? . Oman & Sons SAMUEL ROGERS WITH A MEMOIR. -.^^1 m^ iii NEW YORK: LEAVITT & ALLEN 27 DEY-8TEEET. 1853. I §'f^'u^' H\ I Bt Exchange Army Aud Navy Olut* 1 M*y27, 1921 DO memoir of samuel rogers Italy : Part I. I. The Lake of Geneva II. The Great St. Bernard III. The Descent . IV. Jorasse V. Marguerite de Tours VT. The Alps . YII. Como VIII. Bergamo IX. Italy X. Coll' alto XI. Venice . XII. Luigi . XIII. St. Mark's Place . XIV. The Gondola XV. The Brides of Venice XVI. Foscari XVII. Arqua XVIII. Ginevra XIX. Bologna . XX. Florence XXI Don Garzia XXII. The Campagna of Florence Part II. I. The Pilgrim II. An Interview lit. Rome IV. A Funeral V. National Prejudices . VI. The Campagna of Rome VII. The Roman Pontiffs wll. Caius Cestius IX. The Nun X. The Fire-fly . XI. Foreign Travel XII. The Fountain k CONTENTS. XIII. Banditti . XIV. An Adventure XV. Naples XVI. The Bag of Gold XVII. A Character XVIII. Sorrento XIX. Psestiim . XX. Monto Cassino XXI. The Harper XXII. The Felucca XXIII. Genoa . XXIV. A Farewell Notes and Illustrations to " Italy' HUMAN LIFE ... AN EPlSTLii TO A FRIEND JACaUELINB . ... MISCELLANEOrS POEMS : The Sailor Written at Midnight, 1786 To Two Sisters To an Old Oak . From Euripedes To a Voice that had been Lost On a Tear .... On Asleep The Boy of Egremond A Character . To a Friend on his Marriage A Wish .... To .... Captivity A Farewell To the Fralment of a Statue of Hercules Italian Song From a Greek Epigram Written in tiie Highlands of Scotland, &c To ih'- BulT.eitiy Inscription fur a Temple . Written in Wist minster Abbey To ..... The Alps by Day -break An Inscription ... The Pleasures of Memory 3^, MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. There seems to be something so repugnant to the pursuits of hterature in habits of trade and commerce, that the instances have been very rare in which they have been combined in one individual. The historian of the Medici, and Rogers the Poet, are almost solitary in- stances of literary taste and talent being united harmoniously with traffic. Samuel Rogers is a banker in London, and has been for many years al the head of a most respectable firm. His father followed the same business before him, and amassed considerable wealth, both which became the heritage of the Poet, who was born about the year 1762, in London; but little or nothing is known of the way in which he passed his early years. His education was liberal, no cost having been spared to render him an ac- complished scholar. That he improved by thought and reflection upon the lessons of his youth, there can be no doubt ; and, it is to be presumed, he lost no opportunity of reaping profit from the extraordinary advantages which his station obtained for him. He always kept the best society, both as respected rank and talent, the circle of which in the metropolis of A ^1 MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. England in his younger days was more than commonly brilliant. His political ideas are what are styled liberal, and no one has ever been able to reproach him with the abandon- ment of a single principle with which he ori- ginally set out in life. Over most of his early friends and companions the grave has now closed, and they included among them many great names. With a strong attachment for the Muses, after the excellent education Rogers received, it is not surprising that he ventured before the pub- lic. His first work was an " Ode to Supersti- tion, and other Poems," which appeared in 178G. This was followed by a second publica- tion, " The Pleasures of Memory," when he had passed the greenness of youth, having at- tained his thirtieth year. In 1792 this poem was received by the public with universal ap- plause. The subject was happily chosen, com- ing home to the business and bosom of all ; it was executed with great care, and various pas- sages display uncommon fehcity. As a whole, perhaps its chief defect is that it wants vigour, but the deficiency in this quality is made up in cor- rectness and harmony. Rogers is one of the most scrupulous of the sons of the lyre in his metre, and he too often sacrifices that harshness which sets oft* the smoother passages of a writer's works, and prevents sameness and monotony, to mere cold purity of style. Perhaps no poem of equal size eve; cost its author so many hours m ^/ 'V^^ ^ ^ MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS, to produce. Not satisfied with his own correc- tions, hg repeatedly consulted the taste of some of his friends ; one of the most devoted of whom, Richard Sharpe, then a Mdiolesale hatter, and since Member of Parliament,* has said that, before the publication of this poem, and while preparing the successive editions for press, they had read it together several hundred times, at home as well as on the Continent, and in every temper of mind that varied company and varied scenery could produce. In the y^nr 1798, Rogers published "An Epistle to a Fnend, with other Poems," and in 1812 " I'he Voyage of Columbus." Two years afterwards, in conjunction with Lord Byron, or rather printed in the same volume wit!i Byron's Lara, appeared his tale of " Jac- queliue;" a poem which dispLiys a strange contrast to the fire and energy of the author of Manfred. Sweet and pleasing rather than strik- ing, " Jacqueline," though well received, con- tributed little to increase its author's reputation, " Human Life," next to tne "Pleasures of Memo- ry," is the most finished production of Rogers. Tl)e subject was a good one, for it was drawn * This gentleman has carried the art of brilliant and jnl«resling conversation lo an unprecedented degree of perfection, having in fact mduced it lo a mailer of mere business, as sysieinaiic as Baok-Keeping. He ke^pa an index to his inulliludinoua commonplace books : and has a debtor and creditor account with iiis ditferent circles uf the jokes let off or the set speeches made. t^ MEMOIR OF SAMUEL ROGERS. from universal nature, and connected with all those rich associations which increase, in attrac- tion as we journey onwards in the path of life. It is an epitome of man from the cradle to the grave, and is executed throughout with the poet's wonted care. The friendship of Rogers with Sheridan and with Byron is well known. When the great M'it, dramatist, and orator, was near the close of his career, neglected by those who were fore- most in the circle of friendg when he enjoyed health and prosperity, the individ^cal who re- lieved the wants of the dying man was Rogers ; whose opulence of purse enabled him to do that act of benevolence to his friend, which must ever be one of his most gratifying reminiscences. It is seldom poets are so well enabled to meet the aspirations of their hearts towards others. A dispute, on the appearance of Moore's " Life ot Sheridan," was very warmly kept up con- nected with this circumstance. It was said that a friend of Sheridan, of no less rank than a former King of England himself, had been among those who, in his last moments, were re- gardless of the pecuniary necessities of the dy- ing man ; that at last, when no longer necessary, a sum of money was sent by the royal order, which Sheridan returned, saying that it came too late, a friend having furnished him with all he should require while life remained. Loyalty never lacks defenders, or perhaps the Prince of Wales was not to blame, as tales of distress are M /^ MEMOIR OF SAMUEL KOGEKS. always slow in reaching the cars of indiviauals in august stations. However the matter might have been, the affair was warmly disputed in respect to the implied royal neglect, and re- mains still in as much uncertainty as ever ; but Rogers gloriously carried off the palm of friend- ship and feeling on the occasion, let the truth lie which side it may, in respect of the tender from a higher quarter. Byron and Rogers were on terms of great intimacy, both in England and during the poet's residence in Italy. In that medley of truth and falsehood, the " Recol- lections of Byron" by Medwin, the noble poet is described as alluding to a singular talent for epigram, which Rogers is made to possess. This talent, however, has been very sparingly employed. Certain buffoons and scribblers in Sunday newspapers, who have been opposed from political principles, or rather whose pay at the moment was on the opposite side to that taken by the venerable poet, impudently ascribed a thousand bons-mots and repartees to Rogers, whom they never saw in their lives, and which they manufactured themselves. His skill in writing epigram, however, is acknow- ledged ; but what he has produced is the work of the scholar and the gentleman ; for there is not an individual in existence less likely to tres- pass on the rules prescribed for the conduct of either, by the regulations of social intercourse. Our poet has travelled much out of his own country, and he is not less a master of manners I!