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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 VISIT TO VAUCLUSE, 
 
 NISMES, ORANGE, PONT-DU-GARD. 
 AVIGNON, MARSEILLES, 
 
 &c. &c. 
 /.V MAY, MDCCCXXL 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF THE TRIMESTER, 
 
 IN MDCCCXX. 
 
 Valle locas clausa toto mihi nullus in orbe 
 
 Gratior, aut studiis apuor ora meis. 
 Valle puer clausus fueram, juvenemque reversum, 
 
 Fovit in accepto vallis araecna situ. 
 Vulle vir in clausa lueliores dulcius annos 
 
 Exegi, hi vit;ie Candida lila tneai. 
 Valle sene': datisa, supremurn duccre tempas 
 
 Incuisus, cupio, !e duce vate inori. 
 
 Petrarch in T]p\stnla ad Philipc-M.\ 
 Episcopum dc Cuvaillon fie Cub'n--'l : 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR WILLIAM CLARKE, NEW BOND SIKEF/!'. 
 
 1822.
 
 cl l>v J.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Order in which the places are mentioned. 
 
 Avignon. 
 
 Vaucluse. 
 
 Orange. 
 
 Marseilles. 
 
 Hyeres. 
 
 Aix. 
 
 Nismes. 
 
 Pont du Gard. 
 
 Pont du St. Esprit. 
 
 Lyons. 
 
 Paris. 
 
 Versailles.
 
 VISIT TO VAUCLUSE, 
 
 AVIGNON. 
 
 IT is right and proper to say something of 
 Avignon, from whence 1 proceeded directly to 
 Vaucluse. The distance is about fifteen Eng- 
 lish miles, or five leagues off Provence, called 
 from their length commonly bonnes, ou mor- 
 telles lieues ; but here, in Provence, lieues des 
 arnoureux, or lovers' leagues. As it is, how- 
 ever, my desire, to enter immediately on my 
 principal subject, 1 shall leave Avignon, Orange, 
 Marseilles, Nismes, and le Pont du Gard, for 
 a postscript. Having taken a cursory view of 
 Avignon, with an intention to return, I set out 
 for Vaucluse, whose interesting valley, and ra- 
 pid torrent, with the aid of the poetry of Pe- 
 trarch, and the history of Laura, have attracted 
 to its source travellers of all countries, equally 
 enthusiastic, who have left it as the Seine, it 
 has been said, leaves Paris, a regret fugitive. 
 
 B
 
 There are two roads that lead to Vauclnse, 
 the shortest goes through Morieres, and is pre- 
 ferable to that over the new bridge on the Du- 
 rance, by the Chartreuse de Bon-pas, and Cau- 
 inont, by which it will be best to return. In 
 coming out of Avignon, the verdure in the month 
 of May delights and relieves the eye-sight, 
 which in half an hour more a naked plain inter- 
 sected with vineyards, and studded with flints, 
 tires and fatigues. As you get nearer to Mo- 
 rieres, Nature smiles again, you mount with 
 gentle ascent, and the stony road is bordered 
 with vines and olive-trees. Here, if you look 
 back, you have a view of the Rhone to Uoque- 
 maure, where Hannibal is said to have passed, 
 and to the point below the Durance, and its 
 junction with that river. From Avignon to 
 L'isle, four hours are required, and from L'isle 
 to Vaucluse, an hour and a half. Two-thirds 
 of the last road is on a plain, bounded by hills, 
 and arid rocks, at the foot of which is the foun- 
 tain, of whose situation you can have no accu- 
 rate notion, till you come to it : the imagination 
 is lost in conjecture, but unable to form an idea 
 half so rude, wild, and picturesque. The banks 
 on each side are clothed with trees, and 
 patched with turf, and the rapid Sorgue here 
 reflects its various tints in the moving crystal of
 
 . V v; A' , f : 5W"Efo' sti 
 
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 its limpid stream ; and there dashes the rocks 
 with azure froth, and blue eddies, like the ra- 
 pid Rhone in the Leman lake. The noise of the 
 rolling waves is reechoed by the rising rocks, 
 whose lofty clefts are only accessible to birds of 
 prey, and serve to form a contrast with the rich 
 scene below. The view of this noble fountain, as 
 Pliny, lib. xviii. c. 22. names it, might easily fire 
 the imagination of the lover, the poet, and the 
 painter, although he had never heard of Pe- 
 trarch and Laura : but should he visit it with 
 the sonnets in his hand, he must, one would 
 think, be both ravished and enchanted. The 
 village of Vaucluse is built on a naked rock, 
 and the Sorgue runs at its base, and is as cheer- 
 less above as it is gay and smiling below. The 
 nearer you approach the source, the more the 
 river is narrowed, and the stream contracted ; 
 the waters that are pure as crystal at the vil- 
 lage, break against the rocks near the spring, 
 and become foaming torrents. 
 
 As you walk along the path that leads to the 
 basin, you pass several springs that fall into the 
 Sorgue at their rise : at length you arrive at the 
 end of a narrow vale, bounded by a mountain 
 that terminates in a point 700 feet high, above 
 the level of the source, which is nearly half as 
 high above the sea. Between the village and
 
 the spring, the Sorgue, rapid as it is, has sixty 
 feet in breadth, and from five to six in depth. 
 At the foot of the mountain, ending in a sharp 
 point, is a cavern ; the vale here is surrounded 
 by a demicircle of inaccessible rocks to the 
 right, and sharp pointed to the left, which it is 
 impossible to pass, and you must return by the 
 way you came, whence the name of Vaucluse, 
 or Vallis Clausa. 
 
 The roar of the waterfalls, the enormous 
 blocks suspended as it were on the waves, the 
 broken fragments rolling in the stream, the py- 
 ramidal needles, the ruined castle of the ancient 
 lords of Vaucluse, to which there is no visible 
 approach, with rocky unfathomable caverns, 
 altogether present a picture singularly wild and 
 romantic. The principal source comes out from 
 a natural cavity at the foot of a sharp-pointed 
 rock, at the east end of the valley. In order to 
 obtain an exact idea of this singular fountain, 
 it must be seen when the waters are both at the 
 highest and at the lowest : when the fountain is 
 low, the waters are inclosed in the basin, which 
 comprehends the interior of the cavern, where 
 a natural vault is to be seen, of which no idea 
 could be had from the appearance of the spring 
 at high water. At this time there is no cascade, 
 and the fountain is less interesting : when I saw
 
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 it, it was in its greatest beauty. The difference 
 between the highest and the lowest level of the 
 surface of the water, is 88 palms or 66 feet. 
 The rocks at extreme low water are covered 
 with byssus jolithus, a red vegetable substance, 
 with an odour of violets. After the snows be- 
 gin to melt, or after great rains, the rocks dis- 
 appear in part, and the great blocks, buffeted by 
 the foaming torrents, are often crowned with the 
 bow of the many-coloured Iris. We may say of 
 Vaucluse, what Rousseau has said of Meillerie. 
 This place is a wild and savage desert, but as 
 full of beauties to susceptible minds, as of hor- 
 ror to those who have no fine feelings. Two 
 lovers, who had survived the wreck of a ruined 
 world, would no doubt find a delicious asylum 
 among the rocks of Meillerie. 
 
 The house of Petrarch was between the vil- 
 lage and the castle ; there is now no trace of it 
 left, the inhabitants of Vaucluse have carried 
 away all its parts, and it has been removed, like 
 a Venetian palace, or a French chateau, stone 
 by stone. It was at first like a simple cottage, 
 which he afterward rebuilt and enlarged. A 
 ruined chateau on a rock, strangers are told 
 was the house of Petrarch; but Monsieur Gue- 
 rin tells us, that it belonged to the bishops of 
 Cavaillon, who were the lords of Vaucluse.
 
