, 

And his course of glory run, 

A while as more than man he stood. 

So large the debt of gratitude ! 

One hallowed mom, methought, I felt 
As if a soul within me dwelt ! 
But who arose and gave to me 
The sacred trust I keep for thee. 
And in his cell at even-tide 
Knelt before the cross and died — 
Inquire not now. His name no more 
Glimmers on the chancel-floor. 
Near the lights that ever shine 
Before St. Mary's blessed shrine. 

To me one little hour devote, 
And lay thy staff and scrip beside thee ; 

the testimony of Garcia Femandes, the physician of Palos, a sea-faring 
man, accompanied by a very young boy, stopped one day at the gate of the 
Convent of La R&bida, and asked of the porter a little bread and water for 
his child. ^Vhile they wore receiving this humble refreshment, the prior, 
Juan Perez, happening to pass by, was struck with the look and manner of 
the stranger, and, entering into conversation with him, soon learnt the par- 
ticulars of his story. The stranger was Columbus ; the boy was his son 
Diego ; and, but for this accidental interview, America might have re- 
mained long undiscovered : for it was to the seal of Juan Peres that ho 
was finally indebted for the accomplishment of his great purpose. — See 
Irvlng's History of Columbus. 



COLUMBUS. 117 

Read in the temper that he wrote, 

And may his gentle spirit guide thee ! 

My leaves forsake me, one by one ; 

The book-worm through and through has gone. 

0, haste — unclasp me, and unfold ; 

The tale within was never told ! 



PREFAOB TO THB BBOOND EDITION. 



Tbxbb is a spirit in the old Spanish ohroniolers of the sixteenth centnry 
that may be compared to the freshness of water at the fountain-head. Their 
simplicity, their sensibility to the strange and the wonderful, their very 
weaknessM, giro an infinite value, by giving a life and a character to every- 
thing they touch; and their religion, which bursts out everywhere, addresses 
itself to the imagination in the highest degree. If they err, their errors 
are not their own. They think and feel after the £uhion of the time ; and 
their narratives are so many moving pictures of the actions, manners and 
thoughts, of their contemporaries. 

What they had to communicate might well make them eloquent ; but, 
inasmuch as relates to Columbus, the inspiration went no further. No 
national poem appeared on the subject ; no Camodns did honor to his genius 
and his virtues. Yet the materials that have descended to us are surely 
not nnpoetical ; and a desire to avail myself of them, to convey in some 
instances as far as I could, in others as far as I dared, their warmth of col- 
oring and frildness of imagery, led me to conceive the idea of a poem written 
not long after his death, when the great consequences of the discovery were 
begizming to unfold themselves, but while the minds of men were still 
elinging to the superstitions of their fathers. 

The event here described may be thought too recent for the machinery ; 
but I found them together.* A belief in the agency of evil spirits prevailed 
over both hemispheres ; and even yet seems almost necessary to enable us 
to clear up the darkness. 

And Justify tiie ways of God to men. 

* Perhaps even a cootempormiy sot^lect should not be rc;}ected as soch, however wfld 
and extravagant it may be, if the manners be fbreign and the place distant,— major A 
loDginquo reverentia. P^lolgnement dea pays, says Badne, r^pare en qnelque sorts la 
trop grande proximity des temps } car le penple ne met guere de diflGfreooe cotre oe qui 
est, si Pose ainsi parler, A mOle aiisdelai,etceqaienestA mIDe lieoes. 




■ff* tiWle he i» jet ipeaklDf ; and, (o Ibe ibBpe of 



.inBTTkiv. EilarrfboiplUUiT. Ttie (h«i <f Canln 

s tikn : "BAum tfl Europe ^ Ibouf h s'iMr «dTenBLrl«» 
kiiae Uw boRioiK ■galoit rent. A UDle ahUe ihill I 

rai IbIo the tievu of rmr lolUiwcn, and nuking the i 
•enc ■« bleed ud dtugbUr, VtI li ihn> caiue foi 

Hm orsH a( Ckrtet k pteaied boe •, ud. Id doe tin 



o CoLumbut, thqa 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 



Nigbl — Cnlumhoe oa IJis AlUntia — tbo Vftrittion at Uia Comput, k*. 
Say wbo. when age on age had rolled away, 
And still, its Bunk the golden orb of day, 
The Beaman watched him, while he liDgered here, 
With many a wish to follow, many a fear, 
And gaaed :ind gazed and wondered where ho went, 
So bright his path, so glorious his descent, 
Who first adventured ? — In his birth obscure, 
Yet boni to build a Fame that should endnre,' 
Who the great secret of the Deep possessed, 
And, iasning through the portals of the west, 
Fearloaa, resolved, with every sail unfurled, 
Planted bis standard on the unknown world i 
Him, by the Paynim bard described of yore, 
And ere his coming sung on either shore, 
Him could not I exalt — by Heaven designed 
To lift the veil that covered half mankind ! 
Yet, ere I die, I would fulfil my vow ; 
Fniae cannot wound his generous spirit now. 



122 THB VOYAGE 0? COLUMBUS. 

'T wa8 night. The Mocm, o'er the wide wave, disdosed 
Her awful &ce ; and Nature's self reposed ; 
When, slowly rising in the azure sky, 
Three white sails shone — but to no mortal eye, 
Entering a boundless sea. In slumber cast, 
The very ship-boy, on the dizzy mast. 
Half breathed his orisons ! Alone unchanged. 
Calmly, beneath, the great Commander' ranged, 
Thoughtful, not sad ; and, as the planet grew, 
His noble form, wrapt in his mantle blue, 
Athwart the deck a deepening shadow threw. 
" Thee hath it pleased — Thy will be done ! " he said,^ 
Then sought his cabin ; and, their garments spread, 
Around him lay the sleeping as the dead, 
When, by his lamp to that mysterious guide,^ 
On whose still counsels all his hopes relied. 
That oracle to man in mercy given, 
Whose voice is truth, whose wisdom is from heaven, 
Who over sands and seas directs the stray. 
And, as with God's own finger, points the way. 
He turned; but what strange thoughts perplexed his soul, 
When, lo ! no more attracted to the pole. 
The Compass, faithless as the circling vane. 
Fluttered and fixed, fluttered and fixed again ! 
At length, as by some unseen hand imprest. 
It sought with trembling energy — the West !* 
" Ah no ! " he cried, and calmed his anxious brow. 
** m, nor the signs of ill, 't is thine to show ; 
Thine but to lead me where I wished to go ! " 

Columbus erred not." In that awful hour. 
Sent forth to save, and girt with god-like power, 



THE VOYAOB UF COLUMBUS. 



123 



And glorious ae ibe regent of the sun,' 

An angel came ! He spoke, and it was done ! 

He spoke, and, at Uis call, a migbtjr wind," 

Not like the 6tful lilast, with fury blind, 

But deep, majestic, in its destined course, 

Sprung with unerring, unrelenting force, 

From the bright East. Tides duly ebbed and flowed ; 

Stan rose and sot; mid new horiKoos glowed; 

Tet still it blew ! As with primeval sway 

Still did its ample spirit, night and day, 

Move on the waters ! — All, reaigoed to Fate, 

Folded their arms and sate ;" and seemed to wait 

Some sudden change ; anil soagbt, in chill suspense, 

New spheres of being, and now modes of sense ; 

As men departing, tliough not doomed to die, 

And midway on their passage to etemi^. 



n* yojtgt a 



"What vast foundations in the abyss ore there,' 
As of a former world "! Is it not where 
Atlastic kings their barbarous pomp displayed ;' 
Sunk into darknefts with the realms thuy swayed, 
Wlien towers and temples, tlirough the closing wave, 
A glimmering my of ancient splendor gave — 
And we shall rest with thcml — Or are we thrown" 
(Each giizcd on each, and all exclaimed aa one) 
" Where things fiimiliar cease and strange begm, 
All progress barre<l to tliose without, within 1 



124 THB VOYAGB 09 COLUMBUS. 

— Soon is the doubt reeolved. Arise, behold — 
We Bboip to stir no more . . .' nor will the tale be told." 

The pilot smote his breast ; the watchman cried 
'' Land ! " and his voice in faltering accents died.^ 
At once the fury of the prow was quelled ; 
And (whence (»* why from many an age withheld)^ 
Shrieks, not of men, were mingling in the blast ; 
And ann^ shapes of god-like stature passed ! 
Slowly along the evening-sky they went, 
As on the edge o( some vast battlement ; 
Helmet and shield, and spear and gonfalon. 
Streaming a baleful light that was not of the sun ! 

Long fix>m the stem the great adventurer gazed 
With awe, not fear ; then high his hands he raised. 
" Thou All-supreme ... in goodness as in power. 
Who, fix>m his birth to this eventful hour. 
Hast led thy servant over land and sea, ° 
Confessing Thee in all, and all in Thee, 
still" — He spoke, and, lo ! the charm accurst 
Fled whence it came, and the broad barrier burst ! 
A vain illusion ! (such us mocks the eyes 
Of fearful men, when mountains round them rise 
From less than nothing) nothing now beheld, 
But scattered sedge — repelling, and repelled ! 

And once again that valiant company 
Right onward came, ploughing the unknown sea. 
Already borne beyond the range of thought, 
With light divine, with truth immortal fraught, 
From world to world their steady course they keep,' 
Swift as the winds along the waters sweep, 
Mid the mute nations of the purple deep. 



THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBl'S. 1| 

— And now the soimd of harpy-winga they hear ; 
Non less and less, na vankhing in fear ! 
And see, the heavens bow down, the waters rise, 
AM, rising, shoot in columns to the skies,* 
That stand — and Still, when they proceed, retire, 
As in the desert burned tlie sacred fire ; 
Moving in silent majes^, till Night 
Deecenda, and shuts the vision from their sight. 



An Aisimbly »r EtII gplrlU. 

Though changed my clotli of gold for amice gray' — 

In my spiing-time, when creiy month was May, 

With hawk and hound I coursed away the hour, 

Or sung my roundelay in lady's bower. 

And though my world be now a narrow cell 

(Renounced forever all I loved so well). 

Though now my head be bald, my feet be bare. 

And scarce my knees sustain my book of pniyer, 

0, I was there, one of that gallant crew, 

And saw — and wondered whence his power he drew. 

Yet little thought, though by his side I stood, 

Of his great foes in earth 'and air and flood. 

Then uninstructed. — But my sand is run, 

And the night coming . . . and my task not done 1 . . 

'T was in the deep, immeasurable cave 
Of AsDES,' echoing to the Southern wave, 
Mid pillan of basalt, the work of fire, 
That, giant-like, to upper day aspire. 



126 THB VOYAGB OV COLUMBUa 

'T iraa there that now, as wont m heaven to ahine, 
Forms of angelic mould and grace diyme 
Aflsembled. All, exiled the reahns of rest, 
In vain the sadness of their souls suppressed ; 
Yet of their glory many a scattered ray 
Shot throu^ the gathering shadows of decay. 
Each moved a god ; and all, as gods, possessed 
One half the globe ; from pole to pole confessed !' 
******* 
****** 
0, could I now — but how in mortal verse — 
Their numbers, their heroic deeds, rehearse ! 
These in dim shrines and barbarous symbols reign, 
Where Plata and Maragnon meet the main.* 
Those the wild himter worships as he roves, 
In the green shade of Chili's fragrant groves; 
Or warrior-tribes with rites of blood implore. 
Whose night-fires gleam along the sullen shore 
Of HuBON or Ontario, inland seas,* 
What time the song of death is in the breeze ! 

****** 

'T was now^'in dismal pomp and order due, 
While the vast concave flashed with lightnings blue. 
On shining pavements of metallic ore, 
That many an age the fusing sulphur bore. 
They held high council. All was silence round, 
When, with a voice most sweet, yet most profound, 
A sovereign Spirit burst the gates of night. 
And from his wings of gold shook drops of liquid light ! 
Mbriok, commissioned with his host to sweep 
From age to age the melancholy deep ! 



THE VOTAGB OF COL0MBI 



Cliief of the Zeut, whom the lalee obeyed, 
By Ocean severed from a world of shade." 



" Prepare, again prepare." 
Thns o'er the soul the thriltiag accents came, 
" Thrones to resign for toJces of liyJBg flame, 

And triumph for despair. 
He, on whose call afflicting thunders wait, 

Has willed it ; and his will is late ! 
In vain the legions, emulous to save. 

Hung in the tempest o'er the troubled main;' 
Turned each presumptuous prow that broke the wove, 

And dashed it on its shores again. 
All ia fulfilled ! Behold, in close array. 
What mighty burners stream in the bright track of day ! 



"ITo Toice as erst shall in the desert rise ; • 

Nor tincieut, dread solemnities 

With scorn of death the trembling tribes inspire. 

Wreaths for the Conqueror's brow the victims bind ! 

Yet, though wo fled yon 6rtnament of fire, 

Still shall we fly, all hope of rule resigned 1 " 



Ho spoke ; and all was silence, all was night I 
£ach had already winged hia formidable flight. 



128 THB YOTAGB OF COLUMBUS. 



CANTO IV. 
The Yojage oontinued. 

* * * * * ^ Hf 

'^ Ah, why look back, though all is left behind ? 
No sounds of life are stirring in the wind. — 
And you, ye birds, winging your passage home. 
How blest ye are ! — We know not where we roam. 
We go," they cried, " go to return no more ; 
Nor ours, alas ! the transport to explore 
A human footstep on a desert shore ! " 



— Still, as beyond this mortal life impelled 
By some mysterious energy, he held 
His everlasting course. Still self-possessed, 
High on the deck he stood, disdaining rest 
(His amber-chain the only badge he bore. 
His mantle blue such as his &ther8 wore); 
Fathomed, with searching hand, the dark profound. 
And scattered hope and glad assurance round ; 
Though, like some strange portentous dream, the Past 
Still hovered, and the cloudless sky o'ercast. 

At day-break might the Caravels* be seen. 
Chasing their shadows o'er the deep serene ; 
Their burnished prows lashed by the sparkling tide. 
Their green-cross standards waving far and wide. 
And now once more to better thoughts inclined. 
The seaman, mounting, clamored in the wind, 
The soldier told his tales of love and war;' 
The courtier sung — sung to his gay guitar. 



THB VOTASK 01 COLUMBUS. 12t 

Round, «t Primero, sate & wbiakered bajid ; 
So Fortane smiled, careless of sea or Ijmd ! ' 
Leon, Montalvan (serviag aide by aide ; 
Two with one soul — and, us they lived, they died), 
Vasco the brave, thrice found among the slain, 
Thrtce, and how soon, up and in arms again, 
As soon to wish he had been sought in \iuu, 
Chained down in Fez, heneatb the bitter thong, 
To the hard bench and heavy oar so long ! 
Albert of Florence, who, at twilight-tjme, 
In my rapt ear poured Dante's tragic rhyme, 
Screened hy the sail as near the mast we lay, 
Our nights illamioed by the ocean-spray ; 
And Manfred, who espoused with jewelled ring 
Young Isabel, then left her sorrowing : 
LssMA "the generous," Avila "the proud; "* 
Tblasijuez, Garcia, through the echoing crowd 
Traced by their mirth — from Ebro's classic shore, 
From golden Tajo, to return no more ! 



CANTO V. 

The Vcifigg oDoUaDcd. 



Yet who but he undaunted could explore' 
A world of waves, a sea without a shore. 
Trackless and vast and wild as that revealed 
When round the Ark the birds of tempest wheeled ; 
When oil was BtUI in the destroying hour — 
No sign of man ! no vestige of his power 1 



180 THE VOYAGB OP COLUMBUS. 

One at the stem before the hour-glass stood, 
As 't were to count the sands ; one o'er the flood 
Gazed for St^ Ehno ;' while another cried 
'^ Once more good-morrow ! " and sate down and sighed. 
Day, when it came, came only with its light. 
Though long invoked, 't was sadder than the night ! 
Look where he would, forever as he turned. 
He met the eye of one that inly mourned. 

Then sunk his generous spirit, and he wept. 
The friend, the &ther rose ; the hero slept. 
Palos, thy port, with many a pang resigned, 
Filled with its busy scenes his lonely mind ; 
The solemn march, the vows in concert given,* 
The bended knees and lifted hands to heaven, 
The incensed rites, and choral harmonies. 
The Guardian's blessings mingling with his sighs ; 
While his dear boys — ah ! on his neck they hung,* 
And long at parting to his garments clung. 

Oft in the silent night-watch doubt and fear 
Broke in uncertain murmurs on his ear. 
Oft the stem Catalan, at noon of day. 
Muttered dark threats, and lingered to obey ; 
Though that brave youth — he, whom his courser bore 
Right through the midst, when, fetlock-deep in gore, 
The great Gonsalvo* battled with the Moor 
(What time the Alhambra shook — soon to unfold 
Its sacred courts, and fountains yet untold. 
Its holy texts and arabesques of gold), — 
Though RoLDAN, sleep and death to him alike,' 
Grasped his good sword and half unsheathed to strike 
"0, bom to wander with your flocks," he cried, 
^' And bask and dream along the mountain-side ; 



THE VOYAdB OF COLUMBUS. 13 

To urge your mules, tinkling from hill to hill ; 
Or at the vintage feast to drmk your fill. 
And strike your castanets, with gypsy-maid 
Dancing Fandnngos in the chestnut shiule — 
Come on," he cried, and threw his glove in scorn, 
" Not this your wonted pl«lge, the hrimmiiig honi. 
Valiant in peace ! ^idvcnturous at home ! 
O, had ye vowed with pilgrim-staff to roam ; 
Or with banditti sought the sheltering wood, 
Where mouldering crosses mark the scene of blood ! — 
He said, he drew; then, at his Maater'a frown. 
Sullenly sheathed, plunging the weapon down. 



The Fligbt ot ui Angel bf Tlarkneii. 

War and ihe Great in War let others sing,' 
Havoc and spoil, and tears and triumphing ; 
The morning-march that fliulies to the sun, 
The feast of viiUurts wht^n the ilaj id done ; 
And the strange tale of many shiin for one ! 
I sing a Man, amid his sufferings hcri!, 
Who watchcii and served in humhlencas and foar j 
Gentle to others, to himself severe. 

Still unsubdued by Dangers varying form, 
Still, as unconscious of the coming storm, 
He looked elate ; and, with hL^ wonted smile. 
On the great Ordinance leaning, would beguile 



182 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

The hour with talk. His beard, his mien sublime, 
Shadowed by Age — by Age before the time,' 
From many a sorrow borne in many a clime, 
Moved every heart. And now in opener skies 
Stars yet unnamed of purer radiance rise ! 
Stars, milder suns, that love a shade to cast, 
And on the bright wave fling the trembling mast ! 
Another firmament ! the orbs that roll, . 
Singly or clustering, round the Southern pole ! 
Not yet the four that glorify the Night — 
Ah ! how forget when to my ravished sight 
The Gross shone forth in everlasting light ! ' 

« ♦ 4f ♦ 4f # « 

4f * * m ^ * if 

'T was the mid hour, when He, whose accents dread 
Still wandered through the regions of the dead 
(Merion, commissioned with his host to sweep 
From age to age the melancholy deep). 
To elude the seraph-guard that watched for man. 
And mar, as erst, the Eternal's perfect plan, 
Rose like the condor, and, at towering height, 
In pomp of plumage sailed, deepening the shades of night. 
Boc of the West ! to him all empire given ! * 
Who bears Axalhua's dragon folds to heaven ; ' 
His flight a whirlwind, and, when heard afar. 
Like thunder, or the distant din of war ! 

Mountains and seas fled backward as he passed 
O'er the great globe, by not a cloud o'ercast 
From the Aiitarctic, iBrom the Land of Fire • 
To where Alaska's wintry wilds retire ; ' 
From mines of gold,^ and giant-sons of earth, 
To grots of ioe, and tribes of pigmy birth 



THE VOYAGE OF COLVMBCS. 

Who freeBe alive, nor, dead, in dust repose, 
High-hung in forests to tho casing snowB." 

Now mid angclio multitudes he flies, 
TLot hourly come with hlesain^ from the skiee ; 
Wings the blue element, und, borne suhlime, 
Eyes the set sun, gilding each didtitnt clime; 
Then, like a meteor shooting to the main, 
Melts into pure intelligence again. 



A Matin? wiciMd- 

WuAT though Despondence reigned, and wild Affiight — 
StrHched in the midst, and, through that dismal night,' 
By bis white plume revealed and huslcins white,' 
Slept RoLDAS. When he closed his gay career. 
Uope fled forever, and with Hope fled Fear. 
Bleet with caeh gift indulgent Fortune sends, 
Btrlb and its rights, wealtli and its train of friends. 
Star-like he alione ! Now beggared and alone, 
Danger he wooed, and cUiimed her for his own. 
O'er him a Vampire his dark wings displayed.' 
'Twos Mekion'e self, covering with dreadfhl shade.* 
He came, and, couched on Roldan'? ample breast 
Each secret pore of breathing life p09sesBe<i, 
Fanning the sleep that seemed his final rest ; 
Then, inly gliding like a subtle flame,' 
Thrice, with a cry that tlirllleil the mortal frame, 
12 



J.84 THE VOYAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

Galled on the Spirit within. Disdaining flight, 
Calmly she rose, collecting all £er might^ 
Dire was the dark encounter ! Long unqnelled, 
Her sacred seat, sovereign and pure, she held. 
At length the great foe binds her for his prize. 
And awful, as in death, the body lies ! 

Not long to slumber ! In an evil hour 
Informed and lifted by the unknown power. 
It starts, it speaks ! ** We live, we breathe no more ! 
The fetal wind blows on the dreary shore ! 
On yonder clifl& beckoning their fellow-prey. 
The spectres stalk, and murmur at delay ! ^ 
— Yet if thou canst (not for myself I plead ! 
Mine but to follow where 'tis thine to lead), 
0, turn and save ! To thee, with streaming eyes, 
To thee each widow kneels, each orphan cries ! 
Who now, condemned the lingering hours to tell. 
Think and but think of those they loved so well ! " 

All melt in tears ! but what can tears avail ? 
These climb the mast, and shift the swelling sail. 
These snatch the helm ; and round me now I hear 
Smiting of hands, outcries of grief and fear * 
(That in the aisles at midnight haunt me still. 
Turning my lonely thoughts from good to ill). 
** Were there no graves — none in our land," they cry 
'* That thou hast brought us on the deep to die 7" 

Silent with sorrow, long within his cloak 
His face he muffled — then the hero spoke. 
** Generous and brave ! when God himself is here. 
Why shake at shadows in your mid career ? 
He can suspend the laws himself designed. 
He walks the waters, and the winged wind ; 



THE VOTAUE OP COLCMBCa. 1 

Himself your guide ! and yours the high bebeat, 
To lift your voice, and bid a world he bleat t 
And can you shrink ? to you, to you consigned ' 
The glorious privilege to serve mankind ! 
0, had I perished, when my failing frame '" 
Clung to the shattered oar mid wrecks of flame ! 

— Was it for this I lingered life away, 

The scorn of Folly, and of Fraud the prey ;" 
Bowed down my mind, the gift His bounty gave, 
At courta a auitor, and to slaves a slave J 

— Yet in His name whom only we should fear 
('T is all, all I shall ask, or you shall hear) 
Grant but three days.'' — He spoke not uninspired;' 
And each in silence to his watch retired. 

At length among ua came an unknown Voice ! 
" Go, if ye will; and, if ye can, rejoice. 
Go, with unbidden guests the banquet share. 
In his own shape shall Death receive you there."" 



Lud diiooTarcil. 
Twice in the zenith blazed the orb of light ; 
No shade, all sun, insufferably bright ! 
Then the long line found rest — in coral groves 
Silent and dark, where the sea-lion roves : — 
And all on deck, kindling to life again, 
Sent forth titeir anxious spirita o'er the main. 

" whence, aa wafted from EJyaium, whence 
Theae perfumes, strangers to the raptured sense 1 



186 THB VOTAGS OF COLUMBUS. 

These 'bonghfl of gold, and firoits of heavenly hue, 
Tinging with venneil light the billows blae? 
And (thrice, thrioe blessed is the eye that spied, 
The hand that snatched it sparkling in the tide) 
Whose canning carved this vegetable bowl,^ 
Symbol of social rites and intercourse of soul ? " 
Such to their grateful ear the gush of springs, 
Who course the ostrich, as away she wings ; 
Sons of the desert ! who delight to dwell 
'Mid kneeling camels round the sacred well ; 
Who, ere the terrors of his pomp be passed, 
Fall to the demon in the reddening blast.* 

The sails were furled ; with many a melting dose. 
Solemn and slow the evening-anthem rose, 
Rose to the Virgin.^ 'T was the hour of day 
When setting suns o'er summer-seas display 
A path of glory, opening in the west 
To golden climes, and islands of the blest ; 
And human voices, on the silent air. 
Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there ! 

Chosen of Men ! ^ 'T y^as thine, at noon of night. 
First from the prow to hail the glimmering light ; ' 
(Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray 
Enters the soul, and makes the darkness day !) 
'< Pedro ! Bodbiqo ! " there, methought, it shone ! 
There — in the west ! and now, alas ! 't is gone ! — 
'T was all a dream ! we gaze and gaze in vain ! 
— But mark and speak not, there it comes again ! 
It moves ! what form unseen, what being there 
With torch-like lustre fires the murky air? 
His instincts, passions, say, how like our own? 
! when will day reveal a world unknown? " 



TlTE VOTA'JB OF rOLCMBCS. 



I 



Tho New World. 

LOTio on &0 deep the inisla of morning ky, 
Then rose, revealing, as they rolled away, 
Half-circling hillg, whose CTcrlaaling woods 
Sweep with their sable akirte the shadowy floods : 
And say, when all, to holy transport given, 
Embraced and wi<pt us at the gates of Heaven, 
When one and all of us, repentant, ran, 
And, on our fai^es, blessed the wondrous man ; 
Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies 
Bnrst on my ear seraphic harmonies 1 
" Glory to God ! " unnumbered voices sung, 
" Glory to God ! " the vales and mountains rung, 
Voices that hulled Creations primal mom. 
And to the shepherds siuig a Saviour bom. 

Slowly, bare-headed, through the surf we bore 
The sacred cross,' and, kneeling, kia.sed the shore. 
But what a scene was there 1 ' Nymphs of romance,' 
Youths graceful as the Faun, with eager glance. 
Spring from the glades, and down the alleys poep, 
Then headluag rush, Iraundiug from steep to steep, 
And clap thoir liantls, exclaiming aa they run, 
" Come and behold the Children of the Sun ! " * 
When hark, a aignal-ahot ! The voice, it came 
Over the sea in ihirkncaa and in flame ! 
They saw. ihey heard : and up tlie highest hill. 
As in a picture, all at once were still ! 
Creatures so fair, in garments strangely wrought, 
Prora citndela, with Heiivenii own thunder fraught. 
12* 



138 THB VOTAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

Checked their light footsteps — statue-like they stood, 
As worshipped forms, the Genii of the Wood ! 

At length the spell dissolves ! The warrior's lance 
Rings on the tortoise with wild dissonance ! 
And see, the regal plumes, the couch of state ! ' 
Still, where it moves, the wise in council wait ! 
See now borne forth the monstrous mask of gold, 
And ebon chair of many a serpent-fold ; 
These now exchanged for gifts that thrice surpass 
The wondrous ring, and lamp, and horse of brass.* 
What long-drawn tube transports the gazer home,' 
Kindling with stars at noon the ethereal dome ? 
'T is here : and here circles of solid light 
Charm with another self the cheated sight; 
As man to man another self disclose. 
That now with terror starts, with triumph glows ! 



CANTO X. 

Cora — Luxuriant Vegetation — The Humming-bird — The Fountain of 

Youth. 
^ 4f 4^ « 4f « 

Then Cora came, the youngest of her race, 

And in her hands she hid her lovely face ; 

Tet oft by stealth a timid glance she cast. 

And now with playful step the mirror passed, 

Each bright reflection brighter than the last ! 

And oft behind it flew, and oft before ; 

The more she searched, pleased and perplexed the more ! 

And looked and laughed, and blushed with quick surprise ; 

Her lips all mirth, all ecstasy her eyes I 



1 VOYiOK OF COlUaBDS. 



I 



Bat 800D die telescope attracts her view ; 
And, lo ! her lover in his light canoe 
Rocking, at noontide, on tho silent sea, 
Before her lies ! It cannot, cannot be. 
Late as he left the shore, she lingered there, 
Till, less and less, he melted, into air ! — 
Sigh of^er sigh steals from her gentle frame, 
And say — that murmur — -was it not his name 1 
She turns, nnd thinks ; and, lost in wild amaze, 
Gazes again, and could forever gaze ! 

JSat can thy flute, Ai.on30, now excite 
As in Valencia, when, with fond delight, 
Frascisca, waking, to the lattice flew, 
So soon to love and to be wretched too ! 
Here through a convent-grate to send her last adieu. 
— Yet who now comes uncalled ; and round and round, 
And near and nearer flutters to the sound ; 
Then stira not, brcailies not —on enchanted ground? 
Who DOW lets fall the flowers she culled to wear 
AVhen he, who promised, should at eve Ije there ; 
And faintly smiles, and hangs her head aside 
The tear that glistens on her cheek to hide '.' 
Ah, who but CoBA.' — till, inspired, possessed, 
At once ahe springs, and clasps it to her breast ! 

Soon from tlie bay the mingling crowd ascends, 
Kindred first met ! by sacred instinct Friends ! 
Through citron-groves, and fields of yellow maize,' 
Through plantain-walka where not a sunbeam plays. 
Here blue savannas &de into the sky, 
There forests trown in midnight majesty ; 
Ceiba,' and Indian fig, and pLine sublime, 
nature's fust-bom, and reverenced by Time ! 



140 ^HE VOTAGB OF COLUMBUS. 

There sits the bird that speaks ! ' there, quiyering, rise 
Wings that reflect the glow of evening-skies ! 
Half bird, half flj,^ the &irj king of flowers' 
Beigns there, and revels through the fragrant hours ; * 
Gtem full of life, and joy and song divine. 
Soon in the virgin's graceful ear to shme/ 

'T was he that sung, if ancient Fame speaks truth, 
" Come ! follow, follow to the Fount of Youth ! 
I quaff the ambrosial mists that round it rise. 
Dissolved and lost in dreams of Paradise ! " 
For there called forth, to bless a happier hour. 
It met the sun in many a rainbow-shower ! 
Murmuring delight, its living waters rolled 
'Mid branching palms and amaranths of gold ! ^ 



CANTO XI. 
Evening — A Banquet — The Ghost of Caniva. 

The tamarind closed her leaves ; the marmoset 
Dreamed on his bough, and played the mimic yet. 
Fresh from the lake the breere of twilight blew. 
And vast and deep the mountain-shadows grew ; 
When many a fire-fly, shooting through the glade, 
•Spangled the locks of many a lovely maid. 
Who now danced forth to strew our path with flowers, 
And hymn our welcome to celestial bowers.^ 

There odorous lamps adorned the festal rite, 
And guavas blushed as in (he vales of light.^ 
There silent sate many an imbidden guest,' 
Whose 8tead&st looks a secret dread impressed ; 



THK VUVAUB OF COLUUBDS. 



Not thefw forgot tlie Siici-ekl fruit that f^ 
At nightly fbaats tlie spirits of ttie dead, 
Mingling in scenes iJiiit miitb to moitala give, 
Bat hy thoir sadness known from those that live. 

There met, ax erat, within tlie wonte<l grove. 
Unmarried girls and youtbs tlrnt died for love ! 
Sods now beheld their ancient sires ugain ; 
And sires, alas .' tkcir sous in buttlc-sliiui ! * 

But whence that sigh .' 'T -was from a heart that broke ! 
And whence that voice ! As from the grave it spoke ! 
And who, as unresolved the feast to share, 
Sits half- withdrawn in faded splendor there? 
'T is he of yore, the warrior and the sage, 
Whose lips hare moved in prayer from age to age ; 
Whose eyes, that wandered aa in search before, 
Now on Coi.t7MBU3 fixed — to search no more ! 
Cazziv^,' gifted in liis day to know 
The gathering signs of a long night of woe ; 
Gifted hy tliose who give but to easluve ; 
No rest in death ! no refuge in the grave ! 
— With sodden spring as at the shout of war, 
lie flies ! and, turning in his flight, from far 
Glari'3 tliFough tlie gloom like some portentous star '. 
Unseen, unheanl .' Hence, minister of ill ! " 
Uence, 't is not yet the hour ! though come it will .' 
They that foretold — too soon shall they fulfil ; ' 
When forth tliey rush as with the torrent's sweep,' 
And deeds are done that make the angels weep ! 
Ilark, o'er the busy meiid the shell prochiims ' 

' Triumphs, and masques, and high heroic gamea. 
And now the old sit round ; and now the young 

[ Climb the green boughs, the muiTnuring doves among. 



142 THE VOTAGE OF COLUMBUS. 

Who claims the prize, when wing6d feet contend ; 

When twanging bows the flaming arrows send ? ^ 

Who stands self-centred in the field of &me, 

And, grappling, flings to earth a giant's frame ? 

Whilst all, with anxious hearts and eager eyes, 

Bend as he bends, and, as he rises, rise ! 

And Cora's self, in pride of beauty here, 

Trembles with grief and joy, and hope and fear ! 

(She who, the fairest, ever flew the first. 

With cup of balm to quench his burning thirst ; 

Knelt at his head, her fan-leaf in her hand. 

And hummed the air that pleased him, while she &nned) 

How blest his lot ! — though, by the Muse unsung, 

His name shall perish, when his knell is rung. 

That night, transported, with a sigh I said 
" 'T is all a dream ! " — Now, like a dream, 't is fled ; 
And many and many a year has passed away, 
And I alone remain to watch and pray ! 
Yet oft in darkness, on my bed of straw. 
Oft I awake and think on what I saw ! 
The groves, the birds, the youths, the nymphs recall, 
And Cora, loveliest, sweetest of them all ! 



CANTO XII. 
A Vision. 



Still would I speak of him, before I went, 
Who among us a life of sorrow spent,* 
And, dying, left a world his monument ; 



THE TOTAOB OP COLUMBDS, 



e time allowed 
1 prompt 



My hour draws Dear ; 
when I faint with fear. 



I 



— Alas, he heara me not ! He cannot hear ! 

Twice the moou filled hov silver um'with light. 
Then from the thi-oao an angel winged hia flight ; 
He, who UQ&xed the compass, and assigned 
O'er the wild waves a pathway to the wind ; 
Who, while approached by none but spirits pure, 
Wrought, in his progress through the dread obscure, 
like the ethereal bow ^ that shall endure ! ' 
iho descended through the ujiper air, 
ifce on day ' as God himself were there ! 
the great discoverer, laid to rest, 
He stood, and thus his secret soul addressed.* 

" The wind recalls thee ; its still voice obey. 
Millions await thy coming ; hence, away. 
To thee hleat tiilings of great joy consigned, 
Another nature, and a new mankind ! 
The vain to drKun, the wise to doubt, shall cease ; 
Young men be glad, and old depart in peace ! " 
Hence ! though a.-eembling in the fields of air, 
Now, ia a night of clouds, thy foes prepare 
To rock the globe with elemental wars, 
And dash the floods of ocean to the stars ; *■ 
To bid the meek repine, the valiant weep, 
And thee restore thy secret to tlie 8eep ! ' 

" Not then to leave thee ! to their vengeance caat, 
Thy heart their aliment, their* dire repast ! ' 

To other eyes shall Mexico unfold 
I Hat feathered tapestries, and roofs of gold. 



144 THB YOTAGE OF COLUMBUBw 

To olher eyes, from distant cliff Jescried,^ 
Shall tbe Pacific roll his ample tide ; 
There destined soon rich argosies to ride. 
Chains thy reward ! beyond the Atlantic wave 
Hung in thy chamber, buried in thy grave ! ^ 
Thy Teyereod form ^ to time and grief a prey, 
A spectre wandmng in the light oS day ! " 

'' What though thy gray hairs to the dust deso^id, 
Hi^ scent shall track thee, track thee to the ^id ; 
Thy sons reproached with ^ir great fittber'a fSeune," 
And on his world inscribed another's name ! 
That world a prison-house, full of sights of woe, 
Where groans burst forth, and tears in torrenta flow I 
These g^ens of the sun, sacred to wng, 
By dogs of carnage, ^^ howling loud and Icxig, 
Swept — till the voyager, in the desert air,^*"' 
Starts back to hear his altered accents there ! ^ 

'' Not thine the olive, but the sword to bring ; 
Not peace, but war ! Yet from these shores shall spring 
Peace without end ; ^ from these, with blood defiled, 
Spread the pure spirit of thy Master mild ! 
Here, in Hi& train, shall arts and arms attend, ^'^ 
Arts to adorn, and arms but to defend. 
Assembling here, all naticHis shall be blest ; ^^ 
The sad be comforted ; the weary rest ; 
Untouched shall drop the fetters from the shve ; ^ 
And He shall ruk the world he died to save ! 

" Hence, and rejwce. The glorious work is done. 
A spark is thrown that shaD eclipse the sun ! 
And, though bad men shall long thy course pursue. 
As erst the ravening brood o'er chaos flew,'^ 



THE VOTAGB OF COLUMBUS. 145 

He, whom I genre, shall vindicate his reign ; 
The spoiler spoiled of all ; " the slayer slain ; ^ 
The tyrant's self, oppressing and opprest. 
Mid gems and gold onenvied and unblest : ^ 
While to the starry sphere thy name shall rise, 
(Not ihete unsung thy generous enterprise !) 
Thine in all hearts to dwell — by Fame enshrined. 
With those, the few, that live but for mankind ; 
Thine evermore, transcendant happiness ! 
World beyond world to visit and to bless." 
18 



i 



Ox the two last leaves, and written in another hand, are eome ttaniai 
in the romance or ballad measare of the Spaniards. The sabjeet Ib an 
adventure soon related. 

Thy lonely watch*tower, Larenille, 

Had lost the western sun ; 

And loud and long from hill to hill 

Echoed the evening-gun, 

When Heman, rising on his oar, 

Shot like an arrow from the shore. 

— ** Those lights are on St. Mary's Isle ; 

They glimmer from the sacred pile." ^ 

The waves were rough ; the hour was late. 

But soon across the Tinto borne, 

Thrice he blew the signal-horn, 

He blew and would not wait. 

Home by his dangerous path he went ; 

Leaving, in rich habiliment. 

Two strangers at the convent-gate. 

They ascended by steps hewn out in the rook; and, having asked for 
admittaaoe, were lodged there. 

Brothers in arms the guests appeared ; 
The youngest with a princely grace ! 
Short and sable was his beard. 
Thoughtful and wan his fece. 
Hia velvet cap a medal bore, 
And ermine fringed his broidered vest ; 
And, ever sparkling on his breast, 
An image of St. John he wore.^ 



'His eldot had > T 
(tood ■ litUa txhind, ii 
bl*«roid: aDdbUnli 



COLUUBUS. 

r aspect, and there was eni 
g blaok mautli, bi< band rtt 
, and wbito ibaes glittered id 



" Not hero unwelcome, though unknomi. 

Ebter and rest ! " the friar said. 

The moon, that through the portal shone, 

Shone on his reverend head. 

Through many a court and gallery dim 

Slowly he \&i, the burial-bymn 

Swelling from the distant choir. 

But now the holy men retire ; 

The arched cloisters issuing through, 

In long, long order, two and two. 

****** 
When other Bounds had died away, 
And the waves were heard alone, 
They entered, though unused to pray, 
Where God was worshipped, night and day, 
And the dead knelt round in stone ; 
They entered, and from aisle to aisle 
Wandered with folded arms a while, 
Where on his altar-tomb reclined * 
The croaicrod abbot; and the knight, 
In harness for the Christiaji fight, 
Hifl hands in supplication joined ; — 
Then said, ae in a solemn mood, 
" Now stand wo where Columbus stood ! " 



*' Pbrez," thou good old man," they cried, 
" And art thou in thy place of rest ? — 
Though in the we,9tcm world his grove,*' 
That other world, the gift he gave/ 



148 COLUMBUS. 

Would ye were sleeping side by side ! 
Of all his friends he loved thee best." 

The sapper in the chamber done, 
Much of a southem sea they spake, 
And of that glorious city* won 
Near the setting of the sun, 
Throned in a silver lake ; 
Of seven kings in chains of gold,' 
And deeds of death by tongue untold, 
Deeds such as breathed in secret there 
Had shaken the confession-chair ! 

The eldest swore by oiir JMj,^^ the ytrangest hy his oouoleiioe; n while 
the FnnoiBoan, sitting by in his gray habit, turned away and crossed him- 
felf again and again. ** Here is a little book,*' said he at last, ** the work 
of him in his shroud below. It tells of things you haye mentioned; and* 
were Gorlet and Pisarro here, it might perhaps make them reflect for a mo- 
ment." The youngest smUed as he took it into his hand. He read it 
aloud to his companion with an nnfUtering yoioe; but, when he laid it 
down, a silence ensued; nor was he seen to smUe again that night." «< The 
eurse is heary," said he at parting, ** but Oortes m«y liT6 to disappoint 
it."—" Ay, and Pisarro too ! " 



*/ A circumstance, leoorded by Herrera, renders this visit not improba- 
ble. «In May, 1638, Oorlet arriTcd unexpectedly at Palos; and, soon 
after he had landed, he and Pisarro met and rejoiced; and it was remark- 
able that they should meet, as they were two of the most renowned men in 
the world." B. Dial makes bo mention of the intenriew} but, relating an 
occurrence that took place at this time In Paloi, says ** that Cortes was 
BOW absent at Keustn Ssnoia da U B4bida." The oonTcnt is within half 
a leagiio of fho town. 



NOTES. 



a II tte «>1 tUtlintd Ibt ulCitDt piophuy , 



Irmpa nni, tba taa d'Kmle 1 Megd 



a fmnooDoed wJUigiil Uh udMon c<mii*nig.Uut ofCulumbiu li 
be lip* at I. UEricur, JU iVarcJta* (((nUn Oortes-," und u. 



-bbHptoWalnu Lunllo Riut me CliUi mi 



I, FfT^. Catumtut, tnlilird, h 



160 NOTES. 

QD The more ChrlsUAn opinion If, that Qod, with eyet of oomiMMlon, ai ft were, looUng 
down fron hearcn, called forth thoae windt of merejr, wherefaj this new world reodred 
the hope of Miration. — Preamble to the Deeades of the Ocean, 

<n To return wai deemed impoeaiMe, at it blew alwaji flrom liome. — Bi»t, del Almh 
rmtttf 0. 19. Jfoi pmtidi — at pater Anekieee — Uttue. 



OANTO n. 



0) Taieo emplojf preternatural agents on a ifanOar occasion, 

Trappaasa, eteooo hi quel sIlTestre looo 
Borge improrlsa la dttddel fboo. — ziii. 88. 

Qli Incantl d^Imeno, ohe fngannano con delndoni, altro mm rignlflcano, obe la (UritA deOe 
ragioni, et delle pertuasioni, la qual si genera nella molUtudine, et TarietA de* pareri, et 
de* disoorsi humanl. 

<D Bee nalo'e Timsiua i where sofention is made of mighty kingdoms, which. In a daj 
and anight, had disappeared in the Atlantic, rendering its waters unnaTigable. 

81 qusDras IleUcen et Burin, Achaldas urbes, 
Invenies sub aquls. 

At the destruction of Callao, in 1747, no more than one of an the inhabitants eoo^ted } 
and he by a proridenee the moot extraordinaiy. This man was on the fbrt tluit orer- 
loohed the harbor, going to strike the flag, when he perceived the sea to retire to a eon- 
jHfiftHf dlitanftft ) and then, swelling mountain-high, it* retamed with great T in i m n r 
The peo|4e ran firom their houses in terror and oooliiaion } he heard a cry of tf itcrere 
rise (hen all parts of the etty \ and tanmedUOdy all was silent } the sea had euUie^ oter- 
whetaMl It, and burM It AweTcr In Its bosom { but the same ware that des troy ed It drore 
* NUIe boat fey the ptaoe where he Stood, into whfch he threw hhnseir and was sanred. 



A the deserlpttai ef a suhwarhw fcrtst is here omitted by the 

League beyond league gigantic foUage spread. 

Shadowing dU Ocean on hta ro^ bed } 

The Mly summits ef resounding woods, 

That grasped the de|4hs, and giap p teil with the floods ; 

C^Kh as hsd dlaiybed the ■Hmntala^ asniu heUht» 

When liith he «Mtt ^ reAsBOSMd his i%hL 



are wA sOcBft eu the suhleeL The isflora, acce edto g to Herrera, i 

i)( and ft was the general cxpeetoHaa that 
ni doM la the ftuaia aisk, - wtare fl 
' — AM. dtf iUBi*Wii«r« CL ML 




■Tiwf fnAY i. I. ts. X^a^ 



m 






wuiM cxonh A 



OANTO QL 

ll Uaar If Uh Bnt AtasmiRa cnM Ibeic dufi bi 

C« TM, bidnd, bM b* Ifaw diaul ngbma, If U 
Hmmt. ShM. L Wll, Hal ADu, tn ber nruptlDoi. hu diKlurgKl twcotr Ume* ba oflgi- 
Bil balk. WcU nUcbt ibo be olln] b; EurlpUa (TroaltM, v. 213) U» lUalktr af 
Ma<tnlaiiu i jrt JH« benrU U bat " » nwn: flmrort, whtn caoparal to aic baralog 
mauatu 14 Ok Malm." 

W Q«di, ]PBt cjJMifd Ma. — Miln. Vioettl 
Ib hoDura ptai qu le grud XnfrU, qi^ de h imBin 
HI BIiBi tn Sontb Amntem. Tluir aolUiliHi wUb (be lide hu Uie eOrc ul e Utcpeu. 

Ifttm, m> fMnHU Edt iU Wli, lad dlKbuga lucU 
tlIDIMU(«atebgtU«t1vuSL lAwroiee. 

91 lA plAiul do «« Un M loiil en cffet quo in puiaUi d? nnibigMa : « li mer, qui 
(M H^Ak, on use IT»1I nw M*la«rnui*c. — B-iffbn. 

ff> BMdoBlalon of ■ bad u«d orcr u nilkwaii hs, infttliinitolt CBn tBrMltOH f 
tit lllsbl bil)n a ObiiiUui ben, in: doerlbad in (loMnf lugiuct bj 

Jm onelE* at Ih* Wudm, w Kgn u> beam inRit i ud purHoiluljr 
Innil down (mo Uwlr UKabn, mill hd| with land '-——■■'■-- 

rtMa m tb* irrivvl nf Artnffen, scmpMel^ sl>4, fmn % nclm naif 
n. — ni4, tl, t, t. It ii iMd Uint Cuiita, a gnat Cidqoe.dwr braf 
ihtaUmw, hot ui inHTVIpn vltli DH c/ (be tEonl, wba naomaad to Mn 
[»(•(. c <U), aa tbe orujea nT Luou, IxKeiding U, HemdoUu (H. lU), 
Ihnw Df tbedeTfn Vin^iLn BiQqjt^ oh ITii ii|i|iieiiini iif iiii ii iiritiu. 



a Lbuy WJjfBhEpped," a«]ra Acuta, *^Ln Ibla 



Call DP bba tbnl lei 



152 NOTBS. 

CANTO IV. 
CD Ugtt TMMta, fbrmerlj nied t^ the ^mnlards utd PortogiMW. 



CD In the Lntiad, to beguile the heaTy hours t eea, Veloeo relBtee to hb onrnpariinni 
cfthe leooDdwatoh the story of the Twelve Knlghto. — L. tL 

<?D Amoog those who went with Colninbas were nuuiy sdrentarers, tad gwrtlfmnn of 
the court. Primero was the game then in fkbhion. — Set Vega^ p. 2, lib. UL e. 9. 

(0 Many sodi appeUatioDS occur in Bemal Diac, c. 904. 



OANTO V. 



0) Many sighed and wept ; and every* hour seemed a year, says Herrenu — L L 9 
tndlO. 

(9 A luminous appearance, of good omen. 

^ His public procession to the oooTeot of Ia R4blda on the day befofe he set ssiL It 
was there that his sons had received their education ; and he himself appears to have 
passed some time there, the venerable guardian, Juan Peres de Ifarchena, being his aesl- 
oas and affectionate frimd. The ceremonies of his departure and return are r e pre s ente d 
In many of the fresco-paintings in the palaces of Genoa. 

(4) "But I was most aflELicted when I thought of my two sons, whom I had left bddnd 
ase In a strange country .... XxXom I had done, or, at least, could be known to 
have done, anything which might incline your highnesses to remember them. And though 
I consoled myself with the reflection that our Lord would not suflSer so earnest an 
endeavor for the exaltation of his church to oome to nothing, yet I cmsidered that, on 
account of my unworthiness," fcc —Hist. c. 37. 

(fii Gkmsalvo, or, as he Is called in Castilian, Oonialo Hemandes de Cordova j already 
known by the name of The Great Captain. Granada surrendered oo the second of Janu- 
ary, 1402. Columbus set saQ oo the third of August (bUowtiiig. 

(B) Probably a soldier of fortune. There were mere than one of the name on board. 



OAHTO YI. 

0) Mot hut that In the ptuIbsbIdh of annt there are at all times many nobis natures. 
I«t a BoUler of the age of BtHOieth speak te those who had commanded under htan, those 
whom he ealls <* the chier men ef aeUoD.** 
••Movthat I ham tried thsm, I would dwose ttiem ftar friends, If Ihadttiemnoti 
> I tad tried ttaa, CM and Ui provMenoe oboes them forme. I love thsm for 
-vmasfetiforlladnpMtMMtotlMireooveriation, stroog asslstsnee in their ein> 
''"^'«4%i|9lMatotMrfinnd*i^ I tofa thsm for tiielr viitoe^s sake, 




le UllB(^«' 
) nrkkritBDU noUUjig at aU. I lore them tor their 
e, plMHire lad praBl i but Oner UiU lors inlin, 
er uhI fHiVi fbov UiU Ui^ kfve piiUk profit mar* dioa IheniAtJTefl. 1 Lote Uvm 
■jr muiitiT'l uk< i for Ifaey are Bn^teod'i bat wmoc of dcfcnoc, tal wntpaot at 
g>. Bwe Biai lure peue, Ukt lun inmhwol 11 ; It ws mut btn *u, Uu'jr miut 



«l Tba Crnn at UK eaalh ;" UA Cro« narsTliUfat, « di buiu bdlau," Hfi Andrei 
Canun, • FlmnUne, wrftiii( to Olulbuu «r Uedlcii In l&lt, " cho min mi intra id iIiibh 

10 cbe Dudo fa\6 nel pflndplo (kl FuEitwto ton irpiritt j/fa/ttiX9y dlcmdo. 




B« oUiH, u tbrlr IliapS 



164 NOTES. 



TXndoobtedQjr, Mys Herrera, the Infernal Spirit aasomed rarioiis diapes In thifc ngkncf 
tbeworkL 

V> Bianj a modem reader win ezdafm, in the langaage of Pocooorant^, ** Qodle Irlite 
extravagance ! " Let a great theologian of that day, a monk of the Aagoetlne order, be 
ooneolted on the latjeet ** Oorpos ille perimere Tel Jugulare poteet ; nee id modA, 
▼enkn et ^««»»*»n ita orgere, et in angiistiun coarctare novit, at in rooiDento qaoqne ilU 
exoedendom altV ~- Lutkeru*, De Misia Privata. 

The Roman ritnal requires ttiree signs of posaession. 

(Q> — magnum si peciore poesit 

£zcu8sisae deunx 

(7) Euripides In Alcest, t. 255. 

(Q Tod ake e fioche, e soon di man ooo eUe. — IXmfe. 

fB) The same language had been addressed to Isabella. — Hi»t. e. 16. 

(10) Bis mlracoloos escape. In early life, during a sea-fight off the ooaat of Povtngal.— 
JSTif f. c 5. 

(II) Nndo noochier, promettitor dl regn! ! 

9y the Genoese and the Bpaniaids be was regarded as a man resolTed on *^a wild dedka- 
tion of himsdf to unpathed waters, undreamed shores ; " and the court of Portugal en- 
deavored to rob him of tlte glory of his enterprise, by secretly dispatdiing a v e sse l in the 
course which he had pointed out " Lorsqu^il avait promis un nouvel hteiispb^** says 
ydtairo, ** on lui avait soutenu que cet htoisph^re ne ponvait exister ; ec quand D Teuft 
dioouvert, on pr6tendlt qutl avait €tt connu depujs long-temps.** 

(U) He used to affirm that he stood in need of Ood*s particular assistance } like Moses, 
when he led forth the people of Israel, who forbore to lay violent hands upon him, be- 
eanse of the miracles whteh Ood wrought by his means. ^ So,** said the Admiral, ^ did il 
happen to me on that voyage.**— ^TmC. c 10. — ** And so easily,** says a commentator, 
** are the workings of the Bvil one overcome by the power of God ! ** 

<IS) This denunciation, ftilflUed as it appears to be in the eleventh canto, may remind liie 
reader of the Harpy*s in Virgil. — J6n. m. v. 947. 



CANTO vin. 

(1) Ex ligno Ittcido oonfectum, et arte miri laboratum. — P. Martj^r, dec. L 6. 

<Z) The Simoom. 

(3) Salve, regina. — Herrera^ I. i. 12. It was the usual service, and always sung with 
great solemnly. **I remember one evening,** says Oviedo, "when the ship was in ftiU 
sail, and all the men were on their knees, singing Salve, regina,** kc. — Relaeion Som^ 
nutria. The hymn, Sanctissima, is still to be heard after sunfet along the shores of 
EHdly, and ita effect may be better conceived than described. 

(0 I believe that he was chosen for this great service ) and that, because he was to be 
10 truly an apostle, as in effect he proved to be, therefore was his origin obscure } that 




#1 n* (toe of (l;r™t 
O rorlba cOMi or I 

w»ft' IVHM4 a* wtru, c, 3 ■Dd «. 



CAHTO K. 

. J4>nlin<iiutharU9.~F'. Jlfivlvr,d«. 1.3. 



156 ifoxjss. 

A The pArrol, m deniitod bjr Aristotle. ^Hitt. AnimaL m. 12. 

C4) Here are birds so small, sajs Heneca, that, Ibongh ttiey an biidi, tkej aM lakM 
lor bees or bntterfllea. 

dO The Hanrndog bird. KakopH (flaran ragvlns) is (In lune of an Indian Mn^ 
referred to this oiaas by 8eba. 

0> Ihere also was heard the wild cry of the naDinga 

What clarion winds along the yellow sands f 
Var in the deep the glant-flsher stands. 
Voiding his wings of flame. 

(H n sert aprte sa mort i parer los Jeones Indlennes, qui portent en pendans d'oreUles 
deux de oes diarmanw oiseaox. — Bmffbn. 

ffi) Acoording to an ancient tradiUon. — Bee OviedOy Fegay Herrera^ he Not many 
years afterwards a Spaniard of distinction wandered ererywbere in search of it *, and 
no wonder, as Bobertson obserreS) when CohnbaB himself coold imagiae that he had 
lliand the seat of Paradise. 



OAIITO XL 
0) P. Martyr y dec i. 

(9 They bdioTBd that the soids of good men were conveyed to a pleasant valley « abonnd- 
tag In gnaTas and other delioioiis firoits. — Herrero, L lii. 3. BUt, del AbminmU, 
e.62. 

ff> *«The dead walk abroad at night, and feast with the ttring** (F. CelumbuSf o. 02) y 
and Meat of the fruit called Onanndba." — P. Martyr, dec L 9. 

(0 War reverses the order of natore. In time of peace, says Herodotvs, the sons bury 
their (kithers } in time of war, the fiUhers bvry their sons ' Bat the gods have willed it so. 
— L8t. 

(8) An ancient Cadque, In his lifetime and after his death, employed by the Zemi to 
alarm his people. —5ee Hiat, c 62. 

CB) The author is speaking in his Inspired character. Hidden thfaigs are revealed to 
Mm, and placed beflbre his mind as If they were present. 

(^ Nor oould they (the Powers of Darkness) hare more effectually prevented the pro- 
gress of the (Uth, than by desolating the New World ; by burying nations alive in mines, 
or consigning than, in all their errors, to the sword. — Relaeion de B.d§ la$ Coeae. 

(0 Not man akme, but many other animila, becaaoe esctinct there. 

ff) P. Jlfar<yr, dec UL 7. 

on Rockefortef e. 



■mma 

MP. Ml 
«Wbe 

.KHMa 



CUraO XII. 

ID Joe K mnmarir M bU life ud chancter, hk " An Account of Uu Eonjpan BHOi- 
HMAi.^ — P. L A. fl' OfblAltDdebt hiiTB)H»fi«akl,uitwu«nBrvudsiAkl t/BAwn, 
ad ■ Bablia' Mule Ibon eouU dM bg ^ •■ Ib Ua ■dTcrilt)' I cicr pnvnl Uiu Ond HDsld 

raUoen bs could sol wrnot. SeUfau miilil I coDdote tit him Id t. 

nrinc no Hddcot oodU do hum (o v^uu, buL raUiFr belp bumoks 



in KnaiD umig Ibe Bgruuia of 



rt CW d'on' •ttro 60 






« p. Mulrr. £^'. IS3, 1. 



u Eumcnidti a/ Xukgliu, t. 



. (ad wn>( !>;> Wonc.—HfiTira. L 1. 1. 

■* I nlwnji "»'• "l"™ bi bli mun, uid bo ordered Uxm lo bo Ixirltd wUb hli body. — 

rc.u. 

n Uki p^nan, h/i nnrrn, ioA an air of srvidc'ur, tlU Imir, ft^nn man; liudRhipo, 
^Wai pAtkfltoT wTa(i|p,alin la atlTtfril^v «ti>t IraiCliit: loQcd i %ai, h«d be bcvl 
U BUM raiU tu»c Inn plxnl uddhi Uie .un. 

9 Bm IbE £aii(K(dci s/.X<c)y2u, t. 3IQ. ^pafunnan s/.SHty(u, t. S3, 
a-ltbn go Ibe KM of hliD 



Rtaatf bMi; ml 



168 NOTES. 



an See WMhington'B FkreveU Addren to Ui Mknr^itiMBi. 

09 **There are Uwte alhre,** aiid an lOaitrloat ontor, "whoM me m o ry might taach 
the two fnrtapwnHlw. Lofd Bethunt, In 1704, was of an age to oonprdwod sodi thing* { 
•nd, if hla angel had then drawn np the cortain, and, whUe he was gasing with admira- 
Uoo, had pointed oat to him a speck, and had toM him, * Toong man, there is America, 
wlridi, at tUs daj, senres fcr little more tlian to amuse yoa with stories of sarage men and 
unoooth manners ; yet shaO, lielbre yon taste of death,* " lee — Bmrke in 1775. 

(19) How simile were the manners of the early otdonists ! The first ripening of any 
Boropean fnUt was dJstingnislied by a fkunily istival. Oarcilasso de tat Tega relates how 
his dear Cather, the ralorous Andres, collected together in his chamber seren or eight 
gentlemen to share with him three asparagnses, the first that ever grew on the table-land 
of Cnaoo. When the operation of dressing them was orer (and it is minotely described) 
he dlstriboted the two largest among his friends ; begging that the company would not 
take it 01 if he reserred the third for himself; at it weat a tkin^/rom Spain. 

North America became instanOy an asylum for the oppressed) Huguenots, and CathoUoi. 
and sects of erery name and country. Such were the first settlers in Carolina and Mary- 
land, Pemwylrania and New England. Nor is Booth America altogether without a claim 
to the title. Even now, while I am writing, the ancient house of Bragansa is on Its pas- 
sage across the Atlantic, 

Cum sodis, natoque, Penatibus, et magnis dis. 

