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,
If thou art wise, thou wouldst not.
Believed to be his master-work, who look'd
Beyond the grave, and on the chapel wall,
As though the day were come, were come and past,
Drew the last judgment."-But the wisest err.
He who in secret wrought, and gave it life,
For life is surely there and visible change,
Life, such as none could of himself impart,
(They who behold it, go not as they came,
But meditate for many and many a day,)
Sleeps in the vault beneath. We know not much;
But what we know, we will communicate.
"Tis in an ancient record of the house;
And may it make thee tremble, lest thou fall!
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 ask'd admittance; ever and anon,
As if he sought what most he fear'd to find
Looking behind him. When within the walls,
These walls so sacred and inviolable,
Still did he look behind him; oft and long,
With haggard eye, and curling, quivering lip,
Catching at vacancy. Between the fits,
For here, 'tis said, he linger'd while he lived,
He would discourse, and with a mastery,
A charm by none resisted, none explain'd,
Unfelt before; but when his cheek grew pale,
All was forgotten. Then, howe'er employ'd,
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 was there, and, face to face,
Scowl'd o'er his shoulder.
Most devout he was;
Most unremitting in the services;
Then, only then, untroubled, unassail'd;
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.
At length he sunk to rest, and in his cell
Left, when he went, a work in secret done,
The portrait, for a portrait it must be,
That hangs behind the curtain. Whence he drew,
None here can doubt: for they that come to catch
The faintest glimpse-to catch it and be gone,
Gaze as he gazed, then shrink into themselves,
Acting the selfsame part. But why 'twas drawn,
Whether in penance, to atone for guilt,
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."
Ir was a harper, wandering with his harp, His only treasure; a majestic man,
Blind as 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 awaited.
But the child
Was worn with travel. Heavy sleep weigh'd down
His eyelids; and the grandsire, when we came,
Embolden'd 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 refuse ?-Not I; and him who can,
Blest though he be with every earthly gift,
I cannot envy. He, if wealth be his,
Knows not its uses. So from noon till night,
Within a crazed and tatter'd vehicle,
That yet display'd, in old emblazonry,
A shield as splendid as the Bardi wear;
We lumber'd on together; the old man
Beguiling many a league of half its length,
When question'd 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 as it was, had, like a charmed cup,
Restored his spirit, and, as on we crawl'd,
Slow as the snail, (my muleteer dismounting,
And now his mules addressing, now his pipe,
And now Luigi,) he pour'd out his 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,
And in the desert, in the crowded street,
Spoke when consulted. If the treble chord
Twanged shrill and clear, o'er hill and dale they
went,
The grandsire, step by step, led by the child
And not a rain-drop from a passing cloud
Fell on their garments. Thus it spoke to-day;
Inspiring joy, and, in the young one's mind,
Brightening a path already full of sunshine.
DAY glimmer'd; and beyond the precipice
(Which my mule follow'd as in love with fear,
Or as in scorn, yet more and more inclining
To tempt the danger where it menaced most)
A sea of vapour roll'd. Methought we went
Along the utmost edge of this, our world;
But soon the surges fled, and we descried,
Nor dimly, though the lark was silent yet,
Thy gulf, La Spezzia. Ere the morning gun,
Ere the first day-streak, we alighted there;
And not a breath, a murmur! Every sail
Slept in the offing. Yet along the shore
Great was the stir; as at the noontide hour,
None unemploy'd. Where from its native rock
A streamlet, clear and full, ran to the sea,
The maidens knelt and sung as they were wont,
Washing their garments. Where it met the tide,
Sparkling and lost, an ancient pinnace lay
Keel upward, and the fagot blazed, the tar
Fumed from the caldron; while, beyond the fort,
Whither I wander'd, step by step led on,
The fishers dragg'd their net, the fish within
At every heave fluttering and full of life,
At every heave striking their silver fins
'Gainst the dark meshes.
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 brother's grave,
Should of itself incline to pity and love,
And prompt us rather to assist, relieve,
Than aggravate the evils each is heir to.
At length the day departed, and the moon
Rose like another sun, illumining
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 fied
As at the waving of a wizard's wand,
And left behind them, as their parting gift,
A thousand nameless odours. All was still;
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,
Waving, recall'd me. We embark'd, and left
That noble haven, where, when Genoa reign'd,
A hundred galleys shelter'd-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, untameable, reflecting round
The saddest purple; nothing to be seen
Of life or culture, save where, at the foot,
Some village aud its church, a scanty line,
Athwart the wave gleam'd faintly. Fear of ill
Narrow'd our course, fear of the hurricane,
And that yet 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 display'd
Over the cross) his human merchandise
To many a curious, many a cruel eye
Exposes. Ah, how oft where now the sun
Slept on the shore, have ruthless cimeters
Flash'd through the lattice, and a swarthy crew
Dragg'd forth, ere long to number them for sale,
Ere long to part them in their agony,
Parent and child! How oft where now we rode
Over the billow, has a wretched son,
Or yet more wretched sire, grown gray in chains,
Labour'd, his hands upon the oar, his eyes
Upon the land-the land, that gave him birth;
And, as he gazed, his homestall through his tears
Fondly imagined; when a Christian ship
Of war appearing in her bravery,
A voice in anger cried, "Use all your strength !"