 
 
 Petrarch is never tired in prose or verse, of 
 praising his retreat, which to him was buon, ed 
 ainabile retiro, and as he thought, could never 
 be enough commended. He delighted in hav- 
 ing DO fixed habitation : 
 
 Nulli certa domus lucis habitamus opacis, 
 lliparumque toros, et j)rata recentia rivis, 
 Incolimus. J^N. 1. vi. 673. 
 
 " Here," he says, " my garden is bounded 
 by a river, there shaded from the great heats 
 by a rock, and protected against every rude ap- 
 proach by a walled fence, and open on all sides 
 to the gentle zephyr. I walk in the morning on 
 the hill, in the evening in the meadows, and the 
 garden near the fountain at noon-day. The 
 Sorgue is delightful the king and lord of 
 springs. I am at this moment writing by the 
 murmur of its waters, close to the charming re- 
 treat of Vauclu.se, where liberty dwells, and 
 perfect freedom reigns. Adest tibi tuus Sorgia 
 rex fon tin m, adest liberrimum gratissimumrjue, 
 perfugium Clausa vallis." Epist. 3. lib. 8. 
 
 Petrarch retired to Vaucluse to give himself 
 up entirely to the Muses, and withdraw him- 
 self from the object of his adoration : there he 
 purchased a small house and field, and set up 
 his books. In his twenty-seventh sonnet we read,
 
 " The image of Laura follows me everywhere, 
 into the woods and wildest rocks. Three times 
 in the middle of the night I saw her stand be- 
 fore me, and with a determined look reclaim 
 her slave; fear froze my limbs, my blood left 
 my veins, I rose before day, and flying from 
 a house, where every thing inspired me with 
 terror, I climbed the rocks, I ran through the 
 woods, locking back to see if the image, that 
 broke my sleep, followed me ; 1 was no where 
 secure ; I saw her in every tree, and every 
 stream, in the hollow rock, and impending 
 cloud. Fright made me immoveable ; I knew 
 not where to go, or what to do." Carmin. lib. 
 1. epist. 7. In his epistle to posterity, he says: 
 " Whilst I was looking for a retreat, I found, 
 fifteen miles from Avignon, a solitary but deli- 
 cious vale called Vaucluse, at whose end the 
 Sorgue, the most famous of fountains, arose: 
 struck with the beauty of this place, I came 
 hither, and brought my books with me. I 
 should tire out all patience were I to recount 
 every thing I have done in this solitude, where 
 I have passed a great number of years. I give 
 an idea in saying, that of all the works of my 
 peri there is not one which has not been begun, 
 or conceived here, and although they are so
 
 many, and I am so old, yet I still fatigue and 
 tire myself with writing more. 
 
 Petrarch speaks of Vaucluse in his Latin 
 poems of the fourteenth century, 1581, in folio, 
 edition of Bale. 
 
 " Si nihil a ut gelid i facies nitidissima fontis." 
 vol. 3. p. 80. lib. 1. epist. 4. 
 
 " Populus estingens niveo contermina fonti." 
 p. 80. lib. 1. epist. 4. 
 
 " Exul ab Italia furiis civilibus actis," p. 
 82. lib. 1. epist. (j. and various other places; 
 p. 83. lib. 1. ep. 7. p. 84. lib. 1. ep. 7. p. 104. 
 lib. 3. ep. 3. p. 105. lib. 3. ep. 3. also in his 
 sonnets, p. 80. Ediz. Venez. 4to. 1727. 27. 13. 
 p. 441. Quo. Venezia, 1727, p. 449.20. sonnet 
 33. p. 463. sonnet 35. p. 465. 
 
 In another place he says, speaking of Vau- 
 cluse, " It is here that I war against my senses, 
 and my eyes, which have led me to the brink of 
 many a precipice, see nothing but air, water, 
 and rocks ; my only female is a servant, brown 
 as a Lybian desert, and dry as a mummy ; my 
 ears, long accustomed to harmonious sounds 
 of voice and instrument, hear nothing but the 
 lowing ox, the bleating sheep, the chirping- 
 birds, the murmuring waters. I keep silence 
 from morning to night, having no one to talk to :
 
 9 
 
 the vine-dresser, the fisherman, and the hedger 
 and ditcher, have no conversation ; I am satis- 
 fied with the black bread my servant eats, and 
 know no luxury but the fruit of my garden and 
 the fish of rny river. I am lodged like Fabius 
 or Cato, and all my domestics are a man-ser- 
 vant and a dog. Jn this delicious asylum no 
 citizen braves mewith his insolence, no tongue 
 provokes me with its slander. Without cla- 
 mour, or lawsuit, or din of arms, I am exempt 
 from ambition, avarice, and envy, and possess 
 the happy mean between poverty and riches ; 
 every thing about me breathes joy, simplicity, 
 and freedom. The people are good, easy, and 
 affable; the air is healthy, the winds are tem- 
 perate, the springs clear, the river full of fish." 
 From the MSS. of the Imperial Library, lib. 
 10. ep. 0. quoted by Guerin, p. 98. 1813. 
 
 Having now paid my visit to Vaucltise, I be- 
 gan to inquire into the history of its famous 
 inhabitants, Petrarch and Laura, in the field of 
 their exploits, and, as it were, at their door; 
 and I found that more than fifteen writers of 
 different countries, with the author of the Me- 
 moirs 1'Abbc de Sade, and the Abbe Roman, 
 their abridger, had confided entirely in a con- 
 fused tradition handed down at Avignon in the 
 year 1533, after the opening of the tomb of Ma 
 
 c
 
 10 
 
 dame tie Sadc at the Cordeliers. This tradi- 
 tion, before unknown, as will appear, is sup- 
 ported by a fact foreign to Petrarch's Laura, 
 and to the total neglect and contempt of the 
 ruins of the house of her poet. 
 
 On what authority is the history of a Laura 
 established, of whom the writers know neither 
 the birth nor the existence of her parents ; 
 \videly differing from her, of whom Petrarch 
 tells us the whole genealogy of the noble family, 
 the father, the mother, and sister, who lived at 
 Vaucluse. With these reflections, Monsieur 
 1'Abbe Costaing de Pusignan of Avignon, con- 
 servateur des Musees, and member of the Aca- 
 demy, has undertaken to explain from the text 
 of Petrarch, in his life written by himself, and 
 to shew that the most chaste admiration of the 
 virtues of Laura, a pure virgin, has been con- 
 verted into a sensual love, and romantic intrigue 
 with a married woman, mother of many chil- 
 dren, by the author of the Memoirs, and 1'Abbe 
 Roman: and this too in direct opposition to 
 Crescimbeni, Muratori, Louis Beccatelli, Arch- 
 bishop of Ragusa, Cardinal Bellarmin, Philip 
 Villani, who lived in Petrarch's time, and Boc- 
 caccio, who bore witness that his sonnets re- 
 cord the history of a virtuous woman in seclu- 
 sion, of extraordinary piety and beauty : more-
 
 11 
 
 Over, that this egregious blunder is all owing to 
 a tradition of a Laura of Avignon, and a ren- 
 contre with her at Sainte Claire, and because 
 Petrarch calls his Laura Madonna, when it is 
 well known, says Monsieur Costaing, that the 
 title of Madonna is not always given to a mar- 
 ried woman. 
 