(SO) Je me transporte quelquefois au delA dhm sitele. J*y rob le booheur A c^ de 
IHndastrie, la dooce tolerance rempla^ant la fkrooche inquisition ; J*y Tois on Jour de 
llto { P^ruTiens, Mexicains, AmMeains libres, Fran^^ s'embrassant oomme des IMres, 
et b^nissant le r^gne de la liberty qui doit amener partout une harmonie unlTeraelle. 
Mais les minesvles esdayes, qu^ deriendront-ils .' Les mines se fermeront ; les esdares 
seront les fMres de leurs maitres. — Briuot. 

There Is a prophetic stania, written a century ago by Bp. Berkeley, tdiidi I must quote. 
Ihongh I may suilier by the comparison : 

Westward the coarse of empire takes its way. 

The Ibur first acts already past, 
A fifth shall dose the drama with the day. 

Ttaie^ noblest olbprlng is the last. 

OD See Paradut Lo»t, X. 

CB) Cortea. A p^toe put-l obtenir audience de Charles-Qufait : on jour fl fendit tat 
presse qui entoorait le oodie de rcmperenr, et monta sur T^trier de la poiti^re. Charles 
demanda qod italt cet honane ; " C*eBt,** r^pondit Cortes, ** cehii qui roos a daont phu 
d*4tats qua Toa pires ne tous out lalss^ da TlDea." — Foltetre. 



07) <« Akaost an,** says Lu Csaas, *«haT« perished. The hmooent blood whfch thty 
had shad orted alood far Teofeanoet the sighs, tha tears of so ma^yTtottana, went up 
Ood.** 




ee nl In a su si qpd drmaiwla que toot ce quH toocheroit sa 
aarittqalMaMliiAanvmilrawrdknxpoarleaprlerde flnir samiadre.— 



NOTES. 169 

0) The Conreofc or La BAUda. 

A 8m Bemal Diax, e. 906 ; and alto a wcll-kiioini portrait of Oortet, aionbed lo 
OUaa. OorlMwaaiMViatlMflorty4liJrd,PtarrointbeflMeUi7«arorhiiaga. 

m JMgn9Um ZarmU, Kb. i^.*^ 9. 

W Lito Soperte of the Houn. 

HI In tbe chaood of the oatbedral of 8t Domingo. 
An anadiraotam. The body of Cohunbui was not yet remored from Bevflle. 
It b aknoat nniMWfwiry to point oat another in the Ninth Canto. The teleeoope waa 
aBtthntonae; though deieribedkofbelare, with great aoeiiracy,bjBo8crBaoon. 

0) The vwda of the epitaph. **AOMtilia7aLeonnneToMandodioOoiaB.*> 

01 AAarwarda the ami of Oorlee and hie deioendanti. 

(Vl F«r»aMl«t, Hh. fl. e. 68. 

aDB.IMcK,e.906. 

09 « After tlw death of Goatimotifa,** nji B. DliB, *« he beoMM gioonj and reUlM I 
fiilnfeoallnDaQf from hie bed, and wanderii«ahoat in the dark." '*]lothiiigpc€ipcnd 
1 1 and It waa aeoilbed lo the onei he waa loaded with.** 



JACaUELINE. 



1813. 



JACaUELINE. 



T WA3 Autumn ; thraagh Provence had ceased 

The vintage, and the vintage-feast. 

The Bun had set behind the hill, 

The moon vas Dp, and all wa^ etill, 

And from the convent's neighboring tower 

The clock had tolled the midnight-hour, 

When Jacqueline came forth alone, 

Her kerchit'f o'er her tresses throvm ; 

A guilty thing and full of feara, 

Tet, ah ! how lovely in her tears ! 

She starts, and what liaa caught her eye 7 

What — but her shadow gliding by 1 

Bhs itopB, 9hc pants ; with lips apart 

She listens — to her beating heart ! 

Then, through the scanty orchard stealing, 

The clustering boughs her track concealing. 

She flies, nor casts a thought behind, 

But giTCS het terrors to the whid ; 

Flies from her home, the humblo sphere 

Of all her joys and sorrows here, 

Her Cither's honso of mountain-stone. 

And by a mountain-vino o'ergrown, 



164 JACQUBLINB. 

At such an hour in such a night, 
So calm, 80 clear, so heavenly bright, 
Who would have seen, and not confessed 
It looked as all within were blest? 
What will not woman, when she loves ? 
Yet lost, alas ! who can restore her ? — 
She lifts the latch, the wicket moves ; 
And now the world is all before her. 

Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone ; 
— And Jacqueline, his child, was gone ! 
0, what the maddening thought that came ? 
Dishonor coupled with his name ! 
Bjr Cond6 at Rocrojr he stood ; 
Bjr Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood. 
Two banners of Castile he gave 
Aloft in Notre Dame to wave ; 
Nor did thy cross, St Louis, rest 
Upon a purer, nobler breast. 
He slung his old sword by his side, 
And snatched his staff and rushed to save ; 
Then simk — and on his threshold cried, 
" 0, lay me in my grave ! 
— Constance ! Claudine ! where were ye then? 
But stand not there. Away ! away ! 
Thou, Frederic, by thy father stay. 
Though old, and now forgot of men. 
Both must not leave him in a day." 
Then, and he shook his hoary head, 
** Unhappy in thy youth ! " he said. 
^' Call as thou wilt, thou call'st in vain; 
No voice sends back thy name again. 



JACQUBLIJJB. 

To moam ia all thua hast to do ; 

Thy plsyinate loat, a.wi teacher too." 
And who but she could soothe the boy, 

Or turn his tears to tears of joy 1 

Long bad she kisacd him as he slept, 

Long o'er his pillow hung and wept ; 

And, as she passed her lather's door, 

She stood 08 she woulil stir no more. 

But she ia gone, and gone forever ! 

No, never shall thoy clasp her — never ! 

They sit and listen to their fears ; 

And he, who through the breach had led 

Orer the dying and tke doad, 
I Shskee if a cricket's cry ho hears ! 
! she WOE good as she was £ui. 

None — none on earth above her I 

As pnre in thought as angels ue, 

To know her was to love her. 

When little, and her eyes, her voioe, 

Her every gesture, said " rejoice," 

Her coming wus a gladness ; 

And, as she grew, her modest grace. 

Her downcast look, 't was heaven to trace, 

When, shading with her hand her &ce, 

8he half inclined to sadness. 

Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted ; 

Like music to the heart it went. 
■ And her dark eyes — tow eloquent ! 
[ Ask what they would, 't was granted. 
! Mei father loved her as his fame ; 

— And Bayard's self had done the same t 



166 JAOQUBLINB. 

Soon as the son the glittering pane 
On the red floor in diamonds threW| 
His songs she sung and sung again, 
Till the last light withdrew. 
Every day, and all day long, 
He mused or slumbered to a song. 
But she is dead to him, to all ! 
Her lute hangs silent on the wall ; 
And on the stairs, and at the door, 
Her fiury-step is heard no more ! 
At every meal an empty chair 
Tells him that she is not there ; 
She, who would lead him where he went. 
Charm with her converse while he leant ; 
Or, hovering, every wish prevent ; 
At eve light up the chimney-nook. 
Lay there his glass within his book ; 
And that small chest of curious mould 
(Queen Mab's, perchance, in days of old), 
Tusk of elephant and gold ; 
Which, when a tale is long, dispenses 
Its fragrant dust to drowsy senses. 
In her who mourned not, when they missed her, 
The old a child, the young a sister ? 
No more the orphan runs to take 
From her loved hand the barley-cake. 
No more the matron in the school 
Expects her in the hour of rule, 
To sit amid the elfin brood. 
Praising the busy and the good. 
The widow trims her hearth in vain. 
She comes not — nor will come again. 






Kot DOW, lus little leaaon done, 

With Frederic blowing bubbles in the eun ; 

Kor spinning by the fountain side 

(Some atory of the days of old, 

Barbe Bleue or Chaperon Rouge half-told 

To him who would not bo denied) ; 

Not now, to while an hour away, 

Gone to the falia in Valombre, 

Where 't ia night at noon of day ; 

Nor wandering up and down the wood, 

To all but her a sohtudc, 

Where once a wild deer, wild no more, 

Her chaplet on his antlers wore, 

And at her bidding stood. 



Thb day was in the golden west ; 

And, curtained close by leaf and flower, 

The doves had cooed themselves to rest 

In Jacqueline's dcaertod bower ; 

The tloves — that still would at her casement peck, 

And in her walks hiul ever fluttered round 

With purple feet and shining neck, 

True as the echo to the sound. 

That casement, underneath the trees, 

Half open to the western breeze. 

Looked down, enchanting Garonnello, 

Thy wild and mulberry-shaded dell. 

Round which the Alps of Piedmont rose. 

The blush of sunset on their snowa; 



168 JACQUSLINB. 

While, blithe as lark oa sanimer-iiioni, 
When green and yellow waves the oom, 
When harebells blow in every grove, 
And thrushes sing " I love ! I love ! " * 
Within (so soon the early rain 
Scatters, and 't is &ir again ; 
Though many a drop may yet be seen 
To tell us where a cloud has been) — 
Within lay Frederick, o'er and o'er, 
Building castles on the floor. 
And feigning, as they grew in size. 
New troubles and new dangers ; 
With dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes. 
As he and fear were strat^gers. 

St. Pierre sat by, nor saw nor smiled. 
His eyes were on his loved Montaigne ; 
But every leaf was turned in vain. 
For in that hour remorse he felt, 
And his heart told him he had dealt 
Unkindly with his child. 
A &ther may a while refuse ; 
But who can for another choose ^ 
When her young blushes had revealed 
The secret from herself concealed. 
Why promise what her tears denied. 
That she should be De Courcy's bride 1 
— Wouldst thou, presumptuous as thou art. 
O'er Nature play the tyrant's part. 
And with the hand compel the heart? 
Q rather, rather hope to bind 
The ocean-wave, the mountain-wind ; 

* GanUndo " To amo ! lo amo !" — Tabso. 



JACqUELINB. 

Or, fix thy foot upon the ground 
To stop the planet rolling round. 

The light was on bis Gice ; and there 
You might have seen the passions driven — 
Resentment, Pity, Hope, Despair — 
Like clouds across tho face of Heaven. 
Now he sighed heavily ; and now, 
Hia hand withdrawing from his brow, 
He shut the volume with a frown, 
To walk his troubled spirit down : 
— When (faithful as that dog of joro' 
Who wagged hia tail and could no more) 
Manchon, who long had snnfled the ground. 
And sought and sought, but nover found. 
Leapt up and to the coseniGnt flew. 
And looked and barked, and vanished through. 
" 'T ia Jacqueline ! 'T is Jacqueline ! " 
Her little brother laughing cried. 
" I know her by her kirtle green, 
She comes along the mountain-side ; 
Now turning by the travellcr'a seat, — 
Now resting in the hermit's cave, — 
Now kneeling, where the pathways meet. 
To the cross on the stranger's grave. 
And, by the soldier's cloak, I know 
(There, there along tho ridge they go) 
D'Arcy, so gentle and so brave ! 
Look up — why will you not 1 " he cneB, 
His rosy hands before his eyes ; 
For on that incense-breathing eve 
The sun shone oat, as loth to leave. 



15 



■Argui. 



170 JACQUELINE. 

''See — to the ragged rock she clings ! 
She calls, she tainta^ and D' Arcy springs ; 
D'Arcjr, so dear to us, to all ; 
Who, for you told me on your knee, 
When in the fight he saw you fall. 
Saved you for Jacqueline and me ! " 

And true it was ! And true the tale ! 
When did she sue and not prevail ? 
Five years before — it was the night 
That on the village-green they parted, 
The lilied banners streaming bright 
O'er maids and mothers broken-hearted ; 
The drum — it drowned the last adieu, 
When D'Arcy from the crowd she drew. 
'' One charge I have, and one alone, 
Nor that refuse to take, 
My &ther — if not for his own, 
0, for his daughter's sake ! " 
Inly he vowed — 't was all he could ; 
And went and sealed it with his blood. 

Nor can ye wonder. When a child, 
And in her playfulness she smiled, 
Up many a ladder-path* he guided 
Where meteor-like the chamois glided, 
Through many a misty grove. 
They loved — but under Friendship's name ; 
And Beaaon, Virtue fimned the flame, 
Till in their houses Discord came, 
And 't was a crime to love. 

•Cilltd in fh« UngoMgp of the tountry Pat-de-TEckelh. 



JACQUELINB. 

Tben wbat was Jacqueline to do ? 
Her father's angry hours she knew, 
And when to soothe, and when persuade ; 
But now her path De Courcj crossed, 
Led by his falcon through the ghkde — 
He turned, beheld, adtnircd the maid ; 
And all her little arts were lost ! 
De Courcy, Lord of Argcntiero ! 
Thy poverty, thy pride, St, Pierre, 
Thy thirst for vengeance, sought the snan 
The day was named, the guests invited ; 
The bridegroom, at the gate, alighted ; 
When up the windings of the dell 
A pastoral pipe wua heard to swell, 
And, lo ! an humble Piedmontese, 
Whose music might a lady please, 
This message through the lattice bore 
{She listened, and her trembling frame 
Told her at once from whom it came), 
" 0, let ua fly — to part no more ! " 



That mom ('t was in Ste. Julienne's cell, 
As at Ste. Julienne's sacred well 
Their dream of love began) — 
That mom, ere many a star was set, 
Their hands had on the altar mot 
Before the holy man. 



172 JACQUELINE. 

— And now, her strength, her courage spent, 
And more than half a penitent, 
She comes along the path she went 
And now the village gleams at last ; 
The woods, the golden meadows passed, 
Where, when, Toulouse, thy splendor sh<xie. 
The Troubadour, from grove to grove. 
Chanting some roundelay of love. 
Would wander till the day was gone. 
" All will be well, my Jacqueline ! 
0, tremble not — but trust in me. 
^ The good are better made by ill, 
As odors crushed are sweeter still ; 
And, gloomy as thy past has been, 
Bright shall thy future be ! " 
So saying, through the fragrant shade 
Gently along he led the maid. 
While Manchon round and round her played : 
And, aa that silent glen they leave. 
Where by the spring the pitchers stand, 
Where glow-worms light their little lamps at eve, 
And fairies revel as in fairy-land 
(When Lubin calls, and Blanche steals round, 
Her finger on her lip, to see ; 
And many an acorn-cup is found 
Under the greenwood tree). 
From every cot above, below. 
They gather as they go — 
Sabot, and coif, and collerette. 
The housewife's prayer, the grandame's blessing ! 
Girls that adjust their locks of jet. 
And look and look and linger yet. 
The lovely bride caressing ; 



JACHUELINE. 



173 



Babes that had leamt to lisp ber name, 
And heroes he had led to iame. 

But what felt D'Arcy, when at length 
Her lather's gate was open Song ? 
Ah ! then ho found a giant's strength ; 
For round him, as for life, she clung ! 
And when, her fit of weepuig o'er, 
Onward they moved a littlo space. 
And saw an old man sitting at the door, — 
Saw his wan check, and sunken eye 
That seemed to gaze or vacancy, — 
Then, at the sight of that beloved face, 
At once to fall upon his neck she flew ; 
But — not encouraged — back she drew, 
And trembling stood in dread suspense. 
Her tears her only eloquence ! 
All, all — the while — an awful distance keeping ( 
Save D'Arcy, who nor speaks nor stirs; 
And one, his little hand in hers, 
Who weeps to see his sister weeping, 

Then Jacqueline the silence broke. 
She clasped her father's knees and spoke, . 
Her brother kneeling too ; 
While D'Arcy as before looked on, 
Though from his manly cheek viaa gone 
Its natural hue. 

" His praises from your lips I heard, 
Till my fond heart was won ; 
And, if in aught bis sire haa erred, 
0, turn not from the son ! — 
She, whom in joy, in grief, you aorsed ; 
Who climbed and called you father fiiBt, 
1-5* 



174 JACQUELINE. 

By that dear namri conjares — 
On her you thon^t — but tx> be kind ! 
When looked she up, bat you inclined ? 
These things, forever in her mind, 
0, are they gone fixMn yours ? 
Two kneeling at your feet behold ; 
One — one how young ! — nor yet the other old. 
0, spurn them not — nor look so cold ! — 
If Jacqueline be cast away. 
Her bridal be her dying day. 
— Well, well might she believe in you ! 
She listened, and she found it true." 
He shook his aged locks of snow ; 
And t¥rice he turned, and rose to go. 
She hung ; and was St Pierre to blame, 
K tears and smiles together came ? 
"0, no — begone ! I 'U hear no more." 
But, as he spoke, his voice relented. 
" That very look thy mother wore 
When she implored, and old Le Boc consented. 
True, I have erred and will atone ; 
For still I love him as my own. 
And now, in my hands, yours with his unite ; 
A fether's blessing on your heads alight ! 
. . . Nor let the least be sent away. 
All hearts shall sing < Adieu to sorrow ! ' 
St Pierre has found his child to-day ; 
And old and young shall dance to-morrow." 



Had Louis* then before the gate dismounted. 
Lost in the chase at set of sun ; 

* Lonii the FourUenth. 



JAOQUELINB. 176 

Like Henry when he heard reoonnted * 

The generous deeds himself had done 

(What time the miller's maid C!olette 

Song, while he sapped, her chansonnette), 

Then — when St. Pierre addressed his vOlage-train, 

Then had the monarch with a sigh confessed 

A joy by him unsought and unpossessed, 

— Without it what are all the rest ? — 

To love, and to be loved again. 

♦ Alluding to a popular story related of Henry the Fourth, of France, 
dmilar to ovn of « The King and BfiUer of Mantfleld." 



HUMAN LIFE. 



1819. 



HUMAN LIFE. 



The lark haa sung his carol in the aky ; 

The bocs havo hummed their noon-tido harmony. 

Still in tho vale the village-bella ring round, 

Still in Llewelljn-hall the jeeta reaound ; 

For now the caudle-cup is circling there, 

Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, 

And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire 

The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. 

A few short years — and then these sounds shall hail 
The day again, and gladness fill the vale ; 
80 soon the child a youth, the youth a man. 
Eager to run the race his fathers ran. 
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin ; 
The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine : 
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze. 
Mid many a tale told of his boyish day^. 
The nurse shall ciy, of all her ills beguiled, 
"'Twas on these knees he Sivte so oft and smiled." 

And soon again shall music swell the breeze ; 
Soon, issuing forth, ahaU glitter through the trees 
Veatures of nuptial white ; and hymns bo sung, 
And violeta scattered round ; and old and young. 



180 HUMAN LIFE. 

In every cottage-porch with garlands green, 
Stand still to gaze,^ and, gazing, bless the scene ; 
While, her dark eyes declining, by his side 
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride. 

And once, alas ! nor in a distant hour. 
Another voice shall come finom yonder tower ; 
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, 
And weepings heard where only joy has been ; 
When by his children borne, and £rom his door 
Slowly departing to return no more. 
He rests in holy earth with them that went before. 

And such is Human Life; so, gUding on. 
It glunmers like a meteor, and is gone ! 
Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange. 
As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change. 
As any that the wandering tribes require. 
Stretched in the desert round their evening-fire ; 
As any sung of old in hall or bower 
To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching-hour ! 

Bom in a trance, we wake, observe, inquire ; 
And the green earth, the azure sky, admire. 
Of Elfin-size — forever as we run. 
We cast a longer shadow in the sun ! 
And now a charm, and now a grace is won ! 
We grow in stature, and in wisdom too ! 
And, as new scenes, new objects, rise to view. 
Think nothing done while aught remains to do.' 

Yet, all forgot, how oft the eye-lids close. 
And from the slack hand drops the gathered rose ! 
How oft, as dead, on the warm turf we lie. 
While many an emmet comes with curious eye ; 
And on her nest the watchful wren sits by ! 



HITUA.N LIFE. 



Nor do we speak or move, or hear or see ; 

So like what once wo were, aJid ooce again shaU bo ! 

And say, how aeon, where, blithe as innocent, 
The boy at sunrise carolled as he went, 
An aged pilgrim on his staff shall lean, 
Tracbg in vain the footateps o'er the green ; 
The man himself how altered, not the sceno ! 
Now journeying home with nothing but the name ; 
Way-worn and spent, another and the same ! 

No eye observes the growth or the decay. 
To-day we look as we did yesterday ; 
And wc shall look to-morrow us to-day. 
Yet while the loveliest smiles, her locks grow gray.' 
And in her glass could she but see the Face 
She '11 see so soon among another i-ace, 
How would she shrink ! — R«turning from afar, 
Aft«r some years of travel, some of war, 
Within his gate Ulysses stood unknon-n 
Before a wife, a futher, and a son ! 

And such is Human Lifi;, the general theme. 
Ah ! what at best, what hut a longer dream? 
Though with such wild romantic wanderings fraught, 
Such forma in Fancy's ricliest coloring wrought, 
That, like the visions of a love-Sick brain, 
Who would not sleep and dream them o'er again 1 

Our pathway leads but to a pi-ecipice ;' 
And all must follow, fearful as it is ! 
From the first step 't is known ; but — No delay 1 
On, 't is decreed. We tremble and obey. 
A thousand ills beset us aa we go. 
— "Still, could 1 shun tlie fata.1 gulf " — Ah, no, 
Id 



182 HTMAN LIFE. 

'T is all in vain — the inexorable Law ! 
Nearer and nearer to the brink we draw. 
Verdure springs up ; and finiits and flowers invite, 
And groves and fountains — all things that delight 
« 0, I would stop, and linger if I might! " — 
We fly ; no resting for the foot we find ;* 
All dark before, all desolate behind \ 
At length the brink appesurs — but one step more ? 
We feint — On, on ! — we falter — and 't is o'er ! 

Yet here high passions, high desires unfold, 
Prompting to noblest deeds ; here links of gold 
Bind soul to soul ; and thoughts divine inspire 
A thirst unquenchable, a holy fire 
That will not, cannot but with life expire I 

Now, seraph- winged, among the stars we soar ;* 
Now distant ages, like a day, explore, 
And judge the act, the actor now no more ; 
Or, in a thankless hour, condemned to live,^ 
From others claim what these refuse to give, 
And dart, like Milton, an unerring eye 
Through the dim curtains of Futurity/ 

Wealth, pleasure, ease, all thought of self resigned, 
What will not man encounter for mankind ? 
Behold him now unbar the prison-door,® 
And, lifting Guilt, Contagion, from the floor. 
To peace and health, and light and life restore ; 
Now in Thermopylae remain to share 
Death — nor look back, nor turn a fiwtstep there, 
Leaving his story to the birds of air ; 
And now like Pylades (in Heaven they write 
Names such as his in characters of light) 



HUMAN LIFE. 



Long with hia friend in generous enmity,* 
Pleading, insiating in his place to die ! 

Do what he will, he cannot realize 
Half he conceiTea — tlie glorious vision flies. 
Go where he may, he cannot hope to 6nd 
The truth, the beauty pictured in his mind. 
But if by chance an object strike tlie aense, 
The faintest shadow of that excellence, 
Passions, that slept, are stirring in his frame ; 
Thoughts undefinetl, feelings without a name ! 
And some, not here called forth, may slumber on 
Till this vaiu pageant of a world is gone ; 
Lying too deep for things that perish here, 
Waiting for life — but iu a nobler sphere ! 

Look where be comes ! Bojoicing in his birth, 
A while he moves as in a heaven on earth ! 
Sun, moon, and stars — the land, the eea, the sl^, 
To him shine out lis in a-galaxy ! 
But soon 't is past'" — the light has died away ! 
With him it came (it waa not of the day) 
And he himself diffused it, like the stone 
That sheds a. while a luatrc all its own," 
Making night beautiful. 'T is past, 'tis gone, 
And in his darkness a^ he jounieys on. 
Nothing revives him but the blessed ray 
That now breaks in, nor ever knows decay, 
Sent from a better world to light him on his way. 

How great the Mystery ! Let others sing 
The circling Year, — the promise of the Spring, 
The Summer's glory, and the rich repose 
Of Autumn, and tlic Winter's silvery snows. 



184 HUMAN LIFE. 

Man through the changing scene let us pursue, 

Hhnself how wondrous in his changes too ! 

Not Man, the sullen savage in his den ; 

But Man called forth in fellowship with men ; 

Schooled and trained up to wisdom from his birth ; ^ 

Grod's noblest work — His image upon earth ! 

The day arrives, the moment wished and feared ; '* 
The child is born, by many a pang endeared. 
And now the mother's ear has caught his cry ; 
0, grant the cherub to her asking eye ! 
He comes . . . she clasps him. To her bosom pressed, 
He drinks the balm of life and drops to rest. 

Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows ; 
How soon by his the glad discovery shows ! 
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, 
What answering looks of sympathy and joy ! 
He walks, he speaks. 'In many a broken word 
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs, are heard. 
And ever, ever to her lap he flies, 
When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. 
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung 
(That name most dear forever on his t(mgue), 
As with soft accents round her neck he clings. 
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings, 
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart. 
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart ; 
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove. 
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love ! 

But soon a nobler task demands her care. 
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, 
Telling of Him who sees in secret there ! — 



HUMAN LIFK, 



And now tbe volume on her knee haa u^iugbt 

Hia wandering eye — now many a written thought, 

Never to die, with many a lisping sweet, 

Hia moving, murmuring lipa endeavor to repeat. 

Ruleased, he chases the bright butterAy ) 
0, he would follow — follow through the akj ! 
Climbs the gnmit mastiff alumbermg in hia chain, 
And chides and bufifetd, clinging by the mane ; 
Then runa, and, kneeling by the fountain-side, 
Sends hia brave ship ia triumph down the tide, 
A dangerous voyage ; or, if now he can. 
If now he wears tl»e habit of a man. 
Flings off the coat so much hia pride and pleasure, 
And, like a miser digging for bis treasure, 
His tiny spade in his own garden plies, 
And in green letters sees his name arise .' 
Where'er he goes, forever in her sight. 
She looks, and looks, and still with new dehght ! 

Ab ! who, when fiidiiig of itself away. 
Would clouil the sunshine of his little day ! 
Kow is the May of life. Exulting round, 
Joy wings hia feet, Joy lifts him from the ground ! 
Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say, 
When the rich casket shone in bright amy, 
" These are my Jewels ! " " AVell of such as he, ' 
When Jesus spake, well might the language bo, 
" Suffer these httle ones to come to me ! " " 

Thoughtful by fits, be scans and he reveres 
The brow engraven with the tlioughta of years ; '* 
Close by her side bis silent homage given 
As to some pore intelligoiice from llea\'ea ; 
16* 



186 HUMAN LIFE. 

His eyes cast downward with ingenuous shame, 
His conscious cheeks, conscious of praise or blame, 
At once lit up as with a holy flame ! 
He thirsts for knowledge, speaks but to inquire ; 
And soon with tears relinquished to the sire. 
Soon in his hand to Wisdom's temple led, 
Holds secret converse with the mighty dead ; 
Trembles and thrills and weeps as they inspire. 
Bums as they bum, and with congenial fire ! ^ 
Like her most gentle, most unfortunate,^ 
Crowned but to die — who in her chamber sate 
Musing with Plato, though the horn was blown. 
And every ear and every heart was won. 
And all in green array were chasing down the sun f 

Then is the Age of Admiration ! ^ — Then 
Oods walk the earth, or beings more than men ; 
Who breathe the soul of inspiration round, 
Whose very shadows consecrate the ground ! 
Ah ! then comes thronging many a wild desire. 
And high imagining and thought of fire ! 
Then from within a voice exclaims ** Aspire ! " 
Phantoms, that upward point, before him pass. 
As in the cave athwart the wizard's glass ; 
They, that on youth a grace, a lustre shed. 
Of every age — the living and the dead ! 
Thou, all-accomplished Surrey, thou art known ; 
The flower of knighthood, nipt as soon as blown ! 
Melting all hearts but Geraldine's alone ! 
And, with his beaver up, discovering there 
One who loved less to conquer than to spare, 
Lo ! the Black Warrior, he, who, battle-spent. 
Bare-headed served the captive in his tent ! 



IIUMA.N LIFE. 187 

Young B iu llie groves of Academe, 

Or where Iljaaua wiiida \m whiBpering stxeam ; 
Or wliere the wild bees swarm with ceaseleaa hum, 
Dreaming old dreama — a joy for years to come ; 
Or on the roi;k within the sacred fane ; — 
Scenes anch &s MiLTON sought, but sought in vain : " 
And Milton's self (at that thrice-honored name 
Well may we glow — as men, we ahaj« his fame) — " 
And MiLTOx's seli^ apart willi beaming eye, 
Planning he linowa not what — that shall not die ! 

0, in thy ti-uth secure, thy virtue bold, 
Beware the poison iu tlie cup of gold, 
The asp among the flowers ! Thy heart beats high, 
As bright and brighter breaks the distant sliy ! 
Bat every step is on enchanted ground. 
Danger thou lov'st, and Danger hauntrfVhee round. 

Who spurs his horse against the mounlain-sidQ ; 
Then, plunging, slakes his fury in the tidel 
Draws, and cries ho ! and, whei'e the sunbeams fall, 
At his own shadow thrusts along the wall } 
Who dances without music; and anon 
Singa like the Urk — then sighs as wou-bogone, 
And folds his arms, and, where the willows wave. 
Glides in the moouslunc by a maiden':! grave'.' 
Come hither, boy, and clear thy open brow. 
Yon summer-clouds, now like the Alps, and now 
A ship, a whale, change not so fast as thou. 

He hears mo not ! — Those sighs were from the heart. 
Too, too well taught, he plays the lover's part. 
He who at masques, nor feigning nor sincere, 
With sweet discourse would win a lady's ear. 



188 HUMAN LIFE. 

• 

Lie at her feet and on her slipper swear 
That none were half so faultless, half so &ir, 
Now through the forest hies, a stricken deer, 
A banished man, flying when none are near ; 
And writes on every tree, and lingers long 
Where most the nightingale repeats her song ; 
Where most the nymph, that haunts the silent grore. 
Delights to syllable the names we love. 

Two on his steps attend, in motley clad ; 
One woful-wan, one merry but as mad ; 
Called Hope and Fear. Hope shakes his cap and bells. 
And flowers spring up among the woodland dells. 
To Hope he listens, wandering without measure 
Through sun and shade, lost in a trance of pleasure ; 
And, if to Fear but for a weary mile, 
Hope followfast and wins him with a smile. 

At length he goes — a pilgrim to the shrine. 
And for a relic would a world resign ! 
A glove, a shoe-tie, or a flower let fiJl — 
What though the least. Love consecrates them all ! 
And now he breathes in many a plaintive verse ; 
Now wins the dull ear of the wily nurse 
At early matins ('t was at matin-time " ^ 

That first he saw and sickened in his prime). 
And soon the Sibyl,- in her thirst for gold. 
Plays with young hearts that will not be controlled. 

** Absence from thee — as self from self it seems ! " 
Scaled is the garden- wall ; and, lo ! her beams 
Silvering the east, the moon comes up, revealing 
His well-known form along the terrace stealing. 
— 0, ere in sight he came, 't was his to thrill 
A heart that loved him though in secret still. 



IILIMAN LIFE. 



" Am I awake ? or is it . , . can it be 
An idle tlream 7 Nightly it viaita me ! 

— That strain," she cvies, "as from the water rose; 
Now near and nearer tlii-ough the ahade it flows ! — 
Now siuis depajting — sweeteat in ita close ! " 

No casement gleams ; no Juliet, like the day, 
Comes forth and apeaks and bids her lorer stay. 
Still, Like aerial music heard from far 
As through the doors of Paradise ajar, 
Nightly it riaea with the evening-star. 

— " She loves another f Love was in that sigh ! " 
On the cold ground he throws himself tti die. 
Fond youth, beware ! Thy heart is most deceiving. 
Who wish are fearful ; who suspect, believing. 

— And soon her looks tbo rapturous truth avow. 
Lovely before, 0, say how lovely now ! " ~ 

She flics not, frowns not, though ho pleatls his cause ; 
Nor yet — nor yet her hand from his withdraws ; 
But by some secret power surprised, Bubdued, 
(Ah ! how resist 7 And would she if she could'!) 
Falls on his neck an half unconscious where, 
Glad to conceal her tears, her Musbes, there. 

Then come those full confldings of the past ; 
All sunshine now, where all was overcast. 
Then do they wander till the day is gone, 
Lost in each other ; and when night steals on, 
Covering them round, how sweet her accents are .' 
0, when sbc turns and spooks, her voice is far, 
Far above singing ! — But soon nothing stira 
To break the silence^ joy like his, like hers, 
Deals not in words ; and now the shadows close, 
Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows 



190 HUMAN LIFB. 

Less and less earthly ! As departs the day, 
All that was mortal seems to melt away, 
Till, like a gift resumed as soon as given, ^ 
She fades at last into a spirit from Heaven ! 

Then are they blest indeed ; and swift the hours 
Till her young sisters wreathe her hair in flowers, 
Kindling her beauty — while, unseen, the least 
^Twitches her robe, then runs behind the rest. 
Known by her laugh that will not be suppressed. 
Then before All they stand — the holy vow 
And ring of gold, no fond illusions now. 
Bind her as his. Across the threshold led. 
And every tear kissed off as soon as shed, 
His house she enters — there to be a light 
Shining within, when all without is night ; 
A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding, 
Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing ; 
Winning him ba<5k, when mmgUng in the throng, 
From a vain world we love, alas ! too long, 
To fireside happiness, and hours of ease 
Blest with that charm, the certainty to please. 
How oft her eyes read his ! her gentle mind 
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined ; 
Still subject — ever on the watch to borrow 
Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow. 
The soul of music slumbers in the shell. 
Till waked and kindled by the master's spell ; 
And feeling hearts — touch them but rightly — pour 
A thousand melodies unheard before ! " 

Nor many moons o'er hill and valley rise 
Ere to the gate with nymph-like step she flies. 



And tlieir first-boro hoiJs forth, their darling boy, 

With amiles bow sweet, liow full of love and joy, 

To meat him coming ; theirs through every year 

Pure transports, such aa each to each endeiu- ! 

And laughing eyes and laughing Yoicea fill 

Their home with gladness. She, when all arc still, 

Comes and undraws the curtain as they lie, 

In sleep how beautiful .' He, when the sky 

Glcama, and the wood sends up its harmony, 

When, gathering round bis bed, they climb to share 

His kisses, and witli gcintle violence there 

Break in upon a dream not half so £iir, 

Cp to the hill-lop leads their little feet ; 

Or by the fort'st- lodge, perchance to meet 

The dtag-herd on 'Ha march, perchanee to hear 

The otter rustling in the sedgy mere ; 

Or to the echo near the Abbot's ti-eo. 

That gave him back his words of pleasantry — 

When the House stood, no merrier man than he ! 

And, aa they wander with a keen delight, 

K but a leveret catch their quicker sight 

Down a green alley, or a squirrel then 

Climb the gnarled oak, and look and climb again, 

If but a moth flit by, uu acorn fall, 

Ho turns their thoughts to Him who made them all ; 

Theso with unequal footsteps following fast. 

These clinging by his cloak, unwilling to be last. 

The shepherd on Tomaro's misty brow. 
And the swart seamaD, sailing Gir below, 
Not undeligbted wateh the morning ray 
Purpling the orient — till it breaks away, 
And bums and bluzes into glorious ilny ! 



192 * HUMAN LIFE. 

• But happier still is he who bends to trace 
That sun, the soul, just dawning in the face ; 
The burst, the glow, the animating strife. 
The thoughts and passions stirring into life ; 
The forming utterance, the inquiring glance, 
The giant waking from his ten-fold trance. 
Till up he starts as conscious whence he came, 
And all is light within the trembling frame ! 

What then a fiither's feelings ? Joy and fear 
In turti prevail, — joy most ; and through the year 
Tempering the ardent, urging night and day 
Him who shrinks back or wanders from the way. 
Praising each highly — from a wish to raise 
Their merits to the level of his praise, 
Onward in their observing sight he moves, 
Fearful of wrong, in awe of whom he loves ! 
Their sacred presence who shall dare profane ? 
Who, when he slumbers, hope to fix a stain ? 
He lives a model in his life to show, 
That, when he dies and through the world they go. 
Some men may pause and say, when some admire, 
" They are his sons, and worthy of their sire ! " 

But man is bom to suffer. On the door 
Sickness has set her mark ; and now no more 
Laughter within we hear, or wood-notes wild 
As of a mother singing to her child. 
All now in anguish from that i-oom retire. 
Where a young cheek glows with consuming fire, 
And innocence breathes contagion — all but one. 
But she who gave it birth — firom her alone 
The medicine-cup is taken. Through the night,* 
And through the day, that with its dreary light 



Comes unregarded, she sits silont by," 
Watching itio changes with her arxioua eje ; 
While they without, listening below, above, 
(Who bat in sorrow know how much they love ?) 
From every little noise catch hopo and fear, 
Escbaoging still, Btill as thoy turn to hear, 
Whispers and aighfl, and smiles all tendemesa, 
That would in vain the starting tear repress. 

Such grief was oura — it acems but yesterday — 
When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, 
'T was thine, Maria, thine without a sigh 
At midniglit in a sister's arms to die ! 
0, thou wert lovely — lovely was thy frame, 
And pure thy spirit as from Heaven it came ! 
And, when recalled to join the blest above. 
Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love, 
Nursing the young to health. In happier hours. 
When itUe Fancy wove luxuriant flowers, 
Once ia thy mirth tliou bad'st me write on thoc ; 
And now I write — what thou shalt never see t 

At length the Father, vain his power to save, 
Follows his child in silcDco to the grave 
(That child how cberisbed, whom ho would not give, 
Sleeping the sleep of death, for all that live) ; 
Takes a last look, when, not unheard, the spade 
Scatters the earth as " dust to dust " " is said, 
Takes a last look and goes ; his best relief 
Consoling others in that hour of grief, 
And with sweet tears and gentle words infusing 
The holy calm that leads to heavenly musing. 

But hark, the din of arms ! no time for sorrow. 
To horee, to horse ! A day of blooil to-morrow ' 
17 



194 HUMAN LIFE. 

One parting pang, and then — and then I fly, 

Fly to the field, to triumph — or to die ! — 

He goes, and night comes as it never came ! ^ 

With shrieks of horror ! — and a vault of flame ! 

And, lo ! when morning mocks the desolate, 

Bed runs the river by ; and at the gate 

Breathless a horse without his rider stands ! 

But hush ! . . a shout from the victorious bands ! 

And, 0, the smiles and tears, a sire restored ! 

One wears his helm, one buckles on his sword ; 

One hangs the wall with laurel-leaves, and all 

Spring to prepare the soldier's festival - 

While she best-loved, till then forsaken never, 

Clings round his neck as she would cling forever ! ^ 

Such golden deeds lead on to golden days, 
Days of domestic peace — by him who plays 
On the great stage how uneventful thought ! 
Yet with a thousand busy projects fraught, 
A thousand incidents that stir the mind 
To pleasure, such as leaves no sting behind ! 
Such as the heart delights in — and records 
Within how silently * — in more than words ! 
A holiday — the frugal banquet spread 
On the fr^h herbage near the fountain-head 
With quips and cranks — what time the wood-lark there 
Scatters his loose notes on the sultry air, 
What time the king-fisher sits perched below. 
Where, silver-bright, the water-lilies blow : — 
A Wake — the booths whitening the village green. 
Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen ; 
Sign beyond sign in close array unfurled. 
Picturing at large the wonders of the world ; 



nOMAN LIFE. 



And far and wide, over the vicar's pale, 
Black hoods and scarlet crosaing hiU and dale. 
All, all abroad, and tnuaic in the gale : — 
A wedding dance — a danco into tlie night 
On the ham-floor, when maiden-feet are light ; 
When the young bride receivea the promised dower, 
And flowera are flung, herself a fiwrer flower: — 
A morning-visit to the poor man's abed, 
(Who would be rich while one was wanting bread 1) 
When all are emulous to bring relief, 
And tears arc felling fast — but not for grief : — 
A walk in Spring — GtRattan, like those with thee" 
B/ the heath-side (who had not envied mel) 
When the sweet limes, so full of bees in June, 
Led us to meet beneath their boughs at noon ; 
And thou didst say which of the great and wise, 
Could they but hear and a.t thy bidding rise, 
Thon wouldst call up and question. 

Graver things 
Come in due order. Every morning brings 
Its holy office ; and the Sabbath-bell, 
That over wood and wild itnd mountain-dell 
Wanders so far, chasing all thonghta unlioly 
With sounds most musical, most melancholy, 
Not on his ear is lost. Then he pursues 
The pathway leading through the aged yewa. 
Nor unattended ; and, when all are there," 
Pours out his spirit in the house of prayer, 
That house with many a funeral -garland hung" 
Of virgin-white — memorials of the young, 
The last yet fresh when marriage- chimes were ringing, 
And hope and joy in other hearts were sprmging ; 



196 HUMAN LIFE. \ 

That house, where Age led in by Filial Love, 
Their looks oomposed, their thoughts on things aboye, 
The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgiven — 
Who would not say they trod the path to Hearen ? 

Nor at the fragrant hour — at early dawn — 
Under the elm-tree on his level lawn, 
Or in his porch, is he less duly found, 
When they that cry for justice gather round, 
And in that cry her sacred voice is drowned ; 
His then to hear, and weigh and arbitrate, 
Like Alfred judging at his palace-gate. 
Healed at his touch, the wounds of discord close ; 
And they return as friends, that came as foes. 

Thus, while the world but claims its proper part, 
Oft in the head but never in the heart. 
His life steals on ; within his quiet dwelling 
That home-felt joy all other joys excelling. 
Sick of the crowd, when enters he — nor then 
Forgets the cold indifference of men ? 

Soon through the gadding vine the sun looks in," 
And gentle hands the breakfiust-rite begin. 
Then the bright kettle sings its matin-song,' 
Then fragrant clouds of Mocha and Souchong 
Blend as they rise ; and (while without are seen. 
Sure of iheir meal, the small birds on the green ; 
And in from &.T a school-boy's letter flies, 
Flushing the sister's cheek with glad surprise) 
That sheet unfolds (who reads, and reads it not ?) 
Bom with the day and with the day forgot ; 
Its ample page various as human life. 
The pomp, the woe, the bustle, and the strife ! 

But nothing lasts. In Autumn at his plough 
Met and solicited, behold him now 



IIU.M.VX LIFE. 



197 



Leaving that humbler sphere tiis fathers knew, 
Tho flphere that Wisdom loves, and Virtue too ; 
Thej who subsist not oa the vain applanse 
Misjudging man now gives and now withdraws. 

'T was mom — the skjf-lark o'er the furrow sung 
As from Iiis lips the slow consent wua wrung ; 
As from the glebe bia fathers tilled of old, 
Tho plough they guided in an age of gold, 
Down by the beech wood-side he tumod away : — 
And now behold bim in an evil ilay 
Serving the State again — not aa before, 
Not foot to foot, tlie wnr-whoop at his door, — 
But in the Senate : and (though round him fly 
The jest, the sneer, tlie subtle sophistry) 
Witli honest dignity," with manly sense, 
And ei'cry charm of natural eloquence, 
Like Hampden struggling in his country's cause," 
The first, the foremost to obey the laws, 
The last to brook oppression. On he moves. 
Careless of blame while his own heart approves, 
Careless of ruin — " {" For the general good 
'T is not tho first time I shall shed my blood.") 
On through that gatu misnamed,'" through which before 
Went Sidney, Russell, Raleigh, Cranmer, More, 
On into twilight within walls of stone, 
Then to the place of trial ;* and alone,* 
Alone before hia judges in array 
Stands for his life : there, on that awful day, 
Counsel of friends — all human help denied — 
All but from her who sits the pen to guide, 
Like that sweet saint who sate by RusSELL't; side 
Under the judgment-seat.'" 
17* 



198 HUMAN LIFE. 

But guilty men 
Triumph not always. To his hearth again, 
Again with honor to his hearth restored, 
Lo ! in the accustomed chair and at the board, 
Thrice greeting those who most withdraw their claim ^ 
(The lowliest servant calling by his name), 
He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all, 
All met as at a holy festival ! 

— On the day destined for his funeral ! 

Lo ! there the friend,^ who, entering where he lay. 
Breathed in his drowsy ear '^ Away, away ! 
Take thou vrnf cloak ! — Nay, start not, but obey — 
Take it and leave me." And the blushing maid, 
Who through the streets as through a desert strayed ; 
And, when her dear, dear &ther passed along,^ 
Would not be held — but, bursting through the throng. 
Halberd and battle-axe — kissed him o'er and o'er ; 
Then turned and went — then sought him as before, 
Believing she should see his face no more ! 
And, 0, how changed at once — no heroine here, 
But a weak woman worn with grief and fear, 
Her darling mother ! 'T was but now she smiled ; 
And now she weeps upon her weeping child I 

— But who sits by, her only wish below 

At length fulfilled — and now prepared to go ? 
His hands on hers — as through the mists of night, 
She gazes on him with imperfect sight ; 
Her glory now, as ever her delight ! ** 
To her, methinks, a second youth is given ; 
The light upon her fiice a light from Heaven ! 
An hour like diis is worth a thousand passed 
In pomp or ease. — 'T is present to the last ! 



IIUMAK LIFE. 



199 



Years glide uway untold — 't Is still the same .' 
As Iresli, as hir, aa on the Jaj it came ! 

And DOW once more whero most be loved to be, 
In his own fields — breathing trantjuillity — 
We hail him — not less bappy, Fox, than thee, 
Thee at St, Anne's bo soon of care beguiled, 
Playful, sincere, and artless aa a child ! 
Thee, who wouldat watch a biixl's nest on the spray, 
Through the green leaves csploring, day by day. 
How oft from grove to grove, fi'om seat to seat, 
With thee conversing in thy loved retreat, | 

I Ba.w the sun go down ! — Ah ! then 't was tbine 
Ke'er to forget some volume balf divine, 
Shakspeare's or Dryden's — ^tirougb the checkered shado 
Bome in thy hand behind thee as wo strayed ; 
And where we aate (and many a halt we made) 
To read tliere with a fervor all thy own, 
And in thy grand and melancboly tone, 
Some splendid passage not to thee unknown, 
Fit tlieme for long discourse. — Thy bell baa tolled I 
— But in thy place among us we liebold 
One who resembles thee. 

' T is the siith hour. 
The village-clock strikes from tie ilistant tower. 
The ploughman leaves tbe field : the traveller bears, 
And to tbe inn spurs forward. Nature wears 
Her sweetest smile ; tbe day-star in the west 
Yet hovering, and the thistle's down at rest. 

And such, bis labor done, tJie calm be knows," 
Whose footsteps we have followed. Bound bim glows 
An atmosphere that brightens to tbe last; 
The light, tlmt sbine^i, reflected from tbe past, 



200 HUMAN LIFE. 

— And from the futare too ! Active in thought 
Among old books, old friends ; and not unsooght 
By the wise stranger — in his morning-hours, 
When gentle airs stir the fresh-blowing flowers, 
He muses, turning up the idle weed ; 
Or prunes or grafts, or in the yellow mead 
Watches his bees at hiving-time ; ^ and now, 
The ladder resting on the orchard-bough. 
Gulls the delicious fruit that hangs in air, 
The purple plum, green fig, or golden pear. 
Mid sparkling eyes, and hands uplifted there. 

At night, when all, assembling round the fire. 
Closer and closer draw till they retire, 
A tale is told of India or Japan, 
Of merchants from Gh)lconde or Astracan, 
What time wild nature revelled unrestrained, 
And Sinbad voyaged and the Caliphs reigned : — 
Of knights renowned fit)m holy Palestine, 
And minstrels, such as swept the lyre divine, 
When Blondel came, and Richard in his cell ^ 
Heard, as he lay, the song he. knew so well : — 
Of some Norwegian, while the icy gale 
Rings in her shrouds and beats her iron-sail, 
Among the shining Alps of polar seas 
Immovable — forever there to freeze ! * 
Or some great caravan, fit)m well to well 
Winding as darkness on the desert fell. 
In their long march, such as the Prophet bids. 
To Mecca from the land of Pyramids, 
And in an instant lost — a hollow wave 
Of burning sand their everlasting grave ! — 
Now the scene shifts to Cashmere — to a glade 
Where, with her loved gazelle, the dark-eyed maid 



201 



(Her fragrniit cbaraber for a while resigned. 
Her lute, by fits discoursing with the wind) 
Waudcrs well-plea^d, what tJme the nightingale 
Sings to the rose, rejoicing hill and dale ; 
And now to Venice — to a bridge, a square, 
Glittering with light, all nations maakiqg there, 
With light reflected on the tremulouB tide, 
Where gondolas in gay confuaion glide, 
Answering the jest, the song on every side ; 
To Naples next — and at the crowded gate, 
Where Grief and Fear and wild Amaiement wait, 
Lo ! on his back a son brings in his sire," 
Vesuvius blazing like a world on fire ! — 
Then, at a sign that never was forgot, 
A strain breaks forth (who hears and loves it noti) 
From harp or organ ]"" 'T is at parting given. 
That in their slumbers they may dream of Heaven ; 
Young voices mingling, as it floats along. 
In Tuscan air or Handel's sacred song ! 

And she inspires, whose beauty shines in all ; 
So soon to weave a daughter's coronal, 
And at the nuptial rite smile through her tears ; — 
So soon to hover round her lull of fears, 
And with a^sunmcc sweet her soul revive 
In child-birth — ^when a mother's love is most alive ! 

No, 't is not here that Solitude is known. 
Through the wide world he only is alone 
Who lives not for another.^ Come what will, 
The generous man has his companion still : 
The cricket on his hearth ; the buzzing fly, 
That skims his roof, or, be his roof the sky, 
Still with its note of gUidncas passes by : 



902 HUMAN LIFE. 

And, in an iron cage condemned to dwell, 
The cage that stands within the dungeon-cell, 
He feeds his spider — happier at the worst 
Than he at large who in himself is curst ! 

thou all-eloquent, whose mighty mind ** 
Streams fi*pm the depth of ages on mankind. 
Streams like the day — who, angel-like, hast shed 
Thy full effulgence on the hoary head. 
Speaking in Gato's venerable voice, 
" Look up, and faint not — fitint not, but rejoice ! " 
Fnmi thy Elysium guide him ! Age has now 
Stamped with his signet that ingenuous brow ; 
And, 'mid his old hereditary trees,. 
Trees he has climbed so oft, he sits and sees 
His children's children playing round his knees : 
Then happiest, youngest, when the quoit is flung, 
When side by side the archers' bows are strung ; 
His to prescribe the place, adjudge the prize, 
Envying no more the young their energies 
Than they an old man when his words are wise ; 
His a delight how pure . . . without alloy ; 
Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy ! 

Now in their turn assisting, they repay 
The anxious cares of many and many a day ; 
And now by those he loves relieved, restored, 
His very wants and weaknesses alE)rd 
A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks. 
Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks, 
While they look up ! Their questions, their replies, 
Fresh as the welling waters, round him rise. 
Gladdening his spirit : and, his theme the past. 
How eloquent he is ! His thoughts flow &st ; 



HUMAN UFB. 



And, while hia heart (0 ! can the heart grow old? 
False are the tales that in the world are told !) 
Swells in his Toice, he knows not where to end ; 
Like one tliscouising of an absent friend. 

But there are moments which he calls hia own. 
Then, never less alone than when alone, 
Those whom he loved eo long and sees no more, 
Loved and still loves — not dead — but gone before, 
He gathere round him ; and revives at will 
Scenes in his life — thiit breathe eDchantment still — 
That come not now at dreary intervals — 
But where a light as from the Bleesed falls, 
A light such guests bring ever — pure and holy — 
Lapping t)ic soul Jn sweetest melancholy ! 
— Ah ! then less willing (nor the choice condemn) 
To live with others thao to think of them ! 

And now behold him up the hill ascending, 
Memory and Hope like evening-stnrs attending ; 
Sustained, excited, till his course is run, 
By deeds of virtue done or to be done. 
When on his couch he sinks at lengtli to rest, 
Those by his counsel saved, his power redressed, 
Those by the world shunned ever as unblest, 
At whom the rich man'« dog growb from the gate. 
But whom ht: sought out, sitting desolate. 
Come and stand round — ^the widow with her child, 
As when she first forgot her tears and smiled ! 
They, who watch by him, see not ; bnt he seea, 
Sees and exalts.— Wew; ever dreams like thesej 
They, wlio watch by him, hear not ; but he hears, 
And earth recedes, and Heaven itself appeare ! 

'T is past ! That hand we groaped, alaa ! in vain ! 
Kor shall we I'jok upon his face again ' 



204 HUMAN LIFE. 

Bat to his closing eyes, for all were there, 
Nothing was wanting ; and, through many a year 
We shall remember with a fond delight 
The words so precious which we heard to-night ; 
His parting, though a while our sorrow flows, 
Like setting suns or music at the close ! 

Then was the drama ended. Not till then, 
So full of chance and change the lives of men, 
Gould we pronounce him happy. Then secure 
FrcHU pain, from grief, and all that we endure, 
He slept in peace — say rather soared to Heaven, 
Upborne from earth by Him to wh(»n 't is given 
In his right hand to hold the golden key 
That opes the portals of Eternity. 
— When by a good man's grave I muse alone, 
Methinks an angel sits upon the stone, 
And, with a voice inspiring joy, not fear. 
Says, pointing upward, '^ Know, he is not here ! '' 

Eut let us hence ; for now the day is spent. 
And stars are kindling in the firmament," 
To us how silent ! — though like ours perchance 
Susy and full of life and circumstance ; 
Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue, 
Of Pleasure some, of Happiness a few ; 
And, as the sun goes round — a sun not ours — 
While from her lap another Nature showers 
Gifts of her own, some from the crowd retire, 
Think on themselves, within, without inquire ; 
^t distance dwell on all that passes there. 
All that their world reveals of good and fair ; 
Trace out the journey through their little day, 
And dream, like me, an idle hour away. 



206 NOTES. 



And why the heart beats mi, or how the brain 
8aj8 to the IBoot, " Now more, now rest again.** 
From age to age we search, and search in vain. 

CB) An allosion to John Howard. ** Whererer he came, in whi^ver country, the 
liriaons and hoai^tals were thrown open to him as to the general censor. Such is the 
force of pure and exalted Tirtue ! ** 

(9 Aristotle*s definition of Friendship, " one soul in two bodies,** is well exemplified by 
some ancient author in a dialogue between AJax and Achilles. "Of all the wounds you 
ever received in battle,** says Ajax, " which was the most painfiil to you i *' — " That wliich 
I received from Hector,*' replies Achilles. — " But Hector never gave you a wound f " 
— ** Yes, and a mwtal one ; when he slew my fHend, Patrodus.** 

(lOi This light, which is so heavenly in its lustre, and which is everywhere and on every- 
thing when we look round us on our arrival here } which, while it lasts, never leaves us, 
n^ddag us by night as well as l}y day and lighting up our very dreams ; yet, when it 
fiMles, fiuies so fast, and, when it goes, goes out forever, — we may address it in the 
words of the poet, words which we might apply so often in this transitory life : 

Too soon your value Cram your loss we learn ! 

R. Skarp^s Epiatlea in yerte, iL ^ 

(11) gee "Observations on a Diamond that shines in the dark.** — Boylt*9 Workt^ I. 
789 

(U) Cioero, in his Essay De Seneetute, has drawn his Images from the better walks of 
life ; and Shakspeare, in his Seven Ages, has done so too. But Bhakspeare treats his 
sutilect satirically } Cioero, as a philosopher. In the venerable portrait of Cato we dis- 
cover no traces of " the lean and slippered pantaloon.** 

Svery oliject has a bright and a dark side ; and I have endeavored to look at things as 
Ctoero luts done. By some, however, I may be thought to have followed too much my 
own dream of happiness } and in such a dream indeed I have often passed a solitary 
hour. It was castle-buUding once *, now it is no longer so. But whoever wouki try to 
realise it would not perhaps repcsnt of his endeavor. 

(18) A Persian poet has left us a beautlfnl thought on this subject, which the reader, if 
he has not met with it, will be glad to Icnow, and, if he has, to remember. 

Thee on thy mother's knees, a new-bom child, 
In tears we saw, when all around thee smiled. 
So live, that, sinking in thy last long sleep, 
Smiles may be thine, when all around thee weep. 

(li) The uieodote here alluded to is related by Valerius Maximus, Lib. iv. c. 4. 

(15) In our early youth, while yet we live only among those we love, we love without 
restraint, and our hearts overflow in every look, word and action. But when we enter 
the world, and are repulsed by strangers, forgotten by firiends, we grow more and more 
timid in our approaches even to those we love best. 

How delightful to us, then, are the lltUe caresses of children ! All sincerity, all aifec- 
tion, they fly into our arms ; and then, and then only, do we feel our first confidence, 
our first pleasure. 

(10) This is a law of nature. Age was anciently synonymous with power ; and we may 
always observe that the old are held In more or lera honor as men are more or less virtu- 
ous. " Shame,'* says Homer, " bids the youth beware how he accusts the man of many 



Inveofthat t»))&e lAdjJuu Grfij. lo wbom 1 iru «K«e41ng much lKhi>ldliV- Her 
parmU, tbe Aake vid dnclmi, IrlUi All the hoolchDld, gcDLlmwn Bud ^oUawa&CDt wen 
hODtiDf In the pork. I fUuad her id her cbimlwt riAdiaf Pbiedo PIUodLb In Greet, ujd 



(HI Duls In hb old *«e wu pnUited oul to Petrlrch wbeo n bof ; ud DijiIcd lo 
WIu dm BDi wlab ihu Duu md Drrdai omild hiie kmvo Um nhu ot Uh ImBgi 



in IfUKluid, hi thought it vnfer to 



^ 



mi I bftia thu Cir u HcDt . . . u> u hmud pmnpUi 


« whid. ixnF irew dally 


ajm mclbtib) labor uid Intent Madf (vbicb I take id be my p 


artioaiDlhlallIe).>t>liKd 


irUtillwilr«igpropaiaUT<Knuiin>,Iii>igtitp<xh>i>>ufe kokiUiIdc » urUleD to •Kir- 


Um H UuT abouU i»t wUliDgli kl k die, — MiUon. 




Nor eu hli wlih be tmMIBUecl. CUuiDal*!*! la tali UMhi 


HUdwritlBc what tew 


would reul, he left It tun Ti.1™ which mm onUd in«ii«,—«Ti 


shnwhUiwoBU deUnf 


tt to »a n«fc.Bl, ~ln the Old World ™i lb. Sew, 




A food book <to qdotebli own wofdO !• the predou IW Uood 


(ira>DMerqMl,udK> 






OBLareudderotlaiimrewidube newlxillM. BooomsIo 


fcn Id Ion U Haplel tn 


tbo dioroh of St. bnewi ; u Pelnrch bad Ham M AngooB in 1 


bo chqichoIR. Clair. 


W) b It not true Ihu the jroong not oul/ npiieu Id bt hat ruUjr ire, moet teutUmi la 


thepreeemofUuHlbeTloief It nlli lorth iD tbdr bniitj. 




M Xa»i>t>« b» kA IB ■ delighUal It-Unee of eoD]<.0> >a«Uan- 


Tb. KimotAmiBl. Mt ftiUHUDg hi. pcDmi«. Cynu ailend 




tokm Urn ud all hH Eunlli prlKnwi, ordond ibon IshwiUt 




old te, Tos ire tr» I ft* Toa are now Kuible of 7o<" ™™- 


And what iriU Tou ElTS 




— M UM I am (Ue. - And TOD, Tignnee, laid be, hunhig l>>lb< 


>a«,>hu*oaUwiid« 





208 NOTES. 

lofo fbr hii wtK Cjnit, he replied, to save her from eeryitode, I iroald wUUnglr lay 
domrnmjlUb. 

