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By time and grief ennobled, not subdued;

Though from his height descending, day by day, “ What hangs behind that curtain ?"_“ Wouldst. And, as his upward look at once betray'd, thou learn ?

Blind as old Homer. At a fount he sate, If thou art wise, thou wouldst not. 'Tis by some

Well-known to many a weary traveller ; Believed to be his master-work, who look'd

His little guide, a boy not seven years old, Beyond the grave, and on the chapel wall,

But grave, considerate beyond his years, As though the day were come, were come and past, Sitting beside him. Each had ate his crust Drew the last judgment."-But the wisest err.

In silence, drinking of the virgin spring; He who in secret wrought, and gave it life,

And now in silence, as their custom was, For life is surely there and visible change,

The sun's decline awaited.

But the child Life, such as none could of himself impart, (They who behold it, go not as they came,

Was worn with travel. Heavy sleep weigh'd down But meditate for many and many a day,)

His eyelids; and the grandsire, when we came, Sleeps in the vault beneath. We know not much; Embolden'd by his love and by his fear, But what we know, we will communicate.

His fear lest night o’ertake them on the road, 'Tis in an ancient record of the house ;

Humbly besought me to convey them both And may it make thee tremble, lest thou fall!

A little onward. Such small services Once-on a Christmas eve-ere yet the roof

Who can refuse ? -Not I; and him who can, Rung with the hymn of the Nativity,

Blest though he be with every earthly gift, There came a stranger to the convent gate,

I cannot envy. He, if wealth be his, And ask'd admittance; ever and anon,

Knows not its uses. So from noon till night, As if he sought what most he feard to find

Within a crazed and tatter'd vehicle, Looking behind him. When within the walls,

That yet display'd, in old emblazonry, These walls so sacred and inviolable,

A shield as splendid as the Bardi wear; Still did he look behind him; oft and long,

We lumber'd on together; the old man With haggard eye, and curling, quivering lip,

Beguiling many a league of half its length, Catching at vacancy. Between the fits,

When question'd the adventures of his life, For here, 'tis said, he linger'd while he lived,

And all the dangers he had undergone; He would discourse, and with a mastery,

His shipwrecks on inhospitable coasts, A charm by none resisted, none explain'd,

And his long warfare. Unfelt before ; but when his cheek grew pale,

They were bound, he said, All was forgotten. Then, howe'er employ’d,

To a great fair at Reggio ; and the boy, He would break off, and start as if he caught

Believing all the world were to be there, A glimpse of something that would not be gone

And I among the rest, let loose his tongue, And turn and gaze, and shrink into himself,

And promised me much pleasure. His short trance, As though the fiend was there, and, face to face,

Short as it was, had, like a charmed cup,
Scowl'd o'er his shoulder.

Restored his spirit, and, as on we crawld,
Most devout he was;

Slow as the snail, (my muleteer dismounting,
Most unremitting in the services;

And now his mules addressing, now his pipe, Then, only then, untroubled, unassail'd ;

And now Luigi,) he pour'd out his heart, And, to beguile a melancholy hour,

Largely repaying me. At length the sun Would sometimes exercise that noble art

Departed, setting in a sea of gold ; He learnt in Florence; with a master's hand,

And, as we gazed, he bade me rest assured As to this day the sacristy attests,

That like the setting would the rising be. Painting the wonders of the Apocalypse.

Their harp—it had a voice oracular, At length he sunk to rest, and in his cell

And in the desert, in the crowded street, Left, when he went, a work in secret done,

Spoke when consulted. If the treble chord The portrait, for a portrait it must be,

Twanged shrill and clear, o'er hill and dale they That hangs behind the curtain. Whence he drew,

went, None here can doubt: for they that come to catch

The grandsire, step by step, led by the child The faintest glimpse—to catch it and be gone,

And not a rain-drop from a passing cloud Gaze as he gazed, then shrink into themselves,

Fell on their garments. Thus it spoke to-day ; Acting the selfsame part. But why 'twas drawn, Inspiring joy, and, in the young one's mind, Whether in penance, to atone for guilt,

Brightening a path already full of sunshine. Or to record the anguish guilt inflicts,

Or haply to familiarize his mind

With what he could not fly from, none can say,
For none could learn the burden of his soul.”

Day glimmer'd; and beyond the precipice

(Which my mule follow'd as in love with fear, XXI.

