IV.

DESTINED to war from very infancy
Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took
In Malta the white symbol of the cross.
Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun
Hazard or toil; among the sands was seen
Of Lybia, and not seldom, on the banks
Of wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot
To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded.
So lived I, and repined not at such fate;
This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong,
That stripped of arms I to my end am brough
On the soft down of my paternal home.
Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause
To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt
In thy appointed way, and bear in mind
How fleeting and how frail is human life.

V.

NOT without heavy grief of heart did he,
On whom the duty fell, (for at that time
The father sojourned in a distant land,)
Deposit in the hollow of this tomb

A brother's child, most tenderly beloved!
FRANCESCO was the name the youth had borne,
POZZOBONNELLI his illustrious house;

And, when beneath this stone the corse was laid,
The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears.
Alas! the twentieth April of his life

Had scarcely flowered and at this early time,

By genuine virtue he inspired a hope

That greatly cheered his country: to his kin

He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts

His friends had in their fondness entertained,*

He suffered not to languish or decay.

Now is there not good reason to break forth
Into a passionate lament?-Oh soul!
Short while a pilgrim in our nether world,
Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air;
And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,
An everlasting spring! in memory

Of that delightful fragrance which was onco,
From thy mild manners, quietly exhaled.

In justice to the Author I subjoin the originals— "e degli amici

Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri."

VI.

PAUSE, courteous spirit!-Balbi supplicates
That thou, with no reluctant voice, for him
Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer
A prayer to the Redeemer of the world.
This to the dead by sacred right belongs;
All else is nothing.-Did occasion suit
To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb
Would ill suffice for Plato's lore sublime,
And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite,
Enriched and beautified his studious mind:
With Archimedes also he conversed

As with a chosen friend, nor did he leave

Those laureat wreaths ungathered which the Nymphs
Twine on the top of Pindus.-Finally,

Himself above each lower thought uplifting,
His ears he closed to listen to the song
Which Sion's kings did consecrate of old;
And fixed his Pindus upon Lebanon.

A blessed man! who of protracted days
Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep;
But truly did he live his life.-Urbino

Take pride in him ;-0 passenger farewell!

LINES,

WRITTEN, NOVEMBER 13, 1814, ON A BLANK LEAF, IN A COPY
OF THE AUTHOR'S POEM "THE EXCURSION," UPON HEARING
OF THE DEATH OF THE LATE VICAR OF KENDAL.

To public notice, with reluctance strong,

Did I deliver this unfinished song;

Yet for one happy issue ;-and I look
With self-congratulation on the book

Which pious, learned MURFITT saw and read ;

Upon my thoughts his saintly spirit fed;

He conned the new-born lay with grateful heart;

Foreboding not how soon he must depart,

Unweeting that to him the joy was given

Which good men take with them from earth to heaven

ELEGIAC STANZAS,

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM,
PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.

I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile!
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
I saw thee every day; and all the while
Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there;
It trembled, but it never passed away.

How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep;
No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
I could have fancied that the mighty deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

Ah! then, if mine had been the painter's hand,
To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream;

I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile!
Amid a world how different from this!
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
A picture had it been of lasting ease,
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
Such picture would I at that time have made:
And seen the soul of truth in every part;
A faith, a trust, that could not be betrayed.

So once it would have been,-'tis so no more;
I have submitted to a new control:

A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
A deep distress hath humanized my soul.

Not for a moment could I now behold

A smiling sea and be what I have been :
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;

This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.

Then, Beaumont, friend! who would have been the friend

If he had lived, of him whom I deplore,

This work of thine I blame not, but commend;

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

Oh 'tis a passionate work!-yet wise and well;
Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

And this huge castle, standing here sublime,
I love to see the look with which it braves,
Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
Housed in a dream, at distance from the kind!
Such happiness, wherever it be known,

Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.

SWEET flower! belike, one day, to have
A place upon thy Poet's grave,

I welcome thee once more:

But he, who was on land, at sea,
My brother, too, in loving thee,
Although he loved more silently,
Sleeps by his native shore.

Ah! hopeful, hopeful was the day
When to that ship he bent his way,
To govern and to guide:

His wish was gained: a little time

Would bring him back in manhood's prime,

And free for life, these hills to climb,

With all his wants supplied.

And full of hope day followed day,

While that stout ship at anchor lay

Beside the shores of Wight;

The May had then made all things green;
And, floating there in pomp serene,
That ship was goodly to be seen,

His pride and his delight!

Yet then, when called ashore, he sought

The tender peace of rural thought;

In more than happy mood,

To your abodes, bright daisy flowers!

He then would steal at leisure hours,

And loved you glittering in your bowers,
A starry multitude.

But hark the word!-the ship is gone ;-
From her long course returns:-anon
Sets sail:-in season due,

Once more on English earth they stand:

But, when a third time from the land
They parted, sorrow was at hand

For him and for his crew.

Ill-fated vessel!-ghastly shock!

At length delivered from the rock
The deep she hath regained;

And through the stormy night they steer,
Labouring for life, in hope and fear,
Towards a safer shore-how near
Yet not to be attained!

"Silence!" the brave commander cried;
To that calm word a shriek replied,
It was the last death-shriek.

-A few appear by morning light,
Preserved upon the tall mast's height.
Oft in my soul I see that sight;
But one dear remnant of the night-
For him in vain I seek.

Six weeks, beneath the moving sea,
He lay in slumber quietly;
Unforced, by wind or wave,

To quit the ship for which he died,
(All claims of duty satisfied ;)

And there they found him at her side;
And bore him to the grave.

Vain service yet not vainly done,

For this, if other end were none,

That he, who had been cast

Upon a way of life unmeet

For such a gentle soul and sweet,
Should find an undisturbed retreat
Near what he loved, at last;

That neighbourhood of grove and field
To him a resting-place should yield,
A meek man and a brave!

The birds shall sing, and ocean make

A mournful murmur, for his sake;

And thou, sweet flower, shalt sleep and wake
Upon his senseless grave!

LINES,

COMPOSED AT GRASMERE, DURING A WALK, ONE EVENING, AFTER A STORMY DAY, THE AUTHOR HAVING JUST READ IN A NEWSPAPER THAT THE DISSOLUTION OF MR

HOURLY EXPECTED.

LOUD is the Vale! the voice is up

FOX WAS

With which she speaks when storms are gone,

A mighty unison of streams!

Of all her voices, one!

Loud is the Vale ;-this inland depth

In peace is roaring like the sea;

Yon star upon the mountain-top

Is listening quietly.

Sad was I, even to pain depressed,
Importunate and heavy load!
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road