Lei eeidi hare hie own agi^ lald Cyme } and, when he waa dq^arted, oaaa qtoke of 
bla demencj, and another of hie raloi^ and another of hie beau^ and the graoet off hia 
pcraon. Upon which Tlgranee aaked hia wife if ahe thought him h a nrt eom e . BeaUy, aald 
aha, I did not look at hfan.— Atwhoan then did joa look ?— At hhn who aaid he would laj 
down hia Ub for me. — Cjfn^fmdiojh, HL 

<W ** When auch ia the mltog, the haUtoal aentfanent of our mlnda,** aaja Pal^, *<ihe 
world beoomea a temple, and life ifcaelf one oontinued act of worahip.** We breathe aapira- 
tkna all day kmg. 

(tD Hera the moomtal prlTllege, ** adaidere Taletodlni, flbyere defldenfeem, aatlail 
vntta, eompiexn." — Tacitus. 

d^ Wemaj have many Menda in life ; bat we can only have one mother j **a diaoor- 
evy,** aaya Oray, **whidil never made till it waa too late.** 

The chOd ia no aooner bom than he dinga to hia mother ; nor, while ahe Uvea, fa her 
fanage abaent from him in the hour of hia diatreaa. Sir John Moore, when he M from his 
horae In the battle of Ooronna, lUtered oat with hia dying breath aome meaaage to hia 
mother } and who ean forget tiie laat worda of Oonradin, when, in hia fifteenth year, ha 
waa led forth to die at Naplea, *<0 my mother ! how great wUl be your grief; when yoa 
hear of it !» 

<M How ezquiaite are thoae Unea of Petrarch ! 

Le creape dhiome d*or pure hicente, 
B*l lamp^giar d*eil angdk» riao, 
Che aolean for in terri on paradiao, 
Poca polvere aoo, che nulla aente. 

CV) Theae cireomatanoea, aa well aa aome othen that follow, are hiq^ily, aa for aa thej 
regard Sngland, of an ancient date. To aa the miaeriea inflicted by a foreign invader 
are now known only by deaoription. Maiqr generationa have paaaed away ainoe oar 
eoontry-women aaw the amoke of an eneray*a camp. 

But the aame paaaiona are alwaya at work everywhere, and flieir eflbota are alwayi 
nearly the aame } though the cireomatanoea that attend them are inflnitdy varioaa. 

(80) Si toot cela conairtoit en iUta, en aottona, en parolea, on poorroit le d^crire et la 
rendre en qoelqoe fii^on t mais comment dire oe qoi n*^toit ni dit, ni foit, ni pena£ mteM, 
maia godt^, mala aentL Le vral bonhear ne ae dtorit paa. — JZoiiaaeoM. 

(SI) How welcome to an old man la the aodety of a yoong one ! He, who la here men- 
tioned, woold propoae a walk wherever we were, onworthy aa I waa of hia notice ; and 
one aa great, if not greater, when we were interrapted in hia library at St. Anne'a, and I 
withdrew bat tor a moment to write down what I wiahed ao mocb to remember, would aay 
when I returned, ** Why do yoo leave me ? " worda which few wooUi forget, and which 
come again and again to me when half a oentory ia gone by. 

(?3) So many pathetic alTeotiona are awakened by every exerciae of aodal devotion, that 
moat men, I believe, carry away from public worahip a better temper towarda the reat of 
mankind thiin they brought with them. Having all one intereat to aecore, one Lord to 
aerve, one Judgment to look forward to, we cannot but remember our common relatton- 
ahip, and oor natural equality ia forced upon our thoughts. The dlathactlona of dvil life 
are almost alwaya insisted upon too much, and whatever oonduces to restore the level Im- 
provea the character on both aidea. If ever the poor man hokla ap hia head, it ia at 



i;ircT(rr(bcrkhnL 



IteiplritertlieDttMtta 



: wben Ott (BMing of ■upabirilj' ii tnltigucd In thg one ud 



|b U(b, sn gait tIT pdoc ki d(jcdo«i. Cut le lanpt 
H l« pliu tnuqallki. ol iupiih cvudps le pliu t aoin aire. 



m zeoiuii i^d u 



[□g dfitlffneil, u It TOCf fr« 
u nD u baim UhiatnW m 



on "Br Uh Uui!"hIi1Uh Dakcot IlnrUlE Id air ThoniM More, "ItUh Kmi I 
HuKs More, It Ii periLnu uriTiug vUb prlDca } Ibe »jiger ft » prluw le ttnth-'*'-*'^ AM 

U tllU IJ], cor hrd f UkdUh dUTereDOl be Ween 701 ukI nw li hul Ihil— Tkof ( I*aU 
ri)t t»-tfay, mid jdm lo-mnrrow."— Xopei-'iti/n. 



B| TrilioT'i gms, the wtur-gtu 



tie tv^a of Londoii, 



I 



jy slludad to lind mm thin ■ hiudrnl ji 



e ID them 1 kU, vliHi tb^oQ 
to dnerlbe DOT oomUtloo la 

KKilkiii(>i 



bauL Tbe; occur indeBl but wUeni 1 
r u> otien. nuke UioD EDcn o( Im> Uieli 
L IntohJunt of hoh other pUoet, ooubL 

f noir nBke hij deJhicv bjommcL In 



iiirDpliiloaorihlibUl.u 

Ub «Dd)ltiia i4 Ihu mu, who, nUhiiiil id; uaiiun 
W Lori RtuicO. Hnj 1 hnt •nnebod/ lo irrii 
Mr.Jticr^t,atn,r^ ya,.-™u.t. 
Lori ckiifJaiUet. taj of jmu •ctvwili ilul 



I 



210 NOTES. 

(«» Sm tlw AleettU a/Euripidet, t. lOL 

(fl) Soeh aa Bussell ftmnd In Carendlih ; and such as many bare foanl. 

(44 An aDoslon to the last tntenrleir of Sfar Tbomaa More and hia daughter Ifargaret. 
^ Dear Meg," eaid be, when altenrarda with a coal he wrote to bid her farewell, ** I nerer 
liked your manner towarda ma better } for I like when daoghterly lore and dear charity 
hara no leiiore to look to worldly ooorteay.** — Roper^a Uft, 

(4S) Xpaminondaa, after his Tletory at Leootra, rejoiced moat of all at the pleaaore which 
it would give bis hither and mother ) and who would not baTe enried them their fsellngs \ 

Cornelia was called at Borne the mother-in-law of Sdpio. ** When,** said abe to her 
MM, •* shaU I be called the mother of the Gracchi f ** 

(^ At Ola qoanti sunt, anJmnm tanqoam cmeritis stipendiia Ubidinia, ambitlonis, eon- 
te n t fcm is, Inimidtiarum, cuplditatam omninm, secom ease, aecomque (ut didtor) Ttrere f 
^•Cin d9 Setuctut: 

(47) Hino obi Jam emiasmn caTeis ad sidera coeli 
Nare per aratatem Uqoidam sospezeris agmen, 
Contemplator. — Firg. 

(|B> Biehard the Ilrsi. Eor the romantic story here aDuded to we are Indebted to tha 
French chrooiclers — See Fauekel, Beoneil de l*Origine de la Langue et PoCsle Vr. 

(4B) She waa under all her sails, and looked less like a ship incmsted with ice than ice in 
the Ikshion of a ship. — See the Voyage cf Captain Tkonuu Jamea^ in 1631. 

• CM) An act of filial piety represented <m the coins of Catena, a Qreek city, some remidns 
oif which are still to be seen at the foot of Mount JStna.* The story is told of two brothers 
who, in this manner, saved both their parents. The place from which they escaped waa 
kmg caDed the field <^ the pious } and public gamea were annually held there to com- 
memorate the event. 

(H) What a pleasing picture of domestic life is given to us by Bishop Berkdey in hia 
letters ! ** The more we have of good instruments, the better ; for all my children, not ex- 
cepting my little dao^ter, learn to play> and are preparing to fiU my bouse with harmony 
against all events , that, if we have worse times, we may have better spirits." 

m See the AUeetia o/Euripidea, v. 328. 

(BS) How ofbeo, says an excellent writer, do we err in our estimate of happiness ! When 
I hear of a man who has noble parks, splendid palaces, and every luxury In life, I always 
inquire whom he has to love ; and, if I find he has nobody, or does not love those he has, 
in the midst of all his grandeur I pronounce him a being In deep adversity. 

(M) Cicero. It is remarkable that, aoiong the comfbrts of old age, he has not mentioned 
those arising from the society of women and diildren. Perhaps the husband of Terentia 
and ** the fttther of Marcus felt something on the scfaject, of which he was willing to spare 
himself the recoUectioQ." 

(55) An old writer breaks off in a very lively manner at a later hour of the night ** But 
the Uyades run low In the heavens, and to keep our eyes open any longer were to act our 
Antipodes. The huntsmen are up In America, and they are already past their first sleep 
In Persia.'* 

• It ii intHHlucrd ntfo, and very hAppilj, hy two great mMten ; by Yirfil ia the Sock of Troj, and 
by Raphael in Uie InceifJio di Burju. 



NOTES. 211 



Befbre I oondade I would say something in Ikror of the old-fiuhioned triplet, whioh I 
bare here rentared to use so often. Dryden seems to hare ddighted in it, and in many 
of his poems has used it much oftener than I have done, as fiir instance in the Hind and 
Panther,* and in Theodore and Honoria, where he inbrodnces it three, toar and eyen flve 
times in suooessicHi. 

If I have erred anywhere in the structure of my Terse from a desire to follow yet earlier 
end higher examples, I rely on the forgirenesi of those in whoie ear the mutie t^four 
old vert^cation ia still sounding.^ 

• Pop« UMd to mention this poem a« the moet eorrtct epeeimen of Dryden'e renifleatioii. It warn, 
indeed, written when be had completely fonned hie manner, and may be suppoeed to exhibit, iMfli> 
fence excepted, bia deliberate and ultimate sehtaM of metre. ^/aAneen. 

t With regard to triejilablee, ae their accMit !■ very rarely on the laet, they eanoot proptriy be aaj 
rhvmee at all ; yet oeTerthelcea I hifhly conoMad thoM who have Jodieioaaly and tpariafly iatndacod 
them ae euch. - Oraif. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



ODE TO SUPERSTITION.' 

Hbnce to the realms of Night, dire Demon, hence ! 

Thy chain of adamant can bind 

That little world, the human mind, 
And sink it« noblest powers to impotence, 

Wake the lion's loudest ro&r, 

Clot hia shaggy mano with gore, 

With flaflhing fury bid his eyo-balla shine ; 

Meek is his savage, sullen soul, to thine ! 

Thy touch, thy deadening touch, has steeled the breast, 

Whence, through her April-shower, soft Pity smiled; 

Has closed tho heart each godlike lirtue blessed, 

To all the silent pleadings of bis child.' 

At thy command he plants the dagger deep. 
At thy command exults, though Nature bids him weep ! 



When, with a frown that froze the peopled earth, ^ 
Thou dartedst thy huge head from high, 
Night waved her banners o'or the sky, 

And, brooding, gave her shapeless shadows birth. 



216 ODE TO SUPERSTITION. 

Booking on the billowy air, 
na ! what withering phantoms glare ! 
As blows the blast with many a sadden swell, 
At each dead pause, what shrill-toned voices yell ' 
The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb, 
Points to the murderer's stab, and shudders by ; 
In every grove is felt a heavier gloom, 
That veils its genius from the vulgar eye : 
The spirit of the water rides the storm, 
And, through the mist^ reveals the terrors of his form. 

I. 3. 

O'er solid seas, where Winter reigns, 
And holds each mountain- wave in chains, 
The fur-clad savage, ere ho guides his deer 
By glistering star-light through the snow, 
Breathes sofUy in her wondering ear 
Each potent spell thou bad'st him know. 

By thee inspired,^on India's sands, 

Full in the sun the Brahmin stands ; 
And, while the panting tigress hies 
To quench her fever in the stream. 
His spirit laughs in agonies, 

Smit by the scorchings of the noontide beam. 
Mark who mounts the sacred pyre/ 
Blooming in her bridal vest : 

She hurls the torch ! she &ns the fire ! 
To die is to be blest : 
She clasps her lord to part no more, 
And, sighing, sinks ! but sinks to soar. 
O'ershadowing Sootia's desert coast, 
The Sisters sail in dusky state,' 



icriiitsiiTios. 



And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost, 
Weave the iiiry web of Fate ; 
Wliile the lone shepherd, near the ehiplees main,' 
' Bees o'er her hills adraiioe the long-drawn funeral train. 



Thou spak'st, and, lo ! a new creation glowed. 
Each unhewn mass of living atone 
Was clad in horrors not its own, 
And Ht its luLse the trembling nations bowed. 
Giant Error, darkly grand, 
Grasped the globe with iron band. 
Circled with seats of bliss, the Lord of Light 
Saw prostrate workk adore his golden height. 
The statue, waking with immortal powers,' 
Springs from iU parent earth, and shakes the s[^€res ; 
The indignant pyramid sublimely towcre, 
And braves the efforts of a host of yeiire. 
Sweet Music breathes her soul into the wind ; 
And bright-eyed Painting stamps the inu^ of the tnind. 



Boond the rude ark old Egypt's sorcorers rise ! 
A timbrelled anthem swells the gale, 
And bids the God of Thunders hail ;' 
■ Witli lowings loud the captive god replies. 
Clouds of incense woo thy smile, 
Scaly monarch of the Nile ! ' 
But, ah ! what royrinds clniui the bended knee ! " 
Go, count the busy drops tliat swtll the sea. 
Proud land ! what eye can trace thy mystic lore, 
Locked up in characters as dark as night l" 
19 



218 ODE TO £UrERs>TITION. 

What eye those long, long labyrinths dare explore,'^ 
To which the parted soul oft wings her flight; 
Again to visit her cold cell of clay, 
Charmed with perennial sweets, and smilmg at decay 1 

IL 3. 

On yon hoar summit, mildly bright^* 
With purple ether's liquid light. 
High o'er the world, the white-robed Magi gaze 

On dazzling bursts of heavenly fire ; 

Start at each blue, portentous blaze, 

Each flame that flits with adverse spire. 

But say, what sounds my ear invade 

From Delphi's venerable shade ? 

The temple rocks, the laurel waves ! 

" The god ! the god ! " the Sibyl cries.'' 

Her figure swells ! she foams, she raves ! 
Her figure swells to more than mortal size * 

Streams of rapture roll along, 

Silver notes ascend the skies : 
Wake, Echo, wake and catch the song, 
0, catch it, ere it dies ! 

The Sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er, 

The holy harpings charm no more. 

In vain she checks the god's control ; 

His madding spirit fills her frame, 
And moulds the features of her soul, 



Breathing a prophetic flame. 
The cavern fix)wns ; its hundred mouths unclose f 
And, in the thunder's voice, the fitte of empire flows ! 



UUE TO SUPERaTITIOir. 



Mona, tLy Dniid-rites awake the dead ! 
Kitea tliy htvvta oaks would never dare 

Even whisper to llie idle air ; 
Rites that ha\'c chained old Ocean on hia bed. 

Shivered by thy piercing glance. 

Pointless falk the hero's lonce. 
Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,'"' 
And blasts the laureate wreath of victory. 
Uark, the banra soul inspires the vocal string ! 
At every pause dread Silence hovers o'er : 
While murky Night sails round on ravea vring, 
Deepening the tfimpest's howl, the torrent's roar ; 
Chased by the Mom from Snowdou'a awful brow, 
Where late she sate and scowled on the black wave beloir. 



Lo ! steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rearaj 
The red-cross squadrons madly rage,'" 
And mow througli infancy and age ; 
Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears. 
Veiling from the eye of day, 
Penance dreams Iier life away ; 
In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs, 
WhOe from each shrine still, small responses rise. 
Heir, with what heartfelt beat the midnight bell 
Swings its slow summons through tlic hollow pile ! 
The wenl, wan i-otstrist leaves Iicr twilight cell, 
To walk, with taper dim, the winding aisle ; 
With choral chantings vaJnly to aspire 
Beyond this nether sphere, on RApliire'- niiis of fire. 



280 ODS TO SUPERSTITION. 

ni. 8. 

Lord of each pang the nenres can feel, 

Hence with the rack and reeking wheel. 
Faith lifts the soul above this little ball ! 

While gleams of glory open round, 

And circling choirs of angels call, 

Canst thou, with all thy terrors crowned, 

Hope to obscure that latent spark. 

Destined to shine when suns are dark ? 

Thy triumphs cease ! through every land, 

Hark ! Truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease ! 

Her heavenly form, with glowing hand. 
Benignly points to piety and peace. 

Flushed with youth, her looks impart 
Each fine feeling as it flows ; 

Her voice the echo of a heart 
Pure as the mountain snows : 

Celestial transports round her play, 

And softly, sweetly die away. 

She smiles ! and where is now the cloud 

That blackened o'er thy baleful reign ? 

Grim darkness ftirls his leaden shroud. 
Shrinking from her glance in vain. 

Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above. 
And, lo ! it visits man with beams of light and love. 



TUB SAILOE. m 



THE SAILOR. 

Thb Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, 
As all its leBsening turrets blaely &de ; 

He climbs the mast to feast his eye once more, 
And busy Fancy fondly lends her aid. 

Ah ! now, each dear, domestic scene he knew, 
Recalled and cherished io a foreign clime, 

Charms with the magic of a moonlight view; 
Its colore mellowed, not impaired, by time. 

True as the needle, homeward points liis heart. 
Through all the horrors of the stormy main ; 

Thb, the last wish that would with life depart, 
To meet the smile of her he loves again. 

When Mom firet faintly draws her silver line, 

Or Eve's gray cloud deacenda to drink the wave ; 

When sea and sky in mid-Diglit d&rkness join, 
Still, still be sees the parting look she gave. 

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er. 
Attends his little bark from pole to pole ; 

And, when the beating billows round him roar, 
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled eoul. 

Carved is her name in many a spicy grove. 
Id many a plantain-forest, waving wide ; 

Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove, 
And giant palms o'erarch the golden tide. 
19* 



222 A WISH. 

But, lo ! at last he comes with crowded sail ! 

Lo ! o'er the cliff what eager figures bend ! 
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale ! 

In each he hears the welcome of a friend. 

'T is she, 't is she herself ! she waves her hand ! 

Soon is the anchor cast, the canvas furled ; 
Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land, 

And clasps the maid he singled from the world. 



A WISH. 



Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
A willowy brook, that turns a mill, 

With many a fall shall linger near. 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch. 
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome guest. 

Around my ivied porch shall spring 

Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; 

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village church, among the trees, 

Where first our marriage vows were given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze. 
And point with taper spire to heaven. 



TUB ALPS AT DAT-BRBAK. 



AN ITAUAN SONG. 

Dear is my little native vale, 

The ring-dove builds and murmurs there ; 
Close by my cot she tells her tale 

To every paasing villager. 
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
And sfaelU his outa at liberty. 

In orangu-grovos ajid myrtle -bowers, 
That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 

I charm tbe feiry-footed hours 

With tny loved lnt«'s romantic sound ; 

Or crowna of living laurel weave, 

For those that win the race at eve. 

The shepherd's horn at break of day. 
The ballet danced in twilight glade, 

The cansunet and roundelay 

Snng in the silent green- wood shade ; 

These simple joys, that never fail, 

Shall bind me to my native vole. 



taV. ALPS AT DAT-BREAK. 

The sunbeams streak the azure skies, 
And lino with light the mountain's brow : 

With houD'Is and homa the hunters rise, 
And chase the roebuck through the snow. 



224 ON A TBAR. 

From rock to rock, with giant-bound, 
High on their iron poles they pass ; 

Mute, lest the air, convulsed by sound, 
Bend from above a frozen mass. 

The goats wind slow their wonted way. 
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude ; 

Marked by the wild wolf for his prey, 
From desert cave or hanging wood. 

And while the torrent thunders loud, 
And as the echoing cliSb reply, 

The huts peep o'er the morning-cloud, 
Perched, like an eagle's nest, on high. 



ON A TEAR. 



! THAT the chemist's magic art 
Could crystallize this sacred treasure ! 

Long should it glitter near my heart, 
A secret source of pensive pleasure. 

The little brilliant, ere it fell, 

Its lustre caught from Chlob's eye ; 

Then, trembling, left its coral cell — 
The spring of Sensibility ! 

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light ! 

In thee the rays of Virtue shine ; 
More calmly clear, more mildly bright, 

Than any gem that gilds the mine. 



WRITTEN' IX A >lL'i; I'H VMCER, 

Benign restorer of the soul ! * 

Who ever fly'st to bring relief, 

When first we feel the rude control 
Of LoTO or Pitj", Joy or Grief. 

The sage's and the poet's theme, 
In every clime, in every age ; 

Thou charm 'st in Fancy's idle dream, 
In Bcason's philosophic page. 

That very law '' which moulds a tear, 
And bids it trickle from its source, 

That law preserves the earth a ^here, 
And guides the planets in their course. 



WRITTEN m A SICK CHAMBER, 



There, in that bed so closely curtained round. 
Worn to a shade and wan with slow decay, 

A fiither sleeps ! 0, hushed be every sound I 
Soft may we breathe the midnight houra away ! 

He stirs — yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams 
Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise ; 

Nor fly, till morning through the shutter streams, 
And on the hearth the glimmering ruah-light dies ! 



826 TO TWO 3ISTBBS. 



TO TWO SESTBRS.w 

179&. 

Well may you sit within, and, fond of grief, 
Look in each other's &ce, and melt in tears. 

Well may you shun all counsel, all relief. 

0, she was great in mind, though young in years ! 

Changed is that lovely countenance, which shed 
Light when she spoke ; and kindled sweet surprisOi 

As o'er her frame each warm emotion spread, 
Played round her lips, and sparkled in her eyes. 

Those lips so pure, that moved but to persuade, 
Still to the last enlivened and endeared. 

Those eyes at once her secret soul conveyed. 
And ever beamed delight when you appeared. 

Yet has she fled the life of bliss below, 

That youthful Hope in bright perspective drew ? 

False were the tints ! false as the feverish glow 
That o'er her burning cheek Distemper threw ! 

And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves ! 

(Glory and joy reserved for you to share.) » 
Far, fiu* more blest in blessing those she loves, 

Than they, alas ! unconscious of her care. 



lit JURIUAUE. 



I'D A FRIEND ON illS MARRUGE. 

On thee, blest yoatb, a father's hand confers 
The maid thy earliest, fondeat wishes knew- 

Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers ; 
Thine be the joys to firm attachment due. 

As on she moves with hesitating grace, 

She wins assurance from his soothing voice ; 

And, wtb ft look the pencil could not trace, 

Smiles through her bluslica, and conlirma the choice. 

Spare the fine tremors of h«r feeling frame ! 

To tlice she turns — forgive a virgin's fears ! 
To thee she turns with sui-est, tendereet claim ; 

Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears ! ' 

At each response the sacred rite requires, 

From her full bosora bursts the unbidden sigh. 

A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires ; 
And on her lips the trembling accents die. 

O'er her fair fece wlial wild emotions play I 

What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend ! 

Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day, 
And settled sunshine on her soul descend ! 



Ah ! soon, thine own confest, ecstatic thought '. 

That hand shall strew thy summer-path with flowers; 
And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught, 

Gild the calm ourront of domestic hours ! 



228 WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS. 



WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS." 

Tbs, 't is the pulae of life ! my fears were vain ; 
I wake, I breathe, and am myself again. 
Still in this nether world ; no seraph yet ! 
Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set. 
With troubled step to haunt the fatal board. 
Where I died last — by poison or the sword ; 
Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night, 
Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light. 

— To drop all metaphor, that little bell 
Galled back reality, and broke the spell. 
No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone ; 
A very woman — scarce restrains her own ! 
Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind. 
When to be grateful is the part assigned ? 
Ah, no ! she scorns the trappings of her art ; 
No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart ! 

But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask 7 
Is here no other actress, let me ask. 
Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, 
Know every woman studies stage-eflFect. 
She moulds her manners to the part she fills, 
As Instinct teaches, or as Humor wills ; 
And, as the grave or gay her talent calls. 
Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls. 

First, how her little breast with triumph swells, 
When the red coral rings its golden bells ! 
To play in pantomime is then the rage^ 
Along the carpet's many-colored stage ; 



WKITTKN TO BE SPOKES IIY MftS. SIDD0N8. 



Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endesror, 
Now here, now there, — in noise and mischief ever I 

A Bchool-girl next, she curls Iior hair in papers, 
And mimics father's goat, and mother's vapors ; 
Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances ; 
Playful at church, and serious ivhen she dances ; 
Tramples alike on customs and on toes, 
And whispers all she heai-s to nil she knows ; 
Terror of caps, and wi^s, and sober notions ! 
A romp ! that longest of perpetual motions ! 
— Till, tamed and tortured into foreign graces. 
She sports her lovely face at public places ; 
And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan, 
First acts her pari with that great actor, MAN. 

Too 90on a flirt, approach her and she flies ! 
Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs I 
Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice ; 
Till fading beauty hints the late advice. 
Her prudence dictates what her pride disdained. 
And now she sues to slaves herself had chained ! 

Then comes that gootl old character, a Wife, 
With all the dear, distracting cares of life ; 
A thousand cards a day at doors to leave. 
And, in return, a thousand cards receive ; 
Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire. 
With nightly blaze set Portlaxij-place on fire ; 
Snatch half a glimpse at concert, opera, ball, 
A meteor, traced by none, though seen by all ; 
And, when her ghatterixl nerves forbid to roam, 
In very spleen ^ rehearse the girls at home. 

Lost the gray Dowager, in ancient flounoee, 
Witli simff and spectacles tlie age denounces; 



230 WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEX BY MBS. STDDOSS. 

Boasts how the sires of this d^enerate Isle 
Knelt for a look, and duelled for a smile. 
The scourge and ridicule of Groth and Vandal, * 
Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal ; 
With modem beUes eternal war&re wages. 
Like her own birds that clamor from their cages ; 
And shuffles round to bear her tale to all. 
Like some old Ruin. '* nodding to its fidl ! " 

Thus WoMA5 makes her entrance and her exit : 
Not least an actress when she least suspects it. 
Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, 
Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot : 
Full oft, with energy that scorns control, 
At once lights up the features of the soul : 
Unlocks each thought chained down by coward Art, 
And to full dajr the latent passions start ! 
— And she, whose first, best wish is your applause. 
Herself exemplifies the truth she draw?. 
Bom on the stage — through every shifting scene. 
Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, 
Still has your smile her trembling spirit fired ! 
And can she act with thoughts like these inspired 7 
No .' from her mind all artifice she flings, 
All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things I 
To you, unchecked, each goiuine feeling flows : 
For all that life endears — to you she owes. 



TO " • ■ • •- — A FAREWELL. 

TO 

Gro — you majr call it madness, folly ; 

You shall Dot cha^e my gloom away. 
There '3 ench a ch&nn in melancholy, 

I would not, if I could, be gay. 

0, if yon knew the pensive pleasure 
Thai fills my bosom when I sigh, 

Yon would not rob mo of a treasure 
Mooarchs are too poor to buy. 



A FABEWELL, 



Adieu ! A long, a long adieu ! 

I must be gone while yet I may. 
Oft ahall I weep to think of you ; 

But here I will not, cannot stay, 

The sweet expression of that &ce, 
Forever changing, yet the same, 

Ah no ! I dare not turn to trace. 
It melts my soul, it fires my finune ! 

Yet give me, give me, ere I go, 
One little lock of those so blest, 

That lend your cheek a warmer glow. 
And on your white neck love to r«it. 

— Say, when, to kindle sofl delight, 
That hand has chanced with mine to n 

How could its thrilling touch excite 
A sigh 80 short, and yet so sweet ? 



2^ FROM A aREBK EPIQRAM. — FROM EURIPIDBd. 

say — but no, it must not be. 

Adieu ! A long, a long adieu ! 
— Yet still, methinks, jou fix)wn on me ; 

Or never could I fly from you. 



FROM A QREEE EHGRAM. 

While on the cliff with calm delight she kneels, 
And the blue vales a thousand joys recall. 
See, to the last, last verge her in&nt steals ! 
0, fly ! — yet stir not, speak not, lest it &11. 
Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, 
And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. 



FROM EURIPIDES. 



There is a streamlet issuing from a rock. 
The village-girls, singing wild madrigals. 
Dip their white vestments in its waters clear. 
And hang them to the sun. There first we met, 
There on that day. Her dark and eloquent eyes 
'T was heaven to look upon ; and her sweet voice. 
As tunable as harp of many strings. 
At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul ! 



Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees ; 
And all, who know it, come and come again. 
The small birds build there ; and at summer-noon 
Oft have I heard a child, gay among flowers. 
As in the shining grass she sate concealed, 
Sing to herself 



CAPrmTT. — WBITTEN AT MrDHlflHT. 



FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET. 
Love, under Frieodahip's vesture white, 
Laughs, hia little limbs concealing; 
And oft in sport, and oft in spite, 
Like Pity meets the dazzled sight, 
Smilea through hia tears revealing. 

But now 03 Kage the god appears ! 
He frowns, and tempests shake his frame .' 
Frowning, or smiling, or in tears, 
'T is Love ; and Love ia still the same. 



CAPTIVrrV. 
Caged in old woods, wboae reverend echoes wake 
When the hem screams along the distant lake, 
Her little heart ofl flutters to be fi-ee, 
Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key. 
In vain! the uurse that rusted relic wears, 
Nor moved by gold — nor to be moved by tears ; 
And terraced walla their black reflection throw 
On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below. 



WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 
While through the broken pane the tempest sigha. 
And my step falters on the feithleaa floor, 
Shades of departed joys around me rise, 
With many a faoe that smiles on mo no more ; 
With many a voice that thrills of transport gave, 
Now silent as the grass that tufts their grave ! 



2M A CHARACTER. — TO AN OLD OAK. 



A CHARACTER. 

As through the hedge-row shade the violet steab, 
And the sweet air its modest leaf reveals ; 
Her softer charms, but bj their influence known, 
Surprise all hearts, and mould them to her own. 



TO AN OLD OAK. 

Trunk of a giant now no more ! 
Once did thy limbs to heaven aspire ; 
Once, by a track untried before, 
Strike as resolving to explore 
Realms of infernal fire.^ 

Round thee, alas ! no shadows move ! 
From thee no sacred murmurs breathe ! 
Yet within thee, thyself a grove. 
Once did the eagle scream above, 
And the wolf howl beneath. 

There once the red-cross knight reclined, 
His resting-place, a house of prayer ; 
And, when the death-bell smote the wind 
From towers long fled by human kind, 
He knelt and worshipped there ! 

Then Culture came, and days serene ; 
And village-sports, and garlands gay. 
Full many a pathway crossed the green ; 
And maids and shepherd-youths were seen 
To celebrate the May. 



TO THH TODNQBST DADCHTBB OF LADT * * . 

Father of many a forest deep, 
Whence many a navy thuuder- fraught .' 
Eret in thy acom-cells asleep, 
Soon destined o'er the world to sweep, 
Opening new Bphercs of thought ! 

Wont in the night of woods to dwell, 
The holy Druid saw thee rise ; 

And, planting there the guard Ian -spell, 
Sung forth, the dreadful pomp to swell 
Of human sacrifice ! 

Thy singed top and branches bare 
Now straggle in the evening-sky ; 
And the wan moon wheels round to glare 
On the long corse that shivers ihere 
Of him who came to die ! 



TO THR YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF LADY • 

Ah ! why with tell-tale tongue reveal " 
What most her bluahes would conceal 1 
Why lift that modest veil to trace 
The seraph -sweetness of her face 1 
Some fiiirfir, better sport prefer ; 
And feel for us, if not for her. 

For this presumption, soon or late. 
Enow thine shall be a kindred fate. 
Another shall in i,-engeance rise — 
Sing Harriet's cheeks, and Itmet's eyes : 
And, echoing bock her wood-notes wild. 
— Trace nil the mother in the child ! 



286 TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST, 



TO THE GNAT. 

When by the greenwood side, at summer eye, 
Poetic visions charm my closing eje ; 
And &iry-8cenes, that Fancy loves to weave, 
Shift to wild notes of sweetest minstrelsy ; 
'T i^ thine to range in busy quest of prey, 
Thy feathery antlers quivering with delight, 
Brush from my lids the hues of heaven away. 
And all is solitude, and all is night ! 

— Ah! now thy barbed shaft, relentless fly, 
Unsheaths its terrors in the sultry air ! 

No guardian sylph, in golden panoply. 
Lifts the broad shield, and points the glittering spear. 
Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings. 
Thy dragon-scales still wet with human gore. 
Hark, thy shrill horn its fearful larum flings ! 

— I wake in horror, and dare sleep no more ! 



TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST « 

Vaoe, quid aflbctas taxAem mlhl panere, plctor f 

Aeiis et llngiuD Bom fllUi } 

Et, bI vis BirnUem pingere, pinge Bonum. — AusoNius. 

Once more, Enchantress of the soul. 
Once more we hail thy soft control. 
— Yet whither, whither didst thou fly? 
To what bright region of the sky ? 
Say, in what distant star to dwell ? 
(Of other worlds thou seem'st to tell) 



TO THE Bl'-ETERFLy. 

Or trembling, fluttering here below, 
Reaolvcd and unroBolTed to go, 
In aecret didst thou still impart 
Thy raptures to the pure in heart 1 

Perhaps to many a desert shore, 
Thee, in his rage, the tempest bore ; 
Thy broken murmure swept along, 
Mid echoes yet untuned by aong ; 
Arrested in the realms of frost, 
Or in the wilda of ether lost. 

Far happier then ! "t was thine to soar, 
Careering on the winged wind. 
Thy triumphs who shall dare explore t 
Suns and their systems left behind. 
No tract of space, no distant star. 
No shock of elements at war, 
Did thee detain. Thy wing of fire 
Bore thee amid the chemb-ehoir ; 
And there a while to thcc 't was giTen 
Once more that voice* beloved to join. 
Which taught thee first a flight divine, 
And nursed thy infant years with many & stnun from 
Hearen ! 



TO THE BUTTERFLY. 
Child of the sun I pursue thy rapturous flight, 
Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light | 
And, where the flowers of Paradise unfold, 
Quaff fragrant nectar ti*om their cups of gold. 



288 TO THB FRAGMENT OF A STATUE OF HEBCX7LES. 

There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky, 
Expand and shut with silent ecstasy ! 
— Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept 
On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept 
And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay 
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day ! 



AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST « 

Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said, 
When piping winds are hushed around, 
A small note wakes from underground, 
Where now his tiny bones are laid. 
No more in lone and leafless groves, 
With ruffled wing and £sded breast, 
His friendless, homeless spirit roves ; 
— Qone to the world where birds are blest ! 
Where never cat gUdes o'er the green, 
Or school-boy's giant form is seen ; 
But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring, 
Inspire their little souls to sing ! 



TO THE FRAGMENT OP A STATUE OP HERCULES. 

COMMONLr CALLED THB TORSO. 

And dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone 
(Thy giant limbs to night and chaos hurled). 
Still sit as on the fragment of a world ; 
Surviving all, majestic and alone ? 



Wliat though the Spirits of the North, that swept 
Rome from the earth when in her pomp she slept, 
Smote thee with fury, and thy headless trunk 
Deep in the dust mid tower and temple sunk ; 
Soon to subdue mankind 'twas thine to riae, 
Still, still unquolled thy glorious energies ! 
Aspiring minds, with thee conversing, caught 
Bright rcveliitions of the Good they sought ;" 
By ihee that long-loat sfioll in secret given, 
To draw down gods, unci lift the soul to Heaven !* 



Ah ' little thought she, when, with wild delight, 
By many a torrent's shining track she flew. 

When mountain -glens and caverns full of night 
O'er her young mind divine enchantment throw, 

That in her veins a secret horror slept, 

That her light footsteps should be heard no more, 

That she should die — nor watched, alas ! nor wept 
By thee, unconacioua of the panga she bore. 

Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew 
The kmdred forms her closing eye required. 

There didst thou stand — there, with the smile she knew ; 
She moved her lips to bless thee, and expired. 

And now to tliee she comes ; still, still tho same 

Afl in tho hours gone unregarded by ! 
To thee, bow changed, comes as she ever came ; 

Health on her cheek, nnd pleiisure in her eye ! 



SIT) THE BOT OF EGRBMOND. 

Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears, 
When lingering, as prophetic of the truth, 

By the way-side she shed her parting tears — 
Forever lovely in the light of Youth ! 



THE BOY OF EGREMOND. 

•* Say, what remains when Hope is fled? '* 
She answered, ** Endless weeping ! " 
For in the herdsman's eye she read 
Who in his shroud lay sleeping. 

At Embsay rung the matin-bell, 
The stag was roused on Barden-fell ; 
The mingled sounds were swelling, dying, 
And down the Wharfe a hern was flying ; 
When near the cabin in the wood, 
In tartan-clad and forest-green, 
With hound in leash and hawk in hood, 
The Boy of Egremond was seen.'* 
Blithe was his song, a song of yore ; 
But where the rock is rent in two, 
And the river rushes through. 
His voice was heard no more ! 
'T was but a step ! the gulf he passed ; 
But that step — it was his last ! 
As through the mist he winged his way 
(A cloud that hovers night and day). 
The hound hung back, and back he drew 
The master and his merlin too. 



WBITTSN IS THE HlflBLASDS OF SCOTLAHD. 

Tli&t narrow place of noise and strife 
Received their little all of life ! 

There now the matin-bell is rung ; 
The " Miserere ! " duly aung ; 
And holy men in cowl and hood 
Are wandering up and down the wood. 
But what avail they 1 Ruthlcaa Lord, 
Thou diiist not shudder when the sword 
Here on the young its fury spent, 
The helpless and the innocent. 
Sit now and answer, groan for groan. 
The child before thee is thy own. 
And she who wildly -^vandera there, 
The mother in her long despair, 
Shall of^ remind thee, waking, sleeping, 
Of those who by the Wharfe were weeping : 
or those who would not be consoled 
When red with blood the rivor rolled. 



WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND, 
Seftevber 2, 1812. 

Blue was the loch, the clouds wore gone. 
BcD-Lomond in hia glory shone, 
When, Lu83, I left thee ; when the breeie 
Bore mo from thy silver sands, 
Thy kirk-yard wall among the trees. 
Where, gray with age, the dial stinds ; 
That dial so well known to me ! 
— Though many a aliadow it had slie*!, 
21 



S42 WBITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAKD. 

Beloved sister, since with thee 
The legend on the stone was read. 

The fiury-isles fled &r away ; 
That with its woods and uplands green, 
Where shepherd-huts are dimly seen, 
And songs are heard at close of day ; 
That too, the deer's wild covert, fled, 
And that, the asylum of the dead : 
While, as the boat went merrily. 
Much of Rob Rot the boatman told ; 
His arm that fell below his knee. 
His cattlerford and mountain-hold. 

Tarbat," thy shore I climbed at last ; 
And, thy shady region passed, 
Upon another shore I stood. 
And looked upon another flood ; ^ 
Great Ocean's self ! ('T is He who fills 
That vast and awful depth of hills) ; 
Where many an elf was playing round, 
Who treads unshod his classic ground ; 
And speaks, his native rocks among. 
As FiNGAL spoke, and Ossian sung. 

Night fell ; and dark and darker grew 
That narrow sea, that narrow sky. 
As o'er the glimmering waves we flew ; 
The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. 
And now the grampus, half-descried, 
Black and huge above the tide ; 
The clifl^ and promontories there. 
Front to front, and broad and bare ; 
Each beyond each, with giant-feet 
Advancing as in haste to meet * 



The shattered fortress, whence the Dane 

Blew his shrill blast, nor rushed in yain, 

Tyrant of the drear domain ; 

All into midnight-aha^ow sweep — 

When day springs upward from the deep !' 

Kindling the waters in ila flight, 

The prow wakes splendor ; and the oar, 

That rose and fell unseen before, 

Flashes in a sea of light ! 

Glad sign, and sure ! for now we bail 

Thy flowers, Glenfinnart, in the gale ; 

And bright indeed the path should be, 

That leads to Friendship and to thee ! 

blest retreat, and sacred too ! 
Sacred as when the bell of prayer 
Tolled duly on the desert air, 
And crosses decked thy sununits blue. 
Of^, like some lord romantiu tale, 
Oft shall my weary mind recall, 
Amid the hum and stir of men, 
Tby beechen-grove and waterfell. 
Thy ferry with its gliding sail. 
And her — the Lady of the Glen '. 



ON . . . ASLEEP. 
StEEP on, and dream of Heaven a while. 
Though shut BO close thy laughing eyes, 
Thy rosy lips still wear a smile. 
And move, and breathe delicious sighs ! — 



AS INSCBIPTION IN THE CBIMHA. 

Ah '. now Bofl blushes tinge her cheeks, 
And mantle o'er her neck of snow. 
Ah! now she murmure, now she speaks, 
What most I wish — imd fear to know. 

She starts, she tremhics, ftnd she weeps ! 
Her &ir hands folded oa her breast. 
— And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! 
A seraph in the realms of rest ! 

Sleep on secure .' Alwve control, 
Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee '. 
And may the secret of thy 8onl 
Remain wJthia its sanctnary ! 



AN INSCRIPTION IN THE CRIMEA. 

Shepherd, or Huntsman, or worn Mariner, 
Wbate'er thou art, who wouldat allay thy thirst, 
Drink and be glad. This cistern of white stone, 
Arched, and o'ensTuught with many it sacred verse, 
This iron-cup chained for the general use. 
And these rude scata of earth within the grove, 
Were given by Fatima. Borne hence a bride, 
'T was here she turned from her beloved sire. 
To see his face no more* 0, if thou canst 
('T is not far off), visit his tomb with flowova ; 
And with a drop of this sweet water fill 
The two small cells scooped in the marble there, 
That birds may conae and drink upon his grnve, 
Making it holy" 



IIEFLECTIOKS. 



AppbOAOH with revereace. There are thoee within 
Whose dwdling-place is Heaven. Daughteis of Jove, 
From them flow all the decencies of life ; 
Without them nothing pleeflea, Virtue's self 
Admind, not loved : and those on wbton they smile, 
Great tliough they be, and wise, and beautiful, 
Shine fi»th with double lustre. 



REFLECTIONS. 
Man to the last is but a froward child ; 
So eager for the fatore, come what may, 
Ard to the present bo insensible ! 
0, if he could in all things as he would, 
Years would as days and hours as moments be 
He would, 80 restless b hia spirit here, 
Gire wings to Time, and wish his life away ! 



AtAS ! to our disoomfiat and his own, 
Oft are the greatest talents to be found 
In a fool's keeping. For what else is he, 
However worldly wise and worldly strong, 
Who can pervert and to the worst abuse 
The noblest means to serve the noblest ends ■. 
Who can employ the gift of eloquence, 
That sacred gift, to dazzle and delude ; 
Or, if achievement in the field be his, 
21* 



246 REFLECTIONS. 

Climb but to gain a loss, suffering how much, 

And how much more inflicting ! Eveiywhere, 

Cost what the J will, such cruel freaks are played; 

And hence the turmoil in this world of ours, 

The turmoil never ending, still beginning, 

The wailing and the tears. — When CfiSAR came, 

He who could master all men but himself, 

Who did so jnuch and could so well record it ; 

Even he, the most applauded in his part, 

Who, when he spoke, all things summed up in him, 

Spoke to convince, nor ever, when he fought, 

Fought but to conquer — what a life was his. 

Slaying so many, to be slain at last,"^ 

A life of trouble and incessant toil, 

And all to gain what is far better missed ! 



The heart, they say, is wiser than the schools ; 
And well they may. All that is great in thought, 
That strikes at once as with electric fire, 
And lifts us, as it were, from earth to heaven. 
Comes from the heart ; and who confesses not 
Its voice as sacred, nay, almost divine. 
When inly it declares on what we do, 
Blaming, approving 1 Let an erring world 
Judge as it will, we care not while we stand 
Acquitted there ; and oft, when clouds on clouds 
Compass us round and not a track appears. 
Oft is an upright heart the surest guide. 
Surer and better than the subtlest head ; 
Still with its silent counsels through the dark 
Onward and onward leading. 



BEFLBCTI0N3. 



This Obild, so lovely and so cherub-like 

(No feirer spirit in the heaven of heaTena), 

Say, must he know remorae ? Must Passion oome, 

Passion in all or any of its sliapes, 

To cloud and sully what is now so pure 1 

Yes, come it roust. For who, alas ' has lived, 

Nor in the watehes of tlic night recalled 

Words be has wished unsnid and deeds undone 1 

Yes, come it must. But if, na wc may hope, 

Ue loams ore long to discipline his mind, 

And onward goes, humbly and cheerfully, 

Assisting them that faint, weak though he be, 

And in his trying hours trusting in God ^ 

Fair as he is, he shall be fairer still ; 

For what was Innocence will then be Virtne. 



0, IF the Selfish knew hov much they lost, 
What would they not endeavor, not endure, 
To imitate, as far as in tliem lay, 
Him who his wisdom and his power employs 
Tn making otliers happy ! 



Henob to the Altar and with her thou lov'st. 
With her who longs to strew thy way with flowers ; 

Nor lose the blessed privilege to give 

Birth to a race immortal us yourselves. 

Which, trained by you, sliall make a Heaven on earth 

And ti-ead the patli that leads from earth to Heaven. 



S48 FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET. 



WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. 

SBPTKMBn 8, 1848. 

If Day reyeaJs such wonders by her light, 
What by her darkness cannot Night reveal ? 
For at her bidding, when she mounts her throne 
The heavens unfold, and from the depths of space 
Sun beyond sun, as when called forth they came, 
Each with the worlds that round him rolled rejoicing, 
Sun beyond sun in numbers numberless 
Shine with a radiance that is all their own ! 



FROM AN ITALIAN SONNET. 

I SAID to Time, *' This venerable pile. 
Its floor the earth, its roof the firmament, 
Whose was it once ? " He answered not, but fled 
Fast as before. I turned to Fame, and asked. 
^^ Names such as his, to thee they must be known. 
Speak ! " But she answered only with a sigh. 
And, musing, mournfully, looked on the ground. 
Then to Oblivion I addressed myself, 
A dismal phantom, sitting at the gate ; 
And, with a voice as from the grave, he cried, 
*< Whose it was once I care not ; now 't is mine." 



WKITTES rS WKSTMINSTEH ABBEY. 



WRITTEN IN WESTMISSTEB ABBEY." 



Wuoe'er than art, approach, antl, with a sigh, 
Mark where the amtill rcmntus of Greatness tie.^ 
Tliere sleeps the dost of Fox forever gone ; 
How near the plnce where late his glory Bhone ! 
And, though uo more ascends the voice of prayer, 
Though the last footsteps ceaae t» linger there, 
Still, like an awful dream thut comes again, 
Alas ! at host, as transient and as vain, 
Still do I see (while through the vaults of night 
The fuueral-song once more proclaims the rite) 
7he moving pomp along the shadowy aisle, 
That, like a darkness, filled the solemn pile ; 
The illustrioos line, that in long order led, 
Of those, that loved him living, mourned him dekd ; 
Of those the few, that for their country stood 
Reund him who dared he singularly good ; 
All, of all ranks, that claime*! him for their own ; 
And nothing wanting — but himself, alone ! " 
0, say, of him now rests there but a name : 
Wont, as he was, to breathe ethereal flame 7 
Friend of the absent, guardian of the dead ! 
Who but would here their sacred sorrows shed? 
(Such afl ho shed on Nelson's closing grave ; 
How »ooD to claim the sympathy he gave !) 
In him, resentful of another's wrong, 
The dumb were elutjuent, the feeble strong. 
Truth from his lips a charm celestial drew — 
All I who so mighty an<l so gentle too 1 



860 WRITTEN AT DROPMORE. 

What though with war the madding nations rung, 
' Peace," when he spoke, was ever on his tongue ! 
Amid the frowns of power, the tricks of state. 
Fearless, resolved, and negligently great ! 
In vain malignant vapors gathered round ; 
He walked, erect, on consecrated ground. 
The clouds, that rise to quench the orb of day, 
Reflect its splendor, and dissolve away ! 

When in retreat he laid his thunder by, 
For lettered ease and calm philosophy, 
Blest were his hours within the silent grove, 
Where still his godlike spirit deigns to rove ; 
Blest by the orphan's smile, the widow's prayer, 
For many a deed, long done in secret there. 
There shone his lamp on Homer's hallowed page. 
There, listening, sate the hero and the sage ; 
And they, by virtue and by blood allied. 
Whom most he loved, and in whose arms he died. 

Friend of all human-kind ! not here alone 
(The voice, that speaks, was not to thee unknown) 
Wilt thou be missed. — O'er every land and sea 
Long, long shall England be revered in thee ! 
And, when the storm is hushed — in distant years-— 
Foes on thy grave shall meet, and mingle tears ! 



WRITTEN AT DROPMORE, 

July, 1881. 

Grbnville, to thee my gratitude is due 
For many an hour of studious musing here, 
For many a day-dream, such as hovered round 
Hafiz or Sadi ; through the golden East, 



WRITTEN AT STEATUFIELD 8ATB. 26j 

SenTch where we would, no fiurcr bowers than these, 

Thine own creation ; wh«re, called forth by thee, 

"Flowers worthj of Paradise, with rich inlay, 

Broider tUo ground," and every mountain-pine 

Elsewhere unseen (his birth-place in the clouds, 

Hia kindred sweeping with majestic march 

From cliff to cliff along the snowy ridge 

Of Caucasua, or neai-oi' jet the moon) 

Breathes heavenly music. — Yet much more I owe 

For what so few, alua I can hope to share, 

Thy converse ; when, among thy books reclined, 

Or in thy gHjden-«hair that wheels its course 

Slowly and silently through sun and shade, 

Thou speak 'at, as ever thou art wont to do. 

In the calm temper of philosophy ; 

— Still to delight, instruct, whate'er the theoie. 



WBITTEX AT Sl'RATHFIELD SAYE. 
These are the groves a grateful people gave 
For noblest service : and, from age to age, 
May they, to such as come with listening ear, 
Relate the slory ! Sacred is their shade ; 
Sacreit the calm they breathe — 0, how unlike 
What in the field 't was bis so long to know .' 
Where many a mournfut. many an aiixioos thought," 
Troubling, perplexing, on hia weary mind 
Preyed, ere lo arms the morning- trumpet called ; 
AVliere, till the work wag done and darkness fell, 
Blood nin like water, and, go where thou wouldat, 
Death in thy pathway met thee, face to &ce. 



262 WRITTEN IN JULY, 1884. 

For on, legEurdleBs of himself, he went ; 
And, hj no change elated or depressed, 
Fought, till he won the imperishable wreath, 
Leading the conquerors captive ; oa he went, 
Bating nor heart nor hope, whoe'er opposed ; 
The greatest warriors, in their turn, appearing; 
The last that came, the greatest of them all — 
One scattering hosts as bom but to subdue, 
And even in bondage withering hearts with fear. 

When such the service, what the reccmipense 1 
Yet, and I err not, a renown as fair, 
And &irer still, awaited him at home ; 
Where to the last, daj after day, he stood. 
The partj-zeal, that round him raged, restraining ; 
— His not to rest, while his the strength to serve.*^ 



WRITTEN IN JULY, 1834. 

Grey, thou hast served, and well, the sacred cause 
That Hampden, Sydney died {or. Thou hast stood, 
Scorning all thought of self, from first to last, 
Among the foremost in that glorious field ; 
From first to last ; and, ardent as thou art, 
Held on with equal step as best became 
A lofty mind, loftiest when most assailed ; 
Never, though galled by many a barbed shaft. 
By many a bitter taunt from friend and foe, 
Swerving or shrinkmg. Happy in thy youth, 
Thy youth the dawn of a \oag summer-day ; 
^ But in thy age still happier ; thine to earn 
The gratitude of millions yet unborn ; 



WRITTEN IS 18«. 

Thine to conduct, through ways how difficult, 

A mighty people in their tuajvh sublime 
From Good to Bettor, Great thy rccompciiBe, 
When in their eyes thou read' at what thou hast done ; 
And m&y'Bt thou long enjoy it; maj'st thou long 
Preserve for tliem what thtiy still claim as theirs, 
That generous fervor and pure eloquence, 
Thine from thy birth and Nature's noblest gifts, 
To guard what they have gained ! 



WEirrEN IN 1834. 

Well, when her day is over, be it said 
That, though a speck on the tem^Btrinl globe. 
Found with long seiirch and in a moment lost, 
She made herself a name — a name to live 
While science, eloquence, and son^ divine, 
And wisdom, in self-govemmcnt displayed, 
And valor, such us only in the Free, 
Shall among men be honored. 

Erery sea 
Wag covorod with her sails; in every port 
Her language spoken ; and, whero'er you went, 
Exploring, to the ea^t or to the west, 
Even to the rising or the setting day, 
Her arts and laws and institutes were there, 
Moving with silent and majestic march. 
Onward and onward, when) no pathway was ; 
There her adventurous sons, like those of old. 
Founding vast empires" — empires in their turn 
22 



254 WRITTEN IK 1834. 

Destined to shine through many a distant age 
With sun-like splendor. 

Wondrous was her wealth, 
The world itself her willing tributary ; 
Yet, to accomplish what her soul desired, 
All was as nothing ; and the mightiest kings. 
Each in his hour of strife exhausted, &llen, 
Drew strength from her, their coffers from her own 
Filled to o'erflowing. When her fleets of war 
Had swept the main, — had swept it and were gone. 
Gone from the eyes and from the minds of men. 
Their dreadful errand so entirely done, — 
Up rose her armies ; on the land they stood. 
Fearless, erect ; and in an instant smote 
Him with his legions.** 

Yet ere long 't was hers, 
Great as her triumphs, to eclipse them all, 
To do what none had done, none had conceival. 
An act how glorious, making joy in Heaven ; 
When, such her prodigality, condemjied 
To toil and toil, alas ! how hopelessly, 
Herself in bonds, for ages unredeemed — 
As with a godlike energy she sprung, 
All else forgot, and, burdened as she was, 
Ransomed the African.*^ 



NOTES. 



(D Written In 1785. 

CD The Mcrifioe oTIphigenlA. 

C8> Lucretlas, I. 63. 

(D The foneral rite oTtbe Hindoos. 

Wi Tbe Tatee of tbe northern nqrtlMlQgy. — 8tt MaUtVi AniiquUU§. 

ff> An alhuion tothe aeoood sight 

(7) ASn. n. 172, ke. 

(/Si The boU, Apis. 

(A The orooodOe. 

<10> Aooordiog to an tnelent prorert, it was less dUBcott in Igypi to find a god than m 



ai) The Hierogljphks. 

(U) The Catacombs. 

OS) t^The Persians,'* says Herodotus, (<haTe no temples, altars or statoes. They 
sacrifloe on tbe tops of the highest moontains.'* —L 181. 

a« JBn. YL iAyke, 

04) See Tacittu, I. zir. c 20. 

Of) This remarkable erent happened at tte siege and saekof Jerasaleai,in the last year 
of the elerenth oentnry. —Mattk. ParUj lY. 3. 

OT) The law of graritatfon. 

(14) On tbe death of a young sister. 

09) After a tragedy, perfcrmed Cor her benefit at tbe Theatre Boyal, in Dmry Lane, 
April 27, 1706. 

C0> Badioe in Tartara teodlt — Tirg-. 

<W AOodlng to sons tstms whieh she had writtn on an eUar riatsr. 



256 NOTES. 

• 

0B) In the winter of 1806. 

(ff> Mn.8berldan^ 

<W Inecrlbed on an urn in the flower-garden at Hafiod. 

{S9 In the gardena of the Vatican, where it waa placed bf JraXtoM IL, it waa loof ths 
fttvorite itady of thoae great men to whom we owe the rerival of the arte, Miofaael Aafeio^ 
Raphael and the Oaracd. 

(SB) Once In the posaesaion of Prazitelea, if we may believe an anolent epigram ca tbo 
Qnidlan Yenns. — Jno/eeta Vet. Poeiarum, UL 900. 

(ST) On the death of her eieter, in 1806. 

(39 In the twelfth century WIDiam Ttta-Duncan AaSL waste the TaHeya of OraTcn with 
ftre and aword } and waa afterwarda estabUahed there by hie ande, David, King of 8oot> 
land. * 

He waa the last of the race } hla eon, oommooly called the Boy of Igremood, dying 
before him in the manner here related } when a Priory waa rMBOVed fhaa BBJuay to 
BoltoD, that it might be as near as possible to the place whwe the aooideot happened. 
That place is stUi known by the name of the Strid ; and the mother's answer, as gtren in 
the first stania, is to this day often repeated in WharMala. — ASe IF> rta l wr» t JHsf. ^f 
Craven. 

CO) Signifying In the Gadio language an isthmus. 

<3Q) Lodi-Long. 

CSO A phenomenon described by many navigators. 

CSS) There Is a beantiftd story, delivered down to us from antiquity, whidi wIQ here, 
perh^w, occur to the readv. 

loarina, wlien he gvn Fendope in marriage to Ulysses, endeavored to persaade Idm to 
dweQ in Lacediemon , and, |phen all he urged was to no purpose, he entreated his 
daughter to remain with him. Whei^lysees set out with his bride for Ithaca, the old 
man followed the chariot tQI, overoooW by his importunity, mjasua consented thai it 
ahould be left to Pend<^ to decide whether she would {H-ooeed with him oi^ return with 
her fiUher. It Is related, says Pausanias, that she made no reply, but that she covered 
herself with her veil $ and that learlus, peroetvtng at eoee fay it that she fndUned to 
Ulysses, sulfered her to depart with him. 

A statue was afterwards placed by her &ther as a memorial fai tiiat part of the road 
wh«re she had covered herself with her veiL It was sUU standing there in the days of 
Pausanias, and waa called the statue of Modesty. 

OS) A TarUsh superstition. 

(94) At Wobnm Abbey. 

(38) He is said to have slain a millian of men in Oanl alone. 

(36) After the ftmeral of the Bight Hon. Charub Jamis Tox. 

GIf) Yenes voir le peu qui nous reste de tant de grandeur, &c. — Bottuet, Orai»<m 
J^inibre de Louie de Bourbon. 

(?8i St rien enfin ne manque dans tons oes honneurs, que cdui A qui on let rend. — 
Boeeuet. Oraieon fknibrt de Loute de Bomrbon. 



it itnye I vlcpt In h Dufo^iuii 



>j Iriendi, oat cooU I bring ajieIC Is Itilnk otlMnr 



D FrMaj, t>» IWi d NoTcmlxr, ISSO, Ibere wu u ukuMt U Brtdgmilir 

■ hanK wblcta liu Idoc ceunl Is be, vid of vUrb on ftone U nmr reMoi gn 

It wu then ibax I wr ft lAdj vhoM bcAutj- vu tbfl kul of her MLrbiUDiji, 

hU, >* I nerer He jm DOW,** — "Wheamaj' I cume t"^ — ^Cdouod EnndtrBt 

■■ At lln, tbvD, rou Alt] K« me." — ^' RcoKnjber Are." — And Ibrougb Uw btui- 



iHKlu had (Frertiwd Di ) wl lit 



<g Lam niilliuid'i, In 



Is III* boue, Nn. 1, Id Cultm Oinkot. Thenmnt 

Ibe door, uid I nid, '^ n» duke !■ ben." — " But jon mre eipeelcd, bit." — 1 vent In wi 
fboud bfm lUUiv vlth Ibe lidj o( Ibe bouc, tbe Indj wbo hud n»de Iht IppoinlBieiil, dc 
■u II Inn; bcftn hs ijxAe M Mknri t 
■^Tbcf vuitueto pUcB niTHlf Kt tbft beftdof m ftction, but I tcD tbon tbit loeT* 



w Wben I Rta^^ I it 



lO, nerer — vilL 1 plnce dtkL/ ab 
ofioe, »giUo ud RfAls under mf 



ml, on Ihu rcnr night. 



tott 10 reglaer Ibe edict of the p«)|ile. ■ 



ITALY. 



PREFAOB. 