 Petrarch, swaddled at his birth in the intes- 
 tine divisions of the Guelfs and Gibelliries of 
 Tuscany, came to Avignon with his exiled fa- 
 mily, and was hospitably received, as well on 
 account of his genius for poetry, as his taste for 
 science. Cardinal Colonne protected and en- 
 couraged him ; and he, Petrarch, remained at 
 Avignon till he was twenty-two, when his love 
 for solitude induced him to retire to Vaucluse; 
 and he tells us the reason why in the third col- 
 loquy of his Liber Secretus ; namely, that it 
 was deatli to him to stay at Avignon, " reli- 
 quiae mortis hie habitant." Now his mother 
 had purchased a small domain at Vaucluse 
 before her death ; and it was here that he first 
 met Laura in the vale of Galas. lie was then 
 an honorary canon of Padua, and archdeacon 
 of the church of Parma, but not in holy orders ; 
 and in his letters he signs himself Archdiaconus 
 inutilis; since, in the fourteenth century, single 
 laymen were suffered to hold benefices, because
 
 12 
 
 they were poor in every thing but prayer, and 
 unmarried. The enthusiasm of young Petrarch 
 broke out on having seen Laura, the solitary 
 beauty of his desert. He sang her praises, and 
 made her his favourite muse ; triumphed over 
 his own heart by flying from her presence; and, 
 like an ancient cavalier of his day, by using the 
 word amore in its noblest sense, of friendship 
 and respect, that virtue inspires with religion, 
 fidelity, and charity. We find in the history of 
 Provence that the name of Laura flourished in 
 the illustrious house of Adhemar; a century 
 before there existed a lady of Sade d'Avignon, 
 called Laura. There were five of this name ; 
 Laura d'Adhemar, in 1270; a second, fille d'Ai- 
 mar, in 1274; a third, a religious lady of the 
 Abbaye de St. Pont, in 1276 ; a fourth in 1282; 
 and a fifth, in order of time, is Laura des Baux, 
 an illustrious virgin ofVaucluse, who, Petrarch 
 tells us, was born in the fourteenth century, 
 1305, of the lords of the principality ofVau- 
 cluse. It is clear, from these dates, that the 
 Laura of Petrarch belonged to the illustrious 
 houses of Adhemar and Baux, which flourished 
 in the time when Laura's poet exclaimed, in his 
 book of colloquies, on seeing her for the first 
 time, 
 
 " O quain te memorem virgo !"
 
 13 
 
 From this single quotation it is clear that Pe- 
 trarch could never have known the lady of 
 Sade, a married woman, whose name and li- 
 neage, far from being ancient in the poet's time, 
 did not begin to be known till the end of the 
 fourteenth century, long after the death of Laura 
 and Petrarch. The name of Laura will inform 
 us also of what Laura the poet speaks. It is 
 remarkable, then, that Petrarch calls Laura 
 Laurea, Laurus et Alloro, a laurel that bears 
 golden fruit; and the families of Adhemar and 
 Baux have constantly given the name of Laura 
 to their ladies, because laurus is the right name 
 of the tree that bears the orange ; therefore 
 Laura derives her name from the orange-tree, 
 as may be seen in Aldrovandns's natural his- 
 tory ; the orange-tree of dame Laura, Citrus 
 dominaj Laura : the true appellation of a virgin, 
 born and descended from the illustrious house 
 of Orange, as we read in the sixty-sixth sonnet : 
 p. 525. edition 4to. 1727, in Venezia. 
 
 " Quel che d'odore, e di color vincea 
 
 L'odorifero e lucido Oriente, 
 
 Frutto, fione, arbor, e frondi ond' il poncnte 
 
 D'ogni vera eccellenza, il pregio havea, 
 
 Dolce mia Laura, ov' abitar solea 
 
 Ogni bellezza, ogni virtu te ardente."
 
 14 
 
 Petrarch in his 10th Latin eclogue, MSS. ex- 
 plains the name of Laura still farther, and more 
 at length, an eclogue composed on the death, 
 entitled " Laurea Occidens ; or, the Orange- tree 
 that dies." He here shews us who was the 
 first Prince of Orange that founded the town of 
 this name, in the neighbourhood of Vaucluse. 
 
 " Longe ibi transfluvium ad regnum inter 
 
 Bactra subortuni 
 Unus erat Rutilus." 
 
 In tlie same eclogue, Petrarch describes the 
 residence of Laura at Vaucluse, and her noble 
 parents in the vale of Galas. The ancient lords 
 of Yaucluse have left the impression of their 
 name, and the marks of their grandeur on the 
 walls of Saumane, a rock of Yaucluse, on which 
 the first chapel was built in the sixth century. 
 Of the abode of Laura, he says, " there is a 
 pleasant vale, hid from the eyes of the traveller 
 by high hills, from whence descend the famous 
 springs that inclosed an orange-tree within their 
 waters. 
 
 Nobilibus formosa jugis, et operta meanti 
 Vail is 
 
 seclusa virens in vortice Laurus." 
 
 Here it was that Laura des Baux was born,
 
 15 
 
 and where her acquaintance with Petrarch first 
 began; and when he came back in 1350, she 
 was dead : he addressed her thus, in sonnet 264, 
 MS. " Mira '1 gran sasso d' onde Sorga nasce." 
 Turn your eyes to the high rock, whence the 
 Sorgue takes its rise. It must not be forgot that 
 the fortress of Saumane, which commanded the 
 heights, was built at the end of the twelfth cen- 
 tury, 1189, by the Baux and the Adhemar, 
 lords of Vaucluse, Saumane, Lagnes, Cabrieres, 
 and Cavaillon. On casting an eye on this mo- 
 nument, splendid with the rust of ages, you re- 
 collect its epoch, and its lords, and the descrip- 
 tion of the poet, "arx alta (Tomans dulcesque 
 oleee summatus," and allow that the castle of 
 Laura was very near the great rock of the foun- 
 tain, and the house of Petrarch, where he tells 
 us he lived fifteen years. Upon which the echo 
 of Avignon cries out, " Sirs, you are mistaken, 
 Laura never had a house at \^aucluse, neither 
 during her life, nor at her death. She lived al- 
 ways at Avignon, and w r as buried in the church of 
 the Cordeliers, of which at the Revolution it may 
 be added, every trace was rubbed out, and a 
 square green turf with a tree at the four corners, 
 is all that remains of Laura de Sade." If there 
 be any reason for thus disguising the truth, the 
 walls and vaults at Saumane can develop it,
 
 10 
 
 though Petrarch's writings, printed or manu- 
 script, were all burnt : the seal of its illustrious 
 proprietors, the stars, the orange-flower, &c. 
 will all prove and confirm it, if the poet had 
 not done it in his sonnet: 
 
 " For.se vtiol dio tal di virtuJe arnica 
 Torre alia terra, e'n ciel fame una stella;" 
 
 and still more at length in the 10th MSS. eclogue: 
 
 "Unus in hoc numerogaudenssecondere vivo 
 Fonte, decus nemorum." 
 
 Petrarch having spoken of Laura, and her star, 
 mentions the three lords, her renowned parents, 
 who lived with her in the desert ; and says, that 
 they bore not only the star in their arms, but 
 also a particular decoration ; one of these three 
 delighted in the living fountain, made his abode 
 near it ; another, girt with parsley, struck his 
 golden harp ; a third, gathering the orange- 
 flower and the lily, collected them in a vase. 
 
 Petrarch informs us, that Laura, in her soli- 
 tude at Galas, lived with an aged father, a sis- 
 ter, and numerous female relations, and here 
 she died : when he returned in 1350, to Vau- 
 cluse, she was no more, as appears by the son- 
 net 26 J, before quoted. The house of Laura 
 \vas near Petrarch's. "My heart,'' he says, "is
 
 17 
 
 full of sighs, when I look on the hill and the 
 plain where she was born," 
 
 il dolce piano 
 
 Ove nacque colei 
 
 she was also of my month, and of my year. 
 Ch' era del anno e di mia etate Aprile. MSS. 
 