- * m I Tor» in the better classes of society abroad than at home. His " Sketches in Italy," prove that he was no unobservant sojourner abroad ; and as his opportunities for observation were great, he did not fiiil to profit by them proportionately. — This may be noticed in his conversation, which is always amusing and instructive ; and, more particularly, when, visiting the circles of his fashionable or learned friends, he becomes the spokesman on some topic which interests him, and which he sees affording gratification to others. Rogers never entered upon the stormy ocean of politics. This is singular, from the number of his political friends, and the example set him by his father. The elder Rogers was renowned in the annals of parliamentary elections for a severe contest with Colonel Holroyd, subse- quently Lord Sheffield, in dividing the suffrages of the city of Coventry, when tlie obstinacy of the combat attracted much attention. He has wisely preferred the gratification of a pure taste, and the interchanges of urbanity, to tlie stirring hazards of political ambition : notwithstanding which he is a warm partisan of the principles he has chosen, and understands well how to maintain them. What he has done every way proves that he is conscious of his own powers, but careless of indulging them, though much in this respect may no doubt be attributed to his unceasing attention to the calls of business, from which he never allows himself to be di- verted. XP. I H /© r^ vl' MEIMOir. OF SAMUEL llOG-ERS. Rogers is now in the " sere and yellow leaf " of human vegetation. He is the land agreea- ble, affable old man ; but there is nothing be- yond the good and amiable m character aepicted upon a countenance by no means the best formed and most impressive of the species it the features are separately considered. Ms habits are remarkably regular and his condac governed by that urbanity and breeding whica thow he has been accustomed to mingle mos in the best society .-He takes a great interest in ail that promotes the improvement ot tti. state and contributes to the comfort and happi- ness of his fellow-men. In short, Rogers, hke all men of genius, if possessmg certain eccen- tricities, is gifted with the impress of higa in- tellect which belongs to that character, and which makes it so distinguished above the herd of mankind. There is about Rogers, however, asortofo^ium ciun digmtate which seems to repress his energies, and to keep inactive a spirit which, had it been less indebted to good fortune and flung more upon its own resources, would have performed greater things.. \mong the friends of Rogers were Fox, bher idan, Windham, and a galaxy of distinguished names, when they were in the ^emth of their dorv To the illustrious nephew ot i'ox,^ tue well-known Lord Holland, and to his fnenas ol the same political party, Rogers still adheres He is accounted one of the literary coterie at Holland House, the hospitable receptacle ot men oi talent irom all countries and of all creeds. He is introduced in the Novel of " Glenarvon" at the court of the Princess of Madagascar (a character intended for Lady Holland) : and per- haps the name of no individual is more on the lips of a certain fashionable order of persons who are attached to literary pursuits, than that of Rogers. His opinion is looked up to, and justly, as one of great weight ; and though not devoi"3. of a certain irritability of temper, his general good-nature and kindness, — for he shows no tincture of envy in his character, — conU'ibute largely to increase the influence and impression made by his judgment. Such is the sum of all which is known of Samuel Rogers, — a poet who never rises to the height of Byron or Campbell, but who is of the same school. He is remarkable principally for the elegance and grace of his compositions, which he pohshes up and smooths off as if he valued only their brilliancy and finish, and for- got that strength and force are essential to poetic harmony and the perfection of metrical style. Notwithstanding this defect, Rogers will be read and admired while the English language continues to be used or spoken in his native islands. THE LAKE OF GENEVA. Day glimmer' d in the east, and the white Moon Hung Uke a vapour in the cloudless sky, Yet visible, when on my way T went, Glad to be gone— a pilgrim from the north, Now more and more attracted as I drew Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan, Drowsy, half-clad, had from his window leant, With folded arms and listless look to snufF The morning air, or the caged sky-lurk sung, From his green sod up-springing — but in vain. 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, swift to shut ; As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived,* ♦Rosseau. M i nl m A, 14 ITALY. Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee Inscribed to consecrate (such virtue dwells In those small syllables) the narrow street, His birth-place — when, but one short step too late, He sate him down and wept — wept till the morning ; Then rose to go — a wanderer througn the world. ' T is not a tale that every hour brings with it. Yet at a City-gate, from time to time, Much might be learnt ; and most of all at thine London — thy hive the busiest, greatest, still 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 Chatterton — in thought admired, caress'd, And crown' d like Petrarch in the Capitol; Ere long to die — to fall 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 fare, Press on — though but a rill entering the Sea, Entering and lost ! Our task would never end. Day glimmer'd and I went, a gentle breeze Ruffling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave, ¥^. pi ITALY. If such they might be call'd, dash'd as in sport, Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach Making wild music, and far westward caught The sun-beam — where, alone, and as entranced, Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff Lay with his circular and dotted line, Fishing in silence. When the heart is light With hope, all pleases, nothing comes amiss ; And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by. Laden with peasant-girls and fruits and flowers, And many a chanticleer and partlet caged For Vevay's market-place — a motley group Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 'twas gone. The shifting sail flapp'd idly for an instant, Then bore them off. I am not one of those So dead to all things in this visible world, So wondrously profound — as to move on In the sweet light of heaven, Uke him of old (His name is justly in the Calendar) Who through the day pursued this pleasant path That winds beside the mirror of all beauty, And, when at eve his fellow-pilgrims sate. Discoursing of the lake, ask'd where it was. They marvelFd, as they might ; and so must all, Seeing what now I saw : for now 't was day, And the bright Sun was in the firmament, A thousand shadows of a thousand hues Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont Blanc, Thy seas of ice ana ice-built promontories, That change their shapes for ever as in sport ; Then travelled onward, and went down behind The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe Borne homeward through the forest in his hand ; And, in some deep and melancholy glen, That dungeon-fortress never to be named, Where, like a lion taken in the toils, Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit. Ah, little did He think, who sent him there, That he himself, then greatest among men. Should in like manner be so soon convey' d Across the ocean — to a rock so small Amid the countless multitude of waves. That ships have gone and sought