In this poem the author has endeavored to describe his jonmey throngh 
a beautiful country ; and it may not perhaps be uninteresting to those who 
hare learnt to live in past times as well as present, and whose minds are 
familiar with the events and the people that have rendered Italy so iUos- 
triotts ; for, wherever he came, he could not but remember ;~ nor is he con- 
scious of having slept over any ground that has been " dignified by wisdom, 
bravery or virtue." 

Much of it was originally published as it was written on the spot. He 
has since, on a second visit, revised it throughout, and added many stories 
from the old chroniclers, and many notes illustrative of the manners, oua- 
toms and superstitions, there. 



ITALY. 



THE LAKE OF GENEVA. 

Day glimmered in the east, and the white Moon 

Hung like a. vapor in the cloudless aky, 

Yet visible, when on mj way I went, 

Glad 10 be gone ; a pilgrim from the North, 

Now more and more attracted as I drew 

Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan 

Had &om hia window leant, drowsy, half-clad, 

To snuff the mom, or the caged lark poured forth, 

From his green aod upepringiog aa to heaven 

(His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song 

Old in the days of Homer, and his wings 

With transport quivering), on my way I went 

Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily. 

Thy gates so slow to open, awift to shut ; 

As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived,' 

Whose name ie now thy glory, now by thee, 

Such virtue dwells in those small syllables. 

Inscribed to consecrate the narrow street, 

Djh birth-place, — when, but one short stop too lato, 

In his despair, as though the die were cast, 



262 ITALY. 

He flung him down to weep, and wept till dawn ; 
Then rose to go, a wanderer through the world. 

'T is not a tale that every hour brings with it.* 
Tet at a city-gate, from time to time. 
Much may be learnt ; nor, London, least at thine, 
Thy hive the busiest, greatest of them all. 
Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by, 
And note who passes. Here comes one, a youth, 
Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power, 
A Ghattbbton — in thought admired, caressed, 
And crowned like Petrarch in the Capitol ; 
Ere long to die, to &11 by his own hand, 
And fester with the vilest Here come two, 
Less feverish, less exalted — soon to part, 
A Garrick and a Johnson ; Wealth and Fame 
Awaiting one, even at the gate ; Neglect 
And Want the other. But what multitudes. 
Urged by the love of change, and, like myself. 
Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's &re, 
Press on — though but a rill entering the sea, 
Entering and lost ! Our task would never end. 

Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze 
Ruffling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave. 
If such they might be called, dashed aa in sport. 
Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach 
Making wild music, and far westward caught 
The sunbeam — where, alone and as entranced, 
Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff 
Lay with his circular and dotted line 
On the bright waters. When the heart of man 
Is light with hope, all things are sure to please ; 
And soon a passage-boat swept gayly by. 



THE LAKZ or GENEVA. 



Laden with peasant-girk and fruits and flcmers, 

And many a chanticleer and partlet caged 

Tor Vbvbv's market-place — a motley group 

Seen through the silvery baze. But soon 't vras gone. 

The shifting sail flapped idly to and &o, 

Then bore ttiem oE I am not one of those 

So dead to alt things in this visible work), 

So wondroualy profound, as to move on 

In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old ^ 

(His name is justly in the Calendar) 

Who dirough the day pursued this pleasant path 

That winds beside the mirror of all beauty,* 

And, when at eve his fellow-pilgrima sate, 

Discoursing of the lake, asked where it was. 

They marvelled, as they might ; and so must all, 

Seeing what now I saw : for now 't was day, 

And the bright sun was in tlie firmament, 

A thousand shadows of a thousand hues 

Checkering the clear expanse. A while his orb 

Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Most Blanc, 

Thy seaB of ice and ice-built promontories. 

That change ttieir shiii)C3 forever as in sport ; 

Then travelled onward and went down behind 

The pine-clad heights of Juba, lighting up 

The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe 

Borae homeward through the foreet in his band ; 

And, on the edge of some o'erhanging cliff. 

That dungeon-fortrcsa " never to bo named," 

Where, like a lion taken In the toils, 

TouBSaint breathed out bis hnive and gcnerouB spirit. 

Little did be, who sent hitn tbere to die. 

Think, when he gave the wonl, tlmt bo Iiiniwlf, 



I 



Great as he vas, the greatest among men, 
Should in like manner be eo soon conveyed 
Athwart the deep, — and to a rock ao small 
Amid the couDtlees multitude of waves, 
Thut ships have gone and sought it, and ratum'^, 
Saying it was not ! 



MEILLEBIE. 

TiiESE gray majestic cli& that tower to' heaven, 

These glimmering gludes and open chestnut grovee, 

That echo to the heifer's wandering bell, 

Or woodman's axe, or steers-man's song beneath, 

As on he urges his fir-laden bark, 

Or shout of goatherd boy aliovo them all, 

Who loves not 1 And who blesses not the light, 

When through some loop-hole he aurveys the lake 

Blue as a sapphire-stone, and richly set 

With chateaux, villages, and vilUge-spircs, 

Orchards and vineyards, alpa and alpine snows 1 

Here would I dwell ; nor visit, but in thought, 

Fernkt far south, silent and empty now 

As now thy once luxurious bowers, Ripaillb / 

Vkvey, so long an exiled patriot's' home ; 

Or CiiiLLON's dungeon-floors beneath the ware. 

Channelled iwid worn by pacing to and fro; 

Lausanne, where Gibbon in his sheltered walk 

Nightly called up the shade of anuient Roue/ 

Or CoppET, and that dark untrodden grove '" 

Sacred to Virtue, and a daughter's tears ! 

Here would I dwell, forgetting and forgot ; 



.And oft methinks (of such Btrango potency 

The spells thut Genius scattera where he will) 

~ \ should I wander forth like one in search, 

a toy, !laIf^l^eaming, " Here St. PllKDX has stood ' ■ 
Then turn uud gaze on Claben!;. 

Yet thore is, 
Within an eagle's flight iinil leas, a scene 
Still noblor if tiut fairer (oiii-c again 
Would I bcliold it ere these eyes are closed, 
For I CiUi Biiy, '■ I also have been there ! ") 
That sacred lake " withdntwn among the hills, 
ItB depth of wafers flaukod as with a vraJI 
Built by the giant-i-ace before the flood ; 
Where not a crod3 or chapel hut inspires 
Holy delight, lifting our thoughts to God 
From godlike men, — men ia » barbfu-ouB ago 
That dared assert lliL-ir Ijiithright, and displnyed 
Deeds halfHlJEiuc, reluruiag good for ill ; 
That in the desert bownd die seeds of life, 
Fnmmg a barnl of small rcpublica there, 
Which still exist, the envy of the world ! 
Who would not land iu ca«h, and tread the ground ; 
Land where TivLL le!i{>ed ashore ; and climb to drink 
Of the three hallowed foontains '.' He that docs 
Comes back the better ; aud relates at home 
That he was met and greciod by a race 
Such as he read of in his boyish days ; 
Such as MiLTlAUBs at Marathon 
Led, when he chased the Fereiuns to their ships. 

There, while the well-known boat is heaving in, 
Piled with rude merchandise, or launching forth, 
Thronged with wild cattle for It&lian fairs, 



266 ITALY. 

There in the sunshine, 'mid their native snower, 
Children, let loose from school, c(Xitend to use 
The cross-bow of their fathers ; and overrun 
The rockj fidd where all, in everj age, 
Assembling sit, like one great family. 
Forming alliances, enacting laws ; 
Each cliff and head-land and green promontory 
Graven to their eyes with records of the past 
That prompt to hero-worship, and excite 
Even in the least, the lowliest, as he toils, 
A reverence nowhere else or felt or feigned ; 
Their chronicler great Nature ; and the volume 
Vaat as her worka — above, below, around ! 
The fisher on thy beach, Thkrmopyl^, 
Asks of the lettered stranger why he came. 
First from his lips to learn the glorious truth ! 
And who that whets his scythe in Bunnemede, 
Though but for them a slave, recalls to mind 
The barons in array, with their great charter ? 
Among the everlasting Alps alone. 
There to bum on as in a sanctuary. 
Bright and unsullied lives the ethereal flame ; 
And 'mid those scenes unchanged, unchangeable, 
Why should it ever die ? 



ST. MAURICE. 



Still by the Lbman Lake, for many a mile, 
Among those venerable trees I went. 
Where damsels sit and weave their fishing-nets^ 
Singing some national song by the wayside. 



TUH GREAT sT. BERNARD. 2c 

But now tlie fly was gone, tbc goat was come ; 

Now glimmering liglita /com cottage- windows broke. 

'T was dusk ; and, journeying upwai-d hy the Rhonk, 

That there came down, a torrent from the Alps, 

I entered where a key unlocks a kingdom ; 

The road and river, as they wind along. 

Filling tlic mountain pass. There, till a ray 

Glanced through my lattice, and tlic household -stir 

Warned me to rise, to rise and to depart, 

A stir unusual, and accompanied 

With muny a tuning of rude instruments, 

And many a laugh that argued coming pleasure, 

Mine host's fair daughter for the nuptial rite 

And nuptial feast attirmg — there I slept, 

And in my dreams wandered once more, well plcaaed. 

But now a charm was on the rocks and woods 

And wtUera ; for, raethought, I was with those 

I bod at mom and even wished for there. 



THE GRE.\T ST. BERNARD. 

Night was again descending, when my mule, 
That all day lung had clim1>ed among the clouds, 
Higher and higher stilt, as by a stair 
Let down from heaven itseU, transporting me, 
Stopped, to the joy of both, at that low door, 
That door which ever, as aelf-opeued, moves 
To them that knock, and nightly sends ahroitd 
Ministering spirits. Lying on the watch, 
Two dogs of grave demeanur welcomed mo, 



268 ITALY. 

All meekness, gentleness, though large of limb ; 

And a lay-brother of the hospital, 

Who, as we toiled below, had heard by fits 

The distant echoes gaining on his ear, 

Game and held fast my stirrup in his hand 

While I alighted. Long could I have stood, 

With a religious awe contemplating 

That house, the highest in the ancient world^ 

And destined to perform from age to age 

The noblest service, welcoming as guests 

All of all nations and of every &ith ; 

A temple, sacred to Humanity ! " 

It was a pile of simplest masonry, 

With narrow window and vast buttresses, 

Built to endure the shocks of time and chance ; 

Yet showing many a rent, as well it might, 

Warred on forever by the elements. 

And in an evil day, nor long ago. 

By violent men — when on the mountain-top 

The French and Austrian banners met in conflict. 

On the same rock beside it stood the church, 
Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity ; 
The vesper-bell, for 't was the vesper hour, 
Duly proclaiming through the wilderness, 
** All ye who hear, whatever bo your work, 
Stop for an instant — move your lips in prayer ! * 
And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale, — 
If dale it might be called, so near to heaven, — 
A little lake, where never fish leaped up, 
Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow ; 
A star, the only one in that small sky, 
On its dead surface glimmering. 'T wtia a place 



THE QREAT ST. BBBSABD. 



Resembling nothing I had left behind, 

As if all worldly ties were now dissolred ; — 

And, to incline the mind still more to thought, 

To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore 

Under a beetling cliff stood half in gloom 

A lonely chapel destined for the dead, 

For such as, having wandered from their way, 

Had perished miaorably. Side by side, 

Within they lie, a mournful company, 

All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them ; 

Their fentures full of life, yet raotionleaa 

In the broa*l day, nor soon to suffer change, 

Though the barred windows, barred against the wolf, 

Are always open ! — But the North blew cold ; 

And, bidden to a spare but cheorfiil meal, 

I sate among the holy brotherhood 

At their long board. The fere indeed was such 

As is prescribed on days of abstinence. 

But might have pleased a. nicer taste than mine ; 

And through the floor came up, an ancient crone 

Serving unseen below : while from the roof 

(The roof, the floor, the walls, of native fir) 

A lamp hung flickering, auch as loves to fling 

Its partial light on ajiostulic hGa<:ls, 

And sheds a grace on all. Theirs Time as yet 

Ilad changed not. Some were almost in the prime ; 

Nor WBS a brow o'ercast. Seen as they sate, 

Ranged, round their smple hearth-atone in an hour 

Of rest, they were as guy, ns free from guile. 

As children ; answering, and at once, to all 

The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth : 

Mingling, at intervals, with mtionnl talk 



270 ITALY. 

Music ; and gathering news from them that camOi 
As of some other world. But when the storm 
Rose, and the snow rolled on in ocean-wayes, 
When on his face the experienced traveller feU, 
Sheltering his lips and nostrils with his hands, 
Then all was changed ; and, sallying with their pack 
Into that blank of nature, thcj became 
Unearthly beings. ^' Anselm, higher up, 
Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long. 
And now, as guided by a voice from Heaven, 
Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence, 
Whose can it be, but his who never erred ? ^^ 
A man lies underneath ! Let us to work ! — 
But who descends Mont Velax ? 'T is La Croix. 
Away, away ! if not, alas ! too late. 
Homeward he drags an old man and a boy, 
Faltering and falling, and but half awaked, 
Asking to sleep again." Such their discourse. 

Oft has a venerable roof received mc ; 
St. Bruno's once" — where, when the winds were hushed, 
Nor from the cataract the voice came up, 
You might have heard the mole work underground. 
So great the stillness there ; none seen throughout. 
Save when from rock to rock a hermit cix)ssed 
By some rude bridge — or one at midnight tolled 
To matins, and white habits, issuing forth, 
Glided along those aisles intcnninable,^' 
All, all oliscrvant of the sacreil law 
Of Silence. Nor is that se<|uestered spot, 
Once called ** Sweet Waters," now '' The Sha»ly Vale," " 
To me unknown ; tliat house so rich of old. 
So courteous,'' and, by two that jwiflsod that way.'" 



THE DESCENT. 



271 



Amply requited with iminortal verse, 

The poet's payment. — But, among them all, 

None can with this comparo, the dnngeroUB seat 

Of generous, active Virtue. What though Frost 

Reign everlaatingly, and ice and anow 

Thaw not, but gather — there is that within, 

AVhich, where it comes, makes Summer ; and, in thought, 

Oft am I sitting on the bench beneatli 

Their garden-plot, where all that vegetates 

Ib but some scanty lettuce, to observe 

Those from the south ascending, every step 

As though it were their last, — and instantly 

Restored, renewed, advancing as with songs, 

Soon aa they sec, turning a lofty crag, 

That plain, that modest structure, promising 

Bread to the hungry, to the weary rest. 



THE DESCENT. 
Mt mule re&eshed — and, let the truth bo told, 
He was nor dull nor contradictory, '" 
But patient, diligent, and sure of foot, 
Shunning the loose stone on the precipice, 
Snorting suspicion while with sight, smell, touch, 
Trying, detecting, where the sur&ce smiled ; 
And with deliberate courage sliding down, 
Where in his sledge the Laplander had turned 
With looks aghast — my mule refreshed, his bells 
Jingled once more, the signal to depart. 
And we set out in the gray light of dawn, 
Descending rapidly — by waterfalls 




272 ITALY. 

Fast-frozen, and among huge blocks of ice 

That in their long career had stopped mid-way. 

At length, unchecked, unbidden, he stood still ; 

And all his bells were muffled. Then mj guide, 

Lowering his voice, addressed me : '^ Through this gap 

On and say nothing — lest a word, a breath 

Bring down a winter's snow — enough to whelm 

The armed files that, night and day, were seen 

Winding from clifi'to cliff in loose array 

To conquer at Marengo. Though long since, 

Well I remember how I met them here. 

As the sun set &r down, purpling the west ; 

And how Napoleon, he himself, no less. 

Wrapt in his cloak, — I could not be deceived, — 

Reined in his horse, and asked me, as I passed, 

How far 't was to St. Remi. Where the rock 

Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away. 

Narrows almost to nothing at the base, 

'T was there ; and down along the brink he led 

To victory ! — Dbsaix,^ who turned the scale, 

Leaving his life-blood in that famous field 

(When the clouds break, we may discern the spot 

Li the blue haze), sleeps, as you saw at dawn. 

Just where we entered, in the Hospital-church." 

So saying, for a while he held his peace. 

Awe-struck beneath that dreadful canopy ; 

But soon, the danger passed, launched forth again. 



SJt" 



JoRASSE was in his three-and-tweDtietb year; 

Graceful and active as a stag just roused ; 

Gentle withal, and pleasant in lus speech, 

Yet seldom seen to amile. He hud grown up 

Among the hunters of the Higher Alps ; 

Had caught their starts ami fits of thoughtfulnees. 

Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies, 

Arising (so say they that dwell below) 

From tretiuent dealings with the MountAin- Spirits. 

But other ways had taught him better things ; 

And now ho numbered, marching by my side, 

The great, the loajned, that with him had crossed 

The frozen tract — with him familiarly 

Through the rough day and rougher night conversed 

In many a chalet round the Peak of Terror,^ 

Round Tacul, Tour, Well-Jiora, and Roseulau, 

And lier whoee throne is inaccessible," 

Who site, withdrawn in virgin majesty, 

Nor oft unveils. Anon an A\-aIanche 

Rolled ltd long thunder ; and a sudden cntsh, 

Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear 

Told that far-down a continent of ico 

Had burst in twain. But be had now begun ; 

And with what transport he recalled the hour 

\Vlien, to deserve, to win his blooming bride. 

Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound 

The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod 

The upper realms of frost ; then, by a cord 

Let half-way down, entered a grot star-bri^t, 

And gatheretl from above, below, around," 



274 ITALY. 

The pointed crystals ! — Once, nor long before** 
(Thus did his tongue run on, &st as his feet, 
And with an eloquence that Nature gives 
To all her children — breaking off by starts 
Into the harsh and rude, oft as the mule 
Drew his displeasure), once, nor long before, 
Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg 
He slipped and fell ; and, through a fearful cleft 
Gliding insensibly from ledge to ledge. 
From deep to deeper and to deeper still, 
Went to the Under-world ! Long while he lay 
Upon his rugged bed — then waked like one 
Wishing to sleep again and sleep forever ! 
For, looking round, he saw, or thought he saw, 
Innumerable branches of a cave. 
Winding beneath that solid crust of ice ; 
With here and there a rent that showed the stars ! 
What then, alas ! was left him but to die? 
What else in those immeasurable chambers. 
Strewn with the bones of miserable men. 
Lost like himself? Tet must he wander on, 
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free ! 
And, rising, he began his dreary round ; 
When hark ! the noise as of some mighty flood 
Working its way to light ! Back he withdrew, 
But soon returned, and, fearless from despair. 
Dashed down the dismal channel ; and all day 
If day ooold be where utter darkness was, 
TivraDfid incessantly ; the craggy roof 
Jvt (rrailietd) and the impetuous waves, 

nor deep, yet with a giant's strength. 
At last aB in a pool 



2T5 



The water slept ; u pool Bullcn, profound, 

Where, if a billow cbanoeJ to heave and ewell, 

It broke not; and the roof, descending, lay 

Flat on the surfaee. Statue-like he stood, 

Hie joomey ended ; when a ray divine 

Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Uer 

Whose eara are never shut, the Bleaaed Virgin, 

He plunged and swam — and in an instant rose. 

The barrier passed, in sunshine ! Through a vale, 

Such as in Abcady, where many a tlmtch 

Gleams through the trees, half seen and half embowered, 

Glittering the river ran ; and on the bank 

The young were dancing ("t was a featival-day) 

All in their beat attire. There first he saw 

His Madelatne. In the crowd she stood to hear, 

When all drew round, in(|uiring ; and her face, 

Seen behind all and varying, as he spoke, 

With hope and fear and generous sympathy, 

Subdued him. From that very hour he loved. 

The tale was long, but coming to a close. 
When his wild eyes flashed fire ; and, all forgot, 
He listened and looked up. I looked up too ; 
And twiee there came a liiss that through me thrilled ! 
'T was heard no more. A chamois on the clifi" 
Had roused his fellows with that ciy of fear, 
And all were gone, But now the theme was changed ; 
And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes. 
When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay 
(His ancient carbine from his slioulder slung, 
His axe to hew a stair-way in the ice), 
He tracked their wanderings. By a cloud surprised, 
Where the next step had plunged them into air. 



276 ITALY. 

Long bad thej stood, locked in each other's anus, 

Amid the gul& that yawned to swallow them ; 

Each guarding each through many a freeing hour, 

As on some temple's highest pinnacle, 

From treacherous slumber. 0, it was a sport 

Dearer than life, and but with life relinquished ! 

^' My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds. 

As for myself," he cried, and he held forth 

His wallet in his hand, '^ this do I call 

My winding-sheet — for I shall have no other ! " 

And he spoke truth. Within a little month 
He lay among these awful solitudes 
('T was on a glacier — half-way up to heaven), 
Taking his final rest. Long did his wife, 
Suckling her babe, her only one, look out 
The way he went at parting, — but he came not; 
Long fear to close her eyes, from dusk till dawn 
Plying her distaff through the silent hours, 
Lest he appear before her — lest in sleep, 
K sleep steal on, he come as all are wont. 
Frozen and ghastly blue or black with gore. 
To plead for the last rite. 



MARGUERITE DE TOURS. 

Now the gray granite, starting through the snow. 
Discovered many a variegated moss ^^ 
That to the pilgrim resting on his staff 
Shadows out capes and islands ; and ere long 
Numberless flowers, such as disdain to live 
In lower regions, and delighted drink 



MAROL'ERITB DE TOVRS. 



27T 



The cloads before they fall, fiowors of all hues, 
With their diminutive leaves covered the ground. 
There, turning by a venerable larch, 
Sbi\'ered in two yet most nmjesticul 
With hiB long level bruncbes, we observed 
A hiunan figure sitticg on a stone 
Far down by the way-side — just where the rock 
Is riven asunder, and the Evil One 
Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument* 
Built in one night, from which the ilooil beneath, 
Raging nlong, all foam, is seen, not heard. 
And seen as motionless ! ^ Nearer we drew ; 
And, lo ! a woman young and delicate, 
Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot. 
Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon ber hand, 
In deepest thought. Over her tresses i^r. 
Young ae she was, she wore the matron-cap : 
And, as we judged, not many moons would change 
En she became a mother. Pole she looked, 
Yet cheerful ; though, methought, once, if not twice, 
She wiped away a tear tliat would be coining ; 
And in those moments her small hat of straw, 
Worn on one side, an<l glittering with a baud 
Of silk and gold, but ill concealed a face 
Not soon to be forgotten. Rising up 
On our approach, she travelletl slowly on ; 
And my companion,' long before we met, 
Knew, and run down to greet ber. She was boru 
(Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears) 
In Val d'Aosta ; and an Alpine stream, 
Leaping from crag to crag in its short course 
To join the Dora, turned Ler father's mill. 
24 



278 ITALY. 

There did she blossom, till a Yalaisan, 
A townsman of Martiqnt, won her heart, 
Much to the old man's grief. Long he refused, 
Loth to be left ; disconsolate at the thought. 
She was his onlj one, his link to life ; 
And in despair — year after year gone by — 
One summer-morn they stole a match and fled. 
The act was sudden ; and, when &r away, 
Her spirit had misgivings. Then, full oft, 
She pictured to herself that aged face 
Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in wrath ; 
And, when at last she heard his hour was near, 
Went forth unseen, and, burdened as she was, 
Crossed the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness. 
And hold him to her heart before he died. 
Her task was done. She had fulfilled her wish, 
And now was on her way, I'ejoicing, weeping. 
A frame like Jjers had suffered ; but her love 
Was strong within her ; and right on she went. 
Fearing no ill. May all good angels guard her ! 
And should I once again, as once I may, 
Visit Martigny, I will not forget 
Thy hospitable roof. Marguerite de Tours ; 
Thy sign the silver swan. Heaven prosper thee ' 



THE BROTHERS. 

In the same hour the breath of life receiving, 
They came together and were beautiful ; 
Bat| as they slumbered in their mother's lap, 
~~ «v moomfal was their beauty ! She would sit. 



THE BROTHERS. 



And look and weep, and look and weep again ; 
For Nature had but half her work achieved, 
Denying, like a atep-dame, to the babea 
Her noblest gifts ; denying speech to one. 
And to the other — reason. 

But at length 
(Seven years gone by, seven melancholy yeaxa) 
Another come, as fair anJ fairer still ; 
And then, bow ansiouBly the mother watched 
Till reason dawned and speech declared itself.' 
Reason and speech were his ; and down she knelt, 
Clasping hor hands in silent ecstasy. 

On the hill-fiide, where still their cottage Stands 
('T is near the upper falls in Lauterbrouun ; 
For there I sheltered now, their frugal hearth 
Blazing with mountain-pine when I appeared, 
And there, as round they sate, I heard their story), 
On the hill-side, among the cataracts, 
In happy ignorance the children played ; 
Alike unconscious, through their cloudless day. 
Of what they had and bad not ; everywhere 
Gathering rock-flowers ; or, with tbeir utmost might, 
Loosening the fragment from the precipice, 
And, as it tumbled, listening for the plunge ; * 
Yet, as by instinct, at the cusKimcd hour 
Returning ; the two eldest, step by st^p, 
Lifting along, and with tbe tenderest care, 
Their infant brother. 

Once the hour was past ; 
And, when she sought, she sought and could not And ; 
And when she found — where was the little one ? 



280 ITALT. 

Alas ! they answered not ; yet still she asked, 
Still in her grief forgetting. 

With a scream, 
Such as an eagle sends forth when he soars, 
A scream that through the wild scatters dismay, 
The idiot-boy looked up into the sky, 
And leaped and laughed aloud and leaped again ; 
As if he wished to follow in its flight 
Something just gone, and gone from earth to heaven : 
While he, whose every gesture, every look. 
Went to the heart, for from the heart it came,^ 
He who nor spoke nor heard — all things to him, 
Day after day, as silent as the grave 
(To him unknown the melody of bird^, 
Of waters — and the voice that should have soothed 
His in&nt sorrows, singing him to sleep). 
Fled to her mantle as for refuge there. 
And, as at once o'ercome with fear and grief, 
Covered his head and wept. A dreadful thought 
Flashed through her brain. * * Has not some bird of prey, 
Thirsting to dip his beak in innocent blood — 
It must, it must be so ! " — And so it was. 

fhere was an eagle that had long acquired 
Absolute sway, the lord of a domain 
Savage, sublime ; nor from the hills alone 
Gathering large tribute, but from every vale ; 
Making the ewe, whene'er he deigned to stoop, 
Bleat for the lamb. Great was the recompense 
Assured to him who laid the tyrant low j 
And near his nest in that eventful hour. 
Calmly and patiently, a hunter stood, 



TT!E ALPS. 281 

A hunter, aa it chanced, of old renown, 
And, as it chanced, their &ther. 

In the South 
A BpGck appeared, enlarging -, and ere long, 
Aa on his journey to the golden sun, 
Upward he came, the felon in his flight. 
Ascending through tlie congregated clouds, 
That, like a deik and troubled sea, obscured 
The world beneath. " Bat what is in his graap 1 
Ha ! 't is a child — and may it not be ours 1 
I dare not, cannot ; and yet why forbear, 
When, if it lives, a cruel death awaite it? — 
May He who winged the shaft whon Tell stood forth 
And shot the apple from the youngling's head,^ 
Grant me the strength, the courage ! " Aa he spoke, 
He aimcii, he fired ; and at his feet they fell, 
The eagle and the child — the child unhurt — 
Though, such the grasp, not even in death relinquished. " 



THE ALPS. 
Wno first beholds those everlasting clouds, 
Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night, 
Still where they were, steadfast, immovable, — 
Those mighty hilla, so shadowy, so sublime, 
As rather to belong to heaven than earth, — 
But instantly receives into bia soul 
A sense, a feeling that he loses not, 
A aomething that informs him 't ia an hour 
Whence he may date henceforward and forever? 
To me they seemed the barriers of a world, 



282 ITALT. 

Saying, Thus hr, no further ! and as o'er 
The level plain I travelled silently, 
Nearing them more and more, day after day, 
My wandering thoughts my only o(nnpany, 
And they before me still — oft as I looked, 
A strange delight was mine, mingled with fear, 
A wonder as at things I had not heard of! 
And still and still I felt as if I gassed 
For the first time ! Great was the tumult there, 
Deafening the din when in barbaric pomp 
The Carthaginian on his march to RoMB 
Entered their fiistnesses. Trampling the snows, 
The war-horse reared ; and the towered elephant 
Upturned his trunk into the murky sky, 
Then tumbled headlong, swallowed up and lost. 
He and his rider. 

Now the scene is changed ; 
And o'er the Simplon, o'er the Splugen, winds 
A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone 
Flung about carelessly, it shines afar, 
Catching the eye in many a broken link, 
In many a turn and traverse as it glides ; 
And oft above and oft below appears. 
Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up, 
As if it were another, through the wild 
Leading along he knows not whence or whither. 
Yet through its &iry course, go where it will 
The torrent stops it not, the rugged rock 
Opens and lets it in ; and on it runs, 
Winning its easy way from clime to clime 
Through glens locked up before. — Not such my path ! 
The very path for them that dare defy 



Danger, nor sLrink, wear he what ahape he will ; 
Tb:it o'er tbe caldron, when the flood boils up, 
Cling as in air, gazing and shuddering on 
Till fascination comes and llie brain turns!* 
The very path for them, that liat, to choose 
Where beat to plant a monumental cross. 
And lire in stor; liko Emi'BDOCLES ; 
A track for heroes, sucfa as lie who came. 
Ere long, to win, to wear the iron crown ; 
And (if aright I judge from what I felt 
Over the Drascb, just whore tie Abbot fell, 
Rolled downward in an after-dinner'a sleep) " 
The same aa Hannibal's. But now 't is passed, 
ThiLt turbulent chaos; and the promised land 
Lies at my feet in all its loveliness ! 
To him who starts up from a terrible dream, 
And, lo ! the san is shining, and the lark * 
ijinging aloud for joy — to him is not 
Such sudden ravishment as now I feel 
At the firat glimpses of lair Italy. 



COMO. 
I LOVK to sail along the Larian Lake" 
tJndcr the shore — though not, where'er he dwelt," 
To \iait Pliny ; not, in loose attiro, 
When from the liath or from the tennis-court, 
To catch him musing in bis pkne-tree walk, 
Or angling from his window :" and, in troth, 
Could I recall the ages past and play 
The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve 



284 ITAL\. 

My leisure for CatuUos on his lake,'' 
Though to bxe worse, or Virgil at his fiurm 
A little further on the way to Mantua. 
But such things cannot be. So I sit still, 
And let the boatman shift his little sail. 
His sail so forked and so swallow-like, 
Well-pleased with all that comes. The morning-air 
Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round 
A silvery gleam ! and now the purple mists 
Rise like a curtain ; now the sun looks out. 
Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious light 
This noble amphitheatre of hills ; 
And now appear as on a phosphor-sea 
Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pa via ; 
Some sailing up, some down, and some at rest, 
Lading, unlading at that small port-town 
Und0t the promontory — its tall tower 
And long flat roofe, just such as Gaspar drew. 
Caught by a sunbeam slanting through a cloud ; 
A quay-like scene, glittering and full of life. 
And doubled by reflection. 

What delight. 
After so long a sojourn in the wild. 
To hear once more the peasant at his work ! 
— But in a clime like this where is he not ? 
Along the shores, among the hills, 't is now 
The hey-day of the vintage ; all abroad. 
But most the young and of the gentler sex. 
Busy in gathering ; all among the vines. 
Some on the ladder and some underneath. 
Filling their baskets of green wicker-work, 
^VHile many a oansmet and frolic laugh 



Corae through tlic leaves ; the vines in liglit festoons 

From tree to tree, the trees in avenues, 

And every avenue a covered wali 

Hung witli l>lnck clusters. 'T is enough ta nuitce 

The sail man merry, the benevolent one 

Melt into tears — so general is the joy ! 

While up and down the cliS, over the lake. 

Wains oxen-drawn and ixwiniercd mules are seen, 

Laden with grapes and dropping rosy wine. 

Here I received from thee, Basfiico, 

One of thotic courteaies so sweet, so rare ! 

When, as I rambled through tiiy vineyard ground 

On the hill-aide, thy little son was sent, 

Chargeil with a bunch almost as big as be, 

To press it on the stranger, ilay thy rata 

O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer, 

Live to become a giver ; and, at length, 

When thou art full of honor and wouldst rest, 

The staff of thine old age ! 

In a stnmge land 
Such thinga, however trivial, reach the heart, 
And through the heart the head, clearing away 
The narrow notions that grow up at home. 
And in their place grafting good-will to all. 
At leuat I found it so, nor-less at eve, 
When, hidden as a lonely traveller 
('T was by a little boat that gave me chase 
With oar and sail, ao homeward-bound I crossed 
The bay of Tramezzise), right readily 
I turned my prow and followeil, landing soon 
Where steps of purest marble met the wave ; 



286 ITALY. 

Where, throngh the trellises and oorridorB, 

Soft music came as from Armida's palace, 

Breathing enchantment o'er the woods and waters ; 

And through a bright pavilion, bright as day, 

Forms such as hers were flitting, lost among 

Such as of old in sober pomp swept by. 

Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts 

By Paolo *" painted ; where a fairy-queen. 

That night her birth-night, from her throne receiyed 

(Yoimg as she was, no floweret in her crown. 

Hyacinth or rose, so fair and fresh as she) 

Our willing vows, and by the fountain-side 

Led in the dance, disporting as she pleased, 

Under a starry sky — while I looked on. 

As in a glade of Cashmere or Shiraz, 

Reclining, quenching my sherbet in snow, 

And reading in the eyes that sparkled round 

The thousand love-adventures written there. 

Can I forget — no, never, such a scene. 
So full of witchery. Night lingered still. 
When with a dying breeze I left Bellaggio ; 
But the strain followed me ; and still I saw 
Thy smile, Angelica ; and still I heard 
Thy voice — once and again bidding adieu. 



BERGAMO. 



The song was one that I had heard before, 
But where I knew not. It inclined to sadness ; 
And, taming round from the delicious fare 
landlord's little daughter Barbara 



Had from her apron Just rolled out before me, 

Figs and rock-meloDB — at the door I saw 

Two boya of lively aapect. Peaamt-like 

They were, and poorly clad, but not unskilled ; 

With their small voices an<l an old guitar 

Wionmg their way to my unguarded heart 

In that, the only universal tongue, 

Uut soon they changed the measure, entering on 

A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour, 

A war of words, with looks and gestures waged 

Between Tkappanti and bis ancient dame, 

MoNA LrciLU. To and fro it went ; 

While many a titter on the stairs was he-ard. 

And Barbara's among them. When it ceased, 

Their dark eyes flashed no longer, yet, methougbt. 

In many a glance as from the soul, diacloaed 

More than enough to 8erv« them. Far or near, 

Few looked not for their coming ere they came, 

Few, when they went, but looked till they were gone ; 

And not a matron, sitting at her wheel. 

But could repeat their story. Twins they were, 

And oi-phans, as I learnt, cast on the world ; 

Their parents lost in an old ferry-boat 

That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down, 

Crossmg the rough BESACua.' — May they live 

Blameless and happy — rich they cannot he. 

Like him who, in the days of minstrelsy," 

Came in a feggar's weeds to Pbtiiabcu's door, 

Asking, beseeching for a lay to sing. 

And soon in silk (such th«n the power of song) 

B«tumed to thank him ; or like that old man, 

Old not in heart, who by the torrent-side 



288 ITALY. 

Dosccnding from the Tyrol, &3 night fell, 

Elnocked at a city-gate near the hill-foot, 

The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone, 

An eagle on a ladder, and at once 

Found welcome — nightly in the bannered hall 

Tuning his harp to tales of chivalry 

Before the great Masting, and his guests,^ 

The threo-and-twenty kings, by adverse fate, 

By war or treason or domestic strife, 

Reft of their kingdoms, friendless, shelterless^ 

And living on his bounty. 

But who comes. 
Brushing the floor with what was once, methinks> 
A hat of ceremony ? On he glides, 
Slip-shod, ungartered ; his long suit of black 
Dingy, thread-bare, though, piitch by patch, renewed 
Till it has almost ceased to be the same. 
At length arrived, and with a slirug that pleads 
*^ 'T is my necessity ! " he stops and speaks, 
Screwing a smile into his dinnerless fac^. 
** Blame not a poet, sigiior, for his zeal — 
When all are on the wing, who would be last ? 
The splendor of thy name has gone before thee j 
And Italy from sea to sea exults. 
As well indeed she may ! But I transgress. ^° 
He, who has known the weight of praise himself, 
Should spare another." Saying so, he laid 
His sonnet, an impromptu, at my feet 
(K his, then Petrarch must have stolen it from him), 
And bowed and left me ; in his hollow hand 
Receiving my small tribute, a zeccliine, 
Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees. 



My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wincj*' 
Pnre aa the virgin-spring, liad happily 
Fled from all eyes ; or, in a waking dream, 
I might have sat aa many a great man has, 
And many a small, like him of Santillane, 
Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise.*' 



Am I ill Italy '.' £a thie the Mincius ! 
Are those the distant turre te of Verona t 
And sliall I sup where Juliet at the masque " 
Saw her loved Montaouk, and now Bleeps by him f 
Snch questions hourly do I ask myself; ^ 
And not a stone, in a cross-way, inscribed 
"To Mautua"^"To Ferrara" "—but excites 
Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation. 

Italy, how beautiful thou art .' 
Yet I could weep — for thou art lying, alas ! 
Low in the dust ; and we admire tbee now 
Aa we admire the beautiful in death, 
Thine wan a dangerous gift, when thou wert born. 
The gift of Beauty. Would thou hadst it not ; 
Or wert as once, awing the oaiti&s vile 
That now beset thee, making thee thoir slave 1 
Would they had loved theo less, or feared thee more !• 
- — -But why despair! Twice hast thou lived already ;* 
Twice shone among the nations of the world, 
As the sun shines among the lesser lights 
Of heaven ; and shall again. The hour shall come. 
When they who tliink to bind the ethereal spirit, 
25 



290 ITALY. 

Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey, 
Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike 
If but a sinew vibrate/^ shall confess 
Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame 
Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously, 
And, dying, left a splendor like the day, 
That like the day diffused itself, and still 
Blesses the earth — the light of genius, virtue, 
Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death, 
Godlike example. Echoes that have slept 
Since Athens, Laced^mon, were themselves, 
Since men invoked ** By those in Marathon ! " 
Awake along the iBoEAN ; and the dead, 
They of that sacred shore, have heard the call. 
And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen 
Moving as once they were — instead of rage 
Breathing deliberate valor. 



COLL'ALTO. 



^' In this neglected mirror (the broad frame 

Of massy silver serves to testify 

That many a noble matron of the house 

Has sat before it) once, alas ! was seen 

What led to many sorrows. From that time 

The bat came hither for a sleeping place ; * 

And he, who cursed another in his heart. 

Said, ^ Be thy dwelling, through the day and night, 

Shunned like Coll' alto.' '' — 'T was in that old pile, 

Which flanks the cliff with its gray battlements 

Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest, 



291 



llunga in the Tkevisan, tbat thus the steward, 

Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left, 

Addressed me, aa wc entered what was called 

" My Lady's Chamber," On tlie walla, the chaira, 

Much yet remained of the rich tapestry; 

Much of the adventures of SiR Lacxcelot 

In the green glades of some endiantcd wood. 

The loilet-table was of silver wrought, 

Florentine art, when Florence was renowned ; 

A gay confusion of the elements. 

Dolphins and boys, and sheila and fruits and flowera : 

And from the coiling, in his gilded cage. 

Hung a small bird of curious workmanship, 

That, when his mtstrcaa bade him, would unfold 

(So says the babbling dame, Tradition, there) 

His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again 

The song tliat pleased her. While I stood and looked, 

A gleam of day yet lingering in the west, 

The steward went on. " Slic had ('t is now long since) 

A gentle serving-maid, th« fiiir Cristine, 

Fair as a lily, and as spotless too ; 

None so admired, beloved. They had grown up 

Ab play-fellows ; and some there were, that said, 

Some that knew nmch, discoursing of Cristine, 

' She is not what she seems.' When unrequired, 

She would steal forth ; her custom, her delight, 

To wander through and through an ancient grove 

8elf-plantod half'-wivy down, losing herself 

Like one in love with sadness ; and her veil 

And vesture white, seen ever in ihut place, 

Ever as surely as the Jioura come round. 

Among those reverend trees, gave her below 



292 ITALY. 

The name of The White Lady. — But the day 
Is gone, and I delay thee. 

In that chair 
The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting, 
Her gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristinb, 
Combing her golden hair ; and through this door 
The Count, her lord, was hastening, called away 
By letters of great urgency to Venice ; 
When in the glass she saw, as she believed 
('T was an illusion of the Evil One — 
Some say he came and crossed it at the time), 
A smile, a glance at parting, given and answered, 
That turned her blood to gall. That very night 
The deed was done. That night, ere yet the moon 
Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf 
Baying as still he does (oft is he heard. 
An hour and more, by the old turret-clock), 
They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristine, 
Helping her down in her distress — to die. 

" No blood was spilt ; no instrument of death 
Lurked — or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose ; 
Nor was a hair of her unblemished head 
Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower just blown, 
And warm with life, her youthful pulses playing, 
She was walled up within the castle-wall.**^ 
The wall itself was hollowed secretly ; 
Then closed again, and done to line and rule. 

Wouldst thou descend 7 'T is in a darksome vault 

Under the chapel : and there nightly now. 
As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair, 
/ hing had been done or thought, 

nee before her, till the light 



Glimmered and went— 'there, niglilly at that hour, 
(Thou smil"Bt, and would it wore an idle tale!) 
In her while veil and vesture white she stands 
Shuddering — lier ej/cs uplifted, and her hauda 
Joined as in prayer ; then , like a blessed soul 
Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away 
Flies o'or the woods and mountains. Issuing forth, 
The hunter meetd her iu his hunting-track ; " 
The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims 
(For still she boars the name she bore of old) 
"T is the White Ladjr!'" 



VENICE. 



Tbbre IB a glorious city in the sea. 
The sea is in the broad, the narrow atreeta. 
Ebbing and flowing ; and the salt sea-wocd 
Clings to the marble of her palaces. 
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, 
Ltatd to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea, 
Invisible ; and from the land wo went, 
As to a floating city — steoring in. 
And gliding up her streets as in a dream. 
So smoothly, silently — by muny a dome, 
Mosque-likc, and many a stately portico, 
The statues ranged along an azure sky ; 
By many a pile in more than Eastern pride, 
Of old the residence of merchant-kmgs ; 
The fronts of some, though Time bad shattered them, 
Still glowing with the richest hues of art," 
As though the wealth within them hud ran o'er. 
25* 



Thither I come, and in a wondrous ark 
(That, long before we slipt our cable, rang 
As with the voices of all living things). 
From Padca, where the stars are, night by night, 
Watched from the top of an old dungeoa-tower, 
Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelin — " 
Kot as he watched them, when ho read his fate 
And shuddered. But of him I thought not then, 
Him or his horoscope ; '■* far, far from me 
The forms of Guilt and Fear; though some wore there, 
Sitting among us round the cabin-board, 
Some who, like him, had cried, "Spill blood enough !" 
And could shake long at shadows. They had played 
Their parts at Padda, and were floating home, 
Careless and full of mirth ; to-morrow a day 
Not in their calendar."— Who, in a strain 
To make the hearer fold his arms and sigh, 
Sings, " Caro, Caro'"! — 'Tis the Prima Donna, 
And to her monkey, smiling in his face. 
Who, as transported, cries, " Brava ! Aneora" 'J 
— 'T ia a grave personage, an old macaw, 
Perched on her shoulder. But who leaps ashore. 
And with a shout urges the lagging mules ; "" 
Then climbs a tree that overhangs the stream. 
And, like an acorn, drops on deck again? 
'T is he who speaks not, stirs not, but we langb j 
That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino." 
And mark their poet — with what cniphasia 
lie prompts the young soubretle, conning her part ! 
Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box. 
And pronipu again ; forever looking round 
As if in search of subjects for his wit, 




His satire ; and aa often whispering 
Things, though unheard, not u 

llad I thy pencil, Cradbb (when ihou hast done, 
Late may it he . . it will, like Phospebo's staff, 
Be burled fifty futhoms in the earth), 
I would portray the Italian. -^ Now I cannot. 
Subtle, diacemmg, eloquent, the slave 
OF Love, of Hate, forever in extremes ; 
Gentle when unprovoked, easily won, 
But quick in quarrel — through a thousand shades 
His spirit flits, ebameleon-liko ; and mocks 
The eye of the observer. 

Gliding on, 
At length we leave the river for the sea. 
At length n voice aloft proclainia " VencEia ! "' 
i\jid, as called forth, she comes. 

A few in fear, 
Flying away from him whose boast it was" 
That the gross grew not uhere bis horse bod trod, 
Gave birth to Vb.vice. Like the water-fowl, 
They built tlieir nests among the ocean-waves ; 
And where the sands wero shifting, as the wind 
Blew from the north or south — where they that camt 
Had to make sure tbe ground they stood upon, 
Hose, like an exhalation from the deep, 
A vast metropolis," with glistering spires. 
With theatres, basilicas adorned ; 
A scene of light and glory, a dominion, 
That has enlured the longest umon^ men." 

And whence the talisman, whereby sho roso, 
Towering ? 'T was found there in the barren sea 
Want lod to Enterprise ; ^ and, lar or near, 



Who met not tie Venetian 1 — now among 

The ^liEAN lales, Bteering from port to port, 

Landing and bartering ; now, no stranger there, 

In Cairo, or without the eastern galfi, 

Ere yet the Cafila'" came, listening to hear 

Its bells approaching from tho B«<l-Sea coaat ; 

Then on the Euxine, and that smaller Sea 

Of Azoph, in close converse with the Russ, 

And Tartar; on hia lowly deck receiving 

Pearls from tho Persian Gulf, gema from Golconde ; 

Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love, 

From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round, 

When in the rich bazaar lie saw, displayed. 

Treasures from climes unknown, he asked and leeimt, 

And, travelling slowly upward, drew erelong 

From the well-head, supplying all below ; 

Making the imperial city of the East, 

Herself, his tributary. — If wc turn 

To those black forests, where, through many an age, 

Night without day, no axe the silence broke, 

Or seldom, save where Rhino or Danube rolled ; 

'Where o'er the narrow glon a caatle bangs, 

And, like the wolf that hungered at his door, 

The baron lived by rapine — there we meet, 

In warlike guise, tlic caravan from Venice; 

When on its march, now lost and now beheld, 

A glittering file (the trumpet heard, the scout 

Sent and recalled), but at a city-gate 

All gayety, and looked for ere it comes ; 

Winning regard with all that can attract. 

Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert, 

Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might CHARLEMAIS, 



29T 



And hja brave peere, each with liis visor up, 
On their loDg lantxia lean and gaze a while, 
When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed 
The wonders of the East ! Well might thejr then 
Sigh for new cont^uesta ! 

Thus did Venicb rise, 
Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came, 
That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet 
From Im>ia, from the region of the sun. 
Fragrant with spices — that a way was found, 
A channel opened, and the golden stream 
Turned to enrich another. Then she felt 
Her strength departing, yet a while maintained 
Her state, her splendor ; till a tempest shook 
All things most held in honor among men. 
All tliat the giant with the scythe had spared, 
To their foundations, and at once she fell ; " 
She who had stood yet longer than the last 
Of the four kingdoms — who, aa in an ark. 
Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks. 
Uninjured, from the Old World to the New, 
From the last gUrapa© of civilized life — to where 
Light shone again, and with tho bkzc of noon. 

Through many an age in the mid-sea she dwelt, 
From her retreat calmly contemplating 
The changes of the earth, herself unchanged. 
Before her passed, as in an awful dream. 
The mightiest of the mighty. ^Tiat are these, 
Clothed in their purple ] O'er the globe they fling 
Tlieir monstrous shitdows ; and, while yet wo speak, 
Fhantom-like, vanish with a dreadful scream I 
What — but the last that styled themselves the Casars? 



298 ITALY. 

And who in long array (look where they come ; 

Their gestures menacing so far and wide) 

Wear the green turban and the heron's plume ? 

Who — but the Caliphs ? followed feat by shapes 

As new and strange — Emperor, and King, and Czar, 

And Soldan, each, with a gigantic stride, 

Trampling on all the flourishing works of peace 

To make his greatness greater, and inscribe 

His name in blood — some, men of steel, steel-clad ; 

Others, nor long, alas ! the interval, 

In light and gay attire, with brow serene 

Wielding Jove's thunder, scattering sulphurous fire 

Mingled with darkness ; and, among the rest, 

Lo ! one by one, passing continually. 

Those who assume a sway beyond them all ; 

Men gray with age, each in a triple crown. 

And in his tremulous hands grasping the keys 

That can alone, as he would signify. 

Unlock Heaven's gate. 



LUIGI. 

Happy is he who loves companionship, 

And lights on thee, Luigi. Thee I found. 

Playing at MoRA^'* on the cabin-roof 

With Punchinello. — T is a game to strike ^ 

Fire from the coldest heart. What then from thine '^ 

And, ere the twentieth throw, I had resolved, 

Won by thy looks. Thou wcrt an honest lad ; 

Wert generous, grateful, not without ambition. 

Had it depended on thy will alone. 



Thou wouldflt havG numbered in thy family 
At least six Doges and the first in &me. 
But that was not to be. In thee I saw 
The last, if not the least, of a long line, 
Who in their forest, for three hundred years, 
Had lived and labored, catting, charriDg wood ; 
Discovering where they were, to tliose astray, 
By the reechoing stroke, the crash, the 6tll, 
Or the blue wreath that travelled slowly up 
Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies 
Led thee away to JusUu in the crowd ; 
And there I found thee — trying once again, 
What for thyself thou hatlst prescribed so oft, 
A change of air and diet — once again 
Crossing the sea, and springing to the shore 
As though thou kneweet where to dine and sleep. 

First in Bologsa didat thou plant thyself, 
Serving behind a cardinal's gouty chair, 
Listeuing and oft replying, jest for jest ; 
Then in Ferrara, everything by turns, 
So great thy genius and bo Proteus-like ! 
Now serenading in a lover's train, 
And measaring swords with his antagonist ; 
Now carving, cup-bearing in halls of state ; 
And now a guide to the lom traveller, 
A very Cicerone — yet, alas ! 
How unlike htm who fulmincd in old Rome .' 
Dealii^ out largely in exchange for pence 
Thy scmpa of knowledge — through the grassy street 
Leading, exploming — pointing to the bara 
Of Tasso's dnngooD, and the Latin verso, 
Graven in the stone, that yet denotes the door 
Of Ariosto. 



800 ITALY. 

Many a year is gone 
Since on the Rhine we parted ; jet, methinks, 
I can recall thee to the life, LuiQi, 
In our long journey ever by my side ; 
Thy locks jet-black, and clustering round a fiico 
Open as day and full of manly daring. 
Thou hadst a hand, a heart for all that came, 
Herdsman or pedler, monk or muleteer ; 
And few there were that met thee not with smiles. 
Mishap passed o'er thee like a summer-cloud." 
Cares thou hadst none ; and they that stood to hear thee 
Caught the infection and forgot their own. 
Nature conceived thee in her merriest mood. 
Her happiest — not a speck was in the sky ; 
And at thy birth the cricket chirped, LuiGi, 
Thine a perpetual voice — at every turn 
A larum to the echo. In a clime 
Where all were gay, none were so gay as thou ; 
Thou, like a babe, hushed only by thy slumbers ; 
Up hill and doA^Ti hill, morning, noon and night. 
Singing or talking ; singing to thyself 
When none gave ear, but to the listener talking. 



ST. MARK'S PLACE. 

Over how many tracts, vast, measureless. 

Ages on ages roll, and none appear 

Save the wild hunter ranging for his prey ; 

"Wliile on this spot of earth, the work of man. 

How much has been transacted ! Emperors, Popes, 

Warriors, from far and wide, laden with spoil. 



ST, mark's place. 



Landing, liave here performed their several parts, 
Then IcH tbc stflge to others. Kot a Btone 
In the broad payement, but to him who has 
An e;e, an ear for the inanimate Trorld, 
Tells of past ages. 

In that temple-porch 
(The brass is gone, the porphyry remains'") 
Did Bakbarossa fling his mantle off, 
And kneeling, on his neck receive the foot 
Of the proud Pontiff™ — tlius at last consoled 
For flight, disguise, and many an aguish shako 
On his stone pillow. 

In that temple-porch, 
Old as he was, so near his hundredth year, 
And blind — his eyes put out — did Dandolo 
Stand forth, displaying on "iua crown the cross. 
There did he stand, erect, invincible. 
Though wan hia cheeks, and wet witli many tears, 
For in his prayers he hat} been weeping much ; 
And now the pilgrims and the people wopt 
Witli admiration, saying in their hearts, 
" Surely those aged limba have need of rest ! " * 
There did he stand, with his old armor on, 
Ere, gonfiilon in hand, that streamed aloFt, 
As conscious of its glorious destiny, 
80 soon to float o'er mosiiue and minaret, 
He sailed away, five hundred gallant ships. 
Their lofty sides hung with emblazoned shields, 
Following his track to fame. lie went to die ; 
But of hia trophies four arrived ere long. 
Snatched from destruction — the four steeds divine, 
That strike the ground, resounding with their feet," 
26 



802 ITALY. . 

And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame 

Over that very porch ; and in the place 

Where in an aftertime, beside the Doge, 

Sate one yet greater/* one whose verse shall live 

When the wave rolls o'er Venice. High he sate. 

High over all, close by the ducal chair, 

At the right hand of his illustrious host, 

Amid the noblest daughters of the realm. 

Their beauty shaded from the western ray 

By many-colored hangings ; while, beneath, 

Knights of all nations,'* some of fair renown 

From England,"^ from victorious Edward's court, 

Their lances in the rest, charged for the prize. 

Here, among other pageants, and how oft 
It met the eye, borne through the gazing crowd. 
As if returning to console the least, 
Instruct the greatest, did tlie Doge go round ; 
Now in a chair of state, now on his bier. 
They were his first appearance, iuid his last. 

The sea, that emblem of uncertainty. 
Changed not so fast, for many and many an age, 
As this small spot. To-day 't wiis full of masks ; "* 
And, lo ! the madness of the Carnival, 
The monk, the nun, the holy legate masked ! 
To-morrow came the scaffold and the wheel ; 
And he died there by torch-light, bound and gagged, 
Whose name and crime they knew not. Underneath 
Where the Archangel," as alighted there, 
Blesses the city from the topmost tower. 
His arms extended — there, in monstrous league. 
Two phantom-shapes were sitting, side by side, 
Or up, and, as in sport, chasing each other ; 



ST. UABK 3 PLACE. 



Horror and Mirth. BoUi vsnishiid in one hour ! 

But ocean only, vben again he claims 

Ilia ancieat rule, ahall wash anaj their footsteps. 

Enter tho palace by the marble stairs'" 
Down which the grizzly head of old Falieh 
Rolled from the block. Pass onward through the hall, 
Where, among those drawn in their ducal robea, 
But one is wanting — where, thrown off in heat, 
A brief inscription on the Doge's chair 
Led to another on the wall as brief; " 
And thou wilt track them — wilt from rooms of state. 
Where kings have feasted, and the festal song 
Rung through the fretted roof, cedar and gold, 
Step into dorkne^ ; and be told, " 'T was here, 
Tmsting, deceived, assembled but to die, 
To take a long embrace and part again, 
Cakrara ^^ and his valiant sons were slain ; 
He first — then they, whose only crime had been 

Struggling to save their fat her. ' ' Through that door, 

So Boon to cry, smitmg his brow, " I am lost ! " 

Was with all courtesy, all honor, shown 

The great and noble captain, Cakmaqnola.'* — 

That deep descent * (thou canat not yet discern 

Aught aa it ifl) leads to th« dripping vaults 

Under the flood, where light and warmth were never ! 

Leads to a covered bridge, the Bridge of Sighs ; 

And to that fatal closet at the foot, 

Lurking for prey. — 

But let us to the roof, 
And, when thou hast surveyed the sea, the land, 
Visit the narrow cells that cluster there, 
As in a place of tombs. There burning suns, 



1^ 



Daj^ after Jay, beat unrelentingly ; 
Turning all things to dust, and scorching np 
The brain, till Reason fled, and the wild yell 
And wilder la,ugh burst out on every aide, 
Answering each other aa in mockery ! 

Few houses of the size were better filled ; 
Though many came and left it in an boor. 
" Most nigbta," ao aaid the good old Nicolo 
(For three -and- thirty years his uncle kept 
The water-gate bolow, but sehlom spoke, 
Though much was on his mind), " most nights arriTed " 
The prison-boat, that boat with many oara, 
And bore away as to the Lower World, 
Disburdening in the C^nal Obfano," 
That drowning-plice, where never net was thrown, 
Summer or Winter, death the penalty ; 
And where a secret, once deposited. 
Lay till the waters should give up their dead." 

Yet what so gay as Venice ? * Every gale 
Breathed music ! and who flocked not, while she reigned, 
To celebrate her NuptioJs with the Sea ; 
To wear tlie mask, and mingle in the crowd 
With Greek, Armenian, Persian — night and day 
(There, and there only, did the hour stand still) 
Pursuing through her thousand labyrinths 
The enchantress Pleasure ; realizing dreams , 

The earliest, happiest — ^for a tale to catch 
Credulous ears, and hold young hearts in chaina, 
Had only to begin, " There hved in Venice " 

" Who wore the six we supped with yesternight? " ■ 

Kmga, ono and all ! Thou cooldst not but remaric 
The style and manner of the six that ser^-ed them." 



ST. HARKS PLACE. 



305 



I 



" Who aESWjred me just now ? " Who, when I BaJd, 
' 'T is nine,' turned round and said so solemnly, 
'Signor, he died at nine'1" — '"T was the Armenian ; 
The mask that follows thoe, go where thou wilt." 

" But who moves there, alone among them all "J " " 
'' The Cypriot. Ministers from distant courts 
Beset his doors, long ere his rising-hour ; 
Qis the great secret ! Kot the golden house 
or Nero, nor those fabled in the East, 
R,ich though they were, so wondrous rich as his ! 
Two dogs, coal-black, In collars of pure gold, 
Walk in hia footsteps. — Who hut his iamiharsl 
They valk, and cast no shadon in the sun ! 

" And mark him speaking. They, that listen, stand 
As if his tODgue dropped honey ; yet his glance 
None can endure ! He looks nor young nor old ; 
And at a tourney, where I eat and saw, 
A very child (full threescore years are gone) 
Borne on my father's shoulder through tite crowd, 
He lookod not otherwise. Where'er he stops, 
Though short the sojourn, on hia chamber-wall. 
Mid many a treasure gleaned from many a clime, 
Hia portrait hangs — but none must notice it! 
For Titian glows in every lineament, 
(Where is it not inscribed, The work is his 7) 
And Titian died two hundred years ago." 
— Such their discourse. Assembling in St. Mark's, 
All nations met as on enchanted ground 1 

What though a strange myBterious power was there 
Moving throughout, subtle, invisible, 
And universal as the air they breathed ; 
A power that never slumbered, nor forgave? 



806 ITALY. 

All eye, all ear, nowhere and everywhere," 

Entering the closet and the sanctuary, 

No place of refuge for the Doge himself; 

Most present when least thought of ^ — nothing dropt 

In secret, when the heart was on the lips, 

Nothing in feverish sleeg, but instantly 

Observe and judged — a power, that if but named 

In casual converse, be it where it might. 

The speaker lowered at once his eyes, his voice. 

And pointed upward as to Grod in heaven 

What though that power was there, he who lived thus, 

Pursuing Pleasure, lived as if it were not. 

But let him in the midnight air indulge 

A word, a thought against the laws of Ybnicb, 

And in that hour he vanished from the earth ! 



THE GONDOLA. 



Boy, call the Gondola ; the sun is set. 