Or as in scorn, yet more and more inclining

To tempt the danger where it menaced most)
It was a harper, wandering with his harp, A sea of vapour roll’d. Methought we went
His only treasure ; a majestic man,

Along the utmost edge of this, our world ;

But soon the surges Aed, and we descried, * Michael Angelo.

Nor dimly, though the lark was silent yet,


Thy gulf, La Spezzia. Ere the morning gun, Surely a sense of our mortality,
Ere the first day-streak, we alighted there ; A consciousness how soon we shall be gone,
And not a breath, a murmur! Every sail Or, if we linger—but a few short years,
Slept in the offing. Yet along the shore

How sure to look upon our brother's grave,
Great was the stir; as at the noontide hour, Should of itself incline to pity and love,
None unemploy'd. Where from its native rock And prompt us rather to assist, relieve,
A streamlet, clear and full, ran to the sea, Than aggravate the evils each is heir to.
The maidens knelt and sung as they were wont, At length the day departed, and the moon
Washing their garments. Where it met the tide, Rose like another illumining
Sparkling and lost, an ancient pinnace lay Waters and woods and cloud-capt promontories,
Keel upward, and the fagot blazed, the tar Glades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bower,
Fumed from the caldron ; while, beyond the fort, Scenes of elysium, such as night alone
Whither I wander'd, step by step led on,

Reveals below, nor often-scenes that fied
The fishers dragg’d their net, the fish within As at the waving of a wizard's wand,
At every heave fluttering and full of life,

And left behind them, as their parting gift,
At every heave striking their silver fins

A thousand nameless odours. All was still; Gainst the dark meshes.

And now the nightingale her song pour'd forth

Soon a boatman's shout in such a torrent of heartfelt delight,
Re-echoed; and red bonnets on the beach, So fast it flow'd, her tongue so voluble,
Waving, recall'd me. We embark'd, and left As if she thought her hearers would be gone
That noble haven, where, when Genoa reign'd, Ere half was tyld. 'Twas where in the north-west
A hundred galleys shelter'd-in the day,

Still unassail'd and unassailable,
When lofty spirits met, and, deck to deck, Thy pharos, Genoa, first display'd itself,
Doria, Pisani fought; that narrow field

Burning in stillness on its craggy seat;
Ample enough for glory. On we went,

That guiding star, so oft the only one, Ruffling with many an oar the crystalline sea, When those now glowing in the azure vault On from the rising to the setting sun,

Are dark and silent. 'Twas where o'er the sea, In silence-underneath a mountain ridge,

For we were now within a cable's length, Untamed, untameable, reflecting round

Delicious gardens hung: green galleries, The saddest purple; nothing to be seen

And marble terraces in many a flight, Of life or culture, save where, at the foot, And fairy arches sung from cliff to cliff, Some village aud its church, a scanty line, Wildering, enchanting; and, above them all, Athwart the wave gleam'd faintly. Fear of ill A palace, such as somewhere in the east, Narrow'd our course, fear of the hurricane, In Zenastan or Araby the blest, And that yet greater scourge, the crafty Moor, Among its golden groves and fruits of gold, Who, like a tiger prowling for his prey,

And fountains scattering rainbows in the sun, Springs and is gone, and on the adverse coast Rose, when Aladdin rubb’d the wondrous lamp; (Where Tripoli and Tunis and Algiers

Such, if not fairer; and, when we shot by,
Forge fetters, and white turbans on the mole A scene of revelry, in long array
Gather, whene'er the crescent comes display'd The windows blazing. But we now approach'd
Over the cross) his human merchandise

A city far renown'd ;* and wonder ceased.
To many a curious, many a cruel eye
Exposes. Ah, how oft where now the sun

Slept on the shore, have ruthless cimeters

GENOA Flash'd through the lattice, and a swarthy crew Dragg'd forth, ere long to number them for sale, This house was Andrea Doria's. Here he lived, Ere long to part them in their agony,

And here at eve relaxing, when ashore, Parent and child! How oft where now we rode Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse Over the billow, has a wretched son,

With them that sought him, walking to and fro Or yet more wretched sire, grown gray in chains, As on his deck. 'Tis less in length and breadth Labour'd, his hands upon the oar, his eyes

Than many a cabin in a ship of war; Upon the land—the land, that gave him birth ; But 'tis of marble, and at once inspires And, as he gazed, his homestall through his tears The reverence due to ancient dignity. Fondly imagined; when a Christian ship

He left it for a better ; and 'tis now Of war appearing in her bravery,

A house of trade, the meanest merchandise A voice in anger cried, “ Use all your strength !” Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is,