But when, ah when, do they that can, forbear
To crush the unresisting? Strange, that men,
Creatures so frail, so soon, alas! to die,
So fast it flow'd, her tongue so voluble,
As if she thought her hearers would be gone
Ere half was told. "Twas where in the north-west
Still unassail'd and unassailable,
Thy pharos, Genoa, first display'd 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. 'Twas 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 fairy arches flung from cliff to cliff,
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 sun,
Rose, when Aladdin rubb'd the wondrous lamp;
Such, if not fairer; and, when we shot by,
A scene of revelry, in long array
The windows blazing. But we now approach'd
A city far renown'd;* and wonder ceased.
THIS house was Andrea Doria's. Here he lived,
And here at eve relaxing, when ashore,
Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse
With them that sought him, walking to and fro
As on his deck. 'Tis less in length and breadth
Than many a cabin in a ship of war;
But 'tis of marble, and at once inspires
The reverence due to ancient dignity.
He left it for a better; and 'tis now
A house of trade, the meanest merchandise
Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is,
'Tis still the noblest dwelling-even in Genoa !
And hadst thou, Andrea, lived there to the last,
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,
Life in its prime, a burden and a curse
To him who never wrong'd them! Who that
Would not, when first he heard it, turn away
As from a tale monstrous, incredible?
Nor thou take with thee, that which says aloud,
It was thy country's gift to her deliverer.
"Tis in the heart of Genoa, (he 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 hail'd thee as their sire;
And on a spot thou must have loved, for there,
Calling them round, thou gavest them more than
life,
Giving what lost, makes life not worth the keeping.
There thou didst do indeed an act divine;
Nor couldst thou leave thy door or enter in,
Without a blessing on thee.
Thou art now
Again among them. Thy brave mariners,
They who had fought so often 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-cloth-in that silent vault,
Where thou art gather'd 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 pass'd before these sacred walls were left,
Before the ocean wave thy wealth reflected,
And pomp and power drew envy, stirring up
Th' ambitious man,* that in a perilous hour
Fell from the plank.
AND now farewell to Italy-perhaps For ever! Yet, methinks, I could not go, I could not leave it, were it mine to say, "Farewell for ever!"
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 open'd with a smile;
From the first hour, when, in my long descent,
Strange perfumes rose, as if to welcome me,
From flowers that minister'd like unseen spirits;
From the first hour, when vintage songs 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 nations, and reflecting round
The gladness they inspire.
Gentle or rude,
No scene of life but has contributed
Much to remember-from the Polesine,
Where, when the south wind blows, and clouds on
clouds
Gather and fall, the peasant freights his bark,
Mindful to migrate when the king of floodst
Visits his humble dwelling, and the keel,
Slowly uplifted over field and fence,
Floats on a world of waters-from that low,
That level region, where no echo dwells,
Or, if she comes, comes in her saddest plight,
Hoarse, inarticulate on to where the path
![[blocks in formation]](https://books.google.at/books/content?id=PvISAAAAIAAJ&hl=de&output=html_text&pg=PA279&img=1&zoom=3&q=%22ll+around,+Then+eyed+our+cottage,%22&cds=1&sig=ACfU3U1mxTtnOSalOD3JeErm9UIv797daw&edge=0&edge=stretch&ci=66,1559,427,43)
Is lost in rank luxuriance, and to breathe Is to inhale distemper, if not death;
Where the wild boar retreats, when hunters chafe,
And, when the day-star flames, the buffalo herd,
Afflicted, plunge into the stagnant pool,
Nothing discern'd amid the water leaves,
Save here and there the likeness of a head,
Savage, uncouth; where none in human shape
Come, save the herdsman, levelling his length
Of lance with many a cry, or, Tartar-like,
Urging his steed along the distant hill
As from a danger. There, but not to rest,
I travell'd many a dreary league, nor turn'd
(Ah then least willing, as 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 farewell! Oft, while I live,
If once again in England, once again
In my own chimney nook, as night steals on,
With half shut eyes reclining, oft, methinks,
While the wind blusters, and the pelting rain
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-like,
Awakening, such as the Calabrian horn,
Along the mountain side, when all is still,
Pours forth at folding time; and many a chant,
Solemn, sublime, such as at midnight flows
From the full choir, when richest harmonies
Break the deep silence of thy glens, La Cava;
To him who lingers there with listening ear,
Now lost and now descending as from heaven!
HENCE, to the realms of night, dire demon, hence
Thy chain of adamant can bind
That little world, the human mind,
And sink its noblest powers to impotence.
Wake the lion's loudest roar,
Clot his shaggy mane with gore,
With flashing fury bid his eyeballs shine;
Meek is his savage, sullen soul, to thine!