It came, and we embarked ; but instantly. 
As at the waving of a magic wand, 
Though she had stept on board so light of foot. 
So light of heart, laughing she knew not why. 
Sleep overcame her ; on my arm she slept 
From time to time I waketl her ; but the boat 
Rocked her to sleep again. The moon was now 
Rising full-orbe<l. but broken by a cloud. 
The wind w;is husheil. and the sea mirror-like. 
A single zephyr, as enamoreil, played 
With her loose tivsses, and drew more and more 
Her veil across her Inisom. Long I lay 



THE OONDOM. 



307 



Contemplating that foco so beautiful, 
That roay mouth, that cheek dimpled with smiles, 
That necJt but half concealed, whiter than bbow. 
'T was the sweet slumber of her early ag6. 
I looked and looked, and felt a flush of joy 
I would express, but cannot. Oft I wished 
Gently — by stealth — to drop asleep myself, 
And to incline yet lower tLat sleep might come; 
Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfiilncsa. 
'T waa all in vain. Love would not let rae rest 
But how delightful when at length she waked ! 
When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil 
Bo rudely scattered, she resumed her placo 
Beside me ; and, &s gayly aa before, 
Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer, 
Foored out her innocent mind ! 

So, nor long since. 
Sung a Venetian ; and his lay of love,"* 
Dangerous and sweet, charmed Venice. For myself 
(Less fortuniite, if Love be Happiness), 
No curtain drawn, no pnlse beating alarm, 
I went alone beneath the ailcnt moon ; 
Thy square, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces, 
Glittering and frost-like, and, as day drew on, 
Melting away, an emblem of themselves. 

Those porches passed, through which the water-breeze 
Plays, though no longer on the noble forma * 
That moved there, sable-vested — and the quay, 
Silent, grass-grown " — adventurer-like I launched 
Into the deep, ere long discovering 
Isles such as clnster in the Southern seas, 
All verdure. Everywhere, from hush and brake. 



808 ITALY. 

The musky odor of the serpents came ; 
Their slimy track acro^ the woodman's path 
Bright in the moonshine ; and, as round I went^ 
Dreaming of Greece, whither the waves were gliding, 
I listened to the venerable pines 
Then in close converse, and, if right I guessed, 
Delivering many a message to the winds, 
In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida.^ 

Nor when again in Venice, when again 
In that strange place, so stirring and so still, 
Where nothing comes to drown the human voice 
But music, or the dashing of the tide. 
Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica 
Sung to her lute, her signal as she sate 
At her half-open window. Then, methought, 
A serenade broke silence, breathing hope 
Through walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart 
Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err 
(It was before an old Palladian house, 
As between night and day we floated by), 
A gondolier lay singing ; and he sung, 
As in the time when Venice was herself, 
Of Tancred and Erminia/'- On our oars 
We rested ; and the verse was verse divine ! 
We could not err — perhaps he was the last — 
For none t<x)k up the stniin, none answered him ; 
And, when he ceased, he left upon my ear 
A something like the dying voice of Venice ! 

The moon went do^vn ; and nothmg now was seen 
Save where the lamp of a Madonna shone 
Faintly — or heanl, l)ut when he spoke, who stood 
Over the lantern at the j)row and cried. 



I 



THE BRIDES OF VENICE. SO 

Taming the comer of some reverend pile, 

Some Bcbool or hospital of old renown, 

Ibongh haply none were coming, none were near, 

" Hasten or slacken." "' But at length Night fled; 

And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Pleasure. 

Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like, 

Crossed me iind vanished — lost at once among 

Thoae hundred islea that tower majestically, 

That rise abruptly from the water-mark, 

Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work 

Of noblest architects. I lingered still ; 

Kor sought my Uireahold," till the hour was coma 

And paiit, when, flitting home in the gray light, 

The young Bianca found her father's door," 

That door so often with a trembling hand, 

So often — then so lately left ajar. 

Shut ; and, all terror, all perpIenJty, 

Now by her lover urged, now by her love, 

Fled o'er the waters to return no more. 



THE BRIDES OF VENICE." 
It was St. Mary's Eve, and all poured forth 
For Homo great festival. The fiaher came 
From his green ialet, bringing o'er the waves 
Hia wife and little one ; the husbtindmon 
From the firm land, with many a friar and nun, 
And village -maiden, her first flight from home, 
Crowding the common ferry. All arrived ; 
And in hia straw the prisoner turned to hear, 
So great the stir in Venice. Old and yonng 



810 ITALY. 

Thronged her three hundred bridges ; the grave Turk, 
Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew 
LoL yellow hat and threadbare gabardine, 
Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, 
The noblest sons and daughters of the state. 
Whose names are written in the Book of Gold, 
Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials. 

At noon a distant murmur, through the crowd 
Rising and rolling on, proclaimed them near ; 
And never from their earliest hour was seen 
Such splendor or such beauty.*' Two and two 
(The richest tapestry unrolled before them), 
First came the brides ; each in her virgin-veil, 
Nor unattended by her bridal maids, 
The two that, step by step, behind her bore 
The small but precious caskets that contained 
The dowry and the presents. On she moved 
In the sweet seriousness of virgin-youth ; 
Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand 
A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich-plumes. 
Her veil, transparent as the gossamer," 
Fell from beneath a starry diadem ; 
And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone, 
Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst ; 
A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath. 
Wreathing her gold brocade. 

Before the church, 
That venerable structure now no more * 
On the sea-brink, another train they met, 
No strangers, nor unlocked for ere they came, 
Brothers to some, still dearer to the rest ; 
Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume 



TUE BttlDES or VENICE. 



311 



And, aa ho walked, with modoBt dignity 
Folding his scarlet m&Dtle. At the gate 
They join ; and slowly up the bannered aisle 
Led by the choir, with due solemnity 
Range round the altar. In his vestments there 
The Patriarch stands ; and, while ths anthem Hows, 
Who can look on unmoved — the dream of yean 
Just now fulfilling ! Here a mother weeps, 
Rejoicing in her di>ughter. There a sou 
Blesses the <lay that is to make ber his ; 
While she shines forth through all her ornament, 
Her beauty heightened by ber hopes and fears. 

At lengtli the rite is ending. All &1I down. 
All of all ranks ; and, stretching out his hands, 
Apostle-like, the holy man proceeds 
To give the blessing — not a stir, a breath ; 
When, hark ! a din of voices from without, 
And shrieks and groans and outcriea as in battle -' 
And, lo I the door is burst, the curtain rent, 
And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep, 
Savage, uncouth, led on by BABBiiRiao 
And his six brothers in their coats of steel, 
Are standing on the threshold ! Statue-like 
A while they gaze on the fuJIcn multitude, 
Each with his aabre up, in act to strike ; 
Then, as at once recovering from the spell, 
Rush forward to the altar, and as soon 
Are gone again — amid no clash of arms 
Bearing away the maidens ojid ttie treasures. 

Where are thoy now f — ploughing the distant waves, 
Their sails outspread and gi von lo the wind, 
They on their docks triumpliant. On they speed, 



312 ITALY. 

Steering for Istbia ; their accursed barks 
(Well are they known ^^ the galliot and the galley) 
Freighted, alas ! with all that life endears ! 
The richest argosies were poor to them ! 

Now hadst thou seen along that crowded shore 
The matrons running wild, their festal dress 
A strange and moving contrast to their grief; 
And through the city, wander where thou wouldst, 
The men half armed and arming — everywhere 
As roused from slumber by the stirring trump ; 
One with a shield, one with a casque and spear ; 
One with an axe severing in two the chain 
Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank, 
But on that day was drifting. In an hour 
Half Venice was afloat. But long before, 
Frantic with grief and scorning all control, 
The youths were gone in a light brigantine. 
Lying at anchor near the arsenal ; 
Each having sworn, and by the holy rood. 
To slay or to be slain. 

And from the tower 
The watchman gives the signal. In the east 
A ship is seen, and making for the port ; 
Her flag St. Mark's. And now she turns the point, 
Over the waters like a sea-bird flying ! 
Ha ! 't is the same, 'tis theirs ! from stem to prow 
Green with victorious wreaths, she comes to bring 
All that was lost. 

Coasting, with narrow search, 
Friuli — like a tiger in his spring. 
They had surprised the corsairs whore they lay ^^ 
Sharing the spoil in blind security 



THB BRIDES OP VENICE, 813 ' 

Asd casting lots — hitd elain them, one Biid all, 

AH to the last, ani flung thcni far iind wide 

Into the sea, their proper elenient ; 

Ilim first, as first in runk, nliose luune so long 

Had hushed the babes of Vbnice, and who jet, 

Breathing a little, in bia look retained 

The fierceness of his soul."" 

Thus were the brides 
Lo3t and recovered ; and what now romaincd 
But to give thanks'! Twelve brcuat-platcs and twelve 



By tlio young victors to their patron-saint 
Vowed in the Geld, inestimable gifts 
Ilaming with gems and gold, were in due time 
Laid at his feet ; "" and ever to preserve 
The memory of a day so full of change, 
From joy to grief, from grief to joy again, 
Through niiuiy an age, as oft as it came round, 
'T was held mligiously. The Dogo resigned 
His crimson for pure ennine, visiting 
At earliest dawn St. Mary's silver shrine ; 
And through the city, in a stately barge 
Of gold, were borne with songs and symphonies 
Twelve ladies young and noble."" Clad they were 
In bridal white with bridal ornaments, 
Each in her glittering veil ; and on the deck, 
As on a burnished throne, they glided by ; 
No window or balc6ny but adorned 
With hangings of rich texture, not a roof 
But covered with beholders, and the air 
Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars 
Moving in concert with the harmony, 
27 



314 ITALY. 

Through the Rialto >« to the Ducal Palace, 
And at a banquet, served with honor there, 
Sat representing, in the eyes of all, 
Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears. 
Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice. 



FOSCARI. 

Let us lift up the curtain, and observe 

What passes in that chamber. Now a sigh, 

And now a groan is heard. Then all is still. 

Twenty are sitting as in judgment there ; *" 

Men who have served their country and grown gray 

In governments and distant embassies, 

Men eminent alike in war and peace ; 

Such as in eflSgy shall long adorn 

The walls of Venice — to show what she was ! 

Their garb is black, and black the arras is, 

And sad the general aspect. Yet their looks 

Are calm, arc cheerful ; nothing there like grief. 

Nothing or harsh or cruel. Still that noise. 

That low and dismal moaning. 

Half withdrawn, 
A little to the left, sits one in crimson, 
A venerable man, fourscore and five. 
Cold drops of sweat stand on his furrowed brow. 
His hands are clenched ; his eyes half-shut and glazed. 
His shrunk and withered limbs rigid as marble. 
'T is FoscARi, the Doge. And there is one, 
A young man, lying at his feet, stretched out 
In torture. 'T is his son. 'T is Giacomo, 



315 



His only joy (and bos he lived For thial) 
Accused of murder. Teatcniight the proofs, 
If proofs tbey be, nere in the Lion's mouth 
Dropt by eomo bund uiiaeen ; and he, himself. 
Must sit and look on a, beloved son 
Suffering the Question. 

Twice, to die in peace, 
To save, while yet he could, a foiling house. 
And turn the hearts of his fell adversaries. 
Those who had now, like hell-hoands in full cry, 
Chaaed down his last of foar, twice did he ask 
To lay aside the crown, and they refused. 
An oath exacting, never more W ask ; 
And there ho sits, a spectacle of woo, 
Condemned in bitter mockary to wear 
The bauble he had sighed for. 

Once again 
The screw is turned ; and, us it turns, the son 
Looks up, and, in a faint and broken tone, 
Murmurs " My iitther ! " The old man shrinks back, 
And in his mantle muffles up his face. 
" Art thou not guilty ? " says a voice, that once 
Would gi-eet the sufferer long before they met, 
"Art thou not guilty!" — "No! Indt«;d I am not!" 
But all is unavailing. In that court 
Groans arc confessions ; patience, fortitude, 
The work of magic ; and, released, revived, 
For condemnation, &om his fiithcr's lips 
Be hears the sentence, " Banishment to Candu. 
Death, if he leaves it" And the bark sets Bail; 
And he is gone from all he loves in life ! 
Gone in the dead of night — unseen of aoy — 



816 ITALY. 

Without a word, a look of tendemees, 
To be called up, when, in his lonely honiSi 
He would indulge in weeping. Like a ghost. 
Day after day, year after year, he haunts 
An ancient rampart that o'erhangs the sea ; 
Gazing on vacancy, and hourly there 
Starting as from some wild and uncouth dream, 

To answer to the watch. Alas! how changed 

From him the mirror of the youth of Venice ; 
Whom in the slightest thing, or whim or chanoe, 
Did he but wear his doublet so and so, 
All followed ; at whose nuptials, when he won 
That maid at once the noblest, fairest, best,^ 
A daughter of the house that now among 
Its ancestors in monumental brass 
Numbers eight Doges — to convey her home, 
The Bucentaur went forth ; and thrice the sun 
Shone on the chivalry, that, front to front, 
And blaze on blaze reflecting, met and ranged 
To tourney in St. Mark's. — But, lo ! at last, 
Messengers come. He is recalled: his heart 
Leaps at the tidings. He embarks : the boat 
Springs to the oar, and back again he goes — 
Into that very chamber ! there to lie 
In his old resting-place, the bed of steel ; 
And thence look up (five long, long years of grief 
Have not killed either) on his wretched sire. 
Still in that seat — as though he had not stirred : 
Immovable, and muffled in his cloak. 

But now he comes convicted of a crime 
Great by the laws of Venice. Night and day. 
Brooding on what he had been, what he was, 



'T W!t3 more than ho could bear. His longing-fita 

Thickenetl upon him. His desire for home 

Became a madneBS ; and, resolved to go, 

If but to die, in his despair he writes 

A letter to the sovereign-prince of Milan 

(To him whose name, among the greatest now,'" 

Had perished, blotted out at once and razed, 

But for the ruggod limb of an old oak), 

Soliciting his influence with the state, 

And drops it to be found. ^ — —"Would ye know alH 

I have transgressed, offended wilfully ; "" 

And am prepared to suffer as I ought. 

But let me, let me, if but for an hour 

(Ye must consent — for all of you are sons, 

Most of you husbands, fathers) — let me first 

Indulge the natural feelings of u man. 

And, ere I die, if such my sentence he, 

Preas to my heart ('t is all I aak of you) 

My wife, my children — and my aged mother — 

Say, is she yet alive "! " 

Ho is condemned 
To go ere Bet of sun, go whence he came, 
A banished man : and for a year to breathe 
The vapor of a dungeon. But his prayer 
(Wliat could ihcy less ?) is granted. 

In a Iiall 
Open and crowded by tlie common hcnl, 
'T was there a wife and her four sons yet young, 
A mother home along, life ehbing fuat, 
jVnd an old Doge, mustering his strength in vain, 
Assembled now, sad privilege ! to meet 
One so long lost, one who for thom Iiad braved, 
2T« 



818 ITALY. 

For them had sought — death and yet worse than death ' 

To meet him, and to part with him forever ! — 

Time and their wrongs had changed them all — him most! 

Yet when the wife, the mother, looked again, 

'T was he — 'twas he himself — 'twaa GiACOMO ! 

And all clung round him, weeping bitterly ; 

Weeping the more, because they wept in vain. 

Unnerved, and now unsettled in his mind 
From long and exquisite pam, he sobs and cries, 
Kissing the old man's cheek, ^'Help me, my &ther ! 
Let me, I pray thee, live once more among ye : 

Let me go home." ** My son," returns the Doge, 

'' Obey. Thy country wills it" '^ 

GlACOMO 

That night embarked ; sent to an early grave 

For one whose dying words, " The deed was mine ! 

He is most innocent ! 'T was I who did it ! " 

Came when he slept in peace. The ship, that sailed 

Swift as the winds with his deliverance, 

Bore back a lifeless corse. Generous as brave. 

Affection, kindness, the sweet oflSces 

Of duty and love were from his tenderest years 

To him as needful as his daily bread ; 

And to become a by- word in the streets. 

Bringing a stain on those who gave him life. 

And those, alas ! now worse than fatherless — 

To be proclaimed a ruffian, a night-stabber, 

He on whom none before had breathed reproach — 

He lived but to disprove it. That hope lost. 

Death followed. ! if justice be in heaven, 

A day must come of ample retribution ! 

Then was thy cup, old man, full to the brim. 



But ihou wert yet ulive ; and tbero Wiis one, 

Tho soul and spring of all tliat eamitj, 

Who would uot luavo tlico ; fastening on tliy Bank, 

Uungeriug and thirsting, still unsatisfied ; 

One of a name illustrious as thine own ! 

One of the Ten .' one of the luviaible Three ! '" 

'T was LoKEBANO, When tlie whelps were gonej 

lie would dislodge the lion from his don ; 

And, leading on the pack he long had led, 

Tho miserable pack that ever howled 

Against liilleu greatness, moved that FOSCARI 

Be Doge no longer ; urging his great age ; 

Calling the loneliness of grief neglect 

or duty, sullenneas against the laws. 

" I am most willing to retire," said he : 

" But I have sworn, and einnot of myself. 

Do with me as je pleaflo." lie wna depose«l, 

He, who had reigned so long and gloriously ; 
His ducal bonnet taken fiom his brow, 
Hid robes stript off, his seiil and signet-ring 
Broken before him. But now nothing moved 
The meekness of bis soul. All things alike ! 
Among the six that came with the decree, 
FoscARi saw one he knew not, and inquired 
His name. " I am the son of Marco Mbmmo." 
" Ah ! " he replied, " thy father was my friend." 
And now he goes, '' It is the hour and past. 

I have no business here," " But wilt thou not 

Avoid the gazing crowd ] That way is private." 
" No ! us I entered, so will I retire." 
And, loaning on hia staff, he leil the house, 
His residence for five-nnd-thirty ycitrs. 



820 ITALY. 

By the same stairs up which he came in state j 
Those where the giants stand, goarding the Bsoeaai, 
Monstrous, terrific. At the foot he stopt, 
And, on his staff still leaning, turned and said, 
'^ By mine own merits did I come. I go, 
Driven by the malice of mine enemies." 
Then to his boat withdrew, poor as he came, 
Amid the sighs of them that dared not speak. 

This journey was his last. When the bell rang 
At dawn, announcing a new Doge to Venice, 
It found him on his knees before the cross, 
Clasping his aged hands in earnest prayer ; 
And there he died. Ere half its task was done, 
It rang his knell. 

But whence the deadly hate 
That caused all this — the hate of LoREDANO ? 
It was a legacy his father left, 
Who, but for Foscari, had reigned in Venice, 
And, like the venom in the serpent's bag, 
Gathered and grew ! Nothing but turned to hate ! '^ 
In vain did Foscari supplicate for peace. 
Offering in marriage his fair Isabel. 
He changed not, with a dreadful piety 
Studying revenge ; listening to those alone 
Who talked of vengeance ; grasping by the hand 
Those in their zeal (and none were wanting there) 
Who came to tell him of another wrong. 
Done or imagined. When his fiither died. 
They whispered, ** 'T was by poison ! " and the words 
Struck him as uttered from his fiither's grave. 
He wrote it on the tomb ^^ ('tis there in marble), 
And with a brow of care, most merchant-like. 



Among the debtors in hia Icger-book "' 
Entered at full (nor moDth nor day forgot) 
" Francesco Foscabi — for my father's deatL" 
Leaving a blank — to be filled up hereafter. 
When FosCARl's noble heart at length gave way, 
lie took the volume from the slitlf again 
Calmly, and with Lis pen filled up the bbak, 
Inscribing, "He haa paiil me." 

Te who ait 
Brooding from day to day, from day to day 
Chewing tlie bitter cud, and starting up 
As though the hour was come to whet your bagt, 
And, like tho Piaan,'" gnaw the hairy scalp 
Of him who had offended — if ye must. 
Sit and brood on ; but, O ! forbear to teach 
The lesson t« your children. 



M.\RCOLLNI. 
It was midnight ; tho great cloek had struck and woa 
still echoing through every porch and gallery in tlio (jnartor 
of St. Mare, when a young citizen, wrapped in his cloak, 
was hastoning home under it from an interview with his 
mistress. His step was light, ibr his heart was bo. Her 
parents bad just consented to their marriage ; and the very 
ilay waa named. '■ Lovely GitJLTETTA ! " he criwl. " And 
ahall I then call thee mine at last ! Who was ever so bleat 
aa thy MABCuLiJfr'f" But, as he spoke, be stopped; for 
something glittered on the pavement before him. It was a 
scabbard of rich workmai;ship ; and the discovery, wlial was 
it but on earnest of good fortune? "Beet thou therel" 



J 



822 ITALY. 

he cried, thrusting it gajlj into his belt. '* If another 
claims thee not, thou hast changed masters ! " And on he 
went as before, humming the burden of a song which he 
and his Giulietta had been singing together. But how 
little do we know what the next minute will bring forth ! 
He turned by the Church of St. Gemixiano, and in three 
steps he met the watch. A murder had just been commit- 
ted. The senator Renaldi had been found dead at his 
door, the dagger left in his heart; and the unfortunate 
Margolin I was dragged away for examination. The place, 
the time, everything served to excite, to justify su8pi<iion ; 
and no sooner had he entered the guard-house than a dam- 
ning witness appeared against him. The bravo in his flight 
had thrown away his scabbard ; and, smeared with blood, 
with blood not yet dry, it was now in the belt of Marco- 
LINI. Its patrician ornaments struck every eye; and, 
when the fatal dagger was produced and compared with it, 
not a doubt of his guilt remained. Still there is in the 
innocent an energy and a composure, an energy when they 
speak and a composure when they are silent, to which none 
can be altogether insensible; and the judge delayed for 
some time to pronounce the sentence, though he was a near 
relation of the dead. At length, however, it came; and 
Marcolini lost his life, Giulietta her reason. 

Not many years afterwards the truth revealed itself, the 
real criminal in bis last moments confessing the crime : and 
hence the custom in Venice, a custom that long prevailed, 
for a crier to cry out in the court before a sentence was 
passed, *' Ricordatevi del povero Marcolini !''"" 

Great, indeed, was the lamentation throughout the city, 
and the judge, dying, directed that thenceforth and forever 
a mass should be sung every night in a chapel of the ducal 



A&QUA. 32S 

church for hia own soul, and the soul of Marcolini, and 
the BouU of all who had Buffered by an UDJust judgment 
Some land on the Brenta was left by him for the purpose: 
and still is the mo^ sung in the chapel ; still every night, 
when the great square is illuminating und the casinos are 
filling fiutt with the gay and the dissipated, a bell is rung 
as for a service, und a ray of light seen to issue from a 
email Gothic window that looks toward the place of execu- 
tion, — the place where, on a scaSbld, Mabcdlini breathed 
f Us laeL 



ARQUA. 
Thkkb leagues from Padua stands and long hoe stood 
{The Padnan student knows it, honors it) 
A lonely tomb beside a moon tain-church ; 
And I arrived thefo oa the sun declined 

f iu the west, The gentle aira, that breathe 

at pvo, were rising, and the binJa 
Iging their 6jewell-song — the very song 
?Iiey sung the night that tomb received a tenant; 
When, as alive, clothed in hia canon's stole, 
And slowly winding down the narrow path, 
lie came to rest there. Nobles of the land, 
Princes and prelates, mingled in his train, 
Anxious by any act, while yet they could, 
To catch a ray of glory hy reflection ; 
And from that hour have kindred spirita flocked '" 
From distant countries, from the north, the south, 
To see where he in laid. 

Twelve years ago, 
When I descended the impetuous Rboss, 



824 ITALY. 

Its yineyards of such great and old renown,^'* 
Its castles, each with some romantic tale, 
Vanishing fieist — the pilot at the stem, 
He who had steered so long, standing aloft, 
His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands 
On what was now his rudder, now his oar, 
A huge misshapen plank — the bark itself 
Frail and uncouth, launched to return no more, 
Such as a shipwrecked man might hope to build/^ 
Urged by the love of home. —Twelve years ago, 
When like an arrow from the cord we flew. 
Two long, long days, silence, suspense oa board^ 
It was to offer at thy fount, Vaucluse, 
Entering the arched cave, to wander where 
Petrarch had wandered, to explore and sit 
Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit. 
Musing, reciting — on some rock moss-grown, 
Or the fantastic root of some old beech. 
That drinks the living waters i\a they stream 
Over their emerald-bed ; and could I now 
Neglect the place where, in a graver mood,^ 
When he had done and settled with the world, 
When all the illusicms of his youth were fled. 
Indulged perhaps too much, cherished too long. 
He came for the conclusion ? Half-way up 
He built his house,^ whence as by stealth he caught, 
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life 
That soothed, not stirred. — But knock, and enter in. 
This was his chamber. 'T is as when he went ; 
As if he now were in his orchard-grove. 
And this his closet. Here he sat and read. 
This was his chair; and in it, unobserved. 



<;iNEVRA. 825 

Readmg, or tMnlring of Ms absent friends, 
He passed awn; as in a qaiet slumber. 

Peiico to this region ! Peace to each, to all ! 
Thej know his value — every coming step, 
That draws the gazing children from their play, 
Would tell them, if they knew not. — ^But could aught 
Ungentle or ungenerous spring up 
Where he is sleeping ; where, and in an age 
Of savage warfare and blind bigotry. 
He cultured all that ctfuld refine, exalt ; "* 
Leading to better things ? 



GIVETRA. 
If thou shouldst ever <*me by choice or chance 
To MoDENA,'" where still religiously 
Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
BotooNA'g bucket (in its chain it hangs '^ 
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine), 
8top at a palace near the Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt in of old by one of the Obsini. 
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
And riL'h in fountains, statues, cypresses. 
Will long detain thee; through their arched walks, 
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a ^mpse 
Of knights and dames such as in old romance. 
And lovers such as in heroic song, — 
Perhaps the two, for gmv*3 were their delight, 
That in the spring-time, as alone they sate. 
Venturing together on a tale of love, 
Read only part that day."* A ff 



326 ITALY. 

Sets ere one-half is seen ; but, ere thoa go, 
Enter the house — prithee, forget it not — 
And look a while upon a picture there. 

'T is of a lady in her earliest youth,"* 
The very last of that illustrious raoe. 
Done by Zampieri '^ — but by whom I care nol. 
He who observes it, ere he passes on, 
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again. 
That he may call it up when fiur away. 

She sits, inclining forward as to speak, 
Her lips half-open, and her finger up^ 
As though she said " Beware ! " her vest of gold 
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to fool. 
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ; 
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
A coronet of pearls. But then her face. 
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. 
The overflowings of an innocent heart — 
It haunts me still, though ioany a year has fled. 
Like some wild melody ! 

Alone it hangs 
Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, 
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm. 
But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
With scripture-stories from the life of Christ ; 
A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
The ducal robes of some old ancestor. 
That by the way — it may be true or false — 
But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not. 
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. 

She was an only child ; from in£mcy 
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent sire. 



Ucr mother tiding of ilie gift she gave, 
That precious gift, whnt else remained to him ? 
The young Ginkvra was his all in life, 
StOl as she grew, foTevcr in his sight ; 
j\jnl in her fifteenth year hecame a brido, 
Marrying an only son, Ficancbsco Doria, 
Ilcr playmate from her birth, and ber firet loye. 

Just as she looks there in her brida! dresa, 
She waa all gontleness, all gayety, 
Her pranks Uie favorite theme of every tongne. 
But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; 
Now, frowBing, smiling, for the hundredth time, 
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached deconm ; 
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Fiuncksco. 

Great was the joy ; but at the bridal feast, 
Wlien all sate down, the bride was wanting there. 
Nor was she to be found ! Her fiither cried, 
" 'T is but to make a trial of our love ! " 
And Slleil bis glass to all ; but his hand shook, 
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
'T was but that instuit she had left Francesco, 
Laughing and looking back and flying still, 
IIvT ivory-tooth imprinted on his fiuger 
Bat now, ftlos ! she was not to bo found; 
Nor from Aat hour could anything be guessed 
But that she was not ! — "Weary of liia life, 
Francesco flew to Vexice, ami forthwith 
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
OrSISI lived ; and long waa to be soon 
An old man wandering"*" as in quest of something, 
Something he could not find — he knew not what. 



828 ITALT. 

When he was gcme, the house remamed a while 
Silent and tenantless — then went to strangeis. 

Full fifty years were past, and all foi^got, 
When on an idle day, a day of search 
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, 
That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 't was Sftid 
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginsvra, 
" Why not remove it from its lurking-place V^ 
'T was done as soon as said ; but on the way 
It burst, it fell ; and, lo ! a skeleton, 
With here and there a pearl, an emerakL-stone, 
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
All else had perished — save a nuptial ring, 
And a small seal, her mother's legacy. 
Engraven with a name, the name o( both, 

" GiNEVRA." There, then, had she found a gra?e ! 

Within that chest had she concealed herself, 
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; 
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, 
Fastened her down forever ! 



BOLOGNA. 



'T WAS night ; the noise and bustle of the day 
Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought 
Miraculous cures — he and his stage were gone ; 
And he who, when the crisis of his tale 
Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear, 
Sent round his cap ; and he who thrummed his wire 
And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain, 
Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cricvi,' •' 



So well portrayed, and by n eon of ttuuc, 

Wliosc voice had swelled the hubbub in his youth, 

Were hushed, Bologsa, silence in the stroeta, 

The S4juarc3, when, hark! the clattering of fleet iioofa ; 

And soon a courier, posting as from fur, 

Housing and holster, boot and belted coat 

And doublet, stained witli many a various soil, 

Stopt and alighted. 'T was where hangs aloft 

That imcicnt sign, the pilgrim, welcoming 

All who arrive there, nil perhaps save those 

CInd like himself, with staff and scallop-ahcU, 

Those on a pilgrimage. And now approached 

Wheels, through the lofty porticos resounding, 

Areh beyond arch, a shelter or a shade 

As the sky changes. To the gate they came ; 

And, ere the man had half his story done. 

Mine host received the masU?r — one long used 

To sojourn among strangers, everywhere 

(Go where he would, along the wildest track) 

Flinging a charm that shall not soon bo lost, 

And leavmg footsteps to be traced by those 

Wlio love the haunta of genius ; one who saw, 

Observed, nor shunned the busy scenes of life, 

But mingled not, and 'mid the din, the stir. 

Lived OS a separate spirit. 

Much had paaeod 
Since last we parted; and those five short yeaiB — 
Much had they told ! His clustermg locks were turned 
Gray ; nor did aught recall the youth that swam 
From Se3T0S to Abydos. Yet his voice, 
Still it wa9 sweet ; still from his eye the thought 
Fhished lightning-like, nor lingered on the way, 



880 HALT. 

Waiting for words. Far, fiur into the night 
We sat, conversing — no unwelcome hour, 
The hour we met ; and when Aurora rose, 
Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine. 

Well I remember how the golden sun 
Filled with its beams the unfathomable gulfe, 
As on we travelled, and along the ridge, 
'Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild-fig, 
His motley household came. — Not last nor leasl, 
Battista, who, upon the moonlight-sea 
Of Vbnice, had so ably, zealously. 
Served, and, at parting, thrown his oar away 
To follow through the world ; who without stain 
Had worn so long that honorable badge. 
The gondolier's, in a patrician house 
Arguing unlimited trust.^" — Not last nor least, 
Thou, though declining in thy beauty and strength, 
Faithful MoRETTO, to the latest hour 
Guarding his chamber-door, and now along 
The silent, sullen strand of Missolonqhi 
Howling in grief — He had just left that place 
Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea,"^ 
Ravenna ! where from Dante's sacred tomb 
He had so oft, as many a verse declares,^ 
Drawn inspiration ; where, at twilight-time. 
Through the pine-forest wandering with loose rein, 
Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld 
(What is not visible to a poet's eye ?) 
The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds and their prey, 
The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth 
Suddenly blasted.^** 'T was a theme he loved. 
But others claimed their turn; and many a tower, 



134 



Shattered, uprooted from ita native rook, 
Its strength the pride of aome heroic age, 
Appeared und vanished (muny a sturdjf steer *" 
Yoked an<l unyoked) while us in happier daya 
He poured his spirit forth, The past forgot, 
All wafi enJoymcDt. Not a cloud obscured 
Present or future. 

He is now at rest ; 
And praise and blame Eall on his ear alike, 
Now dull ui death. Yea, Byron, thou art gone, 
Gone like a star that through tlie firmament 
Shot and was lost, in ita eccentric course 
I>azzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinka, 
Was generous, noble — ncblo in ita scorn 
Of all things low or little ; nothing there 
Sordid or aervile. If imagined wrongs 
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do 
Things long regretted, oft, as many know, 
None more thou I, thy gratitude would build 
On slight foundations : and, if in thy life 
Not happy, in thy death thou surely wcrt, 
I'hy wish accomplished ; dying in the land 
Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire — 
Dying in Greece, and ia a cause so glorioua ! 

They in thy train — ah ! little did they think, 
Ab round we went, that tlicy so soon should sit 
Mourning beside thee, while a nation mourned, 
Changing her festal for her funeral song ; 
That they ao soon should hear the minute-gun, 
As monung gleamed on nhat remained of thee, 
Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering 
Thy years of joy and aorrow. 



882 ITALY. 

Thou art gone ; 
And he who would assail thee in thy grave, 
0, let him pause ! For who among us all, 
Tried as thou wcrt — even from thine earliest yean, 
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland-boy — 
Tried as thou Wert, and with thy soul of flame ; 
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, 
Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine, 
Iler charmed cup — ah ! who among us all 
Could say he had not erred as much, and more ? 



FLORENCE. 



Of all the &irest cities of the earth, 
None is so fiiir as Florence. 'T is a gem 
Of purest ray ; and what a light broke forth,** 
When it emerged from darkness ! Search within. 
Without ; all is enchantment ! 'T is the Past 
Contending with the Present ; and in turn 
Each has the mastery. 

In this chapel wrought ^ 
One of the few, Nature's interpreters. 
The few, whom genius gives as lights to shine, 
Masaccio ; and he slumbers underneath. 
Wouldst thou behold his monument 1 Look round ! 
And know that where we stand stood oft and long, 
Oft till the day was gone, Raphael himself; 
Nor he alone, so great the ardor there. 
Such, while it reigned, the generous rivalry ; 
He and how many as at once called forth. 
Anxious to learn of those who came before. 



To steal a spark from their ctutbentic fire, 
Tbeirs who Grst broke the universal gloom, 
Sons of the Morning. 

On that ancient seat, 
The seat of stone that rans along the wall,'™ 
South of the church, east of the belfry-tower ™ 
(Thou canst not miss it), in the sultry time 
"Would Dante sit conversing, and with tlioaa 
Who little thought that in liis hand he held 
The balance, and assigned at his good pleHSure 
To each his place in the invisible world, 
To some an upper region, some a lower ; 
Many a transgressor sent to hia account,"" 
Long ere in Flokence numbered with the dead ; 
The body still as full of life and stir 
At home, abroad ; atill and as oft inclined 
To eat, drink, sleep ; atill clod as others were. 
And at noon-day, where men were wont to meet, 
Met as contmually ; when the soul went. 
Relinquished to a demon, and by him 
(So says the bard, and who can read and doubt ?) 
Dwelt in and goTcmed. 

Sit thee down a while;'" 
Then, by the gates so marvellously wrought, 
That they might serve to he the gates of Heaven,'" 
Enter the Baptistery. That place he lovdl, 
Loved as his own ; '*' and in his visits there 
Well might he take delight ! For when a child, 
Phiying, as many are wont, with venturous feet 
Near and yet nearer to the sacred font. 
Slipped and fell in, he flew and rescued him, 
Flew with an energy, a violence, 



224 ITALT. 



That broke the marble — a mishap ascribed 
To evil motives ; his, alas ! to lead 
A life of trouble,*** and ere long to leave 
All things most dear to him, ere long to know 
How salt-another's brood is, and the toil 
Of going up and down another's stairs.*** 

Nor then forget that chamber of the dead,*** 
Where the gigantic shapes of Night and Day, 
Turned into stone, rest everlastingly ; 
Yet still are breathing, and shed round at noon 
A two-fold influence — only to be felt — 
A light, a darkness, mingling each with each ; 
Both and yet neither. There, from age to age, 
Two ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres. 
That is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well.**' 
He meditates, his head upon his hand. 
What fix)m beneath his helm-like bonnet scowls ? 
Is it a face, or but an eyeless skull ? 
'T is lost in shade ; yet, like the basilisk, 
It fascinates, and is intolerable. 
His mien is noble, most majestical ! 
Then most so, when the distant choir is heard 
At mom or eve — nor fail thou to attend 
On that thrice-hallowed day, when all are there ; *** 
When all, propitiating with solemn songs, 
Visit the dead. Then wilt thou feel his power f 

But let not Sculpture, Painting, Poesy, 
Or they, the masters of these mighty spells, 
Detain us. Our first homage is to Virtue. 
Where, in what dungeon of the citadel 
(It must be known — the writing on the wall*** 
Cannot be gone — 't was with the blade cut in, 



PON OASZtA. 

Ere, on his knocB to God, ho slow himself), 
Did ho, the last, the Qoblcst citizen,'™ 
Breatho out his aoul, lest in the torturing hour 
lie might accuse tlio guiltless 1 

That debt paid. 
But mth a sigh, a toar for human frailty. 
We may return, and once more give a loose 
To the delighted spirit — worshipping, 
In her small temple of rieb workmanship,"'' 
Vknus herself, who, whea sho loft the skies, 
Cumc hithor. 



DON GiBZiA. 
Amonu ihoso awful forms, in elder time 
Assembled, and through many an aftcr-ago 
Destined to stand 03 Genii of the place 
Where mcu most meet in Florence, may ho seen 
IDs who first pbycd the tyrant. Clad in mail, 
But with his helmet off — in kingly state, 
Aloft ho sits upon his horae of braes ; "^ 
And they, that read the legend underneath, 
Go and pronounce bim liappy. Yet, mctkinks, 
There is a chamber that, if walla could speak, 
Would turn their admiration into pity. 
Half of what passed died with him ; but the rest, 
All he discovered when the fit was on, 
All that, by those who listcn»l, could bo glcanod 
From broken sentences and starts in sleep, 
Ifl told, and by an honest chronicler."' 
Two of his sons, Giovanni and GarzU 



886 ' ITALY. 

(The eldest had not seen his nineteentii BomiMr), 

Went to the chase ; but only one returned. 

Giovanni, when the huntsman blew his horn 

O'er the last stag that started &om the brake, 

And in the heather turned to stand at bay, 

Appeared not ; and at close of day was found 

Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas ! 

The trembling Cosmo guessed the deed, the do«r ; 

And, having caused the body to be borne 

In secret to that chamber — at an hour 

When all slept sound, save she who bore iketa both,"* 

Who little thought of what was yet to come, 

And lived but to be told — he bade Gabzia 

Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand 

A winking lamp, and in the other a key 

Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led ; 

And, having entered in and locked the door, 

The father fixed his eyes upon the son. 

And closely questioned him. No change betrayed 

Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up 

The bloody sheet. ** Look there I Look there ! " he cried 

" Blood calls for blood — and from a father's hand ! 

— Unless thyself wilt save him that sad ofBce. 

What ! " he exclaimed, when, shuddering at the sight, 

The boy breathed out, '* I stood but on my guard ! " 

" Dar'st thou then blacken one who never wronged thee, 

Who woiild not set his foot upon a worm ? 

Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee. 

And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all." 

Then from GarzIa's belt he drew the blade. 

That fatal one which spilt his brother's blood ; 

And, kneeling on the ground, ** Great God ! " he cried, 



DOS GAttZIA. 



" Grant me the atrength to do an act of justice. 
Thoa knowest what it coste mo ; but, aiaa '. 
How can I spare m^Bclf, sparing none else 1 
Grant me the strength, the will — and, ! foi^ve 
The sinful soul of a most wretched son ' 
"Tia a mcBt wretched father who implores it." 
Long on Garzia's neck he hung and wept, 
Long pressed him to his bosom tenderly ; 
And then, but while he heEd bim hj the arm, 
Thrusting him backward, turned awny his face, 
And stabbed bim to the heart. 

Well might a youth,"^ 
Studious of men, anxious to learn and know, 
When in the train of some great embassy 
He came, a visitant, to Cosmo's court, 
Think on the past ; and, as he wandered through 
The ample spaces of an ancient house,'" 
Silent, deserted — stop a while to dwell 
Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall '" 
Together, as of two in Ixinds of love, 
Those of the unhnppy brothers, and conclude, 
From the sad looks of him who could have told, 
The terrible truth."" — Well might he Ueuve a sigh 
For poor humanity, when he behelii 
That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire, 
Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate. 
Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's moss, 
In the last stage — death-struck and deadly pale ; 
His wife, another, not his Eleanor, 
At once tus oaree and his interpreter. 
29 



338 ITALY. 



THE OAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE. 

'T IS morning. Let us wander through the fields, 
Where Cimabue '® found a shepherd-boy 
Tracing his idle fancies on the ground ; 
And let us from the top of Fiesolb, 
Whence Galileo's glass ^^ by night observed 
The phases of the moon, look round below 
On Arno's vale, where the dove-colored steer 
Is ploughing up and down among the vines, 
While many a careless note is sung aloud, 
Filling tlie air with sweetness — and on thee, 
Beautiful Florence ! ^^^ all within thy walls, 
Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers. 
Drawn to our feet. 

From that small spire, just caught 
By the bright ray, that church among the rest 
By one of old distinguished as The Bride,^® 
Let us in thought pursue (what can we better ?) 
Those who assembled there at matin-time ;'^ 
Who, when vice revelled and along the street 
Tables were set, what time the bearer's bell 
Rang to demand tlie dead at every door. 
Came out into the meadows ; and, a while 
Wandering in idleness, but not in folly. 
Sate down in the high grass and in the shade 
Of many a tree sun-proof — day after day, 
When all was still and nothing to be heard 
But the cicala's voice among the olives. 
Relating in a ring, to banish care. 
Their hundred tales.^^* 



THE CAMPAOKA OF FLORENCE. 



Round the green hill tliey went,'* 
Roonil undcrnoath — first to a splendid house, 
Gherardi, as on old tradition runs, 
That on the loft, just rising from the vale ; 
A place for luxury — the painted rooms, 
The open galleries and middle court, 
Not unprepared, Vagrant and gay with Sowers. 
Then westward to another, nobler yet ; 
That on the right, now knuwn as tho Palmicri, 
Where Art with Nature vied — a Paradise 
With verdurous walls, and many a trelliscd walk 
All rose and juBmine, many a twilight-glade 
Crossed by the deer. Then to the Ladies' Vale ; 
And the clear lake, that as by magic seemed 
To lift up to the surface every stono 
Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish 
Lmnmerable, dropt with crimson and gold, 
Now motionless, now ghincing to the sun. 

Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day? 
The morning banquet by the fountain-side,'" 
While the small birds rejoiced on every bough ; 
The dance that followed, and the noontide slumber ; 
Then the talcs told in turn, as round they lay 
On carpets, the fresh waters murmuring ; 
And the short interval of pleasant talk 
Till supper-time, when many a siren-voice 
Sung down tho stars ; and, as they left the sky, 
The torches, planted in the sparkling gross, 
And everywhere among the glowing flowers, 
Bnrnt bright and brighter. — lie "" whose dream it wi 
(It was no more) sleeps in. a neighlxiring vale ; 
Sleeps in the church, where, in his ear, I ween, 



840 ITALY. 

The friar poared out his wondrous catalogae ; ^ 

A raj, imprimis, of the star that shone 

To the Wise Men ; a vial-fuII of sounds, 

The musical chimes of the great bells that hong 

In Solomon's Temple ; and, though last not least, 

A feather from the Angel Gabriel's wing, 

Dropt in the Virgin's chamber. That dark ridge^ 

Stretching south-east, conceals it from our si^t ; 

Not so his lowly roof and scanty &rm, 

His copse and rill, if yet a trace be left, 

Who lived in Yal di Pesa, suffering long 

Want and neglect and (far, fSur worse) reproadi, 

With calm, imclouded mind.^® The glimmering tower 

On the gray rock beneath, his landmark onoe, 

Now serves for ours, and points out where he ate 

His bread with cheerfulness. Who sees him not 

('T is his own sketch — he drew it from himself)^ 

Laden with cages from his shoulder slung, 

And sallying forth, while yet the mom is gray. 

To catch a thrush on every lime-twig there ; 

Or in the wood among his wood-cutters ; 

Or in the tavern by the highway-side 

At tric-trac with the miller ; or at night, 

Dofl&ng his rustic suit, and, duly clad. 

Entering his closet, and, among his books. 

Among the great of every age and clime, *^^ 

A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased, 

Questioning each why he did this or that. 

And learning how to overcome the fear 

Of poverty and death 7 

Nearer we hail 
Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of old 



THE CAUPAUNA OF FLORESCE. 



341 



For its greon wine ; '"' dearer to me, to moat, 

Afl dwelt on by that great aatronomer,''''' 

Seveu years a prisoner at the city-gate, 

Let in bat in his grave-clothea."' Sacred be 

His villa (justly was it called The Gem!)''' 

Sacred the lawn, where many a cypress threw 

Itfl length of shadow, while he watched the stara ! 

Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his Bight 

Glimmered, at blush of moru he dressed his vines, 

Chanting aloud in gayety of heart 

Some vorae of Ariostd ! """ — There, unseen,'" 

In manly beauty Milton stood before him, 

Gazing with reverent awe — Milton, hia guest. 

Just [hen come forth, all life and enterprise ; 

He in liis old ago and extremity, 

Slind, at noon-day exploring with his alaff; '^ 

nis eyc3 upturned as to the golden sun, 

Hia eyelmlla idly rolling. Little then 

Did Galileo think whom he received; 

That in his hand he held the band of one 

Who eonld rotjuile him — who would spread his name 

O'er lands and seas "^ — great as himself, miy, greater 

Milton as little that in bim he saw. 

As in a glass, what he himself sliould be,"" 

Destinetl so soon to fall on evil days 

And evil tongues — so soon, alas ! to live 

In darkness, and with dangers compassed round, 

And solitude. 

Well pleased, could we pursue 
The Abno, from his birthplace in the clouds, 
So near the yellow TiBEit's^springing up"*" 
From bis four fountains on the Apennine, 
29* 



842 ITALY. 

That mountain-ridgc a sea-mark to the ships 
Sailing on either sea. Downward he runs, 
Scattering fresh verdure through the desolate wild, 
Down by the City of Hermits,"* and the woods 
That only echo to the choral hynm ; 
Then through these gardens to the Tuscan sefti 
Reflecting castles, convents, villages, 
And those great rivals in an elder day, 
Florence and Pisa^^ — who have given him fimie, 
Fame everlasting, but who stained so oft 
His troubled waters. Oft, alas ! were seen. 
When flight, pursuit, and hideous rout were there, 
Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring; ^ 
The man, the hero, on his foaming steed 
Borne underneath, already in the realms 
Of darkness. — Nor did night or burning noon * 
Bring respite. Oft, as that great artist saw,"* 
Whose pencil had a voice, the cry ^' To arms ! " 
And the shrill trumpet hurried up the bank 
Those who had stolen an hour to breast the tide, 
And wash from their unharnessed limbs the blood 
And sweat of battle. Sudden was the rush,'* 
Violent the tumult ; for, already in sight. 
Nearer and nearer yet the danger drew ; 
Each every sinew straining, every nerve, 
Each snatching up, and girding, buckling on 
Morion and greave and shiit of twisted mail, 
As for his life — no more jwrchauce to taste, 
AuNO, the grateful freshness of thy glades. 
Thy waters — where, exulting, he had felt 
A s\>'immer*s tran.sp)rt, there, alas ! to float 
And welter. — Nor Ijetween the gusts of war, 





^^ 




THE CAMl'AONA OF FLORENCE. 343 

When flocks were feeding, and the shepherd's pipe 
Gladdened the valley, — when, but not unarmed, 
The sower came forth, and, following him that ploughed, 
Threw in the aced, — did thj indignant waves 
Escape pollution. Sullen was the splash. 
Heavy and swift the plunge, when they received 
The key that just had grated on the ear 
Of Ugoliso, ever closing up 
That dismal dungeon thenceforth to be named 
The Tower of Famine. — Once indeed 't was thine, 
When many a winter-flood, thy tributary, 
Was through its rocky glen rushing, resounding, 
And thou wert in thy might, to save, restore 
A charge moat precious. To the nearest ford, 
HaBt«ning, a hoi-seman from Arezzo came, 
Careless, impatient of delay, a babe 
Slung in a basket to the knotty staff 
That lay athwart his saddle-bow. He spurs, 
He enters ; and his horse, alarmed, perplexed, 
Halto in the midst. Great is the stir, the strife ; 
And, lo ! an atom on that dnngei-ous sea,'* 
The babe is floating ! Fast and far he flies ; 
Now tempest- rocketl, now whirling round and round 
But not to perish. By thy willing waves 
Borne to the shore, among the bulrushes 
The ark has rested ; and unhurt, secure 
As on his mother's breast, he sleeps within, 
- All peace ! or never had the nations heard 

That voice so sweet, which still enchants, inspired ; 
That voice, which sung of love, of liberty. 
Petrarch lay there ! — And such the images 
That here spring up forever, in the young 







844 ITALY. 

Kindling poetic firo ! Such they that came 
And clustered round our MiLTON, when at eve, 
Reclined beside thee, Arno ;^ when at eve, 
Led on by thee, he wandered with delight, 
Framing Ovidian verse, and through thy groves 
Gathering wild myrtle. Such the poet's dreams ; 
Yet not such only. For, look round and say. 
Where is the ground that did not drink warm blood, 
The echo that had learnt not to articulate 
The cry of muixier 7 — Fatal was the day 
To Florence, when ('twas in a narrow street 
North of that temple, where the truly great 
Sleep, not unhonored, not unvisited ; 
That temple sacred to the Holy Cross — 
There is the house -^ that house of the DoNATi, 
Towerless,^* and left long since, but to the last 
Braving assault — all rugged, all embossed 
Below, and still distinguished by the rings 
Of brass, that held in war and festival-time 
Their family-standards) — fatal was the day 
To Florence, when, at mom, at the ninth hour, 
A noble dame in weeds of widowhood. 
Weeds by so many to be worn so soon. 
Stood at her door ; and, like a sorceress, flung 
Ilcr dazzling spell. Subtle she was, and rich, 
Rich in a hidden pearl of heavenly light, 
Ilcr daughter s beauty ; and too well she knew 
Its virtue ! Patiqntly she stood and watched ; 
Nor stood alone — but spoke not. — In her breast 
Her purpose lay ; and, as a youth passed by, 
Clad for the nuptial rite, she smiled and said, 
Lifting a comer of the maiden's veil, 



THE CAMPAQSA OF FLORENCE. 



845 



" This bad I treasured up in secret for tbee. 

This hast thou lost ! '' He gazed and was undone ! 

Forgetting — not forgot — he broke the bond, 

And paid the peuuJty, loiuug his life 

At the bridge-foot ; "" anJ hence a world of woe ! "' 

Vengeance for vengeance crying, bhx>d for blood ; 

No intermission ! Law, that slumbers not, 

And, like the angel with the flaming sword, 

Sits over all, at once chastising, healing. 

Himself the avenger, went ; and every street 

Kan red with mutual slaughter — though sometimes 

The young forgot the lesson they hod learnt, 

And loved when they should hate — like thee, lUELDA, 

Thee and thy Paolo. When hiat ye met 

In that still hour (the heat, the glai-e was gone, 

Not so the splendor — through the cedar-grove 

A radiance streamed like a consuming fire, 

As though the glorious orh, in its descent, 

Had come and rested there) — when last ye met, 

And thy relentless brothers dragged him forth. 

It had been well hadst thou slept on, Imkli>a,'" 

Nor from thy trance of fear awaked, as night 

Fell on that latal spot, to wish thee dead. 

To track turn by bis blood, to search, to find, 

Then fling thee down to catch a word, a look, 

A sigh, if yet thou couldat (alaji ! thou couldst not), 

And die, unseen, unthought of — &om the wound 

Sucking the poison.'" 

Yet, when slavery came, 
Worse followed,'" Genius, Valor left Uie land, 
Indignant — all that had from age to age 
Adorned, ennobled ; and headlong they fell, 



846 ITALY. 

Tyrant and slave. For deeds of violence, 

Done in broad day and more than half redeemed 

By many a great and generous sacrifice 

Of self to others, came the unpledged bowl, 

The stab of the stiletto. Gliding by 

Unnoticed, in slouched hat and muffling doak, 

That just discovered, Caravaggio-like, 

A swarthy cheek, black brow, and eye of flame. 

The bravo stole, and o'er the shoulder plunged 

To the heart's core, or from beneath the ribs 

Slanting (a surer path, as some averred) 

Struck upward — then slunk oflF, or, if pursued. 

Made for the sanctuary, and there along 

The glimmering aisle among the worshippers 

Wandered with restless step and jealous look, 

Dropping thick blood. — Misnamed to lull alarm, 

In every palace was The Laboratory, ^^ 

Where he within brewed poisons swift and slow, 

That scattered terror till all things seemed poisonous. 

And brave men trembled if a hand held out 

A nosegay or a letter ; while the great 

Drank only from the Venice-glass, that broke, 

That shivered, scattering round it as in scorn, 

If aught malignant, aught of thine was there. 

Cruel TopHANA ; "* and pawned provinces 

For that miraculous gem, the gem that gave 

A sign infallible of coming ill,^"^ 

That clouded though the vehicle of death 

Were an invisible perfume. Happy then 

The guest to whom at sleeping-time 't was said, 

But in an under voice (a lady's page 

Speaks in no louder), ** Pass not on. That door 



THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE. 



347 



LcadB to another wliich awaits thy coming, 
One in the floor — now left, alas ! unlocked."" 
No eye detects it — lying nnder-foot, 
Just 03 tiioa cuterest, at the thrcshold-etono ; 
Beady to &11 and plunge thee into night 
And long oblivion ! " — In that evil boar 
Where lurked not danger 'J Through the Ciiry-land 
No Bcat of pleaaurc glittering half-wuy down, 
No hunting-place — but with aome damning spot 
That will not be washed out ! There, at Caiano,'" 
Where, when the hawks woro mowed and evening came, 
I'rLCi would set the tabic in a roar 
With his wild lay"" — there, where the sun doaccads, 
And lull and dulo arc lost, veiled with his betuns, 
The fair Venetian "■ died, she |tnd her lord — 
■ Died of a posset drugged by him who sato 
And avw thcni suffer, flinging back the charge ; 
The murderer on the murdered, — Sobs of grief, 
Sounds imLrticulato . . suddctdy atopt. 
And followed hy a struggle and a gaap, 
A gaap in death, are beard yet in Cerreto, 
Along tbc marble halls and staircnees, 
Nightly at twelve ; and, at the self-same hour, 
Bhrleka, such as penetrate the inmost soul, 
Such as awake tbc innocent babe to long, 
Long wailing, echo through the emptiness 
Of Uiat old don far up among the hills, "' 
Frowning on him who conacs from Fietra-Mala : 
In them, alas ! within five days and less, 
Two unsuspecting victims, passing inir, 
Welcomed with kisses, and shiin cruelly, 
One with the knife, one with the iatal nooeo. 



818 ITALY. 

Bat, b ! the son is Betting; "* etrth and akj" 
One blaie of glory. — What we saw bat noWy 
As though it were not, though it had not beea ! 
He lingeiB yet ; and, lessening to a point, 
Shines like the eye of Heavezi — then withdiwim; 
And from the senith to the utmost sldrtB 
All is celestial red ! The hour is oome 
When they that sail along the distant seas 
Languish for home ; and they that in the mom 
Said to sweet friends " fiurewell " melt as at partiDg ; 
When, just gone forth, the pilgrim, if he heam, 
As now we hear it, wandering round the hill. 
The bell that seems to mourn the dying day, 
Slaokois his pace and sighs, and those he loved 
Loves more than ever. But who feels it not ? 
And well may we, for we are far away. 



THE PILGRIM. 



It was an hour of universal joy.*^^ 

The lark was up and at the gate of heaven, 

Singing, as sure to enter when he came ; 

The butterfly was basking in my path, 

His radiant wings unfolded. From below 

The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively ; 

And odors, such as welcome in the day. 

Such as salute the early traveller. 

And come and go, each sweeter than the last. 

Were rising. Hill and valley breathed delight ; 

And not a living thing but blessed the hour ! 



TUB PILGRIM. 



In evejy buah and brake theri! waa a voice 
BesponaiTe ! 

From the Terastmbne, that sov 
Slept ID the sun, a hike of molten gold, 
And from the shore that once, whea armies mot,™ 
Rocked to and fro unfelt, so terrible 
The rage, the slaughter, I had tameii awny ; 
The path, that led mo, leading through a wood, 
A fairy- wilderness of fruita and flowers, 
And by a bi-ook that, in the day of strife,^ 
Ran blood, but now runs amber — when a glade, 
Far, fiir within, sunned only at noon-day, 
Suddenly opened. Many a bench was there, 
Each ronnd it^ ancient elm ; and many a track. 
Well known to them that from the highway loved 
A while to deviate. In the midst a cross 
Of mouldering stone as in a temple stood, 
Solemn, severe ; coeval with the trees 
That round it in majestic ordor rose ; 
And on the lowest step a pilgrim knelt 
In fervent prayer. He was the first I saw 
(Save in tlie tumult of a midnight-masque, 
A revel, where none cares to play his part. 
And they, that speak, at once dissolve the charm) - 
The first in sober truth, no counterfeit ; 
And, when his orisons were duly paid, 
He rose, and we exchanged, as all are wont, 
A travellor's greeting. 

Young, and of on age 
When youth is most attractive, when a light 
Plays r^ind and round, reflected, while it lasts, 
From some attendaut spirit, that ere long 
30 



350 ITALY. 

(His charge relinquished with a sigh, a tear) 
Wings his flight upward — with a look he won 
. My favor ; and, the spell of silence broke, 
I could not but continue. — " Whence," I asked, 
"Whence art thou? '' — "From Mont' alto," he replied, 
"My native village in the Apennines." — 
" And whither journeying? " — " To the holy shrine 
Of Saint Antonio in the city of Padua. 
Perhaps, if thou hast ever gone so fer. 
Thou wilt direct my course." — " Most willingly ; 
But thou hast much to do, much to endure. 
Ere thou hast entered where the silver lamps 
Bum ever. Tell me ... I would not transgress. 
Yet ask I must . . . what could have brought thee forth, 
Nothing in act or thought to be atoned for ? " — 
" It was a vow I made in my distress. 
We were so blest, none were so blest as we. 
Till sickness came. First, as death-struck, I fell : 
Then my beloved sister ; and ere long, 
Worn with continual watchings, night and day. 
Our saint-like mother. Worse and worse she grew ; 
And in my anguish, my despair, I vowed. 
That if she lived, if Heaven restored her to us, 
I would forthwith, and in a pilgrim's weeds. 
Visit that holy shrine. My vow was heard ; 
And therefore am I come." — " Blest be thy steps ; 
And may those weeds, so reverenced of old. 
Guard thee in danger ! " — " They are nothing worth. 
But they are worn in humble confidence ; 
Nor would I for the richest robe resign them. 
Wrought, as they were, by those I love so^well, 
Lauretta and my sister ; theirs the task, 



AN INTEEVIEW, 



861 



But iiono to them, a pleasure, a delight, 

To ply their utmost skill, and send me forth 

As beat became this service. Their last wordB, 

' Fare ihee well, Carlo. "We shall count the honra ! ' 

Will not go from me." — "Health and strength be thine 

In thy long travel '. May no sunbeam strike ; 

No vapor cling and wither ! May'st thou be. 

Sleeping or waking, sacred and secure ; 

And when again thou com'at, thy labor done, 

Joy be among ye ! In that happy hour 

jVll will pour forth to bid thee welcome, Carlo; 

^\jid there ia one, or I am much deceived, 

One thou hast named, who will not bo the last." — 

" 0, she is true as Truth itself can bo ! 

But,ah! thou know'st her not. Would that thou coaldst! 