 Monsieur L'Abb6 Costaing, without taking 
 the pains to attack the tradition which sup- 
 poses that a Laura was born at Avignon, in the 
 year 1025, in the family of Sade, contents him- 
 self with saying, that Laura des Baux came 
 into the world, in the vale of Galas, according 
 to the attestation of Petrarch in the passage 
 just quoted from a MSS. canzone, in which the 
 age and history of Laura are detailed with the 
 greatest precision, by saying she was of my age, 
 year, and month. In this picture of her life, 
 the poet begins by informing us, that the first 
 time he met her, she was gathering* flowers in 
 the meadows round her house, and on seeing 
 him, she fled with precipitation. The whole of 
 this canzone "Tacere non posso, e temo non 
 adopre" is given in the work of Costaing, in 
 
 * Al tempo che di lei prima m' accorsi 
 Ond ell' subito corr' si 
 
 A coglier fiori in quei prati d' intorno. (MSS.) 
 D
 
 18 
 
 which it is manifest, that the married Laura of 
 Avignon is not the illustrious virgin of the fo- 
 rest of Vauchise, who led a pious life in the bo_ 
 som of her family, in extraordinary seclusion 
 and solitude : he also adds, that the expressions 
 of the poet are not those of a Troubadour, or 
 courtezan, but of the friend of virtue and truth; 
 full of noble sensibility and pure Platonism,, to- 
 tally unlike the false tones, and jargon of sen- 
 sual love, with which the Ovids of the day dis- 
 figure his sublime poetry. 
 
 Petrarch composed his tenth eclogue on the 
 death of Laura, in Italy, which opens with a 
 description of the place where he first met 
 Laura.* There was in a secluded spot a lofty 
 forest, and mountains from which the limpid 
 Sorgue on one side, and the pale Durance on 
 the other, ran into the Rhone : to the Sorgue 
 chance had brought me from Tuscany, and the 
 banks of the Arno. In this abode I had a 
 small barren field, which, because of my poverty, 
 was all I had to cultivate. 
 
 I wandered into the woods, there, amidst the 
 
 * fuit alta remotis 
 
 Sylva locis qua se diversis montibus ortae 
 Sorga nitens Rhodano, pallensque Druentia migrant 
 Hue mihi quo fueram Tusco translatus ab Arno: 
 Sic nominum res fata rotant.
 
 rocks and knotted oaks on the river's bank 
 grew a superb orange-tree, I was attracted to- 
 wards it, and fixed to the spot. In the enjoy- 
 ment of the shade of its branches, my happiness 
 was exhausted. The tree was rude, but the 
 flower, the finest ornament of the river ; and I 
 gave up to this unique gem my time, and had no 
 pleasure but in chanting its praises, forgetful of 
 myself, and all my labours. 
 
 " fuit aridulum rus 
 
 Dum colui, indigno atque operi successit 
 
 egestas 
 
 Arva marata, vagus sylvis spatiabar apricis. 
 Verum inter scopulos, nodosaque robora 
 
 quercus, 
 
 Creverat ad ripam fluvii pulcherrima lanrus, 
 Hue rapior, dulcemque mihi postobtulit urn- 
 
 bram, 
 Onmis in hanc vertor. Cessit mea prima vo- 
 
 luptas. 
 
 Rusticalaurus erat, sedflosgratissimus amnis, 
 Immemor oblitusque mei cecinisse juvabat 
 Hanc unam." 
 
 It is easy to see where Petrarch employed all 
 his time in singing Laura's praises, that it was 
 at Vaucluse by the hills and the rocks where 
 the orange-tree grew, where the Durance and
 
 20 
 
 its mountains naturally complete the landscape, 
 because they enclose Vaucluse, and its grounds 
 in the diocess of Cavaillon. From the high- 
 ground where \vas his Helicon, you see the 
 range of hills, and discover Cavaillon, la pale 
 Durance, la Sorgue limpide, falling into the 
 Rhone near Avignon. 
 
 The author of the memoirs not attending to 
 this passage in the Latin of Petrarch's tenth 
 eclogue, thinks he can support the tradition of 
 Avignon, by a quotation from the Italian of the 
 same author, 
 
 " Dove Sorga e Durenza in maggior vaso 
 Congiunger' van' lor chiare e torbide acque, 
 La mia Academia, e tempo, o parnasso, 
 Ivi onde agli occhi miei il bel Laura nacqtie." 
 
 Where the Sorgue and la Durance fall down 
 to join their clear and turbid waters into a larger 
 basin, there my time, my Parnassus, and my 
 academy, is fixed, where Laura the beauty of 
 my eyes was born. 
 
 Here is no mention or allusion to a city, but 
 merely of a place from whence two rivers fall 
 into the plain of Avignon, of a place where was 
 the Parnassus of Petrarch, of a point of view, 
 and a hill from which the Durance and Rhone 
 are visible. Not far from the fountain, and of the
 
 21 
 
 side of Lagnes, is a considerable building, be- 
 tween the hills and the river, the oldest house 
 in the country where Laura and her relations 
 resided. This house was made an abbey, under 
 the name of the Convent of the Ladies of Ga- 
 las ; after Laura and her relations decease, and 
 abandoned by the nuns, who fled to Cavaillon, 
 at the approach of the Calvinists, when the war 
 broke out. On searching into these places, 
 Mr. Costaing found the titles and traditions 
 agree with Petrarch's topography, and that the 
 habitation of Laura could be found no where 
 else. It has been of late years rebuilt, and now 
 is in possession of Messieurs Sylvan, of Vau- 
 cluse, proprietors of a great part of the lands 
 of Galas, where they have erected mills and 
 bleacheries on the waters all around them. 
 Amid some remains of the convent walls, raised 
 since the death of Laura, le benitier is pre- 
 served without the old wall of the chapel as it 
 was anciently fixed ; it is of the simple form 
 and taste of the work of the fifteenth century : 
 it is likewise in the same place where was the 
 rising ground that served for Petrarch's Parnas- 
 sus, which the inhabitants call Baiulelon, or 
 Little-hill. Hills are in general called, in Pro- 
 vence, baux, as with us balks. The top of this 
 hill is a truncated cone, and serves for a plateau
 
 22 
 
 of Ilexes, and old umbrageous oaks of the time 
 of Petrarch, where he wooed his favourite muse 
 in many an immortal sonnet. 
 
 Petrarch, in his third eclogue, has told us of 
 his having met Laura, and that she ran away 
 from him. Having obtained the leave of Cardi- 
 nal Colonne to go to Vaucluse, and repair the 
 house his mother had left him near the fountain, 
 lie was lodged at his friend Cardinal Cabas- 
 soles' hermitage, bishop of the diocess. The 
 Cardinal had a house with a chapel on the hill 
 over the fountain, the ruins of which are impro- 
 perly still called the castle of Petrarch. This 
 old miserable ruin, of difficult and dangerous 
 access, was formerly a hermitage for the reli- 
 gious of St. Victor of Marseilles, who came to 
 serve the chapel of St. Veran of San mane, in 
 1040. In this year, the Bishop of Cavaillon, 
 gave Tsnard, Abbe de San Victor de Marseille, 
 the hermitage of la Fontaine. The Pope Pas- 
 chal If. speaks favourably of this hermitage 
 in his letters of the eleventh century. 
 
 Jt was at this time when he went to visit Vau- 
 cluse, and was lodged at the Cardinal Cabas- 
 sole's hermitage, that in his walk to the forest of 
 Galas, he saw Laura gathering flowers in the 
 mead, " herself the fairest flower," he immedi- 
 ate! v turned buck, and took the road to the
 
 23 
 
 meadow, and approaching, began to address 
 her. She seeing a young stranger of twenty-one, 
 ran away into her own house, and left the poet 
 in the middle of his speech. Petrarch has de- 
 scribed this scene in an eclogue, the third of 
 Daphne and Strophaeus. 
 