it, and re- turn' d, Saying it was not ! Still along the shore, Among the trees I went for many a mile. Where damsels sit and weave their fishing- nets, Singing some national song by the way-side. But now 't was dusk, and journeying by the Rhone, That there came down, a torrent from the Alps, I enter' d where a key unlocks a kingdom,* The mountains closing, and the road, the river ♦ St. Maurice, R'^. ITALY, 17 Filling the narrow pass. There, till a ray Glaaced through my lattice, and the household- stir Warn'd me to rise, to rise and to depart, A stir unusual and accompanied With many a tuning of rude instruments, And many a laugh that argued coming plea- sure, Mine host's fair daughter for the nuptial rite, And nuptial feast attiring — there I slept, And in my dreams wander' d once more, well- pleased. But now a charm was on the rocks, and woods. And waters ; for, methought, I was with those I had at morn, at even, wish'd for there. THE GREAT ST. BERNARD. NmiiT was again descending, when mjr mule, That all day long had climb' d among the clouds. Higher and higher still, as by a stair Let down from Heaven itself, transporting me, Stopp'd, to the joy of both, at that low door So near the summit of the Great St. Bernard ; That door which ever on its hinges moved To them that knock' d and nightly sends abroad Ministering Spirits. Lying on the watch, Two dogs of grave demeanor welcomed me 2 % ^ c 18 ITALY. 1 A.11 meekness, gentleness, though large of limb , And a lay-brother of the Hospital, Who, as we toil'd below, had heard by fits The distant echoes staining on his ear. Came and held fast my stivrup 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 placed there for the noblest purposes. 'T was a rude pile of simplest masonry, With narrow windows and vast buttresses, Built to endure the shocks of Time and Chance, Yet showing many a rent, as well it might, Warr'd on for ever 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 con- flict. On the same rock beside 3t 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 be your work, Stop for an instant — move your lips in prayer I'* And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale, If dale it might be call'd, so near to Heaven, A little lake, where never fish leap'd up, Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow ; A star, the only one in that small sky, 41 On its dead surface glimmering. 'T was scene Resembling nothing I had left behind, As though all worldly ties were now dis- solved ; — And to incline the mind still more to thought, To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore Under a beetling cliff stood half in shadow A lonely chapel destined for the dead, For such as, having wander'd from their way, Had perish'd miserably. Side by side, Withui they lie, a mournful company All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them ; Their features full of life, yet motionless In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change, Though the barr'd windows, barrd against the wolf. Are always open ! But the Bise blew cold ; And, bidden to a spare but cheerful meal, I sate among the holy brotherhood At their long board. The fare 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 matron Serving unseen below ; while from the roof (The roof, the floor, the walls of native fir), A lamp hung flickering, such as loves to fling Its partial light on Apostolic heads. And sheds a grace on all. Theirs Time as yet ¥\ W\ ^^•. Had changed not. Some were almost in the prime ; Nor was a brow o'ercast. Seen as I saw them, Ranged round their ample hearih-stone in an hour Of rest, they were as gay, as free from guile, As children ; answering, and at once, to all The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth ; Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk Music ; and gathering news from them that came, As of some other world. But when the storm Rose, and the snow roll'd on in ocean-billows, When on his face the experienced traveller fell, Sheltering his lips and nostrils with his hands, Then all was changed ; and, sallying with their pack Into that blank of nature, they 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 err'd ? Let us to work ! there is no time to lose ! — But who descends Mont Velan? 'T is La Croix. Away, away ! if not, alas, too late. Homeward he drags an old man and a boy, Fahering and falling, and but half awaken'd, Asking to sleep again." Such their discourse. \1 -gr^ } ¥f W ITALY. Oft has a venerable roof received me .; St. Bruno's once* — where, when the winds were hush'd, Nor from the cataract the voice came up, You might have heard the mole work under- ground, So great the stillness of that place ; none seen, Save when from rock to rock a hermit cross' d By some rude bridge— or one at midnight toll'd To matins, and white habits, issuing forth, Glided along those aisles interminable, All, all observant of the sacred law Of silence. Nor is that sequester'd spot, Once called "Sweet Waters," now "The Shady Vale,"t To me unknown; that house so rich of old. So courteous, and by two, that pass'd that Amply requited with immortal verse, The Poet's payment. But, among them all, None can with this compare, the dangerous seat Of generous, active Virtue. What though Frost Reign everlastingly, and ice and snow Thaw not, but gather — there is that within, * The Grande Chartreuse. t Vallombrosa, formerly called Acqua Bella. % Arioslo and Millun. V ITALT. Which, where it comes, makes Summer ; ami in thought , Oft am I sitting on the bench beneath Their garden-plot, where all that vegetates Is but some scanty lettuce, to observe Those from the South ascending, every step As though it were their last — and instantly Restored-j renew'd, advancing as with songs, Soon as thy see, turning a lofty crag. That plain, that modest structure, promising Bread to the hungry, (3) to the weary rest. in. THE DESCENT. My mule refresh'd — and, let the truth be told. He was not of that vile, that scurvy race, From sire to son lovers of controversy, But patient, diligent, and sure of foot, Shunning the loose stone on the precipice, Snorting suspicion while with sight, smell, touch, Examining the wet and spongy moss, And on his haunches sitting to slide down The steep, the smooth — my mule refresh'd, his bells Gingled once more, the signal to depart. And we set out in the gray light of dawn, Descending rapidly — by waterfalls Fast-frozen, and among huge blocks of ice wh^ {TAI Y, ^*^ That in their long career had stopt mid-way, At length, uncheck'd, unbidden, he stood still; And all his bells were mnftled. Then my Guide, Lowering his voice, address'd me : " Through this Chasm On and say nothing — for a word, a breath, Stirring the air, may loosen and bring down A winter's snow — enough to overwhelm The horse and foot that, night and day, defiled Along this path to conquer at Marengo. Well I remember how I met them here, As the light died away, and how Napoleon, Wrapt in his cloak — I could not be deceived — Rein'd in his horse, and ask'd me, as I pass'd, How far 't was to St. Remi. Where the rock Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away, Narrows almost to nothing at its ba&e, 'T was there^' and down along the brink he led To Victory ! — Dessaix, who turn'd the scale, (4) Leaving his life-blood in that famous field (When the clouds break, we may discern the spot In the blue haze), sleeps, as you saw at dawn. Just as you enter' d, in the Hospital-church." So saying, for awhile he held his peace. Awe-struck beneath that dreadful Canopy ; But soon, the danger pass'd, launch' d forth again. ITALT. IV. JORASSE. JoRASSE was in his three-and-twentieth year ; Graceful and active as a stag just roused ; Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech, Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up Among the Hunters of the Higher Alps ; Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness, Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies, Said to arise by those who dwell below, From frequent dealings with the Mountain- Spirits. But other ways had taught him better things ; And now he numbered, marching by my side, The Savans, Princes, who with him had cross'd The frozen tract, with him familiarly Through the rough day and rougher