My steps I quicken when I think of hor ; 

For, though thoy take me fiuther &om hor door, 

I shall return the sooner." 



AN INTERVIEW. 
pLEASDBE that comes unlooked-for ia thrice welcome; 
And, if it stir the heart, if aught be there 
That may hereafter in a tboughtfiil hour 
Wake hut a sigh, 't is treasured up among 
The thin^ most precious ! and the day it camo 
Is noted aa a white day in our lives. 

The sun was wheeling westward, and the clilft 
And noddmg woods, that everlastingly 
(Such the dominion of thy mighty voice,'" 
Thy voice, Velino, uttered in tlie mist) 



8fi2 ITALY. 

Hear thee and answer thee, were left at length 

For others still as noon ; and on we strayed 

From wild to wilder, nothing hospitable 

Seen up or down, no bush or green or dry," 

That ancient symbol at the cottage-door, 

Offering refreshment — when Luiai cried, 

'^ Well, of a thousand tracks we chose the best ! " 

Aitd, turning round an oak, oracular once, 

Now lightning-struck, a cave, a thoroughfiure 

For all that came, each entrance a broad arch. 

Whence many a deer, rustling his velvet ooat| 

HsA issued, many a gypsy and her brood 

Peered forth, then housed again — the floor yet gray 

With ashes, and the sides, where roughest, hung 

Loosely with locks of hair — I looked and saw 

What, seen in such an hour by Sancho Panza, 

Had given his honest countenance a breadth. 

His cheeks a blush of pleasure and surprise. 

Unknown before, had chained him to the spot, 

And thou. Sir Knight, hadst traversed hill and dale, 

Squire-less. Below and winding fiw away, 

A narrow glade unfolded, such as Spring 

Broiders with flowers, and, when the moon is hij^. 

The hare delights to race in, scattering round 

The silvery dewa^* Cedar and cypress threw 

Singly their depth of shadow, checkering 

The greensward, and, what grew in frequent tufts, 

An underwood of myrtle, that by fits 

Sent up a gale of fragrance. Through the midst. 

Reflecting, as it ran, purple and gold, 

A rainbow's splendor (somewhere in the east 

lUin-drops were fitUing fast), a rivulet 



AN INTERVIEW, 



Sported as loth to go ; and on the bonk 
Stood (in the ejea of one, if not of both, 
Worth all the rest and more) a sumpter-mule 
Well Liden, while two lucniala aa in hasta 
Drew from Lis ample panniers, ranging round 
Viande and fruits on many a, shining salver, 
And plunging in the cool translucent wave 
Flasks of delicious wine. — Anon a horn 
Blew, through the champaign bidding to the feast, 
Its jocund note to other care addressed, 
Not ours ; and, slowly coming by a path, 
That, ere it issued from ao ilex-grove, 
Was seen far inward, though along the glade 
Distinguished only by a fresher verdure, 
Peasants approached, one leading in a leash 
Beagles yet panting, one with various game 
In rich confusion slung, before, behind. 
Leveret and quail and pheasant. All announced 
The chaso as over ; and ere long appeared, 
Their horses fiill of fire, champing the curb, 
For the white foam was dry upon the flank, 
Two in close converse, each in each delighting, 
Their plumage wavmg as instinct with life ; 
A lady young and graceful, and a youth, 
Tet younger, bearing on a fclconer's glove, 
As in the golden, the romantic time, 
His fiilcon hooded. Like some spirit of air, 
Or fairy-vision, such as feigned of old, 
The lady, while her courser pawed the ground, 
Alighted ; and her beauty, as she trod 
The enamelled bank, bruising nor herb nor flower, 
That place illumined. Ah ! who should she be, 
SO" 



8S4 ITALT. 

And with her brother, as when last we met 
(When the first lark had sung ere half was said, 
And as she stood, bidding adieu, her voice. 
So sweet it was, recalled me like a spell) — 

Who but Angelica ? That day we gave 

To pleasure, and, unconscious of their flight, 

Another and another ! hers a home 

Dropt from the sky amid the wild and rude, 

Loretto-like ; where all was as a dream, 

A dream spun out of some Arabian tale 

Bead or related in a jasmine bower. 

Some balmy eve. The rising moon we hailed, 

Duly, devoutly, frt)m a vestibule 

Of many an arch, o'er-wrought and lavishly 

With many a labyrinth of sylphs and flowers, 

When Raphael and his school from Florence came. 

Filling the land with splendor"^ — nor less oft 

Watched her, declining, from a silent dell, 

Not silent once, what time in rivalry 

Tasso, Guarini, waved their wizard-wands, 

Peopling the groves from Arcady, and, lo ! 

Fair forms appeared, murmuring melodious verse,'^' 

— Then, in their day, a sylvan theatre. 

Mossy the seats, the stage a venlurous floor, 

The scenery rock and shrub-wood, Nature's own ; 

Nature the architect. 



MONTORIO. 



I 



Generous, and ardent, and us romantic as he could be, 
MoNTOBIo was in his earliest youth, wheu, on a summer- 
evening not nmuj years ago, he arrived at the Baths of 
* * *. With a heavy heart, and with many a blessing on 
his head, be had set out on his travels at day-break. It was 
his first flight from home ; lut be vaa now to enter the 
world ; and the moon vma up and in the zenith when he 
alighted iit the Three Moors,^' a venerable bouse of vaat 
dimensions, and anciently a palace of the Albertini family, 
whose arms nere emblazoned on the walls. 

Every window was full of light, and great was the stir, 
above and below ; but bis thoughts were on those he had 
left so htely ; and, retiring early to reat, and to a couch 
the very fii-at for which he had ever exchanged his own, he 
was soon among tbem once more; undisturbed in his sleep 
by the music that came at intervals from a pavilbn in tho 
garden, where some of the company bad assembled to dance. 

Sut, secluded as he was, he was not secure from intm- 
aion ; and Fortune resolved od that night to play a frolic in 
his chamber, a frolic that W3£ to determine the color of his 
life. Boccaccio himself has not recorded a wilder; nor 
would he, if he had known it, have left the story untold. 

At the firet glimmering of day be awaked ; and, looking 
round, he beheld — it could not be an illusion ; yet any- 
thing 80 lovely, so angelical, he had never seen tiefore — 
no, not even in his dreams — a lady still younger than 
himself, and in the profoundest. tho sweetest slumber by his 
eide. But, while he gazed, ahe was gone, and through a 
door that haxl escapetl his notice. Like a zephyr she trod 



356 ITALY. 

the floor with her dazzling nod beautiful feet, tmd, while bo 
gazed, she was gone. Yet still he gazed ; aad, snatching 
up a bracelet which she had dropt in her Bight, "Then she 
is earthly!" ho cried. "But whence could she oome? 
All innocence, all purity, she must have Tt~aiidered in her 
sleep.""' 

When he arose, his anxious eyes sought her everywhere; 
but in vain. Many of the young and the gay were abroad, 
and moving as usual in the light of the morning; but, 
among them all, there was nothing like her. Within or 
without, she was nowhere to be seen ; and, at length, ia his 
despair he rcaolved to address himself to his hostess. 

" Who were my nearest neighbors in that turret?" 

"The Marchioness de * • * * and her two daughtets, 
the ladies Clara and Violotta ; the youngest beautiful as the 
day!" 

" And where are they now 7" 

" They are gone ; but we cannot say whither. They aet 
out soon after sunrise." 

At a late hour they had lefl the pavilion, and had retired 
to their toilet-chamljer, a chamber of oak richly carved, tiiat 
had once been an oratory, and, afterwards, what was no 
less essential to a house of that antiijuity, a place of resort 
for two or three ghosts of the family. But, having long 
loet its Sivnotity, it had now lost its terrors ; and, gloomy aa 
its aspect was, Violetta was soon sitting there alone. " Go," 
said she to her sister, when her mother withdrew for the 
night, and bcr sister was preparing to follow, "go, Clara. 
I will not be long." And down she sat to a chapter of the 
Prtmiessi Sposi'^' 

But she might well forget her promise, forgetting where 
■he wofi. She was now under the wand of sin oncbonler: 




85T 



I 



and she read and read till ihn clock struck tLree, and the 
tuper tlickei'ed in the socket. She started up as from a, 
tiuncc; ehe threw off her wreath of I'oses; she gathered her 
tresaoti into a net;^'" and, BQatcliiug a last look in the Eoirror, 
her ejrelids heavy with sleep, and the liglit glimmering and 
dying, she opened a wrong door, a door tliut had been left 
unlocked ; and, stealing along ou tip-tue, (how often may 
Innocence wear the semblance ot Guilt !) she lay down aa 
by her sleeping sister ; and instantly, almost before the 
pillow on which aho reclined her head had dune sinking, her 
sleep was ati the sleep of childhood. 

When morning came, a murmur strange to her ear alarmed 
her. — IVliat could it be? — Where was she? — she looked 
not ; she listened not : but, like a &wn Iram the covert, up 
she sprung and was gone. 

It was she, then, that he sought ; it was she who, so tut- 
consciously, had taught him to love ; and, night and day, 
he pursued her, till in the Catliedral of Perugia he dis- 
covered her at a solemn service, as she knelt between her 
mother and her sister among the rich and the poor. 

From that hour did he endeavor to win her regard by 
every attention, every assiduity that love could dictate ; nor 
' did he cease till he had won it, and till she hod consented 
to be his : but sever did the secret escape from his lips ; nor 
was it till some years afterwards that he said to her, on an 
anniversary of their nuptials, ' • Violetta, it was a jo^-ful day 
lo me, a day from which I dute the huppiaess of my life ; 
: marriages are written in heaven,' and, as he spoke, 
] to her arm the bracelet which ho hod treasured 
tlong, "how strange are tlie circumstances by which 
they are sometimes brought about; for, if you had not lost 
yourself, Vblctta, I might never have fooud you.'' 



858 ITALY. 



ROME. 

I AM in Rome ! Oft as the morning-ray 

Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry, 

Whence this excess of joy? What has befiillen nae? 

And from within a thrilling voice replies, 

Thou art in Rome ! A thousand busy thoughts 

Rush on my mind, a thousand images; 

And I spring up as girt to run a race ! 

Thou art in Rome ! the city that so long 
Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world ; 
The mighty vision that the prophets saw, 
And trembled ; that from nothing, from the least. 
The lowliest village (what but here and there 
A reed-roofed cabin by the river-side ?) 
Grow into everything ; and, year by year. 
Patiently, fearlessly, working her way 
O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea, 
Not like the merchant with his merchandise, 
Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring, 
But ever hand to hand and foot to foot. 
Through nations numberless in battle-array, 
Each behind each, each, when the other fell, 
Up and in arms, at length subdued them all. 

Thou art in Rome ! the city, where the Gauls, 
Entering at sunrise through her open gates, 
And, through her streets silent and desolate. 
Marching to slay, thought they saw gods, not men ; 
The city, that, by temperance, fortitude. 
And love of glory, towered above the clouds. 
Then fell — but, fiilling, kept the highest seat, 



And ia her loneliness, her pomp of woo, 
Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild, 
Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age, 

Her empire imdiminished. There, as tliough 

Grandeur attracted grandeur, are beheld 

All things that strike, ennoble"' — from tlio depths 

Of Egypt, from the chiaaic fields of Greece, 

Her groves, her temples — all things that inspire 

Wonder, delight I Who would not say the forma 

Most perfect, most divine, had by consent 

Flocked thither to abide eternally, 

Within those silent chambers where tlicy dwell, 

In happy intercourse ? And I am there ! 

Ah! little ibougLt I, when in school I sjite, 
A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn 
Glowing with Roman story, I should live 
To tread the ArpiA\,"* once an avenue 
Of monuments most glorious, palaces, 
Their doors sealed up an<l silent as the night. 
The dwellings of tic illuatrious dead — to turn 
Toward TiuEii, and, beyond the city-gate, 
Pour out my unpremeditated verso 
Where on his mule I migLt have mot so oft 
QoRACi: himself-'' — or climb the PalatiNB, 
Dreaming of old Evandeh and bis guest, * 

Dreaming and lost on thai, proud eminence, 
Long while the seat of Rome, hereafter iound 
Less than enough (so monstrous was the brood 
Engendered there, so Titan-like) to lodge 
One in his madness;-* and inscribe my name, 
My name and date, on sotnc broad aloe-leaf, 
That shoots and spreads within those very walls 



860 ITALY. 

Where Vibgil read aloud h» tale divine, 
Where his voice felterod and a mother wept 
Tears of delight ! ^ 

But what the narrow space 
Just underneath ? In many a hes^ the ground 
Heaves, as if Ruin in a frantic mood 
Had done his utmost. Here and there appears^ 
As left to show his handiwork not ours, 
An idle column, a half-buried arch, 

A wall of some great temple. It was onoe, 

And long, the centre of their universe,*" 
The Forum — whence a mandate, eagle-winged, 
Went to the ends of the earth. Let us descend 
Slowly. At every step much may be lost. 
The very dust we tread stirs as with life ; 
And not a breath but from the ground sends up 
Something of human grandeur. 

We are come. 
Are now where once the mightiest spirits met 
In terrible conflict ; this, while Rome was free, 
The noblest theatre on this side heaven ! 

Here the first Brutus stood, when o'er the corse 

Of her so chaste all mourned, and from his cloud 

Burst like a god. Here, holding up the knife 

That ran with blood, the blood of his own child, 

ViRGiNius called down vengeance. But whence spoke 

They who harangued the people ; turning now *" 

To the twelve tables,*^ now with lifted hands 

To the Gapitoline Jove, whose fulgent shape 

In the unclouded azure shone &r off. 

And to the shepherd on the Alban mount 

Seemed like a star new-risen l ^ Where were ranged 

In rough array, as on their element, 



The beaks of those old galleys, destined still "* 
To bravo the brunt of war — at laet to knov 
A. calm £ir worse, a, EilcaGc as in death 1 
All spiritless ; from that disastrous hour 
When he, the bravest, gentlest of them all,** 
Scomiog the chains he could not hope to break,^ 
Fell on his sword ! 

Along the Sacred Way ^ 
Hither the triumph come, and, winding round 
With acclanadon, and the martial ulang 
or instruments, and cars laden with spoil. 
Stopped at the sacred stair that then appeared, 
Then through the darkness broke, ample, star-hri^t, 
As though it led to heaven. 'T was night ; but now 
A thousand torches, turning night to day,"" 
Blazed, and the victor, springing from his seat. 
Went up, and, kneeling as in fervent prayer, 
Entered the Capitol. But what are thoy 
Who at the foot withdraw, a mournful train 
In fetters 1 And who, yet incredulous, 
Now gasing wildly round, now on his sous, 
On those so young, well pleased with all they see,™ 
Staggers along, the last ? — They are the fallen, 
Those who were spared to grace the cbariot-W heels ; 
And there they parted, where the rood divides, 
The victor and the vanquishe*! — there withdrew ; 
He to the festal board, and they to die. 

Well might the great, the mighty of the world," 
They who wore wont to fare deUciously 
And war but for a kingdom mora or leas, 
Shrink back, nor from their thrones endure to look, 
To think that way ! Well might tliey in their pomp 
31 



362 ITALY. 

Humble themselves, njoi kneel and supplicate 
To be delivered from a dream like this ! 

Here Cincinnatus passed, his plough the while 
Left in the furrow ; and how many more, 
Whose laurels fade not, who still walk the earth, 
Consuls, Dictators, still in Curule state 
Sit and decide ; and, as of old in RoMB, 
Name but their names, set every heart on fire ! 

Here, in his bonds, he whom the phalanx saved not,*^ 
The last on Philip's throne ; and the Numidian,** 
So soon to say, stript of his cumbrous robe, 
Stript to the skin, and in his nakedness 
Thrust under ground, "How cold this bath of yours ! " 
And thy proud queen. Palmyra, through the sands ^ 
Pursued, overtaken on her dromedary ; 
Whose temples, palaces, a wondrous dream 
That passes not away, for many a league 
Illumine yet the desert. Some invoked 
Death and escaped ; *" the Egyptian, when her asp 
Came from his covert under the green leaf; ^ 
And Hannibal himself; and she who said, 
Taking the fatal cup between her hands,^ 
" Tell him I would it had cc«ne yesterday ; 
For then it had not been his nuptial gift." 

Now all is changed ; and here, as in the wild. 
The day is silent, dipeary as the night ; 
None stirring, save the herdsman and his herd, 
Savage alike ; or they that would explore. 
Discuss and learnedly ; or they that come 
(And there are many who have crossed the earth) 
That they may give the hours to meditation, 
And wander, often saying to themselves, 
" This was the Roman Forum ! '' 



A FPSBBAL. 



A FUNERAL. 

" WnESCE this delay ? " — " Along the crowiled street 

A funeral comes, and with unusual pomp." 

So I withdrew a little and stood still, 

While it wont hy. " She died na she deserved," 

Said an Abat£, gathering up his cloak, 

And with a shrug retreating as the tide 

Flowed more nnd more. — " But ahe was beautiM !" 

Replied a soldier of the Pontiff's guard. 

"And innocent as bcaatiful ! " exclaimed 

A matron sitting in her stall, hung round 

With gortinds, holy pictures, and what not ? 

Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs displayed 

In rich profusion. From her heart she spoke ; 

And I accosted her to hear her story. 

"The stab,'" she cried, " was given in jealousy; 

Bat never fled a purer spirit to heaven, 

As thou wilt say, or much my mind misleads, 

When thou hasl seen her face. Laat night at dusk, 

When on her way from vespers — none were near, 

None save her serving-boy who knelt njid wept, 

But what could tears avail him, when she fell — 

Last night at dusk, the clock then striking nine, 

Just by the fountain — that before the church, 

The church she always used, St. Isidore's — 

Alas I I knew ber from ber earliest youth, 

That excellent lady. Ever would she say, 

Good-even, as she passed, and with a voice 

Gentle aa theirs in heaven .' " — But now hy Sta 

A dull and dismal noise assaJlei] the car. 



364 ITALY. 

A wail, a chant, louder and loader yet ; 

And now a strange fiintastic troop appeared I 

Thronging, they came — as from the shades below ; 

All of a ghostly white ! "0, say ! " I cried, 

** Do not the living here bury the dead? 

Do spirits come and fetch Uiem ? What are these, 

That seem not of this world, and mock the day; 

Each with a burning taper in his hand ? " — 

'^ It is an ancient Brotherhood thou scest 

Such their apparel. Through the long, long Ime, 

Look where thou wilt, no likeness of a man ; 

The living masked, the dead alone uncovered. 

But mark." — And, lying on her funeral coach, 

Like one asleep, her eyelids closed, her hands 

Folded together on her modest breast, 

As 't were her nightly posture, through the crowd 

She came at last — and richly, gayly clad. 

As for a birth-day feast ! But breathes she not ? 

A glow is on her cheek — and her lips move ! 

And now a smile is there — how heavenly sweet ? 

**0, no ! " replied the dame, wiping her tears, 

But with an accent less of grief than anger, 

*^ No, she will never, never wake again ! " 

Death, when we meet the spectre in our walks, 
As we did yesterday and shall to-morrow. 
Soon grows familiar — like most other things. 
Seen, not observed ; but in a foreign clime. 
Changing his shape to something new and strange 
(And through the world he changes as in sport, 
Aflfcct he greatness or humility), 
Knocks at the heart. Ilis form and fashion here 
To me, I do confess, reflect a gloom. 



A FDKEOil.. 



865 



A sadness rotmil ; jet OQc I would not lose ; 
Being in unison with all things else 
In thia, this land of sbadowa, where we live 
More in past time than present, where the ground, 
League beyoud league, like one great cemetery, 
la covered o'er with mouldering monuments ; 
And, let the living wander where they will, 
They cannot leave the footsteps of the dead. 
Oft, where the burial-rite follows so fast 
The agony, oft coming, nor from far, 
Must a fond father meet his darling child 
(Him who at parting climbed his knees and clung) 
Clay-cold and wan, and to the bearers cry, 
" Stand, I conjure ye ! " 

Seen thus destitute, 
What arc the greatest ? They must speak beyond 
A thousand homilies. When Raphakl went, 
His heavenly fecc the mirror of his mind, 
His mind n temple for all lovely things 
To flock to and inhabit — when he went. 
Wrapt in his sable cloak, the cloak he wore. 
To sleep beneath the venerable Dome,*" 
By those attended, who in life had loved, 
Had worshippe<l, following in his stops to Fame 
('T was on an April day, when Nature smiles), 
All Rome was there. But, ere the march began. 
Ere to receive their charge the bearers came, 
Who had not sought him 1 And when all beheld 
Him, where he lay, how changed from yesterday. 
Him in that hour cut off. and at his head 
His last great work : *" when, entering in, they looked 
tJow on the deail, then in th;»t masterpiece.*" 
31* 



866 ITALY. 

Now on his face, lifeless and colorless, 
Then on those fonns divine that lived and breathed. 
And would live on for ages — all were moved ; 
And sighs burst forth, and loudest lamentatioDS. 



NATIONAL PREJUDICES. 

'' Another assassinaticm ! This venerable citj," I ez« 
claimed, ^' what is it, but as it began, a nest of rebbers and 
murderers? We must away at sunrise, Luigi." — But 
before sunrise I had reflected a little, and in the soberest 
prose. My indignation was gone ; and, when Luigi undrew 
my curtain, crying, ** Up, signor, up ! The horses are at 
the gate!" ** Luigi," I replied, **if thou lovest me, draw 
the curtain." ^ 

It would lessen very much the severity with which men 
judge of each other, if they would but trace effects to their 
causes, and observe the progress of things in the moral as 
accurately as in the physical world. When we condemn 
millions in the mass as vindictive and sanguinary, we should 
remember that wherever justice is ill-administered the 
injured will redress themselves. Robbery provokes to rob- 
bery ; munler to assassination. Resentments become hered- 
itary ; and what began in disorder ends as if all hell had 
broke loose. 

Laws create a habit of self-restraint, not only by the 
influence of fear, but by regulating in its exercise the pas- 
sion of revenge. If they overawe the bad by the prospect 
of a punishment certain and well-defined, they console the 
injured by the infliction of that punishment; and, as tho 
infliction is a public act, it excites and entails no enmity. 



SATIOUAL PREJTTDIOBS. 



36T 



I 



The kwB arc offended ; and the community for its own sake 
puraucs and overtakes the offender, — often trithont the con- 
curreiico of the su^rer, sometimea against his wishes."" 

Now, those who were not bora, like ourselves, to such 
advantages, wc dhould, surely, rather pity dian hale; and 
when, at length, they venture to turn agiiinst their rulere,'*' 
we should lament, not wonder at, their excesses ; remember- 
ing that nations are naturally patient and long-suffering, 
and seldom rise in rebellion till tlioy are ao degraded by a 
bad government as to be almost incapable of a good one. 

" Hate them, perbapa,'' you may aay, " we should not ; 
but despise them we must, if enslaved, like the people of 
RuMB, in mind as well as body ; if their religion be a gross 
and barbarous superstition." — I respect knowledge; but I 
do not despise ignoranee. They think only as their fathers 
thought, worship as they worshipped. They do no more ; 
and, if ours had not burst their bondage, braving impris- 
onment and death, might not we at this very moment have 
been eithibiting, in our streets and our churches, the same 
processions, eereraoniuls, and mortifications'! 

Nor should we require from those who are in an earlier 
stage of society what belongs to a later. They are only 
where wo once were ; and why bold them in derision ] It 
is their business to oultirate the inferior arts before they 
think of the roore refined ; and in many of the last what 
are we as a nation, when compare<l to others iLat havo 
pasaetl away '( Unfortunately it » too much the practice 
of governments to nurse anti keep alive in the governed 
their nutiorial pnjjudiccs. It withdraws their nttciitiou from 
what is passing at home, and makes ibcm letter tools !n the 
bands of ambition. Hetice, next-door neighbors ore held 
up to us from oui' childhood as natural enemies ; and wfl 
are nrged on like eurs to worry each other,*" 



368 ITALY. 

In like maimer we should learn to be jost to indiyidaalfl. 
Who can say, '^ In such circumstances I should have done 
otherwise ? '' Who, did he but reflect by what slow gradi^ 
tions, often by how many strange concurrences, we are 
led astray ; with how much reluctance, how much agony, 
hoY many efforts to escape, how many self-accusations, how 
many sighs, how many tears, — who, did he but reflect fiir 
a moment, would have the heart to cast a stone ? Happily 
these things are known to Him from whom no secrets are 
hidden; and let us rest in the assurance that His judgments 
are not as ours are.^ 



THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME. 

Have none appeared as tillers of the ground,**' 
None since they went — as though it still were theirs, 
And they might come and claim their own again ? 
Was the last plough a Roman's ? 

Fix)m this seat,**^ 
Sacred for ages, whence, as Virgil sings. 
The Queen of Heaven, alighting from the sky. 
Looked down and saw the armies in array,^ 
Let us contemplate ; and, where dreams from Jove 
Descended on the sleeper, where, perhaps, 
Some inspirations may be lingering still. 
Some glimmerings ef the future or the past. 
Let us await their influence ; silently 
Revolving, as we rest on the green turf. 
The changes from that hour when he from Troy 
Came up the Tiber ; when refulgent shields, 
No strangers to the iron-hail of war. 



THK OAMPAOHA ( 



Streamed &r and wide, and dashing oars were heard 

Ajnong tlioBC woods where Silvia's Btag waa lying, 
His antlers gay with flowL-rs ; among those woods 
Where by tlie moon, that auw and yet witlidrew not, 
Two were so soon to wander (ind be slain,™ 
Two loTOly in their lives, nor in their death 
Divided. 

Then, and hence to bo discerned, 
How many realms, pastoral and warlike, lay 
Along this plain, each with its schemes of power, 
It» little riviilahipa ! "" What various turns 
Of fortune there ; what moving accidents 
From ambuscade and open violence ! 
Mingling, the sounds came up ; and hence how oft 
We might have caught among the trees below, 
Glittering with helm and shield, the men of TlBKR;" 
Or in Greek vesture, Greek their origin, 
Some embassy, ascending to Pr£NKSTE ; '*'' 
How oft descried, without thy gates, Aricia,'^ 
Entering the soleom grove for sacrifice, 
Senate and [leople ! — each a busy hive. 
Glowing with life ! 

But all ere long arc lost 
In one. We look, and where the river rolh 
Southward its shining labyrinth, in her strength 
A city, girt with battlements and towers, 
On seven small hills is rising. Round about, 
At rural work, the citizens arc seen, 
None unemployed ; the noblest of them all 
Binding their sheaves or on their threshing-floors, 
As though they had not conquered. Everywhere 
Some trace of valor or heroic toil ! 



870 ITALY. 

Ilere is the sacred field of the Horath."" 

There are the Quintian meadows.*" Here the hiU ^ 

How holy, where a generous people, twice, 

Twice going forth, in terrible anger sate 

Armed; and, their wrongs redressed, at once gave way. 

Helmet and shield, and sword and spear thrown down, 

And every hand uplifted, every heart 

Poured out in thanks to Heaven. 

Once again 
We look : and. lo ! the sea is white with sails 
Innumerable, wafting to the shore 
Treasures untold ; the vale, the promontories, 
A dream of glory ; temples, palaces, 
Galled up as by enchantment ; aqueducts 
Among the groves and glades rolling along 
Rivers, on many an arch high overhead ; 
And in the centre, like a burning sun, 
The Imperial City ! They have now subdued 
All nations. But where they who led them forth ; 
Who, when at length released by victory 
(Buckler and spear hung up — but not to rust), . 
Held poverty no evil, no reproach, 
Living on little with a cheerful mind, 
The Decii, the Fabricii 1 Where the spade, 
And reaping-hook, among their household-things 
Duly transmitted ? In the hands of men 
Made captive ; while the master and his guests. 
Reclining, quaff in gold, and roses swim. 
Summer and winter, through the circling year. 
On their Falemian — in the hands of men 
Dragged into slavery with how many more 
Spared but to die, a public spectacle, 



THE CAMPAGNA OF BOHK. 371 

In combat with each other, and required 
To fell with grace, with dignity — to sink 
While life is gushing, and tho plaudits ring 
Faint and yet fainter on their foiling car, 
As niodela for the sculptor. 

But their days. 
Their hours are Dumheral. Hark ! a yell, a shriek, 
A barbarous outcry, loud and louder yet, 
That echoes from the mountaioa to the sea ! 
And mark, beneath ua, like a bursting cloud, 
Tho battle moving onward ! Had they slain 
All, that tho earth should from her womb bring forth 
New nations to destroy ihcm ? From the depth 
Of foresto, from what none had dared explore, 
Regions of thrilling ice, as though in ice 
Engendered, multiplied, they pour along, 
Shaggy and huge ! Host after host, they come : 
The Goth, the Vandal ; and again the Goth .' 

Once more we look, and oil is still as night, 
All desolate ! Groves, temples, palaces. 
Swept from the sight ; and nothing visible, 
Amid the sulphurous vapoi-s that exhale 
As from a land accurst, save here and there 
An empty tomb, a fragment like the limb 
Of some dismembered giant In the midst 
A city stands, her domes and turrets crowned 
With many a cross ; but they, that issue forth, 
Wander like strangers ™ who had built among 
The mighty ruins, silent, spiritless ; 
And on the road, where once wo might have met 
CasAR and Cato and men more than kings, 
We meet, none else, the pilgrim and the beggar. 



872 ITALY. 



THE ROMAN PONTIFFS. 

Those ancient men, what were they, who aehiered 

A sway beyond the greatest conquerors ; 

Setting their feet upon the necks of kings, 

And, through the world, subduing, chaining down 

The free, immortal spirit ? Were they not 

Mighty magicians 7 Theirs a wondrous spell, 

Where true and false were with infernal art 

Close-interwoven ; where together met 

Blessings and curses, threats and promises ; 

And with the terrors of Futurity 

Mingled whate'er enchants and fescinates. 

Music and painting, sculpture, rhetoric,^ 

And dazzling light and darkness visible,*** 

And architectural pomp, such as none else ! 

What in his day the Syracusan sought. 

Another world to plant his engines on. 

They had ; and, having it, like gods, not men, 

Moved this world at their pleasure.*^ Ere they came, 

Their shadows, stretching far and wide were known ; 

And two, that looked beyond the visible sphere, 

Grave notice of their coming — he who saw 

The Apocalypse ; and he of elder time. 

Who in an awful vision of the night 

Saw the Four Kingdoms. Distant as they were, 

Those holy men, well might they faint with fear ! *• 



CAIU3 CESTIUS. 



I 



cAius oisnus. 

When I am inclined to bo aerious, I lovQ to wander up 
and down before the tomb of CArus Cestius. The Prot- 
estant burini -ground is tbcra ; and most of the little monu- 
ments nxo erected to the young; young men of promise, cul 
off when on their traveb, full of enthusiasm, full of enjoy- 
ment; brides, in the bloom of their beauty, on their first 
journey ; or children borne from home in search of health. 
This stone was placed by hia fellow-travellers, young as 
himself, who will return to the house of his parents without 
hJm; that, by a husband or a father, now in his native 
country. His heart is buried in that grave. 

It is a quiet aud sheltered nook, covered in the winter 
irith violets ; and the Pyramid, that overshadows it, gives it 
& elnssica] and siognlarly solemn air. You feel an interest 
there, a sympathy you were not prepared for. You are 
yourself in a foreign land ; and they are for the moat part 
your countrymen. They call upon you in your mother- 
tongno — in English — in worda unknown to a native, 
known only to yourself; and the tomb of Cestius, that old 
majestic pile, has this also in common with them. It is 
itself a stranger, among strangers. It has stood there till 
the language spoken round about it has changed ; and the 
shepherd, bom at the foot, can read its inscription no longer. 



S74 ITALT. 



THE NUN. 

'T IS over ; and her lovely cheek is now 
On her hard pillow — there, alaa ! to be 
Nightly, through many and many a dreary hour, 
Wan, often wet with tears, and (ere at length 
Her place is empty, and another comes) 
In anguish, in the ghastliness of death ; 
Hers never more to leave those mournful walls, 
Even on her bier. 

'T is over; and the rite. 
With all its pomp and harmony, is now 
Floating before her. She arose at home, 
To be the show, the idol of the day ; 
Her vesture gorgeous, and her starry head — 
No rocket, bursting in the midnight-sky. 
So dazzling. When to-morrow she awakes. 
She will awake as though she still was there. 
Still in her father's house ; and, lo ! a cell 
I^arrow and dark, naught through the gloom disoemed| 
Naught save the crucifix, the rosary. 
And the gray habit lying by to shroud 
Her beauty and grace. 

When on her knees she fell, 
Entering the solemn place of consecration. 
And from the latticed gallery came a chant 
Of psalms, most ^int-like, most angelical, 
Verse after verse sung out how holily, 
The strain returning, and still, still returning, 
Methought it acted like a spell upon her. 
And she was casting off her earthly dross ; 



TUE NOS. 375 

Yet waa it sod as sweet, and, ere it closed, 

Came like a dirge. When her fair head was sliorn, 

And the long tresses in Ler hands were laid, 

That she might fling them from her, saying, " Thus, 

Tbua I renounce the worlJ and worldly things ! ""^ 

When, as she Btood, her bridal ornaments 

Were, one by one, renjoved, even to the List, 

That she might say, flinging iLom from her, " Thus, 

Thus I renounce the world ! " when all waa changed. 

And, as a nun, in homeliest guise she knelt, 

Distinguished only by the crown she wore, 

Her crown of lilies aa the epouse of Christ, 

Well might her strength forsake her, and ber kneea 

Fail in that hour ! Well laigbt the holy man, 

He, at whose feet she knelt, give as by stealth 

('T waa in her utmost need ; nor, while she liTea,** 

Will it go from her, fleeting aa it waa) 

That faint but Githerly smile, that smile of love 

And pity ! 

Like a dream the whole is fied ; 
Asd they, that came in idleness to gaze 
Upon the victjm dreesed for sacrifice, 
Are mingling in the world ; thou m thy cell 
Forgot, Teresa. Yet, among them all, 
None were so formed to love and to be loved. 
None to delight, adorn ; and on thee now 
A curtain, blacker than the night, is dropped 
Forever ! In thy gentle bosom sleep 
Feelings, affections, destined now to die, 
To wither like the blossom in the bud, — 
Those of a wife, a mother ; leaving there 
A cheerless void, a chill as of the grave, 



376 ITALY. 

A languor and a lethargy of sool, 

Death-like, and gathering more and more, till Death 

Comes to release thee. Ah ! what now to thee, 

What now to thee the treasure of thy youth ? 

As nothing ! 

But thou canst not yet reflect 
Calmly ; so many things, strange and perveiae, 
That meet, recoil, and go but to return, 
The monstrous birth of one eventful day, 
Troubling thy spirit — from the first at dawn, 
The rich arraying for the nuptial feast, 
To the black pall, the requiem.^ All in torn 
Revisit thee, and round thy lowly bed 
Hover, uncalled. Thy young and innocent heeri, 
How is it beating 1 Has it no regrets 1 
Disco verest thou no weakness lurking there? 
But thine exhausted firame has sunk to rest 
Peace to thy slumbers ! 



THE FIRE-FLY. 



There is an insect, that, when evening comes. 

Small though he be and scarce distinguishable, 

Like Evening clad in soberest livery. 

Unsheathes his wings ^ and through the woods and glades 

Scatters a marvellous splendor. On he wheels. 

Blazing by fits as from excess of joy,^ 

Each gush of light a gush of ecstasy ; 

Nor unaccompanied ; thousands that fling 

A radiance all their own, not of the day, 



■niE FIRE-FLY, 



3TT 



Thousands as bright a& he, from dusk till dawn, 
Soaring, deB<:«ndiDg. 

In the mother'fl lap 
Well ma; the child put forth hia little hands, 
Singing the nurscry-aong he learnt so 30on ;*" 
And the young nymph, preparing for the dance" 
By brook or fountain-side, iu many a braid 
Wreathing her golden hair, well may she cry, 
" Come hither ; and the sLeiphcrds, gathering round, 
Shall say, Floretta emulates the Night, 
Spangling her head with stars." 

Oft have I met 
This shining raw, when in the TuscCLAN groves 
My path no longer glimmered ; oft among 
Those trees, religious once and always green,"" 
That still dream out their stories of old SoMB 
Over the Albas lake ; oft met and hailed. 
Where the precipitate Akio thunders down, 
And through the surging mist a poet's house 
(So some aver, and who would not believe 1)*^' 
Reveals itself. — —Yet cannot I forget 
Ilira, who rejoiced me in those walks at eve,"^ 
My earliest, plcasantost ; who dwells unseen, 
And in our northern clim«, when all is still, 
Nightly keeps watch, nightly in hush or brake 
His lonely lamp rekindling; Unlike Uieirs, 
His, if less dazzling, through the darkness knowa 
No intermission ; sending forth its ray 
Through the green leaves, a ray serene and c 
Afl Virtue's own. 



378 ITALY. 



FOREIGN TRAVEL. 

It was in a splenetic humor that I sat me down to my 
scanty fare at Terracina ; and how long I should haye 
contemplated the lean thrushes in array before me I cannot 
say, if a cloud of smoke, that drew the tears into my eyes, 
had not burst from the green and leafy boughs on the 
hearth-stone. "Why," I exclaimed, starting up from the 
table, **why did I leave my own chimney-corner? — But 
am I not on the road to Bruxdusium ? And are not these 
the very calamities that befell Horace and Virgil, and 
M^CENAS, and Plotius, and Varius ? Horace laughed 
at them. — Then wliy should not I? Horace resolved to 
turn them to account ; and ViRGiL — cannot we hear him 
observing that to remember them will, by and by, be a 
pleasured" My solilo<juy reconciled me at once to my 
fate ; and when for the twentieth time I had looked through 
the window on a sea sparkling with innumerable brilliants, 
a sea on which tlie heroes of the Odyssey and the .Skieid 
had sailed, I sat down as to a splendid banquet. My 
thrushes had the flavor of ortolans ; and I ate with an 
appetite I had not known before. *^ Who," I cried, as I 
poured out my last glass of Falemian'^^ (for Falemian it 
was said to be, and in ray eyes it ran bright and clear as 
a topaz-stone), " who would remain at home, could he do 
otherwise 1 Who would submit to tread that dull but daily 
round, his hours forgotten as soon as spent?" and, open- 
ing my journal-book and dipping my pen in my ink-hom, I 
determined, as far as I could, to justify myself and my 
countrymen in wandering over the face of the earth. "It 
may serve me,'' said I, '' jus a remedy in some future fit of 
the spleen." 



FOKEfCS TRAVEL. 



I 
I 



Oure k a nation of travellora ;*' and no wonder, when 
the elements, air, water and 5re, attend at our bidding, to 
transport us from slioro to shore ; when the ship rushes into 
the deep, her tniek the foam as of Bome mighty torrent ; 
and, in three hoars, or less, we stand gassing and gazed at 
among a foreign people. Nooe want an excuse. If rich, 
they go to enjoy ; if poor, to retrench ; if sick, to reCOTcr; 
if studious, to learn ; if learned, to relax &om thoir studies. 
But, whatever they may say and whatever tliey may believe, 
they go for the most part oa the same errand ; nor will 
those who reflect think that errand an idle one. 

Almost ail men are ovor-anxioua. No sooner do they 
enter the world than they lose that taste for natural and 
simple pleasures, so remarkable in early life. Every hour 
do they ask themselves what progress they have mado in the 
pursuit of wealth or honor ; and on they go as their fathers 
went before them, till, weary and aick at heart, they look 
hack with a sigh of regret to the golden time of Uieir child- 
hood. 

Now travel, and foreign travel more particularly, restores 
to us in a great degree what wo have lost. When the 
anchor is heaved, we double down the leaf; and for a while 
at least all is over. The old cares are left clustering round 
the old objects ; and, at every step, as we proceed, the slight- 
est circumstance amuses and interests. All is now and 
strange."" We surrender ouiaclves, and feel once again as 
children. Like them, we enjoy eagerly ; like them, when 
wo fret we fret only for the moment; and here, indeed, the 
resemblance is very remarkable ; for, if a journey has its 
pains as well as its pleasures (and there is nothing unmixed 



in this world) tiie pains are no sooner over than thej a 
forgotten, while the pleasures live long in the memory. 

Nor is it surely without another advantage. If life be 
abort, not so to many of us are its days and ita houra. 
When the blood aluinbera in the veins, how often do we 
wish that the eaith would turn faster on ita axis, that the 
sua would rise and set before it does ! and, to escape from 
the weight of time, how many follies, how many Crimea, are 
committed ! Men rush on danger, and even on death. 
Intrigue, play, foreign and domestic broil, such are their 
resources ; and, when these things fail, they destroy them- 
selves. 

Now, in travelling we multiply events, and innocently. 
We sot out, as it were, on our adventures : and many are 
those that occur to us, morning, noon and night. The day 
W6 come to a place which we have long heard and read of, 
and in Italy we do so continually, it is an era in our 1Jv«s; 
and from tliat moment the very name calLs up a picture. 
How delightfully, too, does the knowledge flow in upon us, 
and how fast ! ^^ Would ho who sat in a comer of his 
library, poring over books and maps, leam more or so macfa 
in the time as he who, with his eyes and his heart open, is 
receiving impressions all day long from the things them- 
selves ?"' How accurately do they arrange themselves in 
our memory, towns, rivers, mountains ; and in what living 
coloi^ do we recall tlie drcssea, manners and customs, of tho 
people ! Our sight is the noblest of all our senses, "It 
fills the mind with the most ideas, converses with its objects 
at the greatest distance, and continues longest in i 
without being tired." Our sight is on the alert when ire 
travel ; and ita exorcise is then so delightful tlmt we krgft 
the profit in the pleasure. 




r 

H Like a 




POREIGS TBAVEL. 



Like a river, that gathen, that refines as it mns, like m 
spring that takes its courso tlirough some rich vc'm of min- 
eral, we improve anJ imperceptibly — nor in the head onlj, 
but iu the heart. Our prcjadicea leave us, ono by one. 
Seafi and mountains are no longer our boundaries. Wo 
leam to love, and esteem, and admire beyond them. Our 
benevolence extends itaelf with our knowledge. And must 
we not return better citizens than we went 7 For, the more 
■we bfcome acquainted with the instilutions of other coun- 
tries, the more highly must we value our own. 



I threw down my pen in triumph. " The question," said 
I, " is set to rest forever. And yet — " 

" And yet — " I must still aay.*' The Wisest op Men 
seldom went out of the walls of Athens ; and for that worst 
of evils, that sickness of the soul, to which we are most 
liable when most at our ease, is there not, after all, a snrcr 
and yet pleosanter remedy, a remedy for which wo have 
ooly to croflB the threshold ? A Piedmontese nobleman, 
into whose company I fell at TciuN, had not long before 
experienced its efficacy ; and his etory he told me without 
reserve. 

" I was weary of life," said he, " and, after a day such 
as few have known and none would wish to remember, was 
tmn^ing along the street to th« river, when I felt a sudden 
check. I turned and behold a little boy, who had caught 
the skirt of my cloak in his anxiety to solicit my notice.' 
His look and manner were irresistible. Not less so was tbo 
lesson he had learnt 'There arc six of us, and we ore 
dying for want of food.' — ' Why should I not,' said I to 
myself, ' relieve this wretched family ? I have the means ; 



382 ITALY. 

and it will not delay me many minutes. Bat what if it 
does 7' The scene of misery he conducted me to I cannot 
describe. I threw them my purse; and their buiBt of 
gratitude overcame me. It filled my eyes . . it went as a 
cordial to my heart. ^ I will call again to-morrow,' I cried. 
' Fool that I was, to think of leaving a world, where such 
pleasure was to be had, and so cheaply ! ' " 



THE FOUNTAIN. 

It was a well 
Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry ; 
And richly wrought with many a high relief, 
Greek sculpture — in some earlier day perhaps 
A tomb, and honored with a hero's ashes. 
The water from the rock filled and overflowed ; 
Then dashed away, playing the prodigal, 
And soon was lost — stealing unseen, unheard, 
Through the long grass, and round the twisted roots 
Of aged trees ; discovering where it ran 
By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat, 
I threw me down ; admiring, as I lay, 
That shady nook, a singing place for birds. 
That grove so intricate, so full of flowers, 
More than enough to please a child a-Maying. 

The sun had set, a distant convent-bell 
Ringing the Angelus ; and now approached 
The hour for stir and village-gossip there, 
The hour Rebekah came, when from the well 
She drew with such alacrity to serve 
The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard 



BANDITTI. a«a 

Footsteps ; and, lo ! descendiDg bj a path 
Trodden for ^es, many a nymph appeared, 
Appeared and Tonisbcd, bearing on her head 
Her earthen pitcher. It cidled up the day 
Ult3SB6 landed there ; and long I gazed, 
Like one awaking in a distant tinie.^ 

At length there came the loveliest of them all, 
Her little brother dancing down before ber; 
And ever as be apoke, which he did ever, 
Taming and looking up in warmth of heart 
And brotherly affection. Stoppmg there, 
She joined her rosy bn.Dds, and, filling them 
With the pore clement, gave bim to drink ; 
And, while be quenched bis thirst, standing on tiptoe. 
Looked down upon bim with a sister's smile, 
Nor stirred till be bad done, &xe<I as a statue. 

Then badst tbou seen tbem as tbey stood, Ganova, 
Thou badst endowed them with immortal youth ; 
And they had evermore lived undivided. 
Winning all hearts — of all thy works the direst. 



BANDrm. 
'T IS a wild lifo, feariiil and full o( change, 
Tbe mountain-robber's. On the watch he lies, 
Levelling bis carbme at tho passenger ; 
And, when hia work is done, he dares not sleep. 

Time was, tbe trade was nobler, if not honest ; 
When they that robbed were men of better faitb " 
Than kings or pontiffs ; wL«n, such reverence 
The poet drew among the woods and wilds, 



884 ITALY. 

A voice was heard, that never bade to Bptae/^ 

Crying aloud, '^ Hence to the distant hiUa ! 

Tasso approaches ; he, whose song beguilea 

The day of half its hours ; whose sorcery 

Dazzles the sense, turning our forest-glad«r 

To lists that blaze with gorgeous armory. 

Our mountain-caves to regal palaces. 

Hence, nor descend till he and his are gone. 

Let him fear nothing." — When along the shore, 

And by the path that, wandering on its way, 

Leads through the fatal grove where Tully fell 

(Gray and o'ergrown, an ancient tomb is there). 

He came and they withdrew, they were a race 

Careless of life in others and themselves. 

For they had learnt their lesson in a camp ; 

But not ungenerous. 'T is no longer so. 

Now crafty, cruel, torturing ere they slay 

The unhappy captive, and with bitter jests 

Mocking misfortune ; vain, fantastical. 

Wearing whatever glitters in the spoil ; 

And most devout, though, when they kneel and pray. 

With every bead they could recount a murder ; 

As by a spell they start up in array,^* 

As by a spell they vanish — theirs a band. 

Not as elsewhere of outlaws, but of such 

As sow and reap, and at the cottage-door 

Sit to receive, return the traveller's greeting ; 

Now in the garb of peace, now silently 

Arming and issuing forth, led on by men 

Whose names on innocent lips are words of fear, 

Whose lives have long been forfeit. — Some there are 

That, ere they rise to this bad eminence. 

Lurk, night and day, the plague-spot visible, 



The guilt thiit aays, Bewa-re ; and mark we now 
Him, where be lies, who couches fur liia prey 
At the bridge-foot in gome dark cavity 
Scooped by tbo waters, or some gaping tomb, 
Nameless and tcnantless, whence the red fox 
Slunk aa be entered. 

llicre be broods, in spleen 
Gnawing bis beard ; his rough and sinewy frame 
O'crwritten with the story of his life : 
On bifl wan cheek a sabre-cut, well eamcil 
lu foreign war&re ; on his breast the brand 
Indelible, burnt in when to the port 
He clanked hia chain, .tmong a hundred more 
Dragged ignomiuiously ; on every limb 
Memorials of his glory and his shame, 
Stripes of the la^ and honorable scars. 
And channels here and there -worn to the bone 
By galling fetters. 

He comes slowly forth. 
Unkennelling, and up that savage dell 
^\jixioualy looks ; hia cruise, an ample gourtl 
(Duly replenished from the vintner's Ciisk), 
Slung from bis shoulder ; in his breadth of licit 
Two pistols and a dagger yet uncleanaed, 
A parchment scrawled with uncouth characters, 
And a small vial, bis last remedy. 
His cure, when all things fail. 

No noise is beard, 
Save when the rugged bear and the gaunt wolf 
Howl in tlie upper region, or a fish 
Leaps in the gulf beneath. But now he knocls ; 
And (like a scout, when listening to the tramp 
33 



Of horse or foot) liiya his experienced ear 
Close to the ground, then riacs and explores, 
Then knoeb again, and, his short rifle-gun 
Against his check, waits patiently. 

Two monks, 
Portly, gray-licaded, on their gallant steeda. 
Descend where yet a mouldering cross o'erhan^ 
The grave of one that from the precipice 
Fell in an evil hour. Their bridle-bella 
Ring merrily ; and many a loud, long laugh 
Reechoes ; hut at once the sounds are lost, 
Unconscious of the good in store below, 
The holy fathers have turned off, and now 
Cross the brown heath, ere long to wag their beards 
Before my lady-abbeas, and discuss 
Things only known to the devout and pure 
O'er her spiced bowl — then shrive the sisterhood. 
Sitting by tuma with an inclining ear 
In the confessional. 

He moves his lips 
As with a curse — then paces up and down, 
Now fust, now slow, brooding and muttering on ; 
Gloomy alike to him future and past. 

But, hark ! the nimble tread of numerous feet ! 
'T is but a dappled herd, come down to slnke 
Their thirst in tlic cool wave. 

He turns and aims ; 
Then checks himself, unwilling to disturb 
The sleeping echoes. — Once again lie earths ; 
Slipping away to house with them beneath, 
His old companions in that hiding-placu, 
The bat, the toad, the blind-worm, and the newt ; 



AS ADVKNTCKE, 

And, hark ! a footstep, firm and confident, 
As of a muD in haste. Nearer it draws ; 
And now is at the entrance of the den. 
Ha ! 't is a comrade, sent to gather in 
The band for some great enterprise. 

Who wants 
A sequel, may read on. The unvarnished tale, 
That follows, will supply the place of one. 
'T was told mo by the Count St. Angelo, 
When in a blosteriog night he sheltered me 
In that brave castle of his ancestorB 
O'er Gariglian'o, and is such indeed 
As every day brings with it — in a land 
Where laws are trampled on and lawless men 
Walk in the sun ; but it should nut be lost, 
For it may serve to bind us to our country. 



AN ADVESTURE. 
Three days they lay in ambush at my gate,"" 
Then sprung and led me captive. Many a wild 
Wo tmvtrsed ; hut Rdscosi, 'l was no leas. 
Marched by my side, and, when I thu-sted, climbed 
The cUfla for water ; thougli, whene'er he spoke, 
'T was briefly, sullenly ; and on he led. 
Distinguished only by an amulet. 
That in a golden chain hung from his neck, 
A ciystal of rare virtue. Wight fell fast, 
When on a heath, black and immeasurable, 
He turned and bade them bait. 'T was where the earth 
Heaves o'er the dead — where erst some Alaric 



888 ITALT. 

Fought his last fight, and every warrior threw 
A stono to tell for ages where he lay. 

Then all advanced, and, rangmg in a sqnarei 
Stretched forth their arms as on the holy cross, 
From each to each their sable cloaks extending, 
That, like the solemn hangings of a tent. 
Covered us round ; and in the midst I stood, 
Weary and faint, and &ce to &ce with one, 
Whose voice, whose look dispenses life and deaih^ 
Whose heart knows no relentings. Instantly 
A light was kindled and the bandit spoke. 
^^ I know thee. Thou hast sought us, for the q)ort 
Slipping thy blood-hounds with a hunter's cry ; 
And thou hast found at last. Were I as thou, 
I in thy grasp as thou art now in ours. 
Soon should I make a midnight spectacle, 
Soon, limb by limb, be mangled on a wheel. 
Then gibbeted to blacken for the vultures. 

But I would teach thee better how to spare. 

Write as I dictate. If thy ransom comes. 
Thou liv'st. If not — but answer not, I pray, 
Lest thou provoke me. I may strike thee dead ; 
And know, young man, it is an easier thing 
To do it than to say it. Write, and thus." — 

I wrote. *^ T is well," he cried. *^ A peasant-boy, 
Trusty and swift of foot, shall bear it hence. 
Meanwhile lie down and rest. This cloak of mine 
Will serve thee ; it has weathered many a storm." 

The watch was set ; and twice it had been changed, 
When morning broke, and a wild bird, a hawk. 
Flew in a circle, screaming. I looked up. 
And all were gone, save him who now kept guard 



^B AH ADVSSmtB. 889 

^^P And on hia arms lay musiitg. Young he seemed, 
And sad, as thougli he could indulge at will 
Some secret grief. " Thou ahriokcst back," be said. 
" Well may'at thou, lying, as thou dost, bo near 
A rulTian — one forever linked and bound 
To guilt and infamy. There was a time 
When he had not perhaps been deemed unworthy, 
Wlieu he had watched yon planet to its setting, 
And dwelt with pleasure on tlie meanest thing 
Nature gives birth to. Now, a.lasi 't is past. 

■ Wouldst thou know more '.' My story is an old one. 
I loved, was scoraed ; I trusteii, was betrayed ; 
And in my anguish, my necessity, 
Met with the fiend, the tempter — in Bnscosr. 
' Why thus '! ' he cried. ' Thoa wouldst be free and dar'st 

»not. 
Come and assert thy birthright while thou canst. 
A robber's cave ia better than a dungeon : 
And death itself, what is it at the worst, 
What but a harlequin's leap 7 ' ^Iim I hotl known. 
Had served with, suftred with ; and on the walls 

■ Of Padua, while the moon weat down, I swore 
Allegiance on hia dagger. Dost thoa ask 
How I have kept my oath ? Thou shah be told, 
Cost what it may. But grant mc, I implore, ^h 

Grant me a passport to some distant hmd, ^^M 

That I may never, never more he named. ^^M 

I Thou wilt, I know thou wilt. ^^ 

Two months ago, 
When on a, vineyard-hill we lay concealed 
And scattered up and down as we were wont, 
I heard a damsel singing to herself, 
83* 



390 ITALY. 

And soon espied her, coming all alone, 

In her first beauty. Up a path she came, 

Leafy and intricate, singing her song, 

A song of love, by snatches ; breaking off 

K but a flower, an insect in the sun, 

Pleased for an instant ; then as carelessly 

The strain resuming, and, where'er she stopt, 

Rising on tiptoe underneath the boughs 

To pluck a grape in very wantonness. 

Her look, her mien and maiden ornaments, 

Showed gentle birth ; and, step by step, she came, 

Nearer and nearer, to the dreadful snare. 

None else were by ; and, as I gazed unseen, 

Her youth, her innocence and gayety. 

Went to my heart ! and, starting up, I breathed, 

' Fly — for your life ! ' Alas ! she shrieked, she fell ; 

And, as I caught her falling, all rushed forth. 

' A wood-nymph ! ' cried RuscONi. * By the light, 

Lovely as Hebe ! Lay her in the shade.' 

I heard him not. I st^ll as in a trance. 

* What,' he exclaimed, with a malicious smile, 

* Wouldst thou rebel ? ' I did as he required. 
^ Now bear her hence to the well-head below ; 
A few cold drops will animate this marble. 
Go ! 'T is an office all will envy thee ; 

But thou hast earned it.' As I staggered down, 

Unwilling to surrender her sweet body ; 

Her golden hair dishevelled on a neck 

Of snow, and her fair eyes closed as in sleep. 

Frantic with love, with hate, ^ Great God ! ' I cried 

(I had almost forgotten how to pray ; ^ 

But there are moments when the courage comes). 



AN ASTBHTDEB. 



391 



' Why may I not, wliile jot — wtiile yet I can, 
Rclcaac her from a thraldom worse than death ? ' 
'T v/m done oa soon as said. I kissed her brow, 
And smote her with my dagger. A short cry 
Shi! uttered, but she stirred not ; anij to heaven 
Her gentle spirit fled. 'T was where the path 
In ita descent tume<l sndlcnly. No eye 
Observed mo, though their steps were foUowmg &et. 
£ut soon a yell broke forth, and all at once 
Levelled with deadly aim. Then I had ceased 
To trouble or bo troubled, and had now 
(Would I were there !) been slumbering in my grave, 
Uod not RrscON'l with a terrible shout 
Thrown himself in between us, and exclaimed. 
Grasping my arm, ' T is bnivcly, nobly done ! 
Is it for deeds like these ihou woar'st a sword ? 
Was tills the business that thou cam'st upon 7 

— But "t is his first offence, and let it pass, 
Like the young tiger he has tasted blood, 
And mfiy do much hereafter. He caji strike 
Home to the hilt.' Then in an undertone, 

' Thus wouldst thou justify the pledge I gave, 
When in the eyes of all I read distrust ■? 
For once,' and on his check, ucthought, I saw 
The blush of virtue, ' I will save thee, Albert ; 
Again I cannot.' " 

Ere his tale was told, 
\s on the heath we lay, my ransom come ; 
And in sin days, with no ungrateful mind, 
Albert was sailing on a quiet sea. 

— But the night wears, and thou art much in need 
Of rest. The young Antonio, with his torch, 

Js waiting to conduct thee to thy chamber. 



892 ITALT. 



NAPLES. 

This region, surely, is not of the earth.^ 
Was it not dropt £rom heaven 1 Not a grove, 
Citron or pine or cedar, not a grot 
Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine, 
But breathes enchantment Not a cliff but flings 
On the clear wave some image of delight. 
Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers, 
Some ruined temple or fallen monument. 
To muse on as the bark is gliding by. 
And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide,*"^ 
From daybreak, when the mountain pales his fire 
Yet more and more, and from the mountain top. 
Till then invisible, a smoke ascends, 
Solemn and slow, as erst from Aiurat, 
When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood, 
Was with his household sacrificing there — 
From daybreak to that hour, the last and best. 
When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth. 
Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow. 
And, when the nets are thrown, the evening-hymn 
Steals o'er the trembling waters. 

Everywhere 
Fable and truth have shed, in rivalry,* 
Each her peculiar influence. Fable came 
And laughed and sung, arraying Truth in flowers, 
Like a young child her grandam. Fable came ; 
Earth, sea and sky reflecting, as she flew, 
A thousjind, thousiind colors not their own : 
And at her bidding, lo ! a <lark descent 



To Tartakus, and those ihrice happy fielJd, 
Those fields with ether pure aaJ purple light 
Ever invtated, scenes hy him portrayed*' 
Who here was wont to wander, here invoke 
The sacred Mosea,** here receive, record 
What they revealed, and on the western shore 
Sleeps in a silent grove, o'erlooking thee, 
Beloved Pahthbnopk ! 

¥et here, methinka, 
Truth wanta no ornament, in her own shape 
Filling the mind by turns with awe and love, 
By turns incltuiojr to wild ecstasy. 
And soberest meditation. Here the vines 
Wed each her elm, and o'er the golden grain 
Hang their luxuriant clusters, checkering 
The sunshine ; where, when cooler shadows fall 
And tlic mild moon her Etiry net-work weaves, 
The lute or mandoline, accompanied 
By many a voice yet sweeter than their own. 
Kindles, nor slowly ; and the dance" displays 
The gentle arts and witcheries of love, 
Its hopes and fears and feignings, till the youth 
Drops on his knee na vanquished, and the maid, 
Qer tambonrhie uplifting vith a grace 
Nature's, and Nature's only, hids liim rise. 