But when, ah when, do they that can, forbear 'Tis still the noblest dwelling-even in Genoa ! To crush the unresisting? Strange, that men, And hadst thou, Andrea, lived there to the last, Creatures so frail, so soon, alas ! to die,

Thou hadst done well; for there is that without, Should have the power, the will to make this world that in the wall, which monarchs could not give, A dismal prison-house, and life itself,

Nor thou take with thee, that which says aloud, Life in its prime, a burden and a curse

It was thy country's gift to her deliverer. To him who never wrong'd them! Who that 'Tis in the heart of Genoa, (he who comes, breathes

Must come on foot,) and in a place of stir ;
Would not, when first he heard it, turn away
As from a tale monstrous, incredible?



Men on their daily business, early and late, Is lost in rank luxuriance, and to breathe
Thronging thy very threshold. But when there, Is to inhale distemper, if not death;
Thou wert among thy fellow citizens,

Where the wild boar retreats, when hunters chafe,
Thy children, for they hail'd thee as their sire ; And, when the day-star fiames, the buffalo herd,
And on a spot thou must have loved, for there, Afflicted, plunge into the stagnant pool,
Calling them round, thou gavest them more than Nothing discern'd amid the water leaves,

Save here and there the likeness of a head, Giving what lost, makes life not worth the keeping. Savage, uncouth ; where none in human shape There thou didst do indeed an act divine;

Come, save the herdsman, levelling his length Nor couldst thou leave thy door or enter in, Of lance with many a cry, or, Tartar-like, Without a blessing on thee.

Urging his steed along the distant hill

Thou art now As from a danger. There, but not to rest, Again among them. Thy brave mariners, I travell’d many a dreary league, nor turn'd They who had fought so often by thy side, (Ah then least willing, as who had not been ?) Staining the mountain billows, bore thee back; When in the south, against the azure sky, And thou art sleeping in thy funeral chamber. Three temples rose in soberest majesty, Thine was a glorious course; but couldst thou The wondrous work of some heroic race.* there,

But now a long farewell! Oft, while I live, Clad in thy cere-cloth-in that silent vault, If once again in England, once again Where thou art gather'd to thy ancestors

In my own chimney nook, as night steals on, Open thy secret heart and tell us all,

With half shut eyes reclining, oft, methinks, Then should we hear thee with a sigh confess, While the wind blusters, and the pelting rain A sigh how heavy, that thy happiest hours Clatteis without, shall I recall to mind Were pass'd before these sacred walls were left, The scenes, occurrences I met with here, Before the ocean wave thy wealth reflected, And wander in elysium ; many a note And pomp and power drew envy, stirring up Of wildest melody, magician-like, Th' ambitious man,* that in a perilous hour Awakening, such as the Calabrian horn, Fell from the plank.

Along the mountain side, when all is still,

Pours forth at folding time; and many a chant, A FAREWELL

Solemn, sublime, such as at midnight flows AND now farewell to Italy—perhaps

From the full choir, when richest harmonies For ever! Yet, methinks, I could not go,

Break the deep silence of thy glens, La Cava ; I could not leave it, were it mine to say,

To him who lingers there with listening ear, “ Farewell for ever!”

Now lost and now descending as from heaven!
Many a courtesy,
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,

Go where I would, but opend with a smile ;
From the first hour, when, in my long descent,

I. 1.
Strange perfumes rose, as if to welcome me,

HENCE, to the realms of night, dire demon, hence From flowers that minister'd like unseen spirits ;

Thy chain of adamant can bind From the first hour, when vintage songs broke forth,

That little world, the human mind, A grateful earnest, and the southern lakes,

And sink its noblest powers to impotence. Dazzlingly bright, unfolded at my feet;

Wake the lion's loudest roar, They that receive the cataracts, and ere long

Clot his shaggy mane with gore, Dismiss them, but how changed-onward to roll

With flashing fury bid his eyeballs shine ; From age to age in silent majesty,

Meek is his savage, sullen soul, to thine! Blessing the nations, and reflecting round

Thy touch, thy deadening touch has steel'd the The gladness they inspire.

breast, Gentle or rude,

Whence, through her April shower, soft pity No scene of life but has contributed

smiled ; Much to remember—from the Polesine,

Has closed the heart each godlike virtue bless'd, Where, when the south wind blows, and clouds on

To all the silent pleadings of his child. I clouds

At thy command he plants the dagger deep, Gather and fall, the peasant freights his bark,

At thy command exults, though nature bids him Mindful to migrate when the king of foodst

weep! Visits his humble dwelling, and the keel, Slowly uplifted over field and fence,

I. 2. Floats on a world of waters—from that low,

When, with a frown that froze the peopled earth, That level region, where no echo dwells,

Thou dartedst thy huge head from high, Or, if she comes, comes in her saddest plight,

Night waved her banners o'er the sky, Moarse, inarticulate on to where the path

And, brooding, gave her shapeless shadows birth,

• Fiesco.