 " Daphne, ego te solam deserto in littore pri- 
 
 mum 
 Aspexi, dubius ne hominem, divam ne vide- 
 
 rem." 
 
 " O Daphne, when I first saw you on the de- 
 sert shore, you were alone, and I knew not if 
 I saw a mortal, or a divinity." Through the 
 whole of this dialogue, he reminds us that it 
 was at Vaucluse the scene passed. He men- 
 tions also the Laurier of the house of Orange, 
 under the names of Aureasis, and Rutilus ; the 
 virginity of Laura, and her constant refusals of 
 the various offers of marriage with the first fa- 
 milies, which means that she had determined to 
 remain always in a state of single blessedness. 
 
 v O 
 
 This first meeting and flight of Laura, took 
 place in the month of July, in the year 1326', 
 as he says in his one hundred and fifty-sixth 
 sonnet. 
 
 At sunrise, in the hottest season, 
 
 " Levando il sole a la station' acerba."
 
 24 
 
 And the death he adds in another place, 
 
 " L' adentro nodo ov' io fui d' ora in ora 
 Contando anni ventuno interi, preso, 
 Morte disciolse." 
 
 Petrarch entered then his twenty-second year, 
 when he saw Laura first on the banks of Vau- 
 cluse ; a year afterward he had a second inter- 
 view in the same solitude, the Gtli April, 1327, 
 as appears by the third eclogue. 
 
 Petrarch did not see Laura again after her 
 flight. He left Vaucluse at the end of July, 
 1326, to go to the Cardinal Jacques de Colonne, 
 as we learn from his letters. On his return to 
 Avignon, he passed the winter there; and in the 
 spring set off again for his new habitation in the 
 desert, where he had another interview with 
 Laura, not alone, but accompanied by her fe- 
 male friends. 
 
 " Forte die in medio, dum me meus nrget ad 
 
 amnem 
 Sylvan amor, in sylvas subito vox contigit 
 
 an res 
 Dnlcior humana, stupui." Eclog. 3. 
 
 When, by chance, at noon my love for the 
 woods and the river led me out, I all at once 
 heard a voice softer and sweeter than any thing 
 human, I was struck dumb with astonishment
 
 25 
 
 This poem on Laura ofVaucluse will ever bt 
 the poet's best triumph, and the finest eulogy 
 and immortal praise of the virgin of the house 
 of Orange, and the fullest refutation of the tra- 
 dition of Avignon. Petrarch is completely jus- 
 tified in saying in one of his letters, (Famil. ep. 
 8. lib. 8.) that although Vaucluse has been ren- 
 dered famous by its fountain, he has laboured 
 to give it a higher lustre by writing its history. 
 
 Petrarch has laid before his readers all the 
 interviews and conversations lie held with Laura 
 des !>aux at Vaucluse, and the evidence that 
 the heads of her family were descended from 
 Guillaume an Cornet, Prince of Orange, of the 
 ancient house of Hutilus Adhemar ; and farther, 
 that le chateau de San mane and its ancient 
 chapel are the precious testimony of the birth 
 of Laura of Vaucluse, and of the power that 
 her ancestors exercised there. The sonnets 
 are new proofs of the truth of what has been 
 advanced and composed on Laura three years 
 before the eclogues. It now remains to speak 
 of the death and burial of Laura in the vale of 
 Galas ; but to begin with his Italian poetry, his 
 sentiments and thoughts, from his first inter- 
 view with her at Vaucluse. 
 
 There are some of the sonnets of Petrarch 
 that, seem to favour the tradition of Avignon, 
 

 
 2G 
 
 and the fable of the meeting' of Petrarch and 
 Laura on a Good Friday, in the church of Ste. 
 Claire. It has been seen hitherto that it was at 
 Vaucluse, in the valley of Galas, that this first 
 rencontre took place. By calculation, it ap- 
 pears that in the year 1327, Oth April, the day 
 of the pretended Good Friday, Easter Sunday 
 fell on the 12th of April, and, of course, the 
 Oth was on a Monday. Petrarch and Laura 
 could not, therefore, assist at the holy function 
 of Good Friday on a Monday. 
 
 The sonnet, on which this fable is made to 
 rest, contradicts it completely, when duly ex- 
 plained from manuscript authority. We read 
 in the first verse of the second sonnet : (Edition 
 4to. in Venezia, 1727.) 
 
 " Era il giorno ch' al Sol si scolorano 
 Per la pieta del suo fattone i rai.' : 
 
 It was on the day when ihe rays of the sun 
 were discoloured or obscured by compassion 
 for his Maker, that is, on Good Friday, when 
 the sun was eclipsed at the crucifixion. But 
 let us see what says Abbe Costaing's manu- 
 script? To which add the notes of Muratori 
 on the second sonnet. 
 
 " Era il giorno ch' al Sol di color rare 
 Parve la pieta da suo fattore, ai rai
 
 '27 
 
 Quando io f'u preso ; e non mi guardai 
 Che ben vo.stri occhi dentro mi legaro." 
 
 Sonetto2d. MS. 
 
 Literally : It was on the day that I was cap- 
 tivated, devotion for its Maker appeared in the 
 rays of a brilliant sun, and 1 did not well con- 
 sider that it was your eyes that enchained me. 
 This is in the usual style of Petrarch, who 
 makes Laura his sun. We need go no farther 
 than tin; ninety-first sonnet to prove this. 
 
 ' in inezzo di duo amanti onesta altera 
 Vidi una donna, e quel Signor conlei 
 Che fra gli uomini regna, e fra gli dei, 
 E dai, un lato il sole, To dal' altr' era/' 
 
 1 saw a virtuous and illustrious dame, and 
 that Lord with her who reigns over men and 
 kings. And on one side was the sun, Laura, 
 and on the other I was. Here he speaks of 
 Laura, whom he saw for the first time, when 
 she fled from him. 
 
 The first meeting was not in a church, but in 
 a meadow, between two banks formed by the 
 two currents of the Sorgue, where he compares 
 Laura to a white roe.
 
 28 
 
 " Una Candida ccrva sopra lerba 
 Verde nvapparve con suo crine d'oro 
 Fra due riviere all' ombra d'uu alloro." 
 
 Sonnet ISO. 
 
 Petrarch sees Laura weaving silk knots, by 
 which he could not fail to be caught, as he was 
 passing in the road between the mead and the 
 hill, and struck with admiration, he continued 
 his walk ; returning by the same way soon after, 
 he found her culling flowers, when she fled 
 from him. Madrigale 3. p. 188. Ed. 1727. Ve- 
 nezia. 
 
 " Nova angeletta sopra I'ale' accorta." 
 
 Petrarch struggled violently with his passion ., 
 and ran over France, Italy, and Germany, and 
 still felt the arrow in his side, like the wounded 
 deer, as appears by his 173d sonnet, which he 
 sent to his friend Sennuccio Delbene, his fel- 
 low-student at Avignon. 
 
 " I dolci colli ov' io lasciai me stesso, 
 Partendo oncle partir giammai non posso. 
 
 Tal io conquello stral dal lato maiico 
 Che mi consuina; e parte che diletta, 
 Di duol mi strugge, e di fuggir mi stance."' 
 
 MS
 
 '29 
 
 " Those charming hills, where I left myself, 
 are ever before me, and I can never drive them 
 from my eyes ; I feel like the wounded deer, 
 * lethalis arundo' sticks for ever in my side." 
 