But here the mighty Monarch uiidemaith, 
He in his p^ace of fire, difiiises round 
A (htzzling splendor. Hero, unseen, unheard, 
Opening another Eden in tlie wild, 
Ilis gifts he scatters ; save, when issuing fbrth 
In tliunder, he hlots out tlie sun, the sky, 



I 



And, mingling all tliinga eartLly as in scom, 
£xalta the Tulley, lays the mountain \ov, 
Poura many a torrent from his burning lake, 
And in an hour of univei'sal mirth, 
What time tie trump proclaims the festival, 
Buries some capital city, there to sleep 
The sleep of ages — till a plough, a apade, 
Disclose the secret, and the eye of day 
Glares coldly on the streets, the skeletons; 
Each in his place, each in his gay attire, 
Aud eager to enjoy. 

Let us go round ; 
And let the sail be slack, the course be slow, 
That at our leisure, as we coast along, 
We may contemplate, and from every scene 
Eeceive its bflueoce. The CuMiAN towers, 
There did they rise, sun-gilt ; and here thy grovcB, 
Delicious BAiiE. Here (what would they not ?) 
The masters of the earth, unsatisfied, 
Built in the sea ; and now the boatman steers 
O'er many a crypt and vault yet glimmering, 
O'er many a broad and indestructible arch. 
The deep foundations of their palaces ; 
Nothing now heard ashore, so great the change 
Save when the sca-raew clamors, or the owl 
Hoots in the temple. 

What the mountainous isle™ 
Seen in the south ') 'T is where a monster dwelt,"" 
Hurling his victims from the topmost cliff; 
Then and then only merciful, so alow, 
So subtle, were the tortures they endured. 
Fearing and feared he lived, cursing and ctuwd ; 




And Btill the dungeons in the rock breathe out 

Darkness, diatemper. Strange, that one 80 vile"" 

Should from hia den strLke terror through the world ; 

Should, whero withdrawn in his decrepitude, 

Say to the noblest, be they where thoy might, 

" Go from the earti ! " and from the cartli they went. 

Tet ench things were — and will be, when mankind, 

Losing all virtue, lose all energy ; 

And for the loss incur the penalty. 

Trodden down and trampled. 

Let UB turn the prow, 
And in the track of him who went to die" 
Traverse this valley of waters, landing where 
A waking dream awaits ua. At a step 
Two thousand years roll backward, and we stand, 
Like those so loDg within that awful [Aace,™ 
Immovable, nor asking, Can it be'! 

Once did I linger there alone till day 
Closed, and at length the calm of twilight came, 
So grateful, yet so solemn ! At the fount, 
Just where the three ways meet, I stood and looked 
('T was near a noble house, the house of Pansa),** 
And all was still us in the long, long night 
That fallowed, when the shower of ashes fell, 
When they that sought Pomi'BII sought in vain; 
It was not to be found. But now a ray, 
Bright and yet brighter, on the pavement glanced, 
And on the wheel-track worn for centiirias, 
And on the stepping-stones from aide to aide, 
O'er which the maidens, with their water-nrns, 
Were wont to trip so lightly. Full and clear, 
. The moon was rising, and at once revealed 



i 



The name of every dweller, and his craft ; 
Shining throughotit with an unusual lustre, 
And lighting up this city of the dead. 

Mark, where within, a.a though the embers lived, 
The ample chimnoy'Vault ia dun with smt^e. 
Tlicrc dwelt a miller ; silent and at rest 
His mill-stODCs now. In old companionship 
Still do they stand as on the day he went, 
Each ready for its oflico^ — but he comes not. 
And there, hard l)y (where one in idleness 
IIus »topt to scrawl a ship, an armed man ; 
And in a tablet on the wall we read 
Of shows ere long to bo) a sculptw wrought, 
Nor meanly ; blocks, half-chiselled into life, 
Waiting his call. — Here long, as yet attests 
The trodden flow, an olive-merchant drew 
From many an earthen jar, no mtm; supplied ; 
And here from his a vintner served his guests 
Largely, the stain of his o'erflowing cups 
Fresh on the marble. On the bench, beneath. 
They sate and quaffed and looked on them that pased, 
Gravely discussing the last news fraa Romk. 

But, k> ! engraven on the threshold-stone, 
That word of courtesy so sacred once. 
Hail ! At a master's greeting we may enter. 
And, lo ! a fairy-piilace ; everywhere, 
As through the courts aiul chambers we advance. 
Floors of mosaic, walls of arabesque. 
And columns clustering In patrician splendw. 
But hark, a footstep ! May we not intrude 1 
And now, methinks, I hear a gentle laugh, 
Ai>d gentle voices mingling us in converse ! 



TBS BAQ OP OOLD. 

— And now a harp-string as struck carcleeeljr, 
And now — aloog the corridor it comes — 
I cannot err, a filling as of baths ! 
— Ah, no ! 't is but a mockery of the sonae, 
Idle and rain ! We are but where we were j 
Still wandering in a cit^ of the dead ! 



I 



THE BAG OF GOLD. 
I DISE very oft«i witli the good old Cardinal * *, aod, 
I ehould add, with hia cats ; for they always sit at his tabJe, 
and are iiiucb the graccst of ihc company. Ilis beaming 
eountenonCB makes us forgot his age ;^ nor did I over see 
it clouded till yesterday, when, as wo were conteniplating 
the suiiflct from his terrace, he happened, in the course of 
our cunveraation, to allude to an a&ectlug circuinstaoce in 
his early life. 

He hud just left the Unii'ersity of Palermo, and wa^ 
«nt«nng the army, when he became acquainted with a. 
young Indy of great beauty and merit, a Sicilian of a fina- 
lly ne illustrious as his own. Living near eiich other, they 
were often together ; and, at an age like theirs, friendship 
eoon turns to love But bis Cither, for what reason I for- 
get, refused his consent to their union ; till, alarmed at the 
idcclining health of his son, he promised to oppose it no 
longer, if, after a separation of tlirec yoars, tlicy continunl 
«fi much in love us ever. 

Belying on that promise, he said, I ect out on a long 

journey ; but in my absence the usual arts were resorted to. 

Our letters were intercepted ; and fiilse rumors were spread 

- first of my indifibrenco, then of my inconstancy, tben of 

34 



398 ITALY. 

my marriage with a rich heiress bf Sienna ; and, when at 
length I returned to make her my own, I found her in a 
convent of Ursuline Nuns. She had taken the veil ; and 
I, said he with a sigh — what else remained for me ? — I 
went into the church. ' 

Yet many, he continued, as if to turn the conversaticxi, 
very many have been happy, though we were not ; and, if I 
am not abusing an old man's privilege, let me tell you a 
story with a better catastrophe. It was told to me when a 
boy ; and you may not be unwilling to heaf it, for it bears 
some resemblance to that of the Merchant of Venice. 

Wo were now arrived at a pavilion that commanded one 
of the noblest prospects imaginable ; the mountains, the 
sea, and the islands illuminated by the last beams of day ; 
and, sitting down there, he proceeded with his usual vivao- 
ity ; for the sadness that had come across him was gone. 

There lived in the fourteenth century, near Bologna, a 
widow-lady of the Lambertini family, called Madonna Lu- 
CREZIA, who in a revolution of the state had known the 
bitterness of poverty, and had even begged her bread ; 
kneeling day after day like a statue at the gat^ of the cathe- 
dral ; her rosary in her left hand and her right held out for 
charity, her long black veil concealing a face that had once 
adorned a court, and had received the homage of as many 
sonnets as Petrarch has written on Laura. 

But Fortune had at last relented ; a legacy from a distant 
relation had come to her relief; and she was now the mis- 
tress of a small inn at the foot of the Apennines, where 
she entertained as well as she could, and where those only 
stopped who were contented with a little. The house was 
still standing when, in my youth I passed that way ; though 
the sign of the White Cross,^ the Cross of the Hospitallers, 



^Tms nu longer tu be Been over tlio door ; a sign which she 
bad UkeQ, if wc mu; believe the tradition there, in h(mor 
of a maternal tmclc, a grand-maskT of that order, nhoae 
\ ftchicvemeuta in Palestine she would sometimeA relate. A. 
I Btoontain-strcam ran through the garden ; and, at DO great 
I distance, where the road turned on its way to Bolouna, 
I stood 0. little chapel in which a lump was always buniing 
. before a picture of the Virgin, — a picture of great aitti- 
' quity, the work of some Greek artist. 

llcre she was dwelluig, respected by all who knew her, 
when an event took place which threw her into the deepest 
taction. It was at noon-day in September that three foot- 
travcllcrs arrived, and, seating tJiemsclvts on a bench under 
her vine-trellia, were supplied with a flagon of Aleatico by 
a lovely girl, her only child, the image of her former solt 
The eldest spoke like a Venetian, and his beard wna short, 
and pointed after the fusion of Venice, In bis demeanor 
he affected great courtesy, but his look inspired little con- 
fidence ; for, when he smiled, which he did continually, it 
was with his lips only, not with bis eyes ; and they were 
always turned from yours. His companions were bluff 
and frank in their manner, and on their tongues had many a 
soldier's oath. In their hats they wore a modal, such as in 
limt D^e was oflen distributed in war ; and they were evi- 
dently subalterns in one of those free bands which were 
always ready to servo in any quarrel, if a service it could 
be called where a battle was little more than a mockery, 
and the slain, as on an upera-slagc, were up and fighting 
to-morrow. Overcome with the heat, they threw aside 
their cloaks, aiul, with their gloves tucked under their 
belts, continued for some time in earnest convenuitioQ. 
At length they rose to go : and the Venetian thus ad- 



400 



dressed their hostess: "£;cceUeiit lady, nay vre leave 
under your roof, for a day or two, this bag of gold 7" 
"You may," she replied, gay ly, "But remember, we 
fasten ouly with a latch. Bars and bolts we have none in 
our village ; and, if we had, where would bo your secur- 
ity?"^ "Inyourword, lady." 

"But what if I died to-night? Where woald it be 
then?" said she, laughing. " The money would go to tha 
church ; for none could claim it." 

"Perhaps you will favor U3 with an acknowledgment." 
" K you will writ* it." 

An acknowledgment was written accordingly, and she 
«gncd it before Master Eartolo, the village physician, who 
had just called on faia mule to Icam the news of the day; 
the gold to be delivered when applied for, but to bo de- 
livered (these were the wor Jb) not to one — nor to two — 
but to the three ; words wisely introduced by thAe to 
whom it belonged, knowing what they knew of each other. 
Ihe gold they had just released Irom a miser's cheet in 
Ferdiiia ; and they were now on a scent that promised 
more. 

They and their shadows wore no sooner departed, thaa 
the Venetian returned, saying, " Give me-leave to set my 
seal on the bag, as the others have done;" and she placed 
it on a table before him. But in that moment she was 
called away to redbivc a cavalier, who had just dismounted 
from his horse ; and, when she came bock, it wag gone^ 
The temptation had proved irresistible ; and the man aad 
the money had vanished together. 

" Wretched woman that I am ! " slie cried, as in an-agoDj 
of grief she threw herself on her daughter's neck, *' what 
will become of us? Arc we again to be cost out into tin 



I 
I 




rwide (voi'Iil ! . 
been bom ! " 
availed her lit 
claim their du 
had fled far a 




THE BAQ OF QOLD. 



. Unhappy child, would that thon badst never 
and all day long she lamented ; but her tears 
her little. The others were not bIow in returning to 
their due; and there were no tidings of the thief; he 
had fled far awajr with his plunder. A process against her 
was instantly begun in Bologna ; and what defence could 
she make, — how release herself from the obligjition of the 
bond! Wilfully cr in negligence she had parted with the 
gold, — she hud pailed with it to one, when she should have 
kept it for all ; and inevitable ruin awaited her ! " Go, 
GlAXETtA,'' said she to her daughter, " taJic this veil which 
your mother has worn and. wept under so ollcn, aud implore 
the counsellor Calderino to plead for u^ on the day of trial. 
Ge is generous, aud will listen to the unfortunate. Bat, if 
he will not, gu from door to door ; Monaldl cannot refuse 
us. Make baste, my child; but remember the chapel aa 
you pass liy it. Nothing prospers without a prayer." 

Alaa! shfl went, but in vain. These were retained ag^nst 
them ; those demanded more than they had to give ; and all 
bode them despair. What wiis to be done 7 No advocate; 
and the cause to come on to-mon'ow .' 

Now GiASETTA had a lover ; and he was a student of tho 
kw, a young mim of groat promise, Lorekzo M.\rtelij, 
He bad studied long and diligently under that learned 
lawyer, Giovanni Ajidreas, who, though little of sljiturc, 
was great in renown, and by his contciliporaries was called 
the Arch-doctor, the Rabbi of Doctors, the Light of the 
World. Under him ho had studied, sitting on the same 
Iwnch with Petrarch; and also under hia daughter No VELLi, 
who would often lecture to the scholars when her father waB 
otherwise engaged, placmg herself behind a small curtam 
lest her l>eauty sboald diiTrl their thouglits from the sab- 



I 



J 



402 ITALY. 

ject; a precaution in this instance at least unnecessary, 
Lorenzo having lost his heart to another.^ 

To him she flies in her necessity ; but of what assistance 
can he be ? He has jOst taken his place at the bar, but he 
has never spoken ; and how stand up alone, unpractised and 
unprepared as he is, against an array that would alarm the 
most experienced 1 — ** Were I as mighty as I am weak," 
said he, ^^ my fears for you would make me as nothing. 
But I will be there, Gianetta ; and may the Friend of the 
friendless give me strength in that hour ! Even now my 
heart fails me ; but, come what will, while I have a loaf to 
share you and your mother shall never want. I will beg 
through the world for you." 

The day arrives, and the court assembles. The claim is 
stated, and the evidence given. And now the defence is 
called for — but none is made ; not a syllable is uttered ; 
and, after a pause and a consultation of some minutes, the 
judges are proceeding to give judgment, silence having been 
proclaimed in the court, when Lorenzo rises and thus ad- 
dresses them : " Reverend signers. Young as I am, may I 
venture to speak before you 1 I would speak in behalf of 
one who has none else to help her ; and I will not keep you 
long. Much has been said ; much on the sacred nature o( 
the obligation — and wo acknowledge it in its full force. Let 
it be fulfilled, and to the last letter. It is what we solicit, 
what we require. TBut to whom is the bag of gold to be 
delivered? What says the bond? Not to one — not to two — 
but to the three. Let the three stand forth and claim it." 

From that day (for who can doubt the issue?) none 
were sought, none employed, but the subtle, the eloquent 
Lorenzo. Wealth followed fame ; nor need I say how soon 
he sat at his marriage-feast, or who sat beside him. 



. CUARiCTER. 



A CHARACTER. 

One of two things Montrioli may have, 

My envy or compassion. Both ha cannot 

Yet on he goes, numbering as miseriefl 

What least of all he would consent to lose, 

What most indeed he prides himself npon, 

And, for not having, moat despises me. 

" At morn the minister e.tacts an hour ; 

At noon, tlie king. Then comes the council-board ; 

And then the chase, the supper. When, ah ! when, 

The lebure and the liberty I sigh fori 

Not nben at home ; at home a miscreant crew, 

That now no longer serve me, mine the service. 

And then that old hereditary bore. 

The steward, his stories longer than his rent-roll, 

Who enters, quill in ear, and, one by one. 

As though I lived to write and wrote to live, 

Unrolls his leases for my signature." 

lie clanks his fetters to disturb my peace. 
Yet who would wear them"" and become the slave 
Of wealth and power, renouncing willingly 
Hia freedom, and the hours that fly so fast, 
A burden or a curse when misemployed, 
But to the wise how precious — Ptcry day 
A little Ufc, a bhmk to be inscribed 
With gentle deeds, such as in aiter-time 
Console, rejoice, whene'er we turn the leaf 
To read them '! All, wherever in iho scale, 
Have, bo they high or low, or rich or poor. 
Inherit they a shocp-book or a accptro, 



404 ITALY. 

Much to be grateful for ; but most has he, 
Bom m that middle sphere, that temperate zone, 
Where Knowledge lights his lamp, there most eecore, 
And Wisdom comes, if ever, she who dwells 
Above the clouds, above the firmament, 
That seraph sitting in the heaven of heavens. 

What men most covet, wealth, distinction, power, 
Are baubles nothing worth, that only serve 
To rouse us up, as children in the schools 
Are roused up to exertion. The reward 
Is in the race we run, not in the prize ; 
And they, the few, that have it ere they earn it, 
Having, by favor or inheritance. 
These dangerous gifts placed in their idle hands, 
And all that should await on worth well-tried, 
All in the glorious days of old reserved 
For manhood most mature or reverend age. 
Know not, nor ever can, the generous pride 
That glows in him who on himself relies, 
Entering the lists of life. 



P^STUM. 



They stand between the mountains and the sea;*" 
Awful memorials, but of whom we know not ! 
The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck. 
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak. 
Points to the work of magic and moves on. 
Time was they stood along the crowded street. 
Temples of gods ! and on their ample steps 
What various habits, various tongues, beset 



40b 



The brazen gates for pra_yer and sacrifice ! 

Time was perhaps the Third was sought far justice ; 

And bent the accuser stood, and there the accused ; 

And here the Judges sale, and heard, and judged. 

All silent now ! — aa in the ages past, 

Trodden under foot and mingled, dust nith dust. 

How many centuries did the sun go round 
From Mount ALBirBNCM to the Tyrrhene sea, 
While, by some spell rendered invisible, 
Or, if approached, approached by him alone 
TiVho saw as though be saw not, they remained 
As in the darkneaa of a sepulchre, 
Waiting the appointed time ! All, all within 
Proclaims that Nature h ad resumed her right. 
And taken to herself what man renoonced ; 
No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus, 
But with thick ivy bung or branching fern ; 
Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure ! 

From my youth upward have X longed to tread 
This clflsaic ground. — And am I here at last i 
Wandering at will through the long porticos, 
And catching, ae through some majestic grove. 
Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like, 
Mountains and mountaiEi-gul&, and, half-way up. 
Towns like the living rock from which they grew 1 
A cloudy region, black and desolate. 
Where once a slave withstood a world in arms."' 

Tho air is swoot with violeta, running wild "" 
'Mid broken friezes and EiiUcn capitals ; 
Sweet 03 when TuLLV, writing down his thoughts, 
Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost"" 
(Turning to thcc, divine Philosophy, 



406 ITALY. 

Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul), 

Sailod slowly by, two thousand years ago, 

For Athens ; when a ship, if north-east winds 

Blew from the Pjbstan gardens, slacked her course. 

On as he moved along the level shore. 
These temples, in their splendor eminent 
'Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers, 
Reflecting back the radiance of the west, 
Well might he dream of Glory ! — Now, coiled up, 
The serpent sleeps within them ; the she-wolf 
Suckles her young : and, as alone I stand 
In this, the nobler pile, the elements 
Of earth and air its only floor and roof. 
How solemn is the stillness ! Nothing stirs 
Save the shrill- voiced cicala flitting round 
- On the rough pediment to sit and sing ; 
Or the green lizard rustling through the grass, 
And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring. 
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made. 

In such an hojir as this, the sun's broad disk 
Seen at his setting, and a flood of light 
Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries 
(Gigantic shadows, broken and confused. 
Athwart the innumerable columns flung) — 
In such an hour ho came, who saw and told. 
Led by the mighty genius of the place.** 

Walls of some capital city first appeared. 
Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn ; 
— And what within them ? what but in the midst 
These Three in more than their original grandeur, 
And, round about, no stone upon another ? 



IC7 



As if the Bpoilcr hod fallen back in fear, 
And, tumiBg, lefl tlicm to tlie elcmente. 
'T is said a stronger la the days of old 
(Some say a Dorian, aome a Sydabite; 
But distant things are ever lost in clouds) — 
'T is said a stranger came, and, with his plough, 
Traced out the site ; and Posidonia rose,'*" 
Severely great, Neptt'SE the tutckr god ; 
A Homer's language murmuring in her streets. 
And in her haven many a mast from TvuB. 
Then came another, an unbidden guest. 
He knocked and entered with a train in arms : 
And all was changed, her very name and language ! 
The Tyriax merchant, shipping at his door 
Ivory and gold, and silk, and frankincense, 
Sailed aa before, but, sailing, cried, " For P«stc« ! " 
And now a ViROit, now an Ovid sung 
P.«sti"m's twictvblowmg roses ; while, within. 
Parents and children mourned — and, every year 
('T was on the day of some old festival), 
Met to give way to tears, and once again 
Talk in the ancient tongue of things gone by.*' 
At length an Arab c]im!ted the battlements, 
Slaying the sleepers in the dead of night ; 
And from all eyes the glorious vision fled ! 
Leaving a place lonely luid dangerous, 
Where whom the robber spares, a deaillier foe*" 
Strikes at unseen — and at a time when joy 
Opens tlie heart, when siimmL-r -skies are blue, 
And the clear air is soft and delicate : 
For then the demon worka — then with that wr 



408 ITALY. 

The thoughtless wretch drmks in a subtle poimm. 
Lulling to sleep ; and, when ho sleeps, he die0. 

But what are these still standing in the midst? 
The earth has rocked beneath ; the thunder-bolt 
Passed through and through, and left its traces there; 
Yet still they stand as by some unknown charter ! 
0, they are Nature's own ! and, as allied 
To the vast mountains and the eternal sea, 
They want no written history ; theirs a voioe 
Forever speaking to the heart of man ! 



AMALFI. 



Hk who seta sail from Naples, when the wind 
Blows fragnincc from Posilipo, may soon, * 
Crossing from side to side that beautiful lake, 
Land underneath the cliff where, once among 
The children jiijathorini; shells alonij the shore, 
One laughed and played, unconscious of his fate ; ^** 
His to drink deep of sorrow, and, through life, 
To bo the scorn of them that knew him not. 
Trampling alike the giver and his gift, 
The gift a jxjarl precious, inestimable, 
A lay divine, a lay of love and war. 
To charm, ennoble, and, from age to age, 
Sweeten the labor when the oar was plied 
Or on the Adrian or the Tuscan sea. 

There would I linger — then go forth again. 
Anil hover i-ound that region unexploral, 
AVhere to Salvator (when, as some relate, 
By chance or choice he led a bandit's life, 



AMALFI 409 

Yet oft withdrew, alone and unobaorvod, 
To wander through those awful solitudes) 
Nature revealed herself. - Unveiled she stood 
In all her wildneas, all her majeatj, 
As in that elder time ere man was made. 

There would I linger — then go forth agiiiu; 
And he who steers due cast, doubling the cape, 
Discovers, in a crevice of the roek, 
The fishing-town, Amalfi. Haply there 
A heaving bark, an anchor on the strand, 
May teli liim what it is ; hut what it was 
Cannot be told ao soon.™ 

The time has been, 
Vflien on the i;|Uays along the StRlAJf coast 
'Twas asked, and eagerly, at break of dawn, 
" What ships arc from Amalpi 7 " when her coins, 
Silver and gold, cuTiled from clime to clime ; 
From Alexandria southward to Sexnaar, 
And eastward, through DAMAScrsand Cadl'i. 
And Samabcasd, lo thy great wall, Cathay,™ 

Then were the nations by her wisdom swayed ; 
And every crime on every sea waa judged 
According to her judgments. In her port 
Prows, strange, uncouth, from NiLt; and NioER met, 
People of various feature, various speech ; 
And in their countries many a house of prayer. 
And many a eheltor, where no shelter was, 
And many a well, like Jacoii's in the wild, 
Boae at her bidding. Then in Palbstdtb, 
By the way-aide, in sober grandeur stood 
A hoepital, that, night and day, received 
The pilgrims of tlie west ; and, when 't was asked, 



> 



" Wbo arc the noble founders ? " every tongue 
At once replied, " The morchanta of AUALFI." 
That hospital, when Godfrey scaled the walls, 
Sent forth its holy men in complete steel ; 
And hence, the cowl relinquished "for the helm, 
That chosen band, valiant, invinoible, 
So long renowned as championa of the croes, 
In Rhodes, in Malta. 

For three hundred years 
There, unapproached hut from the deep, they dwelt ; 
Assailed forever, yet from age to age 
Acknowledging no master. From the deep 
They gathered in their harvests; bringing home, 
In the same ship, relics of ancient Gbbbcb, 
That land of glory where their Eithers lay. 
Grain from the golden vales of Sicily,'" 
And Indian spicea. Through the civilized world 
Their credit was ennobled into fiimo ; 
And, when at length they fell, they left mankind 
A legacy, compared with which the wealth 
Of Eastern kings — what is it in the scale 1 — 
The mariner's compass. 

They are now foi^got, 
And with them all they did, all they ondnred, 
Struggling with fortune. When Sicabdi stood 
On his high deck, bis falchion in his hand, 
And, with a shout like thunder, cried, " Come forth, 
And Bene me in Salerxo ! " forth they came, 
Covering tlie sea, a mournful spectacle ; 
The women wailing, and the heavy oar 
Falling unheard. Not thus did they rctam,"* 




The tyrant elaan ; though thee the grass of years 
Grew in their streete. 

There now to him who sails 
Under tlie shore, a few white villages 
Scattered above, below, some in the clouds, 
Some on the margin of the dajk-blue sea 
And glittering through their lemon-groves, announce 
The region of Ajialfi. Then, half-fiillen, 

A lonely watch-tower on the precipice, 
Their ancient landmark, cornea. Long may it last; 
And to tho seaman in a distant age, 
Though now he little thinks how large his debt, 
Serve for their monument ! °* 



MONTE CASSLNO.*" 



"What hangs behind that curtain?'"" — "Wouldi 

learn 1 
U thou art wise, thou wouldst not. 'T is by some 
Believeil to be his master-work who looked 
Beyond the grave, 'and on the cljapel-wall, 
Aa though the day were come, were come and past, 
Drew the Last Judgment.'" But tho wisest err. 
I He who in secret wrought, and gave it life, 
1 For life is surely there and visible change,'" 
[ Life such as none could of himself impart 
I (They who behold it go not as they came, 
I But meditate for many and many a day), 

ps in the vault beneath. We know not much; 
I But what we know we will communicate. 



412 ITALY. 

'T is in an ancient record of the house ; 

And may it make thee tremble, lest thou fiJI ! 

Once — on a Christmas-eve — ere yet the roof 
Rung with the hymn of the Nativity, 
There came a stranger to the convent-gate, 
And asked admittcmce ; ever and anon, 
As if he sought what most he feared to find. 
Looking behind him. When within the walls, 
These walls so sacred and inviolate, 
StiU did he look behind him ; oft and long. 
With curling, quivering Up and haggard eye. 
Catching at vacancy. Between the fits. 
For here, 't is said, he lingered while he lived, 
He would discourse, and with a mastery, 
A charm by none resisted, none explained, 
Unfelt before ; but when his cheek grew pale 
(Nor was the respite longer, if so long, 
Than while a shepherd in the vale below 
Counts, as he folds, five hundred of his flock), 
All was forgotten. Then, however employ^. 
He would break off and start as if he caught 
A glimpse of something that would not be gone ; 
And turn and gaze and shrink into himself. 
As though the fiend were there, and, &ce to &ce. 
Scowled o'er his shoulder. 

Most devout he was ; 
Most unremitting in the services ; 
Then, only then, untroubled, unassailed ; 
And, to beguile a melancholy hour. 
Would sometimes exercise that noble art 
He learnt in Florence ; with a master's hand, 
As to this day the sacristy attests. 
Painting the wonders of the Apocalypse. 



THE HAILPEB. 4' 

At leDgth ho Bimk to rest, and in his cell 
Left, when he went, a worli in secret done, 
The portrait, for a portrait it must be, 
That litinjp l«;hind the curtain. Whence he drew, 
None here can doubt ; for they that come to catch 
The faintest glimpse — -to calch it and be gone — 
Gaze as he gazed, then shrink into themselves, 
Acting the self-same part. But why 'twas drawn, 
Whether, in penance, to atone for guilt. 
Or to record the anguish giiilt inflicts, 
Or, haply, to familiarize his mind 
With what ho could not fly from, none can say, 
For none could learn the burden of his soul." 



THE HARPER. 

It was a harper, wandering with his harp, 
Ilia only treasure ; a majestic man, 
By time and grief ennobled, not subdued ; 
Though from his height descending, day by day, 
And, as his upward look at once betrayed, 
Blind ae old Homer. At a fount he sate, 
Well known to many a weary traveller ; 
His little guide, a boy not seven years old, 
But grave, considerate beyond his years, 
Sitting beside him. Each had ate his crust 
In silence, drinking of the virgin-spring ; 
And now in silence, as their custom was, 
The sun's decline awaiteil. 

But the child 
Wa.i woiTi wiih ti-avel. H«avy sleep weighwl down 



414 ITALY. 

His eyelids ; and the grandsire, when we came. 
Emboldened by his love and by his fear, 
His fear lest night o'ertake them on the road, 
Humbly besought me to convey them both 
A little onward. Such small services 
Who can refose ? — Not I ; and him who can. 
Blest though he be with every earthly gift, 
I cannot envy. He, if wealth be his, 
Knows not ite uses. So from noon till night, 
' Within a crazed and tattered vehicle,"* 
That yet displayed, in rich emblazonry, 
A shield as splendid as the Bardi wear,"^ 
We lumbered on together ; the old man 
Beguiling many a league of half its length. 
When questioned the adventures of his life. 
And all the dangers he had undergone ; 
His shipwrecks on inhospitable coasts, 
And his long warfare. — They were bound, he said. 
To a great fair at Reggio ; and the boy. 
Believing all the world were to be there. 
And I among the rest, let loose his tongue. 
And promised me much pleasure. His short trance. 
Short ns it was, had, like a charmed cup, 
Restored his spirit, and, as on we crawled. 
Slow as the snail (my muleteer dismounting. 
And now his mules addressing, now his pipe, 
And now Luigi), he poured out h^ heart. 
Largely repaying me. At length the sun 
Departed, setting in a sea of gold ; 
And, as we gazed, he bade me rest assured 
That like the setting would the rising be. 
Their harp — it had a voice oracular, 



TTIE FELUCCA. 



415 



And in the desert, in the crowded street, 
Spoko wben consulted. If tho treble chord 
Twanged shrill and clear, o'er hill and dale they went, 
The grandsire, stop by step, led by the child ; 
And not a rain-drop from u passing cloud 
Fell on tlicir garments. Thus it spoke to-day ; 
Inspiring joy, and, in tho young one's mind, 
Brightening a path already full of sunshine. 



THE FELUCCA."" 

Day glimmered ; and beyond the precipice 
(Which iny mule followed as in love with fear, 
Or as in sconi, yet more and more inclining 
To tempt the danger where it menaced moat) 
A sea of vapor rolIe<l. Methougbt we went 
Along the utmost edge of this, our world, 
And the next step bud hurled us headlong down 
Into the wild and infinite ubyss ; 
But soon the surges Sed, and we descried, 
Kor dimly, though tlio lark was silent yet, 
Thy gulf, La Si'KZZIA. Ere the moming-gun, 
Ere the first day-streak, we alighted there ; 
And not a breath, a murmur ! Every sail 
Slept in tho ofHng. Yet along the shore 
Great was the stir ; as at the noontide hour, 
None unemployed. Wh«rc from its native rock 
A streamlet, clear and full, ran to the sea. 
The maidens knelt and sung as they were wont, 
Washing their g&rmoata. Where it met the tide, 
Sparkling and Igst, an aiicicnt pinnae? luy 



416 ITALY. 

Keel upward, and the &got blazed, the tar 
Fumed &om the caldron ; while, beyond the fort^ 
Whither I wandered, step by step led on, 
The fishers dragged their net, the fish within 
At every heave fluttering and full of life, 
At every heave striking their silver fins 
'Oainst the dark meshes. 

Soon a boatman's shout 
Reechoed ; and red bonnets on the beach. 
Waving, recalled me. We embarked and left 
That noble haven, where, when Oenoa reigned, 
A hundred galleys sheltered — in the day 
When lofty spirits met, and, deck to deck, 
DoRiA, PiSANi ^ fought : that narrow field 
Ample enough for glory. On we went. 
Ruffling with many an oar the crystalline sea, 
On from the rising to the setting sun 
In silence — underneath a mountain-ridge. 
Untamed, untamable, reflecting round 
The saddest purple ; nothing to be seen 
Of life or culture, save where, at the foot, 
Some village and its church, a scanty line, 
Athwart the wave gleamed faintly. Fear of ill 
Narrowed our course, fear of the hurricane, 
And that still greater scourge, the crafty Moor, 
Who, like a tiger prowling for his prey, 
Springs and is gone, and on the adverse coast 
(Where Tripoli and Tunis and Algiers 
Forge fetters, and white turbans on the mole 
Gather whene'er the crescent comes displayed 
Over the cross) his human merchandise 
To many a curious, many a cruel eye 



THE FELUCCA. 



417 



ExpoBua. Ab ! bow oil, where now the sun 

Slept on the shore, have ruthless scimitai's 

Flashed thi'ough the liiiiico, aad a swarthy crew 

Dragged forth, cro long to number them for sole, 

Ero loug to [Kirt them in their ogouy, 

Parent and child ! How oft, where now we rodo*^ 

Over the billow, has a wretched son. 

Or yet more wretched sire, grown gray in cliaiaa, 

Labored, bis hands upon the oar, liis eyes 

Upon tho hind — the hind that gave hhu birth ; 

And, as he gazed, hia homestall through hia tears 

Fondly imagined ; when a Christioo ship 

Of war appearing in her bravery, 

A voice in anger cried, " Use all yqur strength ! " 

But when, ah ! when do they that can, forbear 
To crush the umosisting .' Strange, that men, 
Creatures so fruil, so aoon, aha ! to die, 
Should have the power, the will to make this worid 
A dismal prison-house, and life itself, 
Life in its prime, a burden and a curse 
To him who never wronged them ! Who that breatheB 
Would not, when first he beard it, turn away 
As &om a tale monstrous, incredible .' 
Surely a sense of our mortality, 
A consciousness how soon we shall be gone. 
Or, if we linger — but a few short years — 
How sure to look upon our brotlier's grave, 
Should of itself incline to pity and love, 
And prompt us rutiier to uiisist, relieve, 
Than aggniviitc the evils each is heir to. 

At length the day departed, and the mooB 
Rose like anotlier sun, illumining 



418 ITALY. 

Waters and woods and cloud-capt promontories, 
Glades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bower, 
Scenes of Elysium, such as Night alone 
Reveals below, nor often — scenes that fled 
As at the waving of a wizard's wand. 
And left behind them, as their parting gift, 
A thousand nameless odors. All was still ; 
And now the nightingale her song poured forth 
In such a torrent of heart-felt delight. 
So fast it flowed, her twigue so voluble. 
As if she thought her hearers would be gone 
Ere half was told. 'T was where in the north-west, 
Still unassailed and unassailable, 
Thy pharos, Genoa, first displayed itself, 
Burning in stillness on its craggy seat ; 
That guiding star so oft the only one. 
When those now glowing in the azure vault 
Are dark and silent. 'T was where o'er the sea 
(For we were now within a cable's length) 
Delicious gardens hung ; green galleries, 
And marble terraces in many a flight, 
And feiry arches flung from clifi* to clifi", 
Wildering, enchanting ; and, above them all, 
A palace, such as somewhere in the East, 
In Zenastan or Araby the blest, 
Among its golden groves and fruits of gold. 
And fountains scattering rainbows in the sky. 
Rose, when Aladdin rubbed the wondrous lamp ; 
Such, if not fairer ; and, when we shot by, 
A scene of revelry, in long array 
As with the radiance of a setting sun, 
The windows blazing. But we now approached 
city far-renowned ; and wonder ceased. 



QENOA. 

Tma house was Andrea Doria's,'" Here he lived;"* 
And here at eve relaxing, when ashore, 
Held many a pleasant, many a, grave discourse 
Willi thcin that sought him, walking to and &o 
At< on his deck. 'T is less in length and breadth 
Than many a cabin in a ship of war ; 
^ut 't is of marble, and at once inspires 
The reverence due to ancient dignity. 

He left it for a better ; and 't is now 
A house of tradc,''^ tlie meanest merchandise 
Cambering it^ floors. Yet, &llcn as it is, 
'Tis still the noblest dweUing — even in GenoaI 
And hndst thou, Andrea, lived there to the last, 
Thou hadst done well ; for there is that without, 
That in the wall, which monarcbs could not give, 
Nor thou take with thee, — that which says aloud, 
It was thy country's gift to her deliverer. 

'T ia in the heart of Genoa (ho who comes, 
Must come on foot), and in a place of stir ; 
Men on their daily business, early and late, 
Thronging thy very threshold. But, when there, 
Thou wert among thy fellow -citizens, 
Thy children, for they hailed thee as their sire ; 
And on a spot thou most have loved, for there. 
Calling them round, thoa gav'st them more than life, 
Giving what, lost, makes life not worth the keeping. 
There thou didst do indeed an act divine ; 
Kor couldst thou leave thy door or enter in. 
Without a blessing on thee. 



420 ITALY. 

^^ 

Thou art now 
Again among them. Thy brave mariners, 
They who had fought so oflen by thy side, 
Staining the mountain-billows, bore thee back ; 
And thou art sleeping in thy funeral-chamber. 

Thine was a glorious course ; but couldst thou there. 
Clad in thy cere-cbth — in that ^lent vault, 
Where thou art gathered to thy ancestors — 
Open thy secret heart and tell us all, 
Then should we hear thee with a sigh confess^ . 
A sigh how heavy, that thy happiest hours 
Were passed before these sacred walls were left^ 
Before the ocean- wave thy wealth reflected,*" 
And pomp and power drew envy, stirring up 
The ambitious man,^ that in a perilous hour 
Fell from the pknk. 



MARCO GRIFFOXI. 



War is a game at which all are sure to lose, sooner or 
later, play they how they will ; yet every nation has de- 
lighted in war, and none more, in their day, than the little 
republic of Genoa, whose galleys, while she had any, were 
always burning and sinking those of the Pisans, the Vene- 
tians, the Greeks, or the Turks ; Christian and Infidel 
alike to her. 

But experience, when dearly bought, is seldom thrown 

away alt<^ether. A moment of sober reflection came at 

last ; and, afler a victory the most splendid and ruinous of 

any in her annals, she resolved from that day and forever 

^ at peace with all mankind ; having in her kmg career 




I 



I 



MARCO OEIFFONI. 



acquired nothing but glorj and a tax on every articlo of 
life. 

Peace came, but with none of its blessings. No etir in 
the harbor, no mercbandise in the mart or on the qnay ; no 
Bong Bfi the aliuttle was thrown or tho ploughshare broke 
the furrow. The frenzy had left a languor more alarming 
than itself. Yet tho burden must l»e iKime, the taxes bo 
gathered ; and, jear after jear, they lay like a eurao on 
tho land, the prospect on every side growing darker and 
darker, till an old man entered the sonatc-houae on his 
crutches, and all was changed. 

Makco Griffoni was tite la^t of an ancient family, 
a. family of royal merchants ; and tho richest citizen in 
Genoa, perhaps in Europe. Ilia parents dying while yet 
be lay in the cradle, his wealth had Qccumulated from the 
year of his birth : and so noble a use did ho make of it 
when he arrived at manhood, that wherever ho went ho 
was followed by the blessings of tho people. He would 
often say, ''I hold it only in trust for others;" hut Gbsoa 
waa then at her old amusement, and the work grew on hia 
hands. Strong as he was, the evil ho had to struggle with 
was stronger than he. His cheerfulneas, his alacrity, left 
him ; and, having lifted up bis voice for peace, be willi- 
drew at once from the sphere of life he hod mo\i]d in — to 
become, as it were, another man. 

From that time, and for full fifty years, be was to be seen 
sitting, like one of the founders of his house, at his desk 
among his money-bags, in a narrow street near the Porto 
Franco ; and he, who in a famine bad filled the granaries 
of the state, sending to Sicily, and even to Egypt, now lived 
only as for his heirs, though there were none to inherit ; 
giving no longer to any, but lending to all — to the rich 
3t> 



422 ITALY. 

on their bonds and the poor on their pledges ; lending at 
the highest rate, and exacting with the utmost rigor. No 
longer relieving the miserable, he sought onlj to enrich 
himself by their misery ; and there he sate in his gown of 
firieze, till every finger was pointed at him in passing, and 
every tongue exclaimed, *• There sits the miser ! " 

But in that character, and amidst all that obloquy, he was 
still the same as ever, still acting to the best of his judg* 
ment for the good of his fellow-citizens ; and when the 
measure of their calamities was full, — when peace had come, 
but had come to no purpose, and the lesson, as he flattered 
himself, was graven deep in their minds, — then, but not till 
then, though his hair had long grown gray, he threw off the 
mask and gave up all he had, to annihilate at a blow his 
great and cruel adversaries,**^ those taxes which, when ex- 
cessive, break the hearts of the people ; a glorious achieve- 
ment for an individual, thougli a bloodless one, and such as 
only can be conceived possible in a small community like 
theirs. 

Alas ! how little did he know of human nature ! How 
little had he reflected on the ruling passion of his country- 
men, so injurious to others, and at length so fatal to them- 
selves ! Almost instantly they grew arrogant and quarrel- 
some; almost instantly they were in arms again j and, before 
the statue was up that had been voted to his memory, every 
tax, if we may believe the historian,^** was laid on as before, 
to awaken vain regrets and wise resolutions. 



A FAKEWELL,™ 

AsD now farewell to Italy — perhaps 

Forever ! Yet, metliioks, I could not go, 

I could not leave it, were it mine to say, 

" Farewell forever! " Many a courteey,. 

That sought no recompense, and met with none 

But in the swell of heart with which it came, 

Have I experienced ; not a cabin-door, 

<jro where I would, but opened wiiii a smile; 

From the first hour, when, in my long descent, 

Strange perfumes rose, rose as to welcome me, 

From flowers that ministered like unseen spirits; 

From the firat Lour, when vinlagc-aongs broke forth, 

A grateful earnest, and the southern lakes, 

Dazzlingly bright, unfolded at my feet; 

They that receive the cataracts, and ere long 

Dismiss them, but how changed— onward to roll 

From age to age in silent majesty, 

Blessing the uationa, and reflecting round 

The gladness they inspire. 

Gentle or rude, 
No scene of life but haa contributed 
Much to remember — from the Polksise, 
Wlicrt^, when the south-w ind blows and clouds on clouds 
Gather and fall, the peasant freights his boat, 
A sacred ark, sluug in his orchard-grove ; 
Mindful to migrate when the king of floods™ 
Visits his humble dwelling, and the keel, 
Slowly uplifted over field and fence, 
Floats on a world of waters — from Uiat low. 



Tliat level region, where ng echo dwelb, 
Or, if she comes, comes in her saddest plight, 
Eoarse, inarticulate — on to where the path 
la lost in rank luxuriance, and to breathe 
Is to inhale distemper, if not death i"* 
Where the wild-boar retreats, when hunters eba&, 
And, when the day-star flames, the bufblo-tierd, 
AiBlctfid, plunge into the stagnant pool. 
Nothing diflcemod amid the water-leaves, 
Save here and there the likeness of a head, 
Savage, uncouth ; where none In human sh^te 
Come, save the herdsmim, levelling bis length 
Of lance with many a cry, or, Tartar-like, 
Urging his steed along the distant hill 
As from a danger. There, hut not to rest, 
I travelled many a dreary league, nor turned 
(Ah ! then least wilting, aa who had not been?) 
When in the south, against the azure sky, 
Three temples rose in soberest majesty, 
The wondrous work of some heroic race." 

But now a long &rewell .' Oh, while I live, 
If once again in England, once again"* 
In my own chimney-nook, as Night steals on, 
With half-shut eyes reclining, olt, mcthinks, 
While the wind blusters and the drenching rsin 
Clatters without, shall I recall to mind 
The scenes, occurrences, I met with here, _ 

And wander in Elysium ; many a note 
Of wildest melody, magician-liko 
Awakening, such as the Calagrian horn 
Along the mountain -side, when idl is still, 
Puura forth at folding-time ; and many s chi 



Solemn, sublime, auch as at midnight flows 
From the full cLoir, when richest barmoniea 
Break the deep silence of thy glens, La CatA ; 
To him who lingers thure with listening ear 
Now lost and now desceuding as &om Heaven ! 



And now a parting word is due from him 

Wlio, in the classic fields of Italy 

(If linplj thou hast borne with him so long), 

Through many a grove by many a fount has led thee, 

By many a temple half as old as Time ; 

Where all was still awakening tliem that slept, 

And conjuring up where all was desolate, 

^Vhere kings were mouldering in their funeral nma, 

And oft and long the i-ulture flapped his wing — 

Triumphs and mastjues. 

Nature denied him much, 
But gave him at hia birth whut moat he values ; 
A passionate love for music, sculpture, painting, 
For poetry, the language of the gods. 
For all things here, or grand or beautiful, 
A setting sun, a lake among the mountaina. 
The light of an ingenuous countenance, 
And, what transcends them all, a noble action.^ 
Nature denied him much, but gave him more; 
And ever, ever grateful should he be, 
Though from hia cheek, «re yet the down was there, 
Uealtit fled; for in his heaviest hours would come 
Gleams such as como not now ; nor failed be then 
(Then and througli life tiis happiest privilege) 



426 ITALY. 

Full oft to wander where the Muses haunt, 
Smit with the love of song. 

'T is now long since ; 
And now, while yet 't is day, would he withdraw. 
Who, when in youth he strung his lyre, addressed 
A former generation. Many an eye, > 

Bright as the brightest now, is closed in night. 
And many a voice, how eloquent, is mute. 
That, when he came, disdained not to receive 
His lays with favor. • • • • • 

1839. 



When, like > gbaat, IblduwtBH, CDlnclHI, 



lieOdytJiy, Ub. xli. T, 



"RlptimF,)elsTcitf. O blBire AotMM," kc 



. The>ky*MKm™^aMioi 



■Inil, Id Uh ituilr. In Uh guilai ud in ibc fidd ^ ind ua mwun 
Itbvi HiDiwd M Ihc; mijr, via Enr emapeiiuu lo rns tha l« ofibe In 

' (W The bsrU-pUiH iK Necker. 
lllTbeUkeofUiaVi 




I 
I 



be ohiirch,'^ «ri Uk Icfend, " tberfl vtwuj b ; 



b ml la bIbs loivnnr qu rttftH Ik Balol-PlBn do Booh, d 



OB Arftatoanl MDtKL BlDboawi 

aflNiitUiuIMIIlMea 
tuooaDLatd tbedbngan d 
pice. h« Ten[£«d a^bc m 



oT biiainait vban, od hii m^ from Paria to Tmln, ha 
po^g a poon OB br«i^ad(|* aod TTiUnf It davD at 



1 lbr,ffUaBi](liiIFlnlloiiw1 



ler, be DaTcUcd 



laB(ioUi,ai»(t(irfDehilDpdarMl^aaloilTe almlnlaall 



I 



lff)W1ieiiBV«it'>arB>Bdibgaaidtii«Ram tnlD lach otha 
(U o( Ihs oaaBleiiaDa Bwa rnn Qm cUU la lbs nuCba Iw 
pHcli i and hmr noeh aOarvanlt la Un •nunia' nm Id wnvri 
or JoarniT ihToagti liia ; ftv irlMO OTcala lb* iMt cannot « (Ire, 



430 NOTES. 

W The Eigle ud Child u m fliYorlle «iBii In idmj pan* o( BimiiM. 
m "J'Klmebisiioinipiie (oBmuiancol, |i«irvai)uoJe k^cd ttrctt 



To tWI Puar, — not, wheK'n h* dimlt, 
Wlule'eThUhiunari tDr rnm cUCT U) cliff, 
Fran gUdti Ut gl4de, jwlitTDlDK u lie vent^ 
n« loovtd At pkvare, eoah; k mubla purcb, 



B) '• Hnioi in IlltoM plan 
'fli>(i(.LS.Ii.7. 





Uj anxam ud > l»a^ ihu, ■■ Ihe BB 
Hnt till lu> nr ttmosb Zugi'i Italj (nrc, 
l<BApcd At ft goldeo Of » hftd bappU/ 



r 
I 



It SlltOD, " A CblH |I*1UK COmMiBlllK, qll 



(OlOrlttHdlrlbiUi 



^ iIuiU I np vboi Jdur at Iha maqiH 



TllU nlgtn > I 
tnold pllus oflhs CtpiRlletU, 
1 ILluidUig in fe \mbk Ertar the mi 



m hUca ■■ Ae li. iha U nlll, u In the djiya glTuMoal. 



tm AD out InieUcn, rrim Addlmi dov-nirud, tuTs dIUcaitljr ciplmd Uh 
■ettxd uliiimjiin. If I auuut •nppl]' the dtAcieoe)'' I "ID lut IDUait UMIr *■ 



ban aiTV* euddtDrtd, irlib whM non« 1 oddh aj, nt exprmt my Ihgoiha 
fcaU n gi u oatunllj luid u clAuly hi ircne ■■ to |mav, ttArlDf na hhvTf uhI tr 
luf tlM aid Magf, ■■ Le Iksipi p'tpargn |>u ca qi'm bit Hiu Inl." 



432 NOTES. 

It WM the boutoT BoileMi— and bov much are «« Indebted to him !-> that ha had 
taught Badne to write with dUBcolty, — to do aa othcca have done who have left wfaaft 
will UreforeTer. 

" Weigh well erery word, nor pobUsh till many years are gone by,** la an injancdoa 
which haa descended from age to age, the iz^Jooctioa of one * who could pobliah onlj hi 
manuscript, and in manuscript hope to sorviTe *, though now (such the energy of hia 
genius, such the excellence of hIa precept and his practice) in erery country, erery lao> 
guage, and in numbers atanoet numberless, our constant companion whererer we go.t 

What would he hare said now, when many a rolume, on its release from the cloaet, 
wings it way in an instant orer the Old World and the New, flying from city to city dur- 
ing the changes of the moon ; and wlten the words which are uttered In our aeiikte at 
midnight are delirered to thousands at sunrlae, and beibre annset are traTeOing to the 
ends of the earth i 



(48) There is a Vrench proTerb that must sometimea occur to an obaerver in the 
age : Beaucoup de mal, peu de bruit } Beancoup de bruit, peu de mal. 

To Lord John Russell are we faadebied for that admirable definition of a proverb, "The 
wisdom of many and the wit of one." 



(40) A mirror hi the sixteenth century is said to hare revealed a secret that led to 
tragical consequences. 

Jchn OaleacBo Visconte, Duke of Milan, becoming enamored hi his ymith of a daughter 
of the house of Correggio, his gayety, his cheerftifaiesa left him, aa all observed, though 
none knew why ; till some ladies oi the court, who had lived with him in great fiuniliarlty 
and who bad sought and sought, but never found, began to rally him on the subject, say- 
ing, " Forgive us our presumption, sir, but, aa you are in love^ — for in love you must be, 
— may we know who she is, that we may render honor to whom honor is due ; for it wiU 
be our delight no less than our duty to serve her f " 

The duke was hi dismay, and endeavored to fly, if it woe possible, firom so unequal a 
combat. But in flight there is no security when such an enemy is in the field ; and, being 
aoon convinced that the more he resisted the m6re he would be assailed, he resolved lU 
once to capitulate j and, ocanmanding for the purpose a splendid entertainment, such as he 
was accustomed to give, he invited them, one and all ] not forgetting the lovely Correggia, 
who was as urgent as the rest, though she flattered herself that she knew the secret aa 
well as he did. 

When the banquet was over and the table-doth removed, and every guest, as she sate, 
served with water for her Cedr hands and with a tooth-pick from the odoriferous mastic-tree, 
a cabinet of rich workmanship was placed on the table. " And now,** said he, with a gayety 
usual to lovers, " and now, my dear ladies, as I can deny you nothing, come, one by one, 
and behold her ; for here she is ! " As he spoke, he unfolded the doors of the cabinet } 
and each in her turn beheld the portrait of a beautiful girL 

The last to look and to see was Correggia, fbr so he had contrived it ; but no contrivance 
was wanted *, for, shrinking and agitated, she had hung back behind them all, till to her 
ear came the intelligence that the portrait was unknown, and with the hitelligence came 
the oonvictlon that her fond heart bad deceived her. 

But what were her fieelings when she looked and saw ; for at the touch of a spring the 
portrait had vanished, and hi a mirror she saw hersdf ! — Rieordi di Sabba Castiglione, 
1660. 

For this story, aa faideed for many others, I am indebted to my friend, Sfr Charles Lock 
Xastlake, President of the Royal Academy ) and I am happy hi this opportunity of 
■oknowledging my obligations to hhn. 

* Hone*. 

t NiMUMi c«nlari«« bare pautd awajr, and what KboUr bai not now hia pockoC UonMl 



<U BcrcnU wm THlucd lif QlnriiDiie uul HUui ; u, ftjT Iniance, tlie Ca' Soni 
Cn' Oriiunl, imt Itii Findaixi dc' TedeaehL Oral *•• Uukr annlUloii, (m 
rirali7. U ire bkt Jutgu from «□ anHdol^ rrlMcd bj Tujtrl \ tai with vhM Intern 
Ibpf htTC bwd obHrred Ln tlieir prn g re— , h Oier iIaaI ■! vort on Ihflr vlA: 
IhflK who wen pBMlDg ujdTT LiKm by L4ul ftDd br w>ur ! * 

101 Saw mn abmrntrr. Va tbe nd Uiaa li k )sbs ImsipOm : " Ptli a 
■dapBitte luTTDili," Ad. 

ftiillTnlnrnnhirintrliiHirrlrrT tC Wnni 

(M BsnuU wuliHgRUulralneaottliu dmrj ind nil the BtU> prtnen ot IH 
teoded Cor liUa. It iru ttna the lop dT U» t«iir <4 VorU Uwt tH (sti hli iIk 



Ic »ei^. Mb t«M»«laii pgor Is imbntum m'vttu, inr HUmat Bia^ii- 



n «euii/ «■ Huutd ■«( X 



H d>IUU> j 14 CUKUIH d*.^!!. 



I 



■Ml nUK dVirv ol 



gnul eoCnl, •toitdcaliuBmlt r^Mii( d'lnlcllltsice, tl doot Icnilei la mlprlnoulca 
■Buonu, laajaiin dm IValsmM, on |K>ar u u^rE, aa poor tal-oitoa ; qal •'■ffllaa, 



"' 37 



484 NOTES. 

qoi se oolisole arec la Cftcilit^ d\ui eofknt, et donft la doatear est anari amuaiite qoe la 
Jole." . 

(SB) AttOa. 

(SO) ** I lore,** safs a traveller, " to oontemplatef as I float akmg, (hat moltitiide of 

palaces aDd cbordieSf which are congregated aDd i^resaed at oa a vast raft.** Andirhocaa 

forget his walk through the Meroerka, where the nightingales give you their mdody firooi 

shop to shop, so that, shutting your eyes, yoa would think yourself in some forest-glade, 

when, indeed, you are all the whfle In the middle of the sea f Who can fbrget his proa- 

pect from the great tower, which onoe, when gilt, and when the sun struck upon it, was 

to be descried by ships aftur off ; or his Tisit to St. Mark's church, where you see nothing, 

tread on i^ihing, but what is precious *, the floor all agate, jasper *, the roof mosaic ; the 

aisle hung with the banners of the sut^^ct cities *, the front and its Atc domes affecting yoa 

as tlie work of sume unknown people i Yet all this may presently pass awsy } the waters 

may dose orer it } and they that come row about in vain to determine exactly where it 

stood. 

» 
(flO) A poet of our own country, Mr. Wordsworth, has written a noble s<mnet on tha 

extinction of the Venetian republic 

" Once did she hold the gorgeous East hi fee,** kc 

<^> ^^n (kllut subsister ; ils tir^rent leur snbsistanoe de tout Punivers.** — MontU" 
quieu. 

(^ A caravan. 

<68) There was, in my time, anuther republic, a place of refuge for the uofbrtunate, and, 
not only at its birth, but to the last hour of its existence, which had established itself in 
like manner among the waters, and which shared the same fate \ a republic, the citizens 
of which, if not more enterprising, were far more virtuous,* and could say also to the great 
nations of the world. " Your countries were acquired by conquest or by inheritanoe ; but 
ours in the work of oar own hands. We renew it day by day *, and, but for us, it might 
cease to be to-morrow ! " — a republic, in its progress, forever warred on by the elements, 
and how often by men more cruel than they ; yet constantly cultivating the arts of peace, 
and, short as was the course allotted to it (only three times the life of man, according to 
the Psalmist), producing, amidst all its difiiculties, not only the greatest seamen, but tlie 
greatest lawyers, the greatest physicians, the most accomplished scholars, the most skilful 
painters, and statesmen as wise as they were Just.t 

• It IS rtlalri) ittat Spmola uml Richardol, when on their way to ncgutinte a tre<itj ht the Halite in 
1606, taw «if ht or len persona land from a little boat, and, sitting down on the grass, make a inpal nJT 
bread and cheese and beer. "Who are these traiellera ?** said the ainbaasadon (o a peasant. — 
** Thej are the deputies from the states,*' ke answered, " our sovereipn lords and roasteis." — ** We 
must make peace," tbej cried. " These are not men to be conquered." — Voltain. 

t What names, for instance, are more illustrious than those of Bameveldt and De Witt 1 But when 
there were such mothers, there roi^hl well be such sons. 

When Reinier Bameveldt was condemned to die for an attempt to rtrengt bis father's death by 
•asasaination, his mother threw herself at the feet of Prince Maurice. ** You did not deign," said he, 
** to ask for your husband's life ; and wbj ask for your son's? " — *' My husba»d,** she replied. '* waa 
innocent ; but my son is guilty." 

Do Witt was at one* a model for the grcatcat and the least. Careless as he was of his life when in 

the discharge of his duty, he was always careful of his heahh ; and to the question how he waa abft 

to tranaact such a multiplicity of afTaira, ha would anawcr, "By doing only one thing at a time." A 

'ing which should not soon ba forgotten, and which may remind the reader of another, though of 

Aiue, by a great English lawyer of the iMt cenliry, John Danning. •• I do « little ; a ittio 

•sir j and the rest u undone." 



■t pmbalJv tbv ■■ miciin dl^UiJ " ' 



Wllh PUKlllllrllo, CTTto* u In >l 



IE"' Tbtj nn lOued [n the Ooar u nanitiila. TIie bna wu engnXD wIUiUhi •d> 
•ddraBnl \ir Ibc Vapi b> Um Biqicnir, " &iiitr uiUcm B buiUKum unbulsbti,'' i 
Tbwi •iMlt trod HtKiu Iht up uil Ike buUMi : Uk Ui» nod Itit ilnggo ilialt U> 



* Aluudro m. Pool Mu. paaoaMBtS." 
«naHaca(R/dcTnicluK<l«ala,1nScr4p<. ByHof, Ln. 

(TO Pctnrcb. 



noKHIn 



mlbe 



nl nuRDDg [n Un pUa ur Suts Cnea. fa 
rdiruuj uidJaiiE, IIUB, we u> lodiilwa fn Iws g( lb* 
i«B,UieQl«mufl.orciaodi:'M<ilki.li;Iwii Pukl, ud 



*i AnKAg UlOH tiW VOfl foOoTtd, Ib^V VH ^IvBJ-t 1 



sw Uircd HUliinL MUtiDDl IT 



I 



ta Uik, hecK ailUd Ia Cam d* 
It liiiBttoBwal<i(&OtBnB 
tEit to bf ih« carious lud lb* kw 



w oUnl Ik Boila 4>i' OtgaML TIh esliMkl luniu ircn pfauxA ibm U UM, 



nl VrUetrl dnapiBll {lu crlmlnDmt." 



iniklt KKplm," — H. Janiifs. 



4S6 NOTES. 

<B) Lea |}rison» des plomlw, c*e9t-i'dire ee> roomiaes ftrdenles qQ\)a arsik dMrh 
liBjii tD petitM oellnles lOos les terraMcs qui ooorreofc le paUis ; ki puitt, c*e rt 4dir> 
OM ftNMca creuM^ sous les canaox, o4 le Jour ei U cfaaleor si*aTaieiit jamais pfo^tr^ 
itaieni let BUencieaz d^positalres des myBi^rieoses rengeaooeB de oe tribonaL — Dam. 