The Po.

Written at Susa, May 1, 1822.

* The temples of Pæstum. + Written in early youtha. The sacrifice of Iphigenia. Lucretius, I. 63.


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Rocking on the billowy air,

Clouds of incense woo thy smile, Ha ! what withering phantoms glare !

Scaly monarch of the Nile !* As blows the blast with many a sudden swell, But ah! what myriads claim the bended knee! At each dead pause, what shrill-toned voices yell! Go, count the busy drops that swell the sea. The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb, Proud land! what eye can trace thy mystic lore, Points to the murderer's stab, and shudders by ; Lock'd up in characters as dark as night?! In every grove is felt a heavier gloom,

What eye those long, long labyrinths dare exThat veils its genius from the vulgar eye:

plore, The spirit of the water rides the storm,

To which the parted soul oft wings her flight; And, through the mist, reveals the terrors of his Again to visit her cold cell of clay, form.

Charm'd with perennial sweets, and smiling at I. 3.

decay. O'er solid seas, where winter reigns,

II. 3.
And holds each mountain wave in chains,
The fur-clad savage, ere he guides his deer

On yon hoar summit, mildly bright
By glistering starlight through the snow,

With purple ether's liquid light, Breathes softly in her wondering ear

High o'er the world, the white-robed magi gaze Each potent spell thou badest him know.

On dazzling bursts of heavenly fire ;

Start at each blue, portentous blaze,
By thee inspired, on India's sands,

Each flame that fits with adverse spire.
Full in the sun the Brahmin stands;
And, while the panting tigress hies

But say, what sounds my ear invade
To quench her fever in the stream,

From Delphi's venerable shade? His spirit laughs in agonies,

The temple rocks, the laurel waves! Smit by the scorchings of the noontide beam.

“ The god ! the god !” the sibyl cries. Mark who mounts the sacred pyre,*

Her figure swells, she foams, she raves ! Blooming in her bridal vest:

Her figure swells to more than mortal size
She hurls the torch! she fans the fire !

Streams of rapture roll along,
To die is to be blest :

Silver notes ascend the skies:
She clasps her lord to part no more,

Wake, echo, wake and catch the song, And, sighing, sinks! but sinks to soar.

O catch it, ere it dies !
O'ershadowing Scotia’s desert coast,

The sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er,
The sisters sail in dusky state,t

The holy harpings charm no more.
And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost,

In vain she checks the god's control;
Weave the airy web of fate ;

His madding spirit fills her frame,
While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main,

And moulds the features of her soul, Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral

Breathing a prophetic flame. train.

The cavern frowns! its hundred mouths unclose! II. 1.

And in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire

flows! Thou spakest, and lo! a new creation glow'd. Each unhewp mass of living stone

III. 1. Was clad in horrors not its own,

Mona, thy Druid rites awake the dead ! And at its base the trembling nations bow'd.

Rites thy brown oaks would never dare Giant Error, darkly grand,

E’en whisper to the idle air ; Grasp'd the globe with iron hand.

Rites that have chain'd old ocean on his bed. Circled with seats of bliss, the lord of light

Shiver'd by thy piercing glance, Saw prostrate worlds adore his golden height.

Pointless falls the hero's lance. The statue, waking with immortal powers,

Thy magic bids th’ imperial eagle fly, ** Springs from its parent earth, and shakes the

And blasts the laureate wreath of victory. spheres ;

Hark! the bard's soul inspires the vocal string ! Th' indignant pyramid sublimely towers,

At every pause dread silence hovers o'er: And braves the efforts of a host of years.

While murky night sails round on raven wing, Sweet music breathes her soul into the wind;

Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's And bright-eyed painting stamps the image of the

roar; mind.

Chased by the morn from Snowdon's awful brow, II. 2.

Where late she sate and scowl'd on the black wave Round their rude ark old Egypt's sorcerers rise !

below. A timbrell'd anthem swells the gale, And bids the god of thunders hail ;|

* The crocodile. With lowings loud the captive god replies. † According to an ancient proverb, it was less difficult

in Egypt to find a god than a man. * The funeral rite of the Hindoos.