night con- versed In many a chalet round the peak of terror,* Round Tacul, Tour, Well-horn and Rosenlau, And Her, whose throne is inaccessible, t Who sits, withdrawn, in virgin-majesty, Nor oft unveils. Anon an Avalanche RoU'd its long thunder ; and a sudden crash, Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear Told that far-down a continent of Ice Had burst in twain. But he had now begun, And with what transport he recall' d the hour When to deserve, to win his blooming bride, i^ * The Schrekhorn. + The Jung-frau. '•, Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod The Upper reahns of Frost ; then, by a cord Let half-way down, enter'd a Grot star-bright, And gather'd from above, below, around. The pointed crystals ! Once, nor long before (Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet, And with an eloquence that Nature gives To all her children — breaking off by starts Into tJie harsh and rude, oft as the Mule Drew his displeasure) once, nor long before, Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg, He slipp'd, he fell ; and, through a fearful cleft Gliding from lodge to ledge, from deep to deeper, Went to the Under- world ! Long- while he lay Upon his rugged bed — then waked like one Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever .' For, looking round, he saw or thought he saw Innumerable branches of a Cavern, Winding beneath a solid crust of ice ; With here and there a rent that show'd 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 ? Yet 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 River Jj f\ OS )k>' (\A> :^ /^/ 1 ^ 26 ITALY. \! > Working its way to light ! Back he withdrew, But soon reurn'd, and, fearless from despair, Dash'd down the dismal Channel ; and all day, If day could be where utter darkness was, Travell'd incessantly, the craggy roof Just over-head, and the impetuous waves, Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength Lashing him on. At last the water slept In a dead lake — at the third step he took, Unfathomable — and the roof, that long Had threaten'd, suddenly descending, lay Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood, His journey ended ; when a ray divine Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin, He plunged, he swam — and in an instant rose, The barrier past, in light, in sunshine ! Through A smiling valley, full of cottages. Glittering the river ran ; and on the bank The young were dancing ('t was a festival-day) All in their best attire. There first he saw His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear, When all drew round, inquiring ; 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 dark eye flash' d fire, and, stopping short. M ITALY. He listen'd and look'd up. I look'd up too ; And twice therr came a hiss that through me thrill' d ! 'T was heard no more. A Chamois on the cliff Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear, And all were gone. But now the thread was broken ; Love and its joys had vanish' d from his mind ; And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay, (His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung, His axe to hew a stair-case in the ice) He track' d their footsteps. By a cloud sur- prised. Upon a crag among the precipices. Where the next step had hurl'd them fifty fathoms. Oft had they stood, lock'd in each other's arms, All the long night under a freezing sky. Each guarding each the while from sleeping, falling. Oh, 't was a sport he lov'd dearer than life. And only would with life itself relinquish ! *' 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 J\r^ Suckling her babe, her only one, look out The way he went at parting, but he came not ! Long fear to close her eyes, lest in her sleep (Such their belief) he should appear before her, Frozen and ghastly pale, or crush'd and bleed- ''^ To tell her where he lay, and supplicate For the last rite ! At length the dismal news Came to her ears, and to her eyes his corse. V MARGUERITE DE TOURS. Now the grey granite, starting through the snow, Discoyer'd 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 Hve In lower regions, and delighted drink The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues, With their diminutive leaves cover'd the ground. 'T was then, that, turning by an ancient larch, Shiver'd in two, yet most majestical With its long level branches, we observed A human figure sitting on a stone Far down by the way-side — just v.'here the rock Is riven asunder, and the Evil One Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument (5) m ±fi 1 f^/^ ITALY. Built in one night, from which the flood beneath, Raging along, all foam, is seen not heard, And seen a? motionless ! Nearer we drew, And 't was a woman young and delicate, Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot, Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand In deepest thought. Young as she was, she wore The matron-cap ; and from her shape we judged, As well we might, that it would not be long Ere she became a mother. Pale she look'd. Yet cheerful; though, methought, once, if not twice, She wiped away a tear that would be coming : And in tho&e moments her small hat of straw. Worn on one side, and garnish' d with a riband Glittering with gold, but ill conceal'd a face Not soon to be forgotten. Rising up On our approach, she journey'd slowly on ; And my companion, long before we met. Knew, and ran down to greet her. She was born (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, turn'd her father's mill. There did she blossom till a Valaisan, A townsman of Marligny, v/on her heart, Much to the old man's grief. Long he held out, Unwilling to resign her ; and at length, fv*^. ITALY. When the third summer came, they stole a match And fled. The act was sudden ; and when far Away, her spirit had misgivings. Then She pictured to herself that aged face Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in anger ; And, when at last she heard his hour was near, Went forth unseen, and, burden' d as she was, Cross'd the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness, And hold him to her heart before he died. Her task was done. She had fulfill' d her wish. And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping. A frame like hers had suffer' d ; 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 ! VI. THE ALPS. Who first beholds those everlasting clouds. Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night. Still where they were, steadfast, immovable ; Who first beholds the Alps — that mighty cham Of Mountains, stretching on from east to west, ♦ La Cygne. So massive, yet 80 shadowy, so ethereal, As to belong rather to Heaven than Earth But instantly receives into his soul A sense, a feeling that he loses not, A something that informs him 't is a moment Whence he may date henceforward and for ever? To me they seem'd the barriers of a World, Saying, Thus far, no farther ! and as o'er The level plain I travell'd silently, Nearing them more and more, day after day, My wandering thoughts my only company, And they before me still, oft as I look'd, A strange delight, mingled with fear, came o'er me A wonder as at things I had not heard of! Oft as I look'd, I felt as though it were For the first time ! Great was the tumult there, Deafening the din, when in barbaric pomp The Carthaginian on his march to Rome Entered their fastnesses. Trampling the snows, The war-horse reared ; and the tower' d ele- phant Upturn' d his trunk into the murky sky. Then tumbled headlong, swallow'dup and lost, He and his rider. Now the scene is changed ; And o'er Mont Cenis, o'er the Simplon winds A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone Flung about carelessly, it shines afar. Catching the eye in many a broken link. ^A? % 32 ITALY. 