 He explains to his friend the state of his 
 heart, and the motives of his flight. " I am 
 now free from the heavy war of sighs, ' lorda 
 guerra de sospiri,' in which my soul was en- 
 tangled." Sonnet 74. MS. Petrarch was now 
 got to Avignon, but no persuasions or com- 
 mands of his friends the cardinals, Colonne of 
 Talciran and Bologna, though in the name and 
 by the order of the pope, could make him stay. 
 Totally unable to bear with ' Empia Babilonia' 
 (Sonnet 90. prohibited. See Kdiz. 4to. 17*27. 
 Tassoni's quotation from Tacitus), he fled from 
 the city in the year 1330, at the age of twenty- 
 five. Being arrived at Vaucluse, and hardly 
 fixed there, he writes to Sennuccio : Sonnet 89. 
 
 " Mi dove mezzo son, Sennuccio mio, 
 Cosi ci foss' io intero, e voi contento." 
 
 " My dear Sennuccio, I am only half settled 
 at Vaucluse, O that I was for ever, and with 
 your entire satisfaction and approval.'' 
 
 Sometime after he speaks of his having quit- 
 ted Avignon, and says, that the only way left 
 him to prolong his existence was to fly from thai
 
 impious Babylon, the mother of error. Here j 
 am alone, I make verses, and gather flowers, 
 talk with myself, and remember that times were 
 better : I am here quite happy, and live in per- 
 fect security ; and I'll tell you why, I no longer 
 fear the dazzling beauty of Laura's eyes, which 
 now shed only the milder light of friendship. 
 Whilst Petrarch enjoyed this delicious solitude 
 he finished his Latia works, his Letters in verse, 
 and his Afrique. lie found great resources in 
 the society of Laura and her family. " 'Tis 
 here," he says in his Letters, " I find repose. 
 Laura is an enemy to love ; she loves nothing 
 but God, and 1 love her the more on that ac- 
 count." After having exhausted himself in re- 
 peated praises of the hills, and the shades of 
 his habitation, and that of Laura des i)aux at 
 Galas, he speaks of every window in his house 
 from which he had ever seen her, whom he calls 
 the sun, as I have before observed, on a con- 
 tested passage well explained by Monsieur 
 Costaing from MSS. 
 
 " Quella fenestra dove un Sol si vede 
 Quando il lui piace, e 1'altra in su la nona 
 E quella dove 1'aere freddo suona 
 Ne' brevi <j,iorni, quando Borea '1 siede.'' 
 
 Sonnet 78,
 
 31 
 
 The window from which she was visible, Sec. 
 the rock where she sat, the ground on which 
 she had left the impression of her foot, revived 
 his feelings, and opened all his wounds (antiche 
 piaghe), and made them bleed afresh. 
 
 The Prince Colonne had wished to surprise 
 him unawares in his retreat. The poet was in- 
 formed of his eminence's intention, and in order 
 to decide him to set out, he sent him a sonnet. 
 (Sonnet 9.) 
 
 " Gloriosa colonna, in cui s'appoggia 
 Nostra speranza, e '1 gran nome Latino." 
 
 " Glorious column, the prop of our hopes, and 
 of the great Roman name." 
 
 " Qui non palazzi, non teatro, o loggia 
 Ma'n loro vece 5 abete, un faggio, un pino." 
 
 Edition 1727, p. 24. 
 
 " Here are no j)alaces, no theatre, no lodge, 
 but in their stead a fir, a beech, a pine." 
 
 It was six years after Petrarch had been ex- 
 ercising his muse incessantly afc Vauciuye, that 
 his poem entitled Africa was sent forth, and led 
 the author to be crowned in the Capitol. The 
 same day brought him, at his s-ttrtat, the letters 
 of the chancellor of Paris, and the senate of 
 Rome, inviting him to receive the rro\vn on the
 
 :J2 
 
 two theatres' of the world, lie was crowned 
 poet, after the examination of his Latin poem on 
 Scipio Africanus, at the age of thirty-one; and, 
 as he says himself, ' adhuc scholasticus rudis,' 
 yet an unpolished scholar. On his return from 
 this ceremony, he remained some time at Parma 
 and at Padua. He did not come back from 
 Padua till after the death of his friend the lord 
 Jacques de Carrare, three years from his coro- 
 nation. On his return to Vauclusein 1,'3'J9, as 
 lie tells us in his letter to Posterity, he received 
 the congratulations of Laura, and her female 
 relatives and attendants, asoijeof the most dis- 
 tinguished men of the age. Re-entering on his 
 studies, he wrote his Latin letters in verse, a 
 great part of his epistles in prose ; his treatise on 
 illustrious men from Romulus to Titus, a work 
 of merit, but not finished, and continued by 
 another hand. These employments occupied 
 him for the space of eight years ; and, at the end 
 of 1340, he went a second time to Parma, after 
 a residence of thirteen years at Vaucluse. The 
 reason of his second departure is to be found in 
 his works. He tells us in his 210th sonnet, 
 that he had fears for the health of Laura, who 
 was in a languishing state when he left her. 
 Sonnet 210.
 
 33 
 
 " Qual paura ho quando mi torna a raente 
 Qtiel giorno ch' i lasciai grave e pensosa 
 Madonna." 
 
 N. B. Madonna did not always belong to a 
 married person. The pure virgin destined for 
 the cavalier in the tournament was called Ma- 
 donna. Sonnet 211. 
 
 " Solea lontano insenno consolar me 
 Conquella dolce angelica tua vista 
 Madonna." 
 
 She, who was wont, though removed far from 
 my sight, ever to console me with the counte- 
 nance of an angel, now fills me with fear and 
 consternation. The poet here plainly informs 
 us that Laura was very ill, and on the point of 
 departure ; and that he had not the courage to 
 stay and see her die. In his 1.97th sonnet he 
 takes leave of his chamber and his bed, and 
 says it is not you only that I fly from, but my- 
 self and my own thoughts. 
 
 " Ne pur il mio secreto, e'l mio riposo 
 Fuggo, ma piu me sesso, e'l mio pensero." 
 
 In his book of colloquies with St. Austin, he 
 is more expressive. Every day we draw nearer 
 and nearer to death ; and Laura, exhausted by 
 
 F
 
 34 
 
 her constant cough, grows weaker and weaker, 
 and I older ; and seeing that she could not live, 
 I was the first to run away before she had 
 breathed her last, 
 
 " Jtaque ilia ad mortem appropinquante 
 praecucurri," 
 
 without staying to close her eyes ! ! ! (Liber 
 secret, coll. 3 1 diei.) 
 
 Laura died of a consumption, ptubs ; in the 
 MS. in the king of France's library, ptysmati- 
 bus ; and in the printed copies, perturbationi- 
 bus, which is evidently wrong. She died soon 
 after Petrarch left her, six months before the 
 plague that ravaged the country. Born in 1,305. 
 She died in 1348, April 6. Petrarch, in his 
 book of the Triumph of Death, paints Laura 
 dying, surrounded by her sister and her female 
 relations. 
 
 " Questaleggiadra e gloriosa donna 
 Ch' e oggi undo spirto e poca terra." 
 
 Trionfi della Morte, cap. l.p. 6 12. 
 Ediz. Venez. 1727. 
 
 This beautiful and glorious vestal is at this 
 day a naked spirit, and a clod of earth. She 
 did not perish like an extinguished flame, a fire 
 that is forcibly put out, but like a soft light 
 which consumes itself little by little, and ex-
 
 35 
 
 pires for want of aliment. This proves that the 
 plague was not. the cause of her latter end, as 
 it was of the death of Laura de Sade. Laura 
 des Baux died a virgin (in casto letto), on her 
 chaste bed, and not a married woman, or the 
 prey of a public calamity. We must agree that 
 the testimony of Petrarch, at once poetical and 
 historical, ought to be received before the tradi- 
 tional prejudices of Avignon ; but the text of the 
 poet is not the only proof of the birth and death 
 of Laura at Vaucluse. 
 