# The hieroglyphice. + The fates of the northern mythology. See Mallet's $ The catacombs. Antiquities.

11 " The Persians," says Herodotus, “have no temples, 1 An allusion to the second-sight.

aliars, or statues. They sacrifice on the tops of the high See that fine description of the sudden animation of est mountains.” I. 131. the Palladium, in the second book of the Æneid.

Æn. VI. 46, etc. I The bull, Apis.

** See Tacitus. l. xiv. c. 29.

III. 2.

Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, Lo, steel-clad war his gorgeous standard rears!

When to be grateful is the part assign'd ? The red cross squadrons madly rage,*

Ah no! she scorns the trappings of her art; And mow through infancy and age ;

No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears. But, ladies, say, must I alone unmask? Veiling from the eye of day,

Is here no other actress ? let me ask. Penance dreams her life away;

Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, In cloister'd solitude she sits and sighs,

Know every woman studies stage effect. While from each shrine still, small responses rise. She moulds her manners to the part she fills, Hear, with what heartselt beat, the midnight bell As instinct teaches, or as humour wills; Swings its slow summons through the hollow And as the grave or gay her talent calls, pile !

Acts in the drama till the curtain falls. The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight cell,

First, how her little breast with triumph swells To walk, with taper dim, the winding aisle ;

When the red coral rings its golden bells ! With choral chantings vainly to aspire,

To play in pantomime is then the rage, Beyond this nether sphere, on rapture's wing of fire. Along the carpet's many-colourd stage ;

Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, III. 3.

Now here, now theremin noise and mischief ever! Lord of each pang the nerves can feel,

A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, Hence with the rack and recking wheel. And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours; Faith lifts the soul above this little ball!

Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; While gleams of glory open round,

Playful at church, and serious when she dances; And circling choirs of angels call,

Tramples alike on customs and on toes, Canst thou, with all thy terrors crown'd, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Hope to obscure that latent spark,

Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions ! Destined to shine when suns are dark?

A romp! that longest of perpetual motions ! Thy triumphs cease! through every land,

— Till tamed and tortured into foreign graces, Hark! truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease! Snc ports her lovely face at public places; Her heavenly form, with glowing hand, And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan, Benignly points to piety and peace.

First acts her part with that great actor, man. Flush'd with youth, her looks impart

Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies ! Each fine feeling as it Aows;

Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs! Her voice the echo of a heart

Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice; Pure as the mountain snows:

Till fading beauty hints the late advice. Celestial transports round her play

Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain'd, And softly, sweetly die away.

And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd! She smiles! and where is now the cloud

Then comes that good old character, a wife, That blackend o'er thy baleful reign?

With all the dear, distracting cares of life; Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud.

A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, Shrinking from her glance in vain.

And, in return, a thousand cards receive ; Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above,

Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire, and lo! it visits man with beams of light and love.

With nightly blaze set Portland-place on fire;
Snatch half a glimpse at concert, opera, ball,
A meteor, traced by none, though seen by all;

And, when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam,

In very spleen-rehearse the girls at home.

Last, the gray dowager, in ancient Rounces, WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS.

With snufl' and spectacles the age denounces;

Boasts how the sires of this degenerate isle
Yes, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain ;
I wake, I breathe, and am myself again.

Knelt for a look, and duell'd for a smile.
Still in this nether world; no seraph yet!

The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal,

Her tea she sweetens, as she Sips, with scandal; Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set,

With modern belles eternal warfare wages, With troubled step to haunt the fatal board,

Like her own birds that clamour from their cages; Where I died last-by poison or the sword;

And shutiles round to bear her tale to all,
Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night,
Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light.

Like some old ruin, “ nodding to its fall!" – To drop all metaphor, that little bell

Thus woman makes her entrance and her exit;

Not least an actress, when she least suspects it. Call'd back reality, and broke the spell. No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone;

Yet nature oft peeps out and mars the plot,

Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot ; A very woman-scarce restrains her own!

Full oft, with energy that scorns control,

At once lights up the features of the soul; * This remarkable event happened at the siege and Unlocks each thought chain'd down by coward art, sack of Jerusalem, in the last year of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris, p. 34.

And to full day the latent passions start! † After a tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the

- And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Theatre Royal in Drury-lane, April 27, 1795.

Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. 36

2 A 2


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