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 though It were another, not the same, Leading along he knows not whence or whither. Yet through its fairy 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 w^ay from clime to clime Through glens lock'd up before. Not such my path ! Mine but for those, who, like Jean Jacques, de- light In dizziness, gazing and shuddering on Till fascination comes and the brain turns ! Mine, though I judge but from my ague-fits Over the D ranee, just where the Abbot fell, The same as Hannibal's. But now 't is past, That 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 sun is shining, and the lark Singing aloud for joy, to him is not Such sudden ravishment as now I feel At the first glimpses of fair Italy. VII. COMO. I LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake Under the shore — though not to visit Pliny, \ ^ ITALY. To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk, Or fishing, as he might be, from his wmdow And,to deal pkiinly,(may his Shade forgive me !) Could I recall the ages past, and play The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve My leisure for Catullus on his Lake, Though to fare worse, or Virgil at his farm A httle 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 morn- ing 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 hght This noble amphitheatre of mountains ; And now appear as on a phosphor-sea Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pavia ; Some sailing up, some down, and some at anchor. Lading, unlading at that small port-town Under the promontory— its tall tower ^ And long flat roof, just su-h as Poussin drew, Caught by a sun-beam slanting through a A quay-Hke 'scene, glittering and full of life. And doubled by reflection. What delight, After so long a sojourn in the wild, 3 M Wi, ^ JS^ "lb 34 ITALY. To hear once more the sounds of cheerful labour •^But in a clime like this where are they not Along the shores, among the hills 'tis now The heyday 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, While many a canzonet and frolic laugh Come through the leaves ; the vines in light festoons From tree to tree, the trees in avenues. And every avenue a cover' d walk. Hung with black clusters. 'T is enough to make The sad mad merry, the benevolent one Melt into tears — so general is the joy ! While up and down the cliffs, over the lake, Wains oxen-drawn, and pannier' d mules are seen. Laden with grapes, and dropping rosy wine. Here I received from thee, Filippo Mori, One of those courtesies so sweet, so rare ! When, as 1 rambled through thy vineyard- ground On the hill-side, thou sent'st thy little son. Charged with a bunch almost as high as he, To press it on the stranger. May thy vats O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer, f/^ ^i ITALY. 35 Live to be come ere-!ong himself a giver ; And indue time, when thou art full of honour, The staff of thine old age ! In a strange land Such things, hov/ever trifling, reach tlie 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 least I found it so ; nor less at eve, When, bidden as an English traveller ('T was by a httle boat that gave me chase With oar and sail, as homeward-bound I cross'd The bay of Tramezzine), right readily [ turn'd my prow and follow' d, landing soon Where steps of purest marble met the wave ; Where, through the trellises and corridors, Soft music came as from Armida's palace, Breathing enchantment o'er the woods, the 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 Painted by Cagliari ; where the world danced Under the starry sky, while I look'd on. Admiring, listening, quaffing gramolata, 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 I Night linger'd still, ITALY. When, with a dying breeze, I left Bellaggio ; But the strain follow'd me ; and still I saw Thy smile, Angelica ; and still I heard Thy voice — once and again bidding adieu. VIII. BERGAMO. The song was one that I had heard before, But where I knew not. It inclined to sadness ; And turning round from the delicious fare My landlord's little daughter, Barbara, Had from her apron just roll'd out before me, Figs and rock-melons — at the door I saw- Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like They were, and poorly clad, but not unskill'd; With their small voices and an old guitar Wirming their mazy progress to my heart In that, the only universal language. But soon they changed the measure, entering on A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour, A war of words, and waged with looks and gestures, Between Trappanti and his ancient dame, Mona Lucilia. To and fro it went ; While many a titter on the stairs was heard, And Barbara's among them. When 't was done, Their dark eyes flash'd no longer, yet, me- thought, In many a glance as from the soul, express'd ^^ ^, ITALY. 37 ^ MM More than enough to serve them. Far or near, Few let them pass unnoticed ; and there was not A mother round about for many a league, But could repeat their story. Twins they were, And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world ; Their parents lost in the old ferry-boat That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down Crossing the rough Penacus.* May they live Blameless and happy — rich they cannot be, Like him who, in the days of Minstrelsy, (7) Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door, Crying without, " Give me a lay to sing !" And soon in silk (such then the pov/er of song) Return' d to ihank him ; or like him, wayworn And lost, who, by the foaming Adig5 Descending from the Tyrol, as night fell, Knock'd 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 banner'd hall Turning his harp to tales of Chivalry Before the great Mastino, (8) and his guests, The three-and-twenty, by some adverse fortune, By war or treason or domestic nialice. Reft of their kingly crowns, reft of their all. And living on his bounty. But who now Entering the chamber, flourishing a scroll * Looro di Garda. M ^ fhi K^' 1 1 4W P ^S% ^ 3 ITALV Am I in Italy ? Is this the Mincius ? Are those the distant turrets of Verona ? And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him ? Such questions hourly do I ask myself; And not a finger-post by the road-side *' To Mantua"—" To Ferrara"— but excites Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation. O Italy, how beautiful thou art ! ^et I could weep— for thou art lying, alas ! _ Low in the dust ; and they who come, admire thee As we admire the beautiful in death. Thine was a dangerous gift, the gift of Beauty. Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast, Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee ! —But why despair? Twice hast ihou lived already. Twice shone among the nations of the world, As the sun shines among the lesser lights Of heaven ; and shalt again. The hour shall come. When thev who think to bind the ethereal spirit , Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey, m ^ ITALY. Waich with quick eye, and strike and strike again 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 spendour like the day. That like the day ditfused itself, and still Blesses the earth — the hght of genius, virtue, Greatness irt thought and act, contempt of death. Godlike example. Echoes that have slept Since Athens, Lacedsemon, were themselves. Since men invoked " By Those in Marathon !" Awake along the ^gean ; and the dead. They of that sacred shore, have heard the call, Av.d through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen Moving as once they were — instead of rage Breatliing deliberate valour. X. COLL'ALTO. Tn this neglected mirror (9) (the broad frame Of massive silver serves to testify That many a noble matron of the house Has sate 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, ^ ITALY. Said, " Be thy dwelling through the day, the night, Shunn'd Hke CoU'alto."' 'T was in that old Castle, Which tlanks the cliff with its grey battlements Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest, Hangs in the Trevisan, that thus the Steward, Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left hmi, Address'd me, as we enter'd what was call'd "My Lady's Chamber." On the walls, the chairs, Much yet remain' d of the rich tapestry; Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot In the green glades of some enchanted forest. The toilet table was of massive silver, Florentine Art, when Florence was renown'd ; A gay confusion of the elements. Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers, And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage, Hung a small bird of curious workmanship. That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold (So said at least the babbhng Dame, Tradition) His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again The song that pleased her. While I stood and look'd, A gleam of day yet lingering in the West, The Steward went on. " She had ('t is now long since) A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina, Fair as a lily, and as spotless too ; ITALY. None so admired, beloved. They had grown up As play-fellows ; and some there were, who said, Some who knew much, discoursing of Cristina, ' She is not what she seems.' When unre- quired. She would steal forth ;.her custom, her delight, To wander through and through an ancient grove Self-planted half-way down, losing herself Like one in love with sadness ; and her veil And vesture white, seen ever in that place, Ever as surely as the hours came round. Among those reverend trees, gave her below The name of The White Lady. But the day Is gone, and I delay you. In that chair The Countess', as it might be now, was sitting. Her gentle serving-'maid, the fair Cristina, Combing her golden hair ; and, through this door The Count, her lord, was hastening, call'daway By letters of great urgency to Venice ; When in the glass she saw, as she believed, ('T was an illusion of the Evil Spirit- Some say he came and cross' d it at the instant) A smile, a glance at parting, given an'd an- swer' d. That turn'd her blood to gall. That very night The deed was done. That night, ere yet the Moon Was up on Mon!e Calvo, and the wolf Baying as still he does (oft do I hear him, ITALY. An hour and more by the old turret- clock), They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristina, Helping her down in her distress— to die. " No blood was spilt ; no instrument of death Lurk'd— or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose; to Nor was a hair of her un]>lemislr d head Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower ungather d, And warm with life, her youthful pulses play- She was'^wall'd up within the Castle wall. (10) The wall itself was hollow' d to receive her; Then closed again, and done to hne and rule. Would you descend and see it ?— ' T is far down; And many a stair is gone. 'T is m a vault Under the Chapel : and there nightly now, As in the narrow niche, when smooth and iair, And as though nothing had been done or thought of, * The stone-work rose before her, till the hght Gliinmer'dand went— there, nightly, at that hour (You smile, and would it were an idle tale ! Would we could say so !) at that hour she stands Shuddering— her eyes uplifted, and her hands Join'd as in prayer ; then, like a Blessed Soul Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away Fhes o'er the woods, the mountains. Issuing forth, (11) . , The hunter meets her in his hunting track ; The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims (For still she bears the name she bore of old) "T is the White Lady' !" "1> 44 ITAiiV. XI. VENICE. There is a glorious City in the Sea. Tiie sea is in tlie broad, the narrow streets, fcibbing and flowing ; and the salt sea-weed Chngs to the marble of her palaces. No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sea, Invisible ; and from the land we went, As to a flioating City — steering in. And gliding up her streets as in a dream, So smoothly, silently — by many a dome Mosque-like, and many a stately portico. The statues ranged along an azure sky ; By many a pile in more than Eastern splendour, Of old the residence of merchant-kings ; The fronts of some, though Time had shatter'd 'them. Still glowing with the richest hues o^ art. As though the wealth within them had run o'er. Thither I came, and in a wondrous Ark, (That, long before we slipt our cable, rang As with the voices of all living things) From Padua, where the stars are, night by night, Watch'd from the top of an old dungeon-tower, Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezze- lln— (12) Not as he v.'atch'd them, when he read his fate And shudder'd. But of him I thought not then, M J^ ITALV. Him or his horoscope ; far, far from me The forms of Guilt and Fear ; though some were there, Sitting among us round the cabin-board, Some who, hko him, had cried, " Spill blood enough !" And could shake long at shadows. They had play'd Their parts at Padua, and were now returning ; A vagrant crew, and careless of to-morrow, Careless and full of mirth. Who, in that quaver, Sings " Caro, Caro ?" — 'T is the Prima Donna, And to her monkey, smiling in his face, Who, as transported, cries, " Brava ! Ancora?" 'T is a grave personage, an old macaw, Perch' d on her shoulder. But mark him who leaps Ashore, and with a shout urges along Tlie lagging mules ; (13) then runs and climbs a tree That with its branches overhangs the stream, And, like an acorn, drops on deck again. 'T is he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh ; That child of fun and froliC; Arlecchino.(14) And mark their Poet — with what emphasis He prompts the young Soubrette, conning her part ! Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box, And prompts again ; for ever looking round As if in search of subjects for his wit. His satire ; and as often whispering Things, though unheard, not unimaginable. >^ f\ 46 ITALY Had I thy pencil, Crabbe, (when thou hast done, — Late may it be— it will, like Prospero's stafF, Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth), I would portray the Italian — Now I cannot. Subtle, discerning, eloquent, the slave Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes ; Gentle when unprovoked, easily won. But quick in quarrel — through a thousand shades His spirit flits, chameleon-like ; and mocks The eye of the observer. Gliding on, At length we leave the river for the sea. At length a voice aloft proclaims " Venezia !" And, as call'd forth, it comes. A few in fear, Flying away from him whose boast it was,* That tne grass grew not where his horse had trod. Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl, They built their nests among the ocean-waves ; And, where the sands were shifting, as the wind Blew from the north, the south; where- they that came. Had to make sure the ground they stood upon, Rose, like an exhalation, from the deep, A vast Metropolis, with glittering spires, With theatres, basilicas adorn' d ; A scene of light and glory, a dominion, That has endured the longest among men. * Aitila. Ml ITALY. And whence the talisman, by which she rose, Towering ? ' T was found there in the barren sea. Want led to Enterprise ; and, far or near, Who met not the Venetian ? — now in Cairo ; Ere yet the CaUfa came, (15) hstening to hear Its bells approaching from the Red-Sea coast ; Now on the Euxine, on the Sea of Azoph, In converse with the Persian, with the Russ, The Tartar ; on his lowly deck receiving Pearls from the gulf of Ormus, gems from Bagdad Eyes brighter yet; that shed the light of k)ve. From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round. When in the rich bazaar he saw display'd, Treasure^ from unknown climes, away he went. And, travelling slowly upward, drew ere-long From the well-head, supplying all below ; Making the Imperial City of the East, Herself, his tributary. If we turn To the black forests of the Rhine, the Danube, Where o'er each narrow glen a castle hangs. And, like the wolf that hunger'd at his door. The baron lived by rapine — there we meet, In warUke guise, the Caravan from Venice; When on its march, now lost and now emerging, A glittering file, the trumpet heard, the scou* Sent and recall' d — but at a city-gate All gaiety, and look'd for ere it comes ; «^ ITALY. Winning its way witli all that can attract, whence every wild cry of the desert, Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charle- main, And his brave peers, each with his visor up On their long lances lean and gaze awhile, When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed The Wonders of the East ! Well might they then Sigh for new Conquests ! Thus did Venice rise Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet P'rom India, from the region of the Sun, Fragrant with spices — that a way was found, A channel open'd, and the golden stream Turn'd to enrich another. Then she^elt Her strength departing, and at last she fell, Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed; She who had stood yet longer than the longest Of the Four Kingdoms — who, as in an