01) A deep duuind beliind the laUnd ofS. Giorgio Magglore. 

<B2) *« Hoir fiuret it with your world i ^ says his highness the DerO to Qoeredo, oo their 
flntintenriew in the lower regions. ^Dol prosper there i "— ^Moch as usual, I believe." 
— <* But tell me truly. IIow is my good dty of Tenioe i Flooriidiing ? ** — ^^Move than 
•Ter.** — ** Then I am under no apprehension. All must go welL" 

In a letter written by Franoesco Prisdanese, a Florentine, there b an interesting aoooont 
of an entertainment giren in that city by Titian. 

**I was Inrited," says he, ** to oeldi>rate the first of August (ferrare Agoeto) in a beantS- 
Ail garden belonging to that great painter,* a man who by his courtesies could give a grace 
and a charm to anything festive ; t and there, when I arriTed, I found him in company 
with some of the most accomplished persons then in Venice ; togethtf with three of my 
eountrymen, ^etro Arctino, Nardi the hi8torian4 And Sanaovino, so celebrated as a sculp- 
tor and an architect 

** Tboug;h the place was shady, the sun was still powerful ; and, before we sat down at 
table, we passed our time in contemplating the excellent pictures with which the boose was 
filled, and in admiring the order and beauty of the garden, which, being on the sea and at 
the northern extremity of Venice, looked directly on the little island of Murano, and on 
others not less beautiful. 

** Oreat, indeed, was our admiration, great our enjoyment, wherever we tamed ; and no 
sooner did the sun go down than the water was covered with gondolettas adorned with 
ladies, and resounding with the richest harmonies, vocal and instrumental, which con- 
tinued till midnight, and delighted us beyond measure, while we sat and supped, regaling 
ourselves with everything that was most exquisite.** 

(8^ An allusion to the supper in Candide t c xxvl. 

CM) See Schiller^s Qhost-seer, c. L 

(85) See the history of Bragadino, the Aldiemlst, as related by Dam Hist, de Venise, 

0.28. 

The person that foHows him was yet more extraordinarjr, and is said to have appeared 
there in 1687. — Sfe Hertnippu$ Redivivus. 

"Those who have experienced the advantages which all strangers enjoy in that city 
win not be surprised that one who went by the name of Bignor Qualdi was admitted into 
the best company, though none knew who or what he was. He r^nained there some 
montlui } aiul three things were remarked concerning him : that he had a small but 
inestimable collection of pictures, which he readily showed to anybody ; that he spoke on 
every subject with such a mastery as astonished all who heard him ; and that he never 
wrote or received any letter, never required any credit or used any bills of exchange, bufc 
paid for evvrything in ready money, and lived respectably, though not splendidly. 

• Gnat aa he waa, we know Utile of his practice. Palma the elder, who atudied under him, uaed to 
•aj that bf. ftnikhed more with ihe finder than the pencil. — 6o««Ain«. 

t Hie acholar Tiatoret, irao much could not be adid of him, would now and then enliren the eonTci^ 
Mtion at bit table with a anlly that was not soon forsruttcn. Sitting oue il.xy there with hia friend Ba*. 
■an, "I tell thee what, Uiacomo," said he: "if I bad thy colorin; and thou badat rajr dcaifn , the 
Titiane and Corre^ioa and Rapbaeta ahould not approach ui." — Verci. 

1 Nardi lived long, if not ao tonf aa Titian. Writing to Varchi on the I3th of Julj, IS55, be Mjat 

* nm aiill eound, tbouf b feeble ; having on the tventy-fint of the preaent month to begin to cluab 

< mj naff the ateep aaeenl of the eightieth je«r of tbia mjr mieapent life.** — Tlro&oedU. 



<i TTju ^vnOnnui boBf one tiny 4t Iho DfillW--lii>uj*, i VciuUan nijilmvi, who vu ui 
nllenl jHilflv i4 {doUiRO, and who had tvord of S^or OiuUiV cuUectioo, evpRDvd ■ 
Bin u K IhEm i uit hli rsiant n> InMuUy (TuitHL AftiT aWerTiiig ud (dmlr- 
iff Itad fut totuB tlma, be tutppetBd u> e»«t hU tj*?! oth tirt e]uimbn--doar» where biidg 

partrmU nr Ibu itrui^cr. The Vunetlaa tuakbl afrivi lb, nail cheD hihki him, * TMi Ij 
001 pcrU-Kit, lir,' nld he la agnor Gnaldl. The other Eude iu> uuwet but bj ■ low 
uw, 'Yetjroii biiok,'beeaiiliiiaed,<Uke a mu of art}-] uidl Imaw Uil< irianre u ba 
[ the bud dT diu, who hu beea deul one hundred tad Uiln)- Texn. How ta lid* 
■MRile.'' •Illii»teiUT,'uUBIgii«aii*iai, KnTelj/iohDowallthliigiUuluepoi- 
lbli ; bui then !• mrUinlT do crlivr In wi belui Ilka ■ plctdrc of Tliinu'i.' Tbe Vtoe- 



"Inl 



iff I h a mid Ta U» naicl daf by ■eeliic llie pL 

BEfrJKnK abnot Ihe ttmc Ifaal gljcuDT BiuMi 

sine wUh him, inquired al faU InliiuKi, where ibey leiml (bll bo 

n Ar Vienna^ Thlt aOaJr nuule a ere«t >Ur at cbe licae- 



— ** Wwhat ?" — "Of flee bokiilred doealf." — "And where were titty f^' — 
np™^''" — *'!>* joo ioqiect anjboiJj f "— "Id's ft ferraikL*" — "Wfflildyoa 
ai-aLn '*'-"'* Cenalolf-" Ths bUcrro^loi' with hii frmt tun^ atfde ab old 



tn tulr, Mfi DidKM, be beonue mioidtilKl with Lord ChiWirneh], and thex traTeUod 

on logelber, difpntiiii all Ok wh; ) each iwerliaK aut oaluIaliilDC u Ibi hli Hh tba 



. woadf r at mj ImnitiDa, air i 



tD la a ruatj' gvb, -<- wl 



iplHand and began ta nuon vMb 



"WhManldbrbbaioU 

Ho atked (s none.'' — "lad alUlhrn. for noChlnd wben, IT 

nugled <in the ipm : — No, no, mj trisiid. He waa ■ent, y™ n 



488 NOTES. 



txpMtaDee of whftt by »rgament ha ooaki never ooDTiDoe yoa } tlimt one grain of our 
Bon Mnee, mmaij m yoo maj think of it, It worth a thooiand of that ttprit on wtUk 
joa aB Tahie yoonelTea to highly ; for with one gnin of oommoo eeoae — ^ 

" Ah, yIUain!**e3ndaimedMonteeqQiea,**vhat a trick yon hare played BM I Indnv 
BaooaeripC ! my mannacript, which I have bornt 1 " 

(88) La Biondina in Goodoietta. 

(80) ** C*^tait sooa lee portiqoee da S^nt-Maro qoe lee patridena ee r^onkeaienft tons 
teejonn. Lenomdeoette promenade tndiqoaitsadeitinatkm} on I*appeUaitt'l£ro^tto.** 
•— IXirw. 

CU) Wboi a deixwt laya hit hand on a firee d^, how eoon most be make the dieo c very 
«f the roitic who bought Ponch of the pnppet^bow man, and complained that be would 
jBOtepeak! 

(81) for thii thoof^ I am indebted to lome vnpnbUehed trarela by the anther of 
Yathek. 

(8^ Gk>ldoni, describing his excorskm with the Fsasalacqaa, baa left ns a liTdly pkCora 
of this class of men. 

** We were no sooner in the middle of that great lagoon whidi endrdes the dty, than 
onr discreet gondolier drew the curtain bdiind us, and let us float at the win of the wares. 
**At length night came on, and we could not tell where we were. * What is the hour?' 
said I to the gondolier. — * I cannot guess, sir ; but, if I am not mistaken, it is the torer^ 
hour.' — *■ Let us go liome,* I replied ; and he turned the prow homeward, singing, as ba 
rowed, the twenty-sixth strophe of the alrteenth canto of the Jerusalem DettTcred.*' 

<B) Prend o stall. 

(M) At Venice, if you have la riva in eeutL, you step from your boat into the haU. 

(86) Bianca Capello. It had been shut, if we may believe the novelist Maleepini, by a 
baker's boy, as he passed by at daybreak ; and in her despair she fled with her lover to 
llorenoe, where he fieU by assassination. Her beauty, and her love-adventure as here 
related, her marriage afterwards with the grand duke, and that Iktai banquet at whidi 
they were both poisoned by the cardinal, his brother, have rendered her histwy a 
romance. 

(86) This drcumstance took place at Venice on the first of February, the eve of the flbaat 
of the Purification of the Vhrgln, A. D. 9M, Pietro Candlano, Doge. 

(87) *< £ '1 coetume era, che tutte le novisae con tntta la dote loro veniasero aUa detta 
chiesa, dov' era il vescovo con tntta la chieresia." — A. Ifavagiero. 

(88) Among the Habiti Anticki, in that admirable book of wood-cuts aacrlbed to TWan 
(A. D. 1590), there is one entitled ** Bposa Venetiana A Castello.** It was taken from an 
dd painting in the Scuola dl 8. Oiovanni Evangelista, and by the writer is believ«dto 
represent one of the bridee here described. 

<88) San Pietro di Castello, the patriarchal church of Venice. 

CLVf^ «• Una galera e una galeoUa."— If. Sanuto. 

(101) In the lagoons of Caorlo. The creek is stlU called /I Porto delie DonxtUt. 

(188) it Pmuioi^ •tiam splrana," ftc — Sallutt. Bell. Catal. 69. 




u Enfltafa ibbre'kUui. Blullo ii 



vui. UiUfK*', BpH^iauoU^ Turchl. fl d^ Bltre DitioiiJ dkr«ne dd mmidD, I (|UtU vi cotioiir- 
rvUD Id bqU eifpla» ebe cpidu pUn i uu>o*enta f» le triiutf d«U' onivpno-" It f» 
tbcn Uiai ihe Cbitattu l;?U diwauH wlUi Iba Jev i vid Ohjlock icfcn (a li. aliea IM 



I 



Then 1> ■ plwc adloliitDf, oOled KUllo Hiut 
(■•> The Cmiidl gf Tea ud tb* OlunU, " 



." vn flULUU, "IW n 



Id of tco purtdu*,!! U* iMlor 
* turj ud Uw mp!ilj tl tl» TVS racul irs<a paUWisd wtlUn k fair dv> «' (Mil 



(HnsbmsCaBiHlait i 
brt>tK> or 1>wu <™ Uu«wD K 



In R(pa))l^ ud UBRnWd ^/ €l(hl 
nlaur ciupB «nt In U« iplipdur i sad a 
le to t}ie brtdtfrvum Aoil bl> r«ltmM 
ro OD tbo ctaUinaH o( Um dnaai, ud 
inUwplMsot 



rk [ul«d tbrv dnjt, Aut vvn i Hpt^W bj ihlr^ th-^tinrt people. 



I 

I 



am ereryHilBf m Un UwHh «t u oiik, — Dm bruch Uuu hild ntf grudbtta 

1HB1 II ma « high criiw la euUdl thf Ipte r oewlii n ai mpj fmlga ^olDce, 
OUD « Til e otiUaiMl ft qitfOlo ctB nute U Ion, t ncn orcu pU dim." 
am The mubJuibMIim. roTH MOOWitntUKfa' ■oUwttjr.Kl^gM'- 



"TcnaonWMiii.'' TImMi 



440 NOTSS. 

(UO A remtrkabte UutaDoe, among others In the annals of Yenlee, tttat ber prinoct 
wore merohanU ; her merchants, prinoes. 

aU) Count UgoUno. — Infemoy 32. 

(U6) Bemember the poor MarooUni ! 

(117) ** I TisUed onoe more," says Alfleri, " the tomb of oar master In lore, the dlTlne 
Petrarch ; and there, as at BaTenna, consecrated a day to meditation and Terse.** 

He visited also the house *, and in the aUram there wrote a sonnet worthy of P ie trai e h 
hhnself: 

** Cameretta, che glA In te chiodesti 
Quel Orande alia col ftuna ^ angusto U mondo,** Jtc 

Alfleri took great pleasure In what he called his poetical pilgrimages. At the birth- 
plaee and the grare of Tasso he was often to be found ; and In the library at Terrara ha 
has left this memorial of himself on a blank leaf of the Orlando Furiotot *' Tittorlo Alfleri 
vide e venerd. 18 giugno, 1783.** 

(118) The C6te Rotic, the Hermitage, ko. 

(119) After whteh, In the MS. 

A Crusoe, sorrowing in his loneliness — 

(190) This village, says Boccaccio, hitherto atanost unknown even at Padua, is soon to 
become temous through the world ; and the sailor on the Adriatic will prostrate himsdf 
when he discovers the Euganean hills. " Among them,** will he ssy, ** sleeps the poet 
who is our glory. Ah, unhappy Florence! Ton neglected hhn, — you deserved him 
not*' 

(Ul) " I have built among the Euganean hills a small house, decent and proper ; in 
which I hope to pass the rest of my days, thinking always of my dead or absent fHends.** 
Among those still living was Boccaccio *, who is thus mentioned by him In his will : **To 
Don Qiovanni of Certaldo, for a winter-gown at his evening studies, I leave fifty goklen 
florins ; truly little enough for so great a man.** 

When the Venetians overran the country, Petrarch prepared for flight " Write your 
name over your door,*^ said one of his friends, " and you will be safe.** — ** I am not so 
sure of that," replied Petrarch, and fled with his books to Padua. His books he left to 
the republic of Venice, laying, as it were, a foundation f(»r the library of St Mark •, but 
they exist no longer. His legacy to his fHend Francis (Carrara the elder, a Madonna painted 
by Oiotto, is still preserved in the cathedral of Padua. 

QSa Thrice happy is he who acquires the habit of looking everywhere for excellences, 
and not for fsults, — whether in art or in nature, — whether in a picture, a poem, or a 
character. LjJ^e the bee in its flight, he extracts the sweet, and not the bitter, wherever he 
goes ; till his mind becomes a dwelling-place for all that is beautiful, receiving, as it were 
by instinct, what is congenial to Itself, and rejecting everything else almost as uncon- 
sciously as if it was not there. 

(193) May I for a moment transport my reader into the depths of the Black Forest f It 
Is ft>r the sake of a little story whicli h4s some relation to the subject, and which many, if 
I mistake not, will wish to be Uiie. 

** Farewell ! ** said the old baron, as he conducted hb guest to the gate. *'• If you must 

-* "vou must. But promise to write, for we shall be anxious to hear of your entire 

; though we cannot regret, as we ought to do, an illness by which we have been 

IS gainers.** Ths young man said nothing, but the tsars were in his eyes ; and, 



F elrnvF Dir, he Icnind IikIe leilB ■ 



ck aad » ftruicT. ba had be 



orUvDuabe. WbMhc 



of Modisii. vbo wu DOW tmnOUiK hotsewird klcpag 



rabrfo] u E ihaU e*(« fcd (br Ibe bDoar ADd tbe tup^riiiai joa laundcd Bdt cdb. I uuK, 
r jour uke, flr mj ovn, decUne Uwm both, ftqd rfin»lD ban lo dflTote mjieff b> bit 

■ttUTuL u la uj cjcfl jou moil mlwaji Dootimw to be, tfant won nj Rgard. Oooa, — 
r miv joa miBfi,— iDdlvtaihtaB — aj MfodiBijteflrftcttv— tiaaf wUb jvoilhat 
Jill jw I mriladrU Buiki Mb huppj | doc ow I Ul d( nimBilUrlt ihiUMat 



CO) Ai/tno, T, 
(IW Ttali iUtt U, I 



Buhcr wbn Itat u oalr eUld br i hU from m wbidiiv, twl who. tt Idoi u 
own™ ba BilKbl bt «niploj.!d, would iiiddBil/ birak off ud (Ito the 017 
lal the Koton whlcb be inn wben It ■imnc fruni hit unu and na 

U Qirrlok wu weH Hdulnlsd with him, ud Ihu, whea Klldlul lij tba 



I 



<r^i Bee Iho Proplucf o/D/nlt. 
iin) Sk Ibc Ule u lold by Boccweio ud Vtyiai. 

(tM> Such, perbHps^ u m^Kestcd Lo Petruccbl the i«m«t, *^ la chloE al Tflbpo," J 
E i^ toThnc, "Thli venrruble pUt, 

Fut u bofare. t Inrned to Fuoe, Aod ukvd- 






n* HUn« tdni et thought Li In Aa BDcEKt InKTlpd' 
Abber, whED wudetlii;, Ilk; Old UnrBUtj', UKiiig the 



Tbe £uth uyi Ui tlic Euth. " AU wtU be rnn." 
(U^ Tbey vail Hrr the crarcller'fl cvriagr u the flM of eTBi j F hSL 
0911 Among oihfr Iiumnce4 of her uceudencT lU the cloee of the thlrtHnth « 
ElKhth, u amliuMaiin rrom dim^rf ill porli of Europe uid Ail*. I^lr motrt ■ 



IX Virgin I 



it the OutnelHca. J 



H metaDchalr wu the CUe nC Aadntt ill Bwto, Ihoofh hk merit m* bM dM 
" Then Is a Utile ma Id Florcnoii,'' Hid Htahul AngElo to Rkptaiil, " •ho, 
Rn[>Laxvd on HiKh ^reot wdritt b yim ftre, VQohl bring the iweAt 10 you bcvi 



a gUmiieB of hUq and hie bearen. 



f 





at. Butbulnww', lill,UMd>]rlK«)niil>ialDlimkiuiilUititlrii(Ult tofUtiarcpaiidlni, 

Uinllillf^nMiwI In Ibe croud, ha luul hjlkwal U» ruiml-liaJD i Hud, IiiitUi( Mfcn ■ 

■taoi ■ mica CUM Ilmugb Uk blUn, lito> * vokx Ittm bana, urA the InlRrlEir Id tbon 
bDM^Dt who euL 

Thfl fleriDd idU vtirpftM tht RmUcr, but we ihoold rcnwmlvr irbru mid vlktro Ibej 
irvd. Hot huibiiDd otaLoilnf bo-t the *|ip«idcd bi Uib enlssluUcvl cm 
dtUbcnllua, It wu dtcUgd Ihu, bMilat ben boiisl w<Ib Uw nus c 
b»Tbi( puKd thmugta Uh fntn. fiba ww (hKlnd tnni ber vow, *iid 
■Klin. — fVnn lltiulraU. L'OacrvaUiri FiOrlHtiiB. 



(. — 1 an heUin U, nplird iiHUHt. Iknt jiiu otxerr 



lllS) A vftjlpc of Mkdiftck AitfctK T)i7> ufi lh« Turk of Ificvido GltUwnL 
lltn •■ MIo bit nn OloTiuuil," ~ Inftmo, li. 

mliaj lUn in tbtj >» •vs? bmlb UuM Mn. But, K Oij taSa nnn tia 
thfjr iHiqr p4ab tli^f ottecptbD*, wbiip tbcf tbdUvcr *b4t Uiry rrcclrc from Uw 



444 NOTES. 

if wHhin them *, how great the confidence with which thqr look flbrward to the daj, 
erer dlatant, when thoee who are yet unborn shall MeM them ! 

aH) Paraduoy 17. 

atf) The Chapel de' Depositl } in which are the tomba of the Medid, bj 
Angelo. 

a47) Ue died early *, living only to become the father of Catherine de Medids. Had an 
evil spirit assumed the human shape to propagate mischief^ be could not haTa dona 
better. 

The statue is larger than the life, but not so large as to shock beUd It is the moit real 
and unreal thing that ever came from the chiseL 

a48y The day of All Souls ; II di de* Morti. 

a4Sf) «* Exoriare aliquia nostris ex oasibus nltor ! " 

Perhaps there is nothing in language more affecting than his Ust testament. It ia 
addressed *^To Ood, the Deliverer,*' and was found steeped in his Mood. 

(UPO) FUippo Strozxi. 

051) The Tribune. 

(U2) Cosmo, the first Grand Duke. 

(MS) De Thou. 

(1*4) Elcnora di Toledo. Of the children that survived her, one fell by a brother, one by 
a husbajKl, aud a third murdered his wife. But that family was soon to t>ecome extinct. 
It is some C4»nsolatif>n to reflect that their countrj' did not go unreveiiged for the calamities 
which they had brought upon her. JIow many of them died by Uie hands of each other ! 
— Seep. 448. 

(155) De Thou. 

(liG) The Palazzo Vecchio. Cosmo had left it several years before. 

(137) By Vasari, who attended him on this occasion. Tliuanu.^, de VitA suA, i. 

(lArt) It Wild given out that they had died of a contagious fever : ainl funeral orations 
were publicly i)ron(>unce<l in their honor. 

Alfleri has written a tragedy on tlic subject j if it may be said so, when be has altered 
so entirely Uie stjry and the characters. 

(159) He was the father of modern painting, antl the m.aster of (iiato, whos^ talent he 
discoveretl in the way here alluded to. 

** Ciniabu^ stood still, and, liaving c<)n>>idered the boy and his work, he asked him if he 
would go anil live with him at Florence. To which the boy answered that, if his father 
was willing', he would go, with all his heart." — t'cuari. 

Of Cini.ibui little now remain* at Florence, except his celel»rat«-d Madonna, larger than 
the life, in Santa Marin Novella. It was painted, according to Vawiri, in a garden near 
Porta S. I'iero, and, when finished, was carried to the church in solemn procession, with 
trumpets iM-fure it. The garden lay witltout the walls ; and such w:ts the rejoicing there 
on the <x'oai«ion, such the feasting, that the suburb received the name of Borgo AUegri, 
a name it still bear^, though now a |»art of Uie city. 

(IM") II H llrst instrument was presented by liim Uj Uie Doge of Veuicii ; and Uierc is 
a tradiUon at Venice that he exhibited its wonders on the top of the tower of St. Mark. 



,wluiih ilKormi thei*(dllln of Ji 



njt, bf Dnub Culgae i 



Cnltlt ELD[i|>cd hifl farrim^ U mj' dd 



QalilKS whan Wuli- 



Ik IUDgblrr of both, n wen Cm 



to wMtr hnr Ihi7 conlil be Uki*, 

■ ^lUI, Out 1 IMJi « 



a«I) It la HBMVlWR DBOtl 

toDd Ak daM or St. Psuv'm, 



« |iliuh:liLi7 vjrftetn,** Bod pvrhspt oT vrnrj tyHOD d 



jrl Angfllat wben he ht od 



lis oILf, ud Oat be Mkl. afler k ftat, " Onoe u pod yaiflrt ; UigUD dl w 
* He fjever. IndRd, «|i^e of Lt but irtUi admlrmUon ; uhI, If we mj 



W Odoi, oq ■ bii(bi Vvrnaiia noniiiii, I Hi ont ud Ir. 



be Cluirdi tt fluia Hula H°n1 



lU of the WnDtiaa Id Ihel dey. 



ii pleuHK picture of Ux nwnnen ud u 



OV) At chne c^olock, Thne hoan kflv nnrtae, eeoordliif Ui Ibe eU nunpq- of 



(ini aim Ihe biTalliia of tetUn, ■ 



lo rnmHD VetUiri, dited Ibi lOdi 



•) Uwhani Na* 



I r(> OB bjr 111 mm atrgj U goci Ukroich Ibg awlit, «■ 



446 NOTES. 

vbenoe it may, — from the disUui, firam the dead, — aod on It wiD co ntiiiae to fo^ €D* 
Bglitraing nflBaos yet nnbom in ngiom yvt nniliiw^yfcmlL 

on) L» Verdea. It is oelebrmted bj RInncrini, B«di, and moat of the TtaacMn poets i nor 
if it nnnockfd b j lome of oon. 

** 8ej, be had been at Rome aod seen the reliCB, 
Drank joor Terdea wine," kc 

Beaumont and FUteker. 

(l«^ It is diffieolt to coooeiTe what OalHeo most hare fdt, when, having coastmctod Us 
telesoope, he torned it to the hearens, and saw the moontains and Talleys In the moon. 
Then the moon was another earth \ the earth another planet ; and all were sot^ect to the 
same laws. What an evidence of the simplicity and the ma^ifloenoe of nature ! 

But at length he tamed it again, still directing it apward, and again he was lost ; Cor 
he was now among the fixed stars ; and, if not magnified as he expected them to be, tbey 
were moldptied beyond measore. 

What a moment of exaltation for sodi a mind as his ! But as yet it was only the dawn 
of a day that was coming *, nor was he destined to live tOl that day was in its splendor. 
The great law of gravitation was not yet to be made known ; and how litUe did he think, 
JM he held the instrument in his luuxL, that we should travel by it so fiur as we have done } 
tliat its revdaticms would ere long be so glorious ! 

Among the innumerable stars now discovered, and at every improvement of the tele* 
scope we discover more and more, there are many at such a distance from thb little planet 
of ours, that " their light must have taken at least a thousand years to reach us." The 
intelligence which they may be said to convey to us, night after night, must therefore, 
when we receive it, be a thousand years old ; for every ray that comes must have set out 
as long sgo ; and, *^ when we observe their places and note their changefl,** they m«y have 
ceased to exist for a thousand years. 

Nor can their dimensions be less wonderful than their distances ; if Sirios, as it is more 
than ooi^Jectured, be nearly equal to fourteen suns, and there are others that surpass 
Sirius. Tet all of them must be as nothing in the immensity of space, and amidst the 
*' numbers without number " that may never become visible here, though they were cre- 
ated in the be fanning. — Sir John HertcheL, 

074) OalQeo came to Aroetri at the close of the year 1633 ; and remained there, while 
he- lived, by an order of the Inquisition.* It is without tlM walls, near the Porta 
Romana. , 

He was buried with all honor in the church of the Santa Crooe. 

(175) // Giojello. 

(176) Arioeto himself employed much of his time in gardening } and to liis garden at 
Ferrara wc owe many a verse. 

077) Milton went to Italy in 1«38. " There it was," says he, " that I found and visited 
the fiunous Qalileo, grown old, a prisoner to the Inquisition." "Old and blind," he might 
have said. Galileo, by his own account, became blind in December, 1637. Milton, as we 
learn from the date of Sir Henry Wotton's letter to him, had not left England on the 18th 
of April following. —5ec Tirabotchij and fFotton^s Remains. 

(178) It has pleased CKxl, said he, that I should be blind •, and must not I also be 
pleased f 

• For Ixlierin? in th« motion of iho earth. •• They may i»«ue lh«ir decrees," taya Paaeal, " il ia to 
no purpose. If tlic earth u really turning round, all mankind together cannot keep it from'taraia;, 
or keep themeelves from turning with it."<— L«« ProwindaU*, xriii. 




UbidDSt, lbs/ wm aM vUhoot thdr nwaid ) llTtnf. t k ouu} hin Oow, In Uis full 
unimut Ihu Uietr lilnr mold nut be kM, ud thai aaKia or LUer Ibe «DtU vmld tx 
tte happkr ud tin bttUr tir UhIi' harlDf lind la U. 
im) nxT rtae wIlhiD thliMD mllM cT «*cli DUi«r. 



■cqnlml WIR Uun [l*f but kl 



li<liiI<HnU>l>cr. IFTiu 
■ " UiregglaU > pUu d'liB 
a belb7 *sd bcr esKlerri 



ThHL Hid hair glorUHU hi her- daj ^le wv, 
ThpTv b ft Acred pUee iritiUa ber w%M, 
StCRi] tddiOent, Hn vlieii Ibtf Uiai dig 
Cum Iben Id rtat, lad they that lire In pr« 



b lU* nrU (r uuUmt. 
ON) It mi In Uita muner [||M Ihe lint SCira <rent dimn whm ba jiaridied it 



A duntptloB ef tiM CmoaiKfPl 



Oao TlHTe we« Itie ■■ NoWU di Tom " nod Uie •■ NoMIl 01 l-sKl*-" 



of the DooUi hmitjr madfl hLia hmtk bit enpmsDoit i 
Uutiic* DdtasPooW VaeaUa, 



qT iPKiTjbie AD AdIJ« 



imiiitMninlTiloDclaUiwUUBuflaga tit 
ilftaglLlcr, 

lomiOfBgglMl 
p«r ^IL kLEml HmOvll.^ — Dmtr. 



I 



to me rCr qiuiter-" 



1j BoloEDoe, uid !■ Lold h^ GheraUda GlUradbvl In hii hfstdcr of Bf»- 
T iru oT Lhe QuclpbLc pulj, her broUKn uT tbe UbiUJUne i ujd no 
dt or rlolenco made kDovn, tiiao »q omUt^, hUhcrto but halttap^qtcd, 
>pca vkr, TbB Omt PIbca wu ■ KflH of baals vid falmdabed ftir 



m Ihi fUDDin HiiI Uwlr ■dbonu met U 
n baton tba Cirdinal UgUa ; uthorltl 
plkoeof & UaiEft NorcUL ETs;b<mH< 



(UH) It li remukable Ibu tba lubleil oorki of homu lodiu luiye btsi p 
Uma of lumUI, vbiai tmj mu iru hli oini mulrr, ml ell thing! nn o| 
Omufirf Duti unL MUboo. ap)4ind [u luch tlmea \ tai ha m^ aid Vli^* 



la Ibote of Cosoo 1. ud bi 



- SimmtmAi, nL SOS. 



I 



> 





ftUpped 4 Cord nHud tor OKk, Slic ■» bqrkd Ui Flamm wllta givjit pcmp ; but lU Iwr 
lurii>l,upT>n>il,Ui(atiHdivu:p!dUHlt. Her «KambIukaii thcMn. 

Xieooen appan id turc hu] ■ prEseotlnH^Dt ot her fuc Bbe wtat vhcn nqblrtd i 
bol, brfon (be hI obI. IooIe leave Dt tin un, tlien ■ child, neplsft long ind bliurly orcr 



On, while hli abannii here lu' 







a if moihw dij vu dmirnlng 


Ihere. 






(M) Tbe RomlD 
MtbynweofUie 


,Ud 


>UiU* nlLfi. 


I Utt, UiU u 


Wl A tndi<J». 


, 11 


liM been a^iBi, from Uim Ina 


inxiri.l.T1 


Slnguin. 


.(U. 


BM) An .llwi«i 


'"■ 


iie Gucua deile Uirracn, < 


,«w™ud 


Wloft 


be VellM, Hsr 


laWl A il^ In our rjounlry u sM u Sbllklpesire, an 
d'.rhn, Wttdhte A nne iii«l»n rutiiqus, noaii larai 

Thert ti, H «• ler; talilj, in FlortDM 1 unili wl 
thedomi "AlbBoiiiiuiionbtKgwrruci." Oool 
(nqiHnUd Iqr BaliUxr Bo», wl» drrw ■ ponnil ef fa 


■ine IH.I> 
limbnlen. 


inlUly. 
'eoidt 


oiantretcliir. 
HKTlpU™ orer 



■ iDd ttewj ii(bu. H d*«itnwl h; Vtria ud 



460 NOTES. 

FOngr, and ftfll, I bdiere, called La Ro»a^ b foil of beaaUfol teeoaj. Wbo doM noiwVk 
to foUow the footsteps of Cloero there, to Tisit the Reitine Tempe and the Bereo Watera t 

Cni) Perhapi the moitlMaiitiAilTillaorthaft dajwaatheTIUAlCadaiBa. Ik tonovA 
ndn } bat enough remains of the plan and the Brotesqoe-irork to Justify Y asacfi ■^*'«~— it 
of it 

The Pastor FidOj if not the AmintOfViati to be oCleo represented then j and akhsatra^ 
noh as is here described, was to be seen in the gardens Tery lafedj* 

OU) A fkihton forever rerlring in socha climate. In the jear 1788, the iftiui of Fa»- 
iisUo was performed in a small jrood near Caserta. 

(BS) I Tre Mauri. 

Cn^ What poet before Shakspeaie has availed himself of the phsnomenoD hen aOodeA 
to, a phenomenon so awful in his hands f 

tfU) A Mtlanfuft story of the 17th century, 1^ Alessandro Maosoal. 

(II0> See the Hetuba of Bnrlpkles, v. 911, &o. 

001) Bach was the enthusiasm there at the reTirai of art, that the dlsooveiy of a 
pneiotts marble was an event tar celebration ; and, fai the insfsiwe of the Laoeoon, It was 
recorded on the tomb of the discoverer. ** Felid de Fredis, qui ob proprlas vlrtirtai, ai 
repertom Laoooflntfii divinum quod in Taticaao oernes fer^ respirans sJmulanrmn, iounor- 
talitatfm meruit, A. D. 1628."* 

The Laocoon was found in the baths of ^ntus, and, as we may oonclude, in the very 
same chamber in which it was seen by the elder PUny. B stood alone thore in a niche 
that U stiU pointed out to the traveller } t and weO might it be hafled by the pools of that 
day ! What a moment tor the imagination, when, on the entrance of a torch, it emerged 
at once firom the darkness of so long a night ! 

There Is a letter on Uie sul^ject, written by Francesco da 8. Oallo, in 1507. 

" Some statues being discovered in a vineyard near S. Blaria Maggicve, the Pope said to 
a groom of the stables, *■ Tell Oiuliano da S. Gallo to go and see them } * and my tether, 
when he received the message, went directiy to Michael Angelo Buonarroti, who was 
always to be found at home (being at that time employed on the Mausoleum), and they set 
out together on horseback ; I, who was yet a chikl, riding on the crupper behind my 
father. 

" When they arrived there and went down, they exclaimed, *This is the Jaooooo of 
which Pliny makes mention ! ' and the opening was enlarged that the marUe might be 
taken out and inspected ; and they returned to dinner, diBoouraing of ancient things." 

(218) The street of the tombs in Pompeii may serve to give us some idea of the Via 
Appla, that Regliia Viarum, in its splendor. It is perhaps the most striking vestige of 
antiquity that remains to us. 

(819) And Augustus in his Utter, coming at a still slower rate. He was borne akmg by 
slaves ; and the gentle motion allowed hfan to read, write and employ himself as In his 
cabinet. Though Tivoli is only sixteen miles from the city, he was always two ni^^^ on 
the road. — Suetonius. 

aoffi Nero. 

• In th« Church of An Coli. 

t Tb* w«IU and ih« niche are of a bright Ttrmilion. 8«« ObaenratioM on the Colon of the Ancitata, 
bjr Bir Humphrey Datjt, with whom I riiited this chamber in 1814. 



■« 



I 



lo t^ KtU*, ud from (he SUM 

■ctloq lud tbe pnodfift flf wi4J^- 
Kribed OB fOm oTbiu, ua pkoid Id Um 

(n» " AmpUnda UDU iM, at oBQSpiduair > Luiulo JoK." — C. flAi. 

01 TlicitoMr*. 

0tf) Kueiu JbdIu BtiUu. 

(>Bi Wa an taiU UiU Cour pHHl Ifac Biublcan uid oTenhnw tbt CamwcnitUli < 
1st Uk •»«• <it datrucUan ven ulnadr Is the Beun-biHiM, Ibe Foram, ud Um Cuip. 
Vim teBT Ml, ni libsnj nured ' 

BWoy, u nil ■■ fotlis. dcUshla !□ ■ boo, knd It fonra •BriUsc U> aw wtiU n* 
the Irak of maoj ) tg, u moi. n ut BuWnd by neb ivpnHDntiou nC hOBMi |nU- 
mi; brfeulnf hw dAch kwkn ui lud, ind anrkntlns (be tbsBKBd UhbwM 

em U vu In Un Tli Sim that HmnF, stKE unulng ilong u lUnlt, *u H CRUllr 

Udgrd be might ; tikliiK ntOgc ta tlKTenniDlei]rilMiMw«thoue.~^ Jft. It. ■■ 
[xn Ad slliuioa It] Cnar Id hli GdUo IHampb. " ArbWDdlt CiplioHiDi ad tutnita," 



Pnw. UldTwt 


l>lit 


„C«MU1TIWIW«« 


.tinctnoli 


«inill«y«ne™iv.- 


«8"EI«nieinrTltic 
d-i)wdlarU<d.u.l^d 


ilnu Roue, qw ta rspM qi'iBe ImprtaK t la Km. n> mK 
I la Dutt, t I'liAmie 4d Uiaaftie." — Mmlofuln. 


CB>1Fcr>«u. 










OSOJofurtlu. 











OB) "Spu* BK, I pnf, lUa lndicnitT,*' mli Panni to 
paMU tpKUck ; dnc iw not tbniufb tout nriwa." ~ " V 
SoBU, " l« in root cum pevir," — fliUsret. 



(Ml BojihinlilH. Ttx itorf if ih* mkirdtf* uiJ Uw pdImb U 
um Til- l'»iiili™i. 



452 NOTES. 



CMfll Vw tnosflgimtSoo ; *'fai ({iialB opera, tuA Tedere n oorpo mortOi 6 qwAi TlfBy 
•ooppiara rankna di dolore A ognl ano che qnivi gumrdaTm." — Fc 



(Ml) ^'Toa admire that pictare,** aaid aa old Dominican to me at Padoa, aa I ilood 
templatinf a Last Sapper in the Befectoiy of his oooTent, the flforea «• large aa tlw VUb, 
** I hare nt at my meals before it for leven and fortj Tears ; and nuA are the diangea 
that have taken place among ns, — so many hare come and gone In the time, — that, when 
I look upon the company there, — upon those who are sitting at that table, silent as thej 
are, — I am sometimes inclined to think that we, and not they, are the shadows.** 

The celebrated fresco of limiardo da Yind in the monastery of Santa liaria deOe Qracia, 
at MQan, most again and again hare soggested the same reflection. Opposite to it stood 
the prior** table, the monks sitting down the chamber on the right and 1^ ) and the artist, 
throoghoat his pictore, has evidently endeavored to make it correspond with what he saw 
when they were assembled there. The table-cloth, with the comers tied up, and with its 
regular fulds as Irom the press, must have been fiUthfiilly copied ; and the dishes and 
drinklng-cups are, no doubt, such as were used by the Ikthers in that day. — See Goethe^ 
ToL xxxix. p. 94. 

IndefiUigable was Lionardo in the prosecution of tUs work. ** I have seen him,** sajp 
BandeUo the novelist, ** mount the scaffold at daybreak and continue there tiH night, for^ 
getting to eat or drink. Not but that he wouk) sometimes leave it Ibr many days together, 
and then return only to meditate upon it, or to touch and retouch it here and there.** The 
prior was forever complaining of the, little progress that he made, and the duke at last 
consented to speak to him on the sul^ect. His answer is given by Vasari. ^ Perhaps I 
am then most busy when I seem to be mostidle, for I must think before I execute. But, 
think as I will, there are two persons at the supper to whom I shall never do Justice, — 
our Lord and the disciple who betrayed him. Now, if the prior would but sit to me Ibr tha 
last—" 

The prior gave him no more trouble. 

CMS) A dialogue wUch is said to have passed many jean ago at Lyons (Mem, de Oramt* 
mont^ i. 3), and which may still be heard in almost every hdtellerie at daybreak. 

(MS) Uow noble Is that burst of eloquence in Hooker ! ** Of law there can be no lesi 
acknowledged, than that her seat is the bosom of Ood, her voice the harmony of the workl. 
All things in heaven and earUi do her homage ; the very least as feeling her care, and 'the 
greatest as not exempted fhxn her power. 

(M4) As the descendants of an illustrious people have lately done. 

They know their strength, and know that, to be flree. 
They have but to deserve It 

CMS) Candor, generosity and justice, how rare are they in the world ; and how much is 
to be deplored the want of them ! When a minister in our parliament consents at last to 
a measure, which, for many reasons perhaps existing no longer, he had before refused to 
adopt, there should be no exultation as over the &llen, no taunt, no Jeer. How often may 
the resistance be continued lest an enemy should triumph, and the result of convk;tioQ be 
received as a symptom of fbar ! 

(346) Are we not also unjust to ourselves j and are not the best among us the most so f 
Many a good deed Is done by us and forgotten. Our benevolent feelings are indulged, and 
we think no more of it. But is i( so when we err f And when we wrong another and 
cannot redress the wrong, where are we then f Yet so it is, and so no doubt it should be, 
(o urge us on without ceasing, in this place of trial and discipline. 

From good to better and to better still. 



soTES. 458 



OrVoDiuwim Iw>otw,iiilelU(M 
atlrnd mud gnld^ iIh fmtlMkt*, 






u UUu-u.KUBic Juplwr," J 



Ic yitfOt ue coBiimd 



u iM ■tir>^ H. nnn *vr* cbm MAlii k 



if lan, ' 1 tun iB(Uii( Dav,' tw nU, ■ la losie m; chOdniL Bw ■ 
n^tr'n'uiBC,— IibaDlntaerUfnmlhsnmll.' Ta ravoitcr Ot varll^ 
Lt » iDllr ucomplklnd. 1 amtadj do i uid u diiUncUjr u Uu cM 



4IBn>a na in nlitoct, oM at pltj, but at miirRiec. Wbrn v 
■nd qonUWiad Ijt Ouae who Imrw hio mx. " I un aupbra i 



DC uMqnilr i ftod In Ui 



** lien \ " be udvervd BOjJf , l^yiuf tUa Iku4 



454 N0TB3. 



Wtek to Ui« itepherd^ btugable olllning la adTent ; the last, if we may Jodfe from U» 
•Obott, not the loftst nibdalng, perhape the most so. 

Onoe, as I was approaching Freecati In the winshine of a doadlcM December momlaf , I 
obeerred a ruitio group by the road-side, before an image of the Virgin, that daJmed the 
dOToCioni of the pauenger from a niche in a vineyard walL Two yoong men from the 
moontalnt of the Abruzxi, in their long brown cloalcs, were ikying a Christmas carol. 
Their instruments were a tiaat^y and a bagpipe *, and the air, wild and shnple as it was, 
was such as she might accept with pleasure. The ingenuous and smiling countenanoes of 
these rude minstrels, who seemed so sure that she heard them, and the unaffected delight 
of their little audience, all younger than themselTes, all standing uncorered, and moTing 
their lips in prayer, would have arrested the most carriess traveller. 

(W) Whoever has entered the Church of St. Peter*s or the Pauline Chapd, during the 
exposition of the Holy Sacrament there, will not soon forget the blase of the altar, or the 
dark circle of worshippers kneeling in sUenoe before iL 

CW) An allusion to the saying of Archimedes, ** Oive me a place to stand upoo, and I 
will move the earth." 

(SB2) An allusion to the prophecies concerning Antichrist See the i nt er p re ta ttona «C 
Mede, Newton, Clarke, &c. ; not to mention those of Dante and Petrarch. 

(288) It was at such a moment, when omtemplathig the young and the beaotlAal, that 
Tasso conceived his sonnets, beginning " Vergine pia,*^ and " Yergine beUa.** Those to 
whom he addressed them have long been forgotten \ though they were as much perhapt 
to be loved, and as much also to be pitied. 

064) Her back was at that time turned to the people ; but in his countenance might be 
read all that was passing. The cardinal, who officiated, was 'a venerable old man, evi* 
dently unused to the service, and much affected by it. 

(9U) Among other ceremonies, a paU was thrown over her, and a requiem sung. 

(SOB) He is of the beeUe-tribe. 

(987) ** For, in that upper clime, effiilgence comes 
Of gladness." — Cary^i Dante. 

(W) There is a song to the tucciola in every dialect of Italy *, as, for instance, in tht 

Genoese. 

• " Cabela, vegni a baso ; 

Ti d%Jo nn cuge de lette.'* 
The Roman is in a higher strain. 

" Bella regina," &c. 

• 

(20B) " lo piglio, quando il di giunge al confine, 
Le luociole ne* prati ampj ridotte, 
E, come gemme, le comparto al crine ; 
Pol nra V ombre da' rai vivi ioterrotte 
Mi presento ai Pastori, e (^nun mi dice ; 
Clori ha la stelle al crln come ha la Notte.*' 

farano. 

(VD) Pllny mentions an extraordinary instance of longevity in the ilex. "There ti 
one,** says he, " in the Vatican, older than the city itself. An Etruscan insGripUoQ in let- 
of brass attests that even in those days the tree was held sacred." 



NOTES. 466 

a* Iba flm Etll, an Uu (Ms <if the KKk, u 



" Prs«i<a Anlo, n Trbon 



CM) Tb« jlow-worm. 



unpuli ITcUx. On the aibn tat Hi 



I 



«■ tp hit vaup^ ohoreh u «i ei^Mo. 
H] In hbktL; Un ome paJJi ; plKjtDff > 
lie ■ppraached * qdUA||B ftt nlf ht^bll. 



i ftpprwch ILalj, unt ft Spwkuvd u m KpproHh 



I 



CSV) Thsplnu bCRdeKrlbnl Is nar Mala dl OMU, In lbs Uii(dniii olNq4ta. 



KIds dUia l> pvpulaUoD OK 






(»<) " Pr»j Ihu JOB BOV ft" "I* • 
IhMto had KM th> prlKlka* gt vcwk. 
It U nlBUd ofk gr 



te iinr«<< <u> lamutona. 



456 ROTXS. 



U'd pmm dl cMo Mtafeoin InnL— • 



(SK) IftbebajoT Naples to atiU beavtiftil, — if It stffl deaerrw tlM epilhtl of ^lOr A«r. 
rimutf — what must it not oooe hare beeo ; * and who, at he aaflt roood it, can fmagin* 
it to himeeir as H was, when not only the rillas of the Romans were in their sptendor,! 
but the temples *, wlten those of Hereolaneom and Pompeii and BaisB and Pnteoli, and 
bow many more, were standing, each on its eminence or on the margin of the sea } while, 
with dKHral music and with a magnificence that" liad exhausted the wealth of Irlngdnms, % 
ttM galleys of the imperial ooort were anrhnring in the shade, or Bsoring up and down ia 
the sunshine. 

087) VirgiL 

(SQ> Quamm sacra fero, ingenti peicossna amare. 

CBO) The Tarantella. 

C90) Capreae. 

091) Tiberius. 

€>B9 " How often, to demonstrate hto power, does he employ the meanwit of his instnt- 
wmaU \ as in Kgypt, when he called forth, not the serpents and the monsters cf AfHoa, 
Imt rermin firom the very dust ! ** 

CBB) The elder Pliny. See the letter in which his nephew relates to Tacitus the circum* 
nances of his death. — In the morning of that day Vesnrius was coyered with the most 
hizuriant vegetation ; § every elm had its vine, every vine (for it was in the montii of 
August) its dusters } nor in the cities below was there a thought of danger, though thfsir 
Interment was so soon to take place. In Pompeii, if we may believe Dion Cassias, tba 
people were sitting in the theatre when the work of destruction began. 

(90 Pompeii. 

<9S) Pansa, the JBdile, according to some of the interpreters ; but the inscnptian at 
the entrance is very obscure. 

It is remarkable that Cicero, when on his way to CQlcia, was the bearer of a letter to 
Atticus ^ ex Panaae Pompeiano.^' g (Ad. Att. v. 3.) That this was the house in question, 
and that in Uie street, as we passed along, we might have met him, coming or going, every 
pilgrim to Pumpeii must wish to believe. 

But, delighting in the coast and in his own Pompeiannm (Ad. Att iL 1)^ he could be no 
stranger in that dty *, and often must he have received there such homage as ours. 

■ (896) In a time of revolution he could not escape unhurt *, but to the last he preserved 
hto gsyety of mind through every change of fortune ; living right iKMpitably when he had 
the means to do so^ and, when he could not entertain, dining as he is here represented, 
with hto velvet friends — en famili: 

Offi) La Crooe Bianca. 

• ** Antequam YMUviu* moiu, *n}Me«M, fcciem loci Terteret.'*— Twit. **AimaL" iv. 87. 

t With their frove* and portieoc ihtj wen eTcrytirhen alonf the abor*, " erat enim rrtqocoa •om»> 
aitaa ora ; " and wbaL a neifhborhwMl muat hav* btan tbere in the laat daja of th« C^mmoawealtk* 
When auch men aa Coaar, and Pompej, antf Lucullua, and Cicero, and Horteaaiua, and BrMaa, war* 
SVBtinaailj rttirin; thither fVoin the earea of public life I 

] *' (Temmatia puppibua, Teraicoloriboa Telia," ftc. —Skttom. ** CaHg." 9, 

% BdarUal. IV. <4. 
Accoidiiif to Or«Tiu8. Tba muMiacripU diaagnc. 



r 



Fvr vMJCbt a'orbtluced wl 



<3nii Th« bompliv ar Pibkoed m 



MM Iwn iiWnJ Dov batirHa drs lal Ihm Uiuiuiuiil 
VUtputMoi. aMPIaunblBlbiUfe otCraaiu. 



cxinnrDUii Umn ^ but tt 



iitVrriitaii(iVrj. — CK.otilil.trt.a. rvu ■sasut 
Id JUtodIu. 



OnTwo. 8gR«ali>,libbblliptuii,UaiUKHiimiHaBrilieflairo(H(|>ta. 



Tha Ttrj ktauv] thfr troAd oa 



458 NOTE& 

cni) There ta li thto daj in BfTunat ft ttnA eaJM La Blnda desS AmftWtMi 

(SU) In (he jear 830. See Mormtori : Art CAroiiae< .iflM(p*lfaia fW^meafc 

CnS) By degrees, mji Oiamooe, thej made theniee l r e e fiunoof throogh Uw world. Tbs 
Tarini Amalfltani were a coin fiunlliar to all natioDt ; and thdr maritiiDe code regvlatad 
everTwhereUkeooinineroeoftbefea. Maoj cfaurcliea in the Baat were bj them built and 
endowed } hj them waa foanded in Palestine that mort renowned military Order of BL 
John of JenuaJem ; and who does not know that the mariner*! compaa was inyoiied bj 
a dtiaen of Amalfl f 

Olorions waa their ooorae. 
And long the track of light they left beUnd them. 



(814) The Abbey of If onto Caaaino is the most ancient and reneraUe boose of the 
dictine order. It is situated within fifteen leagnes of Ni4>lea, on the inland road to Bone ; 
and no house is more hospitable. 

HOB) This Mory— if a story it may be called— is flctitloaa{ and I hare done HMa 
more than give It as I reodred it. 

(S10) Michael Angelo. 

(817) There are many miraculoos pictures in Italy, but none, I behere, were ever before 
described as malignant In their influence. At Aresao, In the Church of 8t. Angelo, there is 
indeed orer the great altar a (jresco-palnting of the Call of the angels, which has a singntar 
story belonging to it. It was painted In the fSonrteenth century by SpineUo Aretino, wlio 
has there represented Lucifer as changed into a shape so monstrous and terrible that he 
is said In that very shape to have haunted the artist in his dreams, and to hare hastened 
his death *, crying, night after night, " Where hast thou seen me in a sh^;>e so mon- 
strous f " lu tlie upper part 8t. Michael is seen In combat with the dragon : the Cat^l 
transfomutUon Is iu the lower part of the picture. — Vatari. 

(^18) Then degraded, and belonging to a Tetturino. 

(819) A Florentine family of >preat antiquity. In the sixty -third novel of Franco 8ae> 
chettl we read that a stranger, suddenly entering Giotto's study, threw down a shield and 
departed, saying, " Paint me my arms in that shield ; " and that Giotto, looking after him, 
exclaimed, " Who is he ? What is he ? He says. Paint me my arms, as if he were one 
of the Bardi ! What arms does he bear .' " 

(320) A large boat for rowing and sailing, much used in the Mediterranean. 

(821) Paganlno Doria, Niculo Pisani } those great seamen, who balanced for so mazqr 
years the furtuncs of Genoa and Venice. 

('t'iS) Kvery reader of Spanish poetry is acquainted with that affecting romance of 

Gongora, 

" Amarrado al duro banco," kc. 

Lord Holland has translated it in hisexodlent life of Lope do Tega. 

(■123) There is a custom on the continent well worthy of notice. In Boulogne we read, as 
we ramble through It, *^ Ici est mort I'Auteur de GU Bias } " in Konen, " Id est n^ Pierre 
Comeillo •, " in Geneva, *' Id est n^ Jean-Jacques Rousseau *, ** and in Dijon there is the 
Malson Bonsuot { in Paris, the Qual Ydtaire. Very rare are such memorials among «s ; 
And yet, wherever we meet with them, — in whatever country they were, or of whaterer 



ptDpla. Tint huiw o( FlmUr m 



irtlj fir ELaI Uiey wew dTbUnpa of 






AaDOrdlDg (o PftoiaDlBt^ thvy w 



ootl Tbc Plun Dorti, or, u II l> SOW olUd, tie PUm dl gu Mu 
u It suj tie IboDshl, li to me Ihe moB InWraUog pl4c( In Ocdoo. Ii 
1>ori> iBonliltd Um iKople, wben be giTt Ibem Iheir Ubenj fSlEDnU Ti 



TIk umta ol oM Ornon, Ulie IboH of Tuicv, wen omiirnaal only ter lluk.puKDgen. 



ttn Emperor CtiuM lb 



IwbuDt unenrinls, uul In wh]^ hotiTlCBcnlatabKil 
I tbe Enott ITUgDlflEKiit «liace od the Bay of Ovlwa. 
!• soapbaer, Re ButiecUan'e UltKrr ol Cbuln Uw 



on Bach 1* the OalKllM kmBrlr Id fnoo*) "od k ilrult." bji Heal 
kiw« lb> ntne who hun not knvwn Ibe want or U. 



«m WriMD at Sow, M17 1. lUl- 

mU the PS. ■■ Chaqns mUHin «t ponrtag dg MtBun, el knvH I'lDoalBtlon e'u- 
■BBOa," ftD. —lAllru di C*a»aiiil(iia, 

4m It ■■* Konrban Id the Muemu, ■ nglm h Rual te m iiiiui)>, IhU Uie UDfatppT 
PU,»aiauiiiel»dToHbBt»aillTol ToIohshH.M ■ iKrlBea to the Jtaloaijr of her kiu. 
bud. lUllKr he taortJtA bv In Um iuHij Ume. 

" tTB-l Logtlo el SettemUe I - 
bkTbic TiHlndlB btibeutUut AeAoBUpsIib there, emlboKcb he |ibWiw4 Ibve 



M eolal, che'DnuiDu* pite. 



■■d UM u npliTed bi U* iFBM work s( I 



« Wbo hu trmTiDed ud « 






Tbe blood of Umm most cmlMOt of old 

Wot wtedooBi TirtiMi — tliofB who oonld 

Tbt things of this wofld ftir ttMir OQoaolBBoe' nk% 

liMl ilki ftlnn MciniT iMrtjn 



i 



fl 



RECENTLY PUBLISHED 

BY PIULUPS, SAMPSON AND COMPANY, 

THE COHPI.ETE 

POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS CAMPBELL; 

AM 4WIGIV1L BIOCKAPBT, IKD SiOTES. 

EDITED BY axes GLEOKHT. 

H0TI0B8 09 TBK PRESS. 



led 



nl irf tu npetliir (ypofnfit- 



orpHHd bi Uh poM^ but piMe*. AU IhM (R pvfteUjnnU utbcu 
IkmUi, tbe Riimri Inm whkh Ukj m Uk«B Mot fliGii In Uk mita. 

A mmnir nt «H hnMrtd p*(« U i*elLml, aonipllnl frm the unple nitiprlilt tar 
idthad V Dr. BatUe, la Ui Ufc ud liCtm or Cuopbell, iDd b; Ur. Cfnu IlDlilliig, li 
> Serin of Ranlnlmim pnUlihed la Uw Hew U «ithl]r Hagi^M. The nork hu brai 
•nud lir V- Xp- Burnt, rth (RM an ul fldeUV. — Uorim'i (jr. r.) LUtran 



U HriUld]' uUbtt UM 



«nM>*«taap«toaltgr dHBiiliiawbo > r 



< 



malr. Il )• mat •klHlillj ud tnUTUlainiV |ial Ufrther. — i^ifiiBn'i Magvitu. 
!Ul eHJUoB b Slit la be coausBiiM far ID Ijpiigniiblal bmnl;. Tbe Urfe. tln»«ut 
a xU DO mn Cwcpton u pWer adtmiiUge. >ul in uj (uli he l> M> mu Ijrle^ 




^t.ilt IflDle&r, ilmple mud oandeuod, ud hti tenUpwnU ftif Hlvay* jnjv uid dfanttfd. 
Mil Honuui need mr tihub lOi belli wngbi >lt1i > poem oF CuoplieU'a In ber bunL It 
tokgin-bQotthKtwill proves pfrimilMl.—SiHloB Pott. 

tbfl pURll aihl tmeH iit Englllh paeU, irha wrote IHtMag Clirdl!«l7, uh) 1X4 ft "Uaa 
■gnlut nllgiH^n or TCrtue." It bu htra carcTully jtnparod by out wvn Butd, br (ulo 

IDftteriHls d1 Thlch TCre gatfaord from r&Tloiu Hurca, ^rHUj Idce^us la VKlnn. Tb* 
pobllihcn hATe dooe gwd KrH« 10 UternXurr In Hodiog forlb thia oonplSdt coH ectt afl cf 
m bud whoH '^ Gcnnade of Wynmiog ^' ihnuld ^w blm i bouifi lb i£Tnj Ainertad Vbnij 
ud hnn. Wa srs glud to luTf ncli 1 Tutume bear BoMoo upon Iti UtlE-plfv. — Ckrlr- 
Ellm JtCfillir. 

B; (U lbs bnt edition whSeta hu been pnmislinl -- Dtiluim OiattH. 

Thll la > tml; bcmlifol edilion of Gunpbclt, bf [u Uk man defut Wid cunplEla (b*t 
h«a jot appeared In AmerlcL — Tattktt Blade. 

Tbe (H1I7 compleu edlUoD ever paUUhcd. Every Family, aod. aboro aU, erery tood^ 
penon (onDlof a llHrarr taat«, or cuJUTaUog a i>oaUcal laJcnti ahoidd ovn a copr << 
Canipbell'i complelB worka, — Trui Fla^. 

The cblef (nnire In Ifaia beaallfol edition of Campbell'i Poema li Ifae very tatt tai •»- 



I flp&Tfd DO pniDs to Ttpder t^tg oooriitAble rrJomt mrthy 

b Ifllaad the mH( complete edition oT the poona Df Canp- 
la well baoDd, and beaotlfuUy printsd wUb tar^e tJJA. — 

new «lia<m ol Campball, wltb Ua anple bkoi^, In toU- 



I 
I 



len^ pertraiu of the poet, 

enrlaatlof aa peaila ! Mr. Bar^ent haa exHotcd bla plana 



[fa aadij(ji«f ea 



Iht pf«enl la Indeed tlie sniir ed 



Campbell Uiat can JirHend lu (Ive 



and enleitUnln( memoir preDud ID the work. — Pkiia(icti.hia l^dftT. 
A moit beanlirul and aeeeplaMe edition of the gnat modern lyric poet of Kogtaad, pr 

cm IRickmini^ Lilrrjry Miuengcr. 



U edlllon c< the wi 



L — T'Byilt.r.iBMdr.l. 
tlUa brantlfnl poet. It cnotain aboqt Ifftf 
rhe full, well-wriUen and bl^y entenolnlnc biography blda mbcb 

lanTimtent Tohuoe Df tM pa(ia. idBted In the but Kylasf ItaiiSiaaa 

whleli, allngellier, RB«a gnat credit npe 



n or CunpbeU'i poetical worlu. and the moal tuiraitt tv 




I 



l^E book ihould be remmed o 
■-• stamped beJow 





^^H 




821-6 .RT21B _ 
Th« «>mpl«W (XMM mACYtm 

■liiigiiliiiiiiiB 

3 ■" 044 950 603 




■ 



Stanford Unlrsrslty llbrani 

Stanford, Califoroia 



In order that others may use this book, 
please return it as soon as possible, but 

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