 Alexander Vellutelli, of Lucca, has given 
 notices of Laura, which may be found at the 
 head of his arguments on the rhymes of Pe- 
 trarch. 
 
 He went on purpose to Avignon, in the year 
 1400, to collect information on the subject of 
 this lady and her parents. The only thing, he 
 says, I found at that place, was, that among the 
 many Lauras of Sade, there was one of the vil- 
 lage of Graveson, at the distance of two leagues, 
 and that she came to the great town to assist at 
 the functions of Good Friday at Sainte Claire, 
 where Petrarch saw her for the first time. 
 
 But this is evidently a mistake of the people 
 of Avignon, and particularly of Gabriel de Sade, 
 of that place, a nobleman of a great age (molto 
 antico), whom I saw twice at Avignon, and with 
 whom I had long and frequent conversations.
 
 30 
 
 He told ine that this Laura, daughter of 
 Jean de Sade, celebrated by Petrarch, was born 
 in 1314, and married to Henry de Chiabeau, 
 lord of Cabrieres. I then asked him \vheu this 
 lady of Sade lived, he said she was of full age in 
 1360-70. This answer convinced me that she 
 was not Petrarch's Laura, who was already 
 dead in 1348. Vellutelli was not quite satis- 
 fied with this mistake of JVI. Gabriel de Sade, 
 and he set off for Vaucluse, and at Sauniane he 
 saw the chateau de Laure des Baux, which had 
 been given to the house of Sade, and the regis- 
 ters in which the name was mentioned of the 
 wife of Henri de Chiabeau, but found nothing 
 he could rely on but in the writings of Petrarch, 
 that Laura was never married, that she died 
 where she was born, " una Candida cerva." 
 
 Vellutello Vita dominae Laura, Venice, 141 Get 
 1425. Thirty-seven years before the opening 
 of the tomb at the Cordeliers, this author re- 
 jected the information of the house of Sade, the 
 only accounts then known at Avignon. He re- 
 futed it by Gabriel, who proved so satisfacto- 
 rily that the Laura buried at the Cordeliers was 
 not Petrarch's Laura. As to the supposition 
 that this Laura of Sade was born in 1314, and 
 married to Henri de Chiabeau, lord of the Ca- 
 brieres. Mr. Bimard de la Bastie has proved, 
 that in the year 1324 there was at Cabrieres nei-
 
 37 
 
 ther village nor castle, nor inhabitants, nor pa- 
 rish, and that the forest was a part of the terre 
 de Saumane, and the seigneurial domain of 
 Vaucluse ; and he shews from the archives of 
 the chambre of Carpentras, that since 1274, 
 when Philip le Hardi gave up to the pope le 
 Comte Venaissin, no mention was made of Ca- 
 brieres in the homages given in to the Se- 
 neschal du Saint siege, which proves that terre 
 was reunited to Vaucluse and Saumane, and 
 could not have belonged to Henri de Chia- 
 beau. No seigneur of the name of Chiabeau is 
 found in the homages presented to the popes, 
 and enregistered in the chamber of Carpentras, 
 nor in the list of nobles and lords who assisted 
 at the states. The first horn mage returned to 
 the apostolic chamber for the terre de Cabrieres, 
 is that of Arnaud de Montjoye, chamberlain 
 of Clement VII. in the year 1456, a proof that 
 the pretended Seigneur de Cabrieres never 
 existed. Collect. Academ. Vol. 10. 
 
 All that is known for certain of Laura de Sade 
 is, that she was a lady de la cour d' amour des 
 Troubadours Provencaux. 
 
 I add also, says Mr. L'Abbe Costaing, that 
 she died of the plague, as well as many of the 
 ladies de la cour d'amour, victims of that 
 scourge of the year 1398, in the month of Sep-
 
 38 
 
 tcinber. The third Laura cle Sade was the 
 daughter of Jean de Sade, according to M. 
 Gabriel. Jean de Sade, in the genealogies of 
 that house, married Ilermansade de Sauve. 
 It was of her that Laura was born, who threw 
 herself into the convent of Sainte Claire, of 
 which the Messieurs de Sade have been a long 
 time the benefactors. She died there in J401. 
 This is what Vellutelli learnt from M. Gabriel, 
 that she was of full age in 1360, and 1370. 
 The death of this lady is confounded with the 
 preceding, who died of the plague in 1398, and 
 this has made those suppose who never read 
 Petrarch, that the poet had seen Laura in the 
 church of Sainte Claire. It is not difficult, 
 nevertheless, to see that the three Lauras of 
 Sade were not born till after the deatli of 
 Laura des Baux, and that the name of Laura 
 was not in that family till after the extinction 
 of the ladies of the house of Orange ; to which 
 that name was exclusively dedicated. But 
 the pains taken to preserve the opinion com- 
 municated to Vellutelli in 1480, have de^ 
 scended even to the Abbe de Sade, who made 
 it the base of his memoirs in 17(JO. 
 
 The opinion that the Laura of Sade was the 
 Laura of Petrarch, grew so strong in the year 
 J533, that the grave was opened, and an insig-
 
 39 
 
 nificant medal in lead, and a wretched sonnet 
 were dug up, not at all in the style of Pe- 
 trarch, when he speaks of Laura's tomb in his 
 book of the Triumphs of the Divinity " Felice 
 sasso," 4to. p. 692. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to say, that it has 
 been rejected with contempt by all the learned 
 Italians: (see L'Abbe Costaing, p. 179. 1819.) 
 and this is the best proof, that the tomb where 
 it was found is not the burying-place of Pe- 
 trarch's Laura. In the same year that the 
 tomb was opened, Francis the First passed 
 through Avignon, and went to see it : this is no 
 proof of the truth of the fact that Laura was 
 buried there. Sannazarius gives the same ac- 
 count of the birth-place and burial of Laura 
 that Petrarch had done before him. 
 
 " Quella ch' all'umil suon di Sorga nacque, 
 Qua dunque invile albergo occulta giacque, 
 E stiasi chiusa in una oscura tomba 
 Pur vive," &c. 
 
 Sometime after the death of Laura, Petrarch 
 returned to Vaucluse, to pay his last devoirs at 
 her tomb, and compose his six visions in Can- 
 zone xlii. p. 491. 4to. and his second picture of 
 Laura and Vaucluse, in Canzone xiv. p. 215. 
 4to. This last, which begins
 
 40 
 
 " Chiare, frcsclic, e dolci acque" 
 
 is generally esteemed as his chef-d'oeuvre and 
 best composition, and lias been imitated by Vol- 
 taire, and beautifully rendered by Sir William 
 Jones, and by another hand : 
 
 The first stanza of Petrarch in a close trans- 
 lation : see Voltaire and Sir William Jones's 
 paraphrase. The other is, 
 
 O sweetly fresh, O clear unsullied stream, 
 
 In whose translucent wave, 
 She, who to me the only fair did seem, 
 
 Was wont her limbs to lave ! 
 
 O lovely tree, beneath whose shady green 
 
 The beauteous maid reclin'd, 
 My sighs recall the long-lost faded scene 
 
 And paint it in my mind ; 
 
 Ye spring-born blossoms, and ye perfum'd 
 flow'rs 
 
 Her flowing vest did hide, 
 Ye sweets less fragrant in your native bow'rs, 
 
 That on her bosom died ; 
 
 O clime serene, beneath whose cloudless sky 
 
 My heart received its wound, 
 Attest my tears, accept my parting sigh, 
 
 And sacred be the sound !
 