Ark, Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks, Uninjured, from the Old World to the New, From the last trace of civilized life — to where Light shone again, and with unclouded splen- dour Though many an age in the mid-sea She dwelt. From her retreat calmly contemplating The changes of the Earth, herself unchanged. Before her pass'd, as in an awful dream, ^^ M i-'^ ITALY The mightiest of the mighty What are these Clothed in their purple ? O'er the globe they Their m'onstrous shadows ; and, while yet we Phantom-Uk'e, vanish with a dreadful scream ! What^ut the last that styled themselves the Csesars ? , , u ♦!,«« And who in long array (look where they Their gestures menacing so far and wide) Wear the green turban and the heron's plume ? Who_butthe Caliphs? follow' d fast by shapes As new and strange^Emperor, and Kmg, and Czar, . . ^ -J And Soldan, each, with a gigantic stride, TrampUna on all the flourishing works of peace To makeliis greatness greater, and mscribe His name in blood-some, men of steel, steel- clad ; , • 1 Others, nor long, alas, the interval. In light and gay attire, with brow serene Wielding Jove's thunder, scattermg sulphurous Mingled'^ with darkness ; and, among the rest, ' Lo, one by one, passing coritmually, ^ Those who assume a sway beyond them all , Men grey with age, each in a triple crown, And in his tremulous hands grasping the keya That can alone, as he would signify, « Unlock Heaven's gate. ^V 4 ¥f nil. LUIGI. He who is on his travels and loves ease, Ease and companionship, should hire a youth, Such as thou wert, Luigi. Thee I found. Playing at Mora (16) on the cabin-roof With Pulcinella — crying, as in wrath, " Tre ! Quattro ! Cinque!" — '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 wert an honest lad ; Wert generous, grateful, not without ambition. Had it depended on thy will and pleasure. Thou wouldst have numbered in thy family At least six Doges and twelve Procurators. (17) But that was not to be. In thee I saw The last of a long line of Carbonari, Who in their forest, for three hundred years. Had lived and labour' d, cutting, charring wood ; Discovering where they were, to those astray, By the re-echoing stroke, the crash, the fall, Or the blue wreath that travell'd slowly up Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies Led thee away to justle in the crowd ; And there I found thee — by thy own prescrip- tion Crossing the sea to try once more a change Of air and diet, landing and as gaily. ^ ITALY. 51 Near the Dogana— on the Great Canal, As Ihough thou knewest where to dme and sleep. First did thou practise patience at Bologna, Serving behind a Cardinal's gouty chair, Langhaig at jests that were no laughing matter , Then teach the Art to others m Ferrara —At the Three Moors— as Guide, as Cice- rone — , . Dealincr out largely in exchange for pence Thy scmps of knowledge-through the grassy strGGt Leading, explaining-pointing to the bars Of Tasso's dungeon, and the Latin verse. Graven in the stone, that yet denotes the door Of Ariosto. Many a year ^s gone . Since on the Rhine we parted ; yet, methinks, I can recall thee to the life, Luigi ; In our long journey ever by my side, O'er rough and smooth, o'er apennine, marem- Thy lo'^ks' jet-black, and clustering round a face Open as day and full of manly daring. Thou hadst a hand, a heart for all that came. Herdsman or pedlar, monk or muleteer ; And few there were, that met thee not with smiles. , j Mishap pass'd o'er thee like a summer-cloud. Ca?es thou hadst none; and they, who stood to hear thee, Q^. Y\ M *m J tti 52 ITALY. 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 chirp'd, Luigi, Thine a perpetual voice — at every turn A larum to the echo. In a cUme, Where all the world was gay, thou wert the gayest, And, like a babe, hush'd only by thy slumbers, Up hill and down, morning and noon and night, Singing or talking ; singing to thyself When none gave ear, but to the listener talking. XIII. ST. MARK'S PLACE. Over how many tracts, vast, measureless, Nothing from day to day, from year to year. Passes, save now and then a cloud, a meteor, A famish 'd eagle ranging for his prey ; While on this spot of earth, the work of man, How much has been transacted ! Emperors, Popes, Warriors, from far and wide, laden with spoil, Landing, have here perform'd their several parts, Then left the stage to others. Not a stone In the broad pavement, but to him who has An eye, an ear for the Inanimate World, Tells of Past Ages. In that temple-porch (The brass is gone, the porphyry remains), (18) Did Barbarossa fling his mantle olf. >1* .41 ITALY. And, kneeling, on his neck receive the foot Of the proud Pontiff (19)— thus at last consoled For flight, disguise, and many an aguish shake 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 his ducal crown The cross just then assumed at the high altar. There did he stand, erect, invincible, Though wan his cheeks, and wet with many tears. For in his prayers he had been weeping much ; And now the pilgrims and the people wept With admiration, saying in their hearts, " Surely those aged limbs have need of rest !" —There did he stand, with his old armour on, Ere, gonfalon in hand, that stream'd aloft, As conscious of its glorious destiny ,_ So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret, He sail'd away, five hundred gallant ships. Their lofty sides hung with emblazon' d shields, Following his track to Glory. He returned not ; But of his trophies four arrived ere-long, Snatch' d from destruction — the four steeds di- vine, . That strike the ground, resounding with their feet. And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame Over that very portal — in the place Where in an after-time Petrarch was seen Sitting beside the Doge, on his right hand, Amid the ladies of the court of Venice, ^fk "^ P Their beauty shaded from the setting sun By many-colour'd hangings : while, beneath, Knights of all nations, some from merry En- gland, (20) Their lances in the rest, charged for the prize. Here, an^ong other pageants, and how oft It came, as if returning to console The least, instruct the greatest, did the Doge^ Himself, go round, borne through the gazing crowd. Once in a chair of state, once on his bier. They were his first appearance, and 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 was full of maskers ; And lo, the madness of the Carnival, (21) The monk, the nun, the holy legate mask'd ! To-morrow came the scaffold and the heads- man ; he died there by torch-light, bound and gagg'd, Whose name and crime they knew not. derneath Where the Archangel turning with the wind, Blesses the City from the topmost-tower. His arms extended — there continually Two phantom-shapes were sitting, side by side, Or up, and, as in sport, chasing each other; Horror and Mirth. Both vanish' d in one hour ! Un- KW^ >r^ \.'^ '^ Q) f if^ rT ITALV. But Ocean only, when again lie claims His ancient rule, shall wash away their footsteps. Enter the Palace by the marble stairs* Down which the grizzly head ot old Faliero Roll'tt from the block. Pass onward through the Chamber, Where, among all drawn in their ducal robes, But one is wanting — where, throv/n off in heat, A short inscription on the Doge's chair Led to another on the wall yet shorter ; And thou wilt track them — wilt from halls of state Where kings have feasted, and the festal song Rung through the fretted roof, cedar and gold. Step into darkness ; and be told, " 'T was here. Trusting, deceived, assembled but to die, To take a long embrace and part again, Carrara and his valient sons were strangled ; He first — then they, whose only crime had been Struggling to save their father.' — Through that door So soon to cry, smiting his brow, "I'm lost !" Was shown, and with all courtesy, all honour, The great and noble captain, Carmagnola. — That deep descent (thou canst not yet discern Aught as it is) leads to the dripping vaults Under the flood, where light and warmth came never ! Jjeads to a cover'd Bridge, the Bridge of Sighs ; And to that fatal closet at the foot, ♦ Scala de' Gigauti. \M ^: V if^ 56 ITALY. Lurking for prey, which, when a victim enter'd, Grew less and less, contracting to a span ; An iron door, urged onward by a screw, Forcing out Hfe. — But let us to