Thy touch, thy deadening touch has steel'd the
breast,
Whence, through her April shower, soft pity smiled;
Has closed the heart each godlike virtue bless'd, To all the silent pleadings of his child.
At thy command he plants the dagger deep, At thy command exults, though nature bids him weep!
Rocking on the billowy air,
Ha! what withering phantoms glare! As blows the blast with many a sudden 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.
O'er solid seas, where winter reigns,
And holds each mountain wave in chains,
The fur-clad savage, ere he guides his deer
By glistering starlight through the snow,
Breathes softly in her wondering ear
Each potent spell thou badest 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 fans 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 Scotia's desert coast,
The sisters sail in dusky state,†
And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost,
Weave the airy web of fate;
While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main,+ Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train.
Thou spakest, and lo! a new creation glow'd.
Each unhewn mass of living stone
Was clad in horrors not its own,
And at its base the trembling nations bow'd.
Giant Error, darkly grand,
Grasp'd the globe with iron hand.
Circled with seats of bliss, the lord of light
Saw prostrate worlds adore his golden height.
The statue, waking with immortal powers,§
Springs from its parent earth, and shakes the
spheres ;
Th' indignant pyramid sublimely towers,
And braves the efforts of a host of years.
Sweet music breathes her soul into the wind;
And bright-eyed painting stamps the image of the
mind.
Round their rude ark old Egypt's sorcerers rise!
A timbrell'd anthem swells the gale,
And bids the god of thunders hail ;||
With lowings loud the captive god replies.
*The funeral rite of the Hindoos.
The fates of the northern mythology. See Mallet's Antiquities.
An allusion to the second-sight.
§ See that fine description of the sudden animation of the Palladium, in the second book of the Æneid.
Clouds of incense woo thy smile,
Scaly monarch of the Nile !*
But ah! what myriads claim the bended knee!
Go, count the busy drops that swell the sea.
Proud land! what eye can trace thy mystic lore,
Lock'd up in characters as dark as night ?
What eye those long, long labyrinths dare ex-
plore,§
To which the parted soul oft wings her flight;
Again to visit her cold cell of clay,
Charm'd with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay.
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,
O 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 frowns! its hundred mouths unclose! And in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire flows!
Mona, thy Druid rites awake the dead!
Rites thy brown oaks would never dare
E'en whisper to the idle air;
Rites that have chain'd old ocean on his bed.
Shiver'd by thy piercing glance,
Pointless falls the hero's lance.
Thy magic bids th' imperial eagle fly,**
And blasts the laureate wreath of victory.
Hark! the bard's soul inspires the vocal string!
At every pause dread silence hovers o'er:
While murky night sails round on raven wing,
Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's
Chased by the morn from Snowdon's awful brow, Where late she sate and scowl'd on the black wave below.
+ According to an ancient proverb, it was less difficult in Egypt to find a god than a man.
The hieroglyphics.
§ The catacombs.
"The Persians," says Herodotus, "have no temples, altars, or statues. They sacrifice on the tops of the high est mountains." I. 131.
I Æn. VI. 46, etc.
** See Tacitus. 1. xiv. c. 29.
III. 2. Lo, steel-clad war his gorgeous standard rears! The red cross squadrons madly rage,* And mow through infancy and age; Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears. Veiling from the eye of day, Penance dreams her life away; In cloister'd solitude she sits and sighs, While from each shrine still, small responses rise. Hear, with what heartfelt beat, the midnight bell Swings its slow summons through the hollow pile!
The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight cell, To walk, with taper dim, the winding aisle; With choral chantings vainly to aspire, Beyond this nether sphere, on rapture's wing of fire.
Lord of each pang the nerves 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 crown'd,
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.
Flush'd 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 blacken'd o'er thy baleful reign?
Grim darkness furls 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.
WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS.+
YES, 'tis the pulse 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 Call'd back reality, and broke the spell. No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone; A very woman-scarce restrains her own!
This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Jerusalem, in the last year of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris, p. 34.
After a tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane, April 27, 1795.
Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind,
When to be grateful is the part assign'd?
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?
Is here no other actress? let me ask.
Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect,
Know every woman studies stage effect.
She moulds her manners to the part she fills,
As instinct teaches, or as humour 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-colour'd stage; Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, Now here, now there-in noise and mischief ever! A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours; Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she dances; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions! A romp! that longest of perpetual motions! -Till tamed and tortured into foreign graces, She ports her lovely face at public places; And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan, First acts her part with that great actor, man.
Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies! Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs! Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice; Till fading beauty hints the late advice. Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain'd, And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd! Then comes that good 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 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 flounces, With snuff and spectacles the age denounces; Boasts how the sires of this degenerate isle Knelt for a look, and duell'd for a smile. The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal, Her tea she sweetens, as she tips, with scandal; With modern belles eternal warfare wages, Like her own birds that clamour from their cages; And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, Like some old ruin, "nodding to its fall!"
Thus woman 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 chain'd down by coward art, And to full day the latent passions start!
And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws.
|