the roof, And, when thou hast survey' d the sea, the land, Visit the narrow cells that cluster there. As in a place of tombs. They had their tenants, And each supplied with sufferings of his own. There burning suns beat unrelentingly. Turning all things to dust, and scorching up The brain, till Reason fled, and the wild yell And wilder laugh burst out on every side, Answering each other as in mockery ! — Few Houses of the size^were better fill'd ; Though many came and left it in an hour. " Most nights," so said the good old Nicolo (For three-and-thirty years his uncle kept The water-gate below, but seldom spoke, Though much was on his mind), " most nights arrived The prison-boat, that boat vrith many oars. And bore away as to the Lower World, Disburdening in the Canal Orfano, (22) That drowning-place, 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 heavenly music ! and who flock'd not thither iH> 1 1 tTAT-V. 57 To celebrate her Nuptials with the Sea ? To wear the mask, and mingle in the crowd With Greek, Armenian, Persian— night and (There, and there only, did the hour standstill) Pursuing through her thousand labyrmths The Enchantress Pleasure ; realizing dreams The earliest, happiest— for a tale to catch (Credulous ears, and hold young hearts m chains, Had only to begin, " There lived in Venice. — " Who w-ere the Six we supp'd with yester- night?" "Kings, one and all! Thou couldst not but remark The style and manner of the Six that served them." " Who answer' d me just now ? Who, when I said, * 'T is nine,' turn'd round and said so solemnly, 'Signor, he died at nine!'"— '"T was the Armenian ; The mask that follows thee, go where thou v/ih." "But who stands there, alone among them all?" " The Cypriot. Ministers from foreign courts Beset his doors, long ere his hour of rising ; His the Great Secret ! Not the golden hou.se Of Nero, or those fabled in the East, ITALY. As wrought by magic, half so rich as his ! Two dogs, coal-black, in collars of pure gold, Walk in his footsteps — Who but his familiars ? He casts no shadow, nor is seen to smile !" Such their discourse. Assembling in St. Mark's, All Nations met as on enchanted ground ! What though a strange, mysterious Power was there, Moving throughout, subtle, invisible. And universal as the air they breathed ; A Power that never slumber' d, never pardon' d, All eye, all ear, nowhere and everywhere, C23) 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 sleep, but instantly Observed and judged — a Power, that if but glanced at In casual converse, be it where it might. The speaker lower'd at once his eyes, his voice, And pointed upward, as to God 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 Venice, And in that hour he vanish' d from the earth ! .V ^ r^r K> ITALY. XIV. THE GONDOLA. Boy, call the Gondola ; the sun is set. It came, and we embark'd; but instantly, Though she had stept on board so light of foot, So hght of heart, laughing she knew not why, Sleep overcame her ; on ray arm she slept. From time to time I waked her ; but the boat Rock'd her to sleep again. The moon was up, But broken by a cloud. The wind was hush'd, And ihe sea mirror-like. A single zephyr Play'd with her tresses, and drew more and more Her veil across her bosom. Long I lay Contemplating that face so beautiful, That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled with smiles, That neck but half-concealed, whiter than snow. 'T was the sweet slumber of her early age. I look'd and look'd, and felt a flush of joy I would express, but cannot. Oft I wish'd Gently — by stealth — to drop asleep myself, And to incline yet lower that sleep might come ; Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness. 'T was all in vain. Love would not let me rest. But how delightful when at length she waked I When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil i--f^ ft ^ ITALY. So rudely scatter'd, she resumed her place Beside me; and, as gaily as before, Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer, Pour'd out her innocent mind ! So, nor long since, Sung a Venetian : and his lay of love. Dangerous and sweet, charm'd Venice. As for me (Less fortunate, if Love be Happiness) No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm, 1 went alone under the silent moon ; Thy place, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces, Glittering, and frost-like, and as day drew on, Melting away, an emblem of themselves. Those porches pass'd through which the water-breeze Plays, though no longer on the noble forms That moved there, sable-vested — and the Quay, Silent, grass-grown — adventurer-like I launch'd Into the deep, ere- long discovering Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas. All verdure. Everywhere, from bush and brake. The musky odour of the serpents came ; Their slimy track across the woodman's path Bright in the moonshine : and, as round I went, Dreaming of Greece, whither the waves were gliding, I listen'd to the venerable pines Then in close converse ; and, if right I guess'd, Delivering many a message to the Winds In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida. m I- 1l' m :^ ITALY. 61 Nor when again in Venice, when again In that strange place, so stirrnig and so still, Where nothing comes to drown the human voice . r 1 ^•;i But music, or the dashing ot the tide. Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica Sunc^ 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 Gondoher lay singing ; and he sung A« in the time when Venice was herseit, U-1) Of Tancr'^d and Erminia. On our oars We rested ; and the verse was verse divine ! We could not en— Perhaps he was the last— For none took up the strain, none answer d him ; And when he ceased, he left upon my ear A something like the dying voice of Venice. The moon went down ; and nothing now was seen Save here and there the lamp of a Madonna, Glimmering— or heard, but when he spoke, who stood Over the lantern at the prow, and cried. Turning the corner of some reverend pile, Some school or hospital of old renown, -^\ l^Q "S ^ ITALY. Though haply none were coming, none were near, *' Hasten or slacken." * But at length Night fled ; And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Plea- sure. Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like. Cross' d me and vanish' d — lost at once among Those hundred Isles that tower majestically, That rise abruptly from the water-mark. Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work Of noblest architects. I linger'd still ; Nor struck my threshold, till the hour was come And past, when, flitting home in the grey light, The young Bianca found her father's door, (25) That door so often with a trembling hand, So often — then so lately left ajar. Shut ; and, all terror, all perplexity. Now by her lover urged, now by her love, Fled o'er the waters to return no moie. XV. THE BRIDES OF VENICE. It was St. Mary's Eve, and all pour'd forth As to some grand solemnity. The fisher Came from his islet, bringing o'er the waves His wife and little one ; the husbandman From the Firm Land, along the Po, the Brenta, Crowding the common ferry. A 11 arrived ; * Premi osta. K •9^- And in his straw the prisoner turn'd and listen' d, So great the stir in Venice. Old and young Throng' d her three hundred bridges ; the grave Turk, Turban'd, long-vested, and the cozening Jew, In yellow hat and threadbare gaberdine, Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, The noblest sons and daughters of the State, They of Patrician birth, the llower of Venice, Whose names are written in the Book of Gold, Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials. At distant murmur through the noon, a crowd. Rising and rolling on, announced their coming ; And never from the first was to be seen Such splendour or such beauty. Two and two (The richest tapestry unroll' d before them). First came the Brides in all their loveliness ; Each in her veil, and by two bride-maids fol- low' d, Only less lovely, who behind her bore The precious caskets that within contain' d The dowry and the presents. On she moved, Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich-feathers. 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 Jewell' d chain, in many a winding wreath, Wreathing her gold brocade '