 41 
 
 Cliiare fresche, et dolci acque, 
 
 Ove le belle membra 
 
 Pose colei, che Sola a me par donna 
 
 Gentil ramo, ove piacque 
 
 (Con sospir mi rimembra) 
 
 A lei di far albel fianco colonna ; 
 
 Herba, et fior, que la gonna 
 
 Leggiadra ricov 7 erse 
 
 Con 1'angelico seno ; 
 
 Aer sacro sereno, 
 
 Ov Amor co'begli occhi il cor m'aperse ; 
 
 Date ndienza insieme : 
 
 A le dolenti mie parole estreme. 
 
 There are at least twenty sonnets, &c. on the 
 subject of Laura and Vaucluse, well known 
 to the admirers of Petrarch, whose best and 
 most exquisite translator into English verse is 
 a lady of high rank. 
 
 Petrarch has concluded his sonnets on Laura 
 and her sister, by an epitaph in his eleventh 
 eclogue, under the title of Galas-thea, the di- 
 vinity of Galas, which the editors of the tradi- 
 tion of Avignon have converted into Galatea, 
 and substituted a Roman nymph of bad cha- 
 racter for the pure virgin of Vaucluse. Mon- 
 sieur Costaing has translated the whole of
 
 this eleventh eclogue, and given the distorted 
 variations of it by Benvenuto da Imola, the 
 most distinguished zealot of the tradition. The 
 eclogue is in the form of a dialogue, between 
 JVeodes, Laura's sister, and the vestal Fusca, 
 and begins thus : 
 
 NEODES. 
 
 Due Soror ad tumulum, gelidique ad saxa 
 sepulchri. 
 
 FUSCA. 
 
 Quid lacryinis alimenta petis? germana 
 quid optas ? 
 
 NEODES. 
 
 Lead me, O sister, to the tomb, and the 
 stones of the cold sepulchre. 
 
 FUSCA. 
 
 Why, Neodes, do you seek food for tears ? 
 O sister, what is it you require of me? 
 
 The distorted variations will be found in the 
 collections of Benvenuto da Imola's edition 
 of Venice, 154fi. 
 
 The tomb in which Laura des Baux was 
 buried, is of the form of the ancient Roman se- 
 pulchres. A building of an oblong shape, 
 rough without, built of small stones, like a 
 sheepfold, with oblong and narrow vent-holes.

 
 The interior of this edifice, restored in 1400, is 
 of white stones, and has pilasters and cor- 
 nishes of the Tuscan order. The walls are 
 four stones thick, rough on the outside, and 
 smooth within. 
 
 I add an engraving of the sepulchre, which 
 Mr. Costaing has made with great accuracy. 
 
 The first mark of a monument which he found 
 on the walls was an inscription on the cornish, 
 as thus : 
 
 Which means, 
 
 ANNO XI. DOM. ERM 
 
 1400 SACRUM BUSTUM AMPLIAV1T 
 
 JOANN. NICOLA. EPISC. 
 
 In the year 11, and of our Lord 1400, Joan- 
 nacci Nicolas restored this monument. A new 
 proof that this building is the sepulchre Pe- 
 trarch has acquainted us with. Joannacci Ni- 
 colas, a noble of Bari, promoted to the bishop- 
 rick of Troye in Italy, 1409, was in the same 
 year transferred to the bishoprick of Cavaillon,
 
 44 
 
 as appears by the acts of that church. He is 
 also spoken of in 1416, and in 1421 lie was suc- 
 ceeded by William III. chamberlain of Mar- 
 tin V. See Fantoni's History of Avignon, and 
 del cont. Venessino, lib. 2,3. 
 
 It is clear then that this edifice was restored 
 in 1411, by the bishop of this diocess, Joaii- 
 nacci Nicolas. 
 
 The second monument found by Mr. Cos- 
 taing on the inner walls of the sepulchre, is the 
 shield over the door; he has carefully drawn 
 and engraved it. It is carved in bas-relief on 
 a white stone ; and, though blackened and 
 stained by length of time, has lost nothing- of 
 its essential form. 
 
 The shield bears in front a star of eight trian- 
 gular rays, and below two stalks of orange- 
 flowers of five petals, with their fruit in the mid- 
 dle in the form of small oranges. Opposite them 
 are some traces of a cornet. Monsieur Moureau, 
 and Monsieur Sylvain, the present mayor (18J9) 
 and proprietor of the building, says Mr. Cos- 
 taing, acknowledge this shield to bear the arms 
 of the House of Orange, and of Laura des Baux. 
 From the labours of Monsieur Costaing, travel- 
 lers will now be sensible of the new lustre which 
 he has thrown on Vaucluse, and llie composi- 
 tions of Petrarch, with which the Tuscan pool
 
 45 
 
 lias so beautifully embellished its fountain, and 
 its environs. There are other rivers longer in 
 their course, and more abundant in their wa- 
 ters, but none, that Mr. Costaing knows, whose 
 limped streams from age to age never diminish 
 enough to dry up their course, or cease to bear 
 a boat ; and, on the other hand, never swell suf- 
 ficiently to inundate the country. The volume 
 of the Sorgue is so considerable, that almost at 
 its source it divides into four streams that are 
 navigable for boats. Vaucluse is itself a desert, 
 but with its river, rocks, and residence of Pe- 
 trarch, has become a kingdom of the Muses, 
 and a new Parnassus immortalised by a single 
 poet. 
 
 The admirers of Petrarch's Latin composi- 
 tions, which are not within the reach of every 
 reader, will no doubt be pleased to see the pas- 
 sages referred to at full length. I shall there- 
 fore quote from the edition in folio of Basle, in 
 1554, the passages that make particular men- 
 tion of Vaucluse. The first extract is from the 
 second volume of Petrarch, in folio, and the 
 fourth epistle to Dionysius de Burgo Sepnl- 
 chro. " Si nihil aut gelidi," p. 1334. 
 
 The second begins, " Populus est ingcns," 
 Ep. 4.
 
 40 
 
 The third, "Exul ab Italia/' Ep. G. p. 1330. 
 Philippe Patho Cardiuali. 
 
 The fourth, " Hie mihi crede Pater/' Ep. 0. 
 The fifth, " Umbra ex pomifero," Ep. 0. 
 The sixth, " Hie niecnm Exitio," Ep. 7. 
 
 p. 1338. 
 
 The seventh, " Ssepe dies totos," p. 1338. 
 
 Ep. 7. 
 
 The eighth, " Turbida nos urbis," Gulielmo 
 Veronensi Oratori, S. lib. ii. Ep. 2. p. 1360. 
 
 Page 1361, " brevis angulus hseret Rnpi- 
 
 bns," lib. iii. Ep. 4. Joanni Columnar Cardi- 
 uali. 
 
 There are also five sonnets that have a re- 
 ference to the same place, which belong to the 
 same subject, viz. 13, 20, 27, 33, and 35, in the 
 quarto edition of Venice, 1727. 
 
 Si iiihil ant gelidi facies nitidissima fontis, 
 Aut nemorum convexa cavis arcana latebris 
 Ac placidis bene nota feris Dryadumque ca- 
 
 tervis, 
 
 Et Faunis accepta domus ; nihil ista Poetis 
 Opportuna sacris sub apricis rupibns antra 
 Permulcent animum, nee clementissimus acr 
 Allicit, ac inontis pra?rnptus in a'thera vertex
 
 47 
 
 Liberiore situ liquidas exientus ad auras, 
 Collibus aut Bromius frondens, ant sylva Mi- 
 nerva 
 
 Gratior autVeneri,nec utraraque tegentia ripam 
 Herculeis umbrosa coinis, distinctaque subter 
 Floribus innumeris, et dulce virentibus herbis 
 Prata trahunt oculos, aut hie qui separat arva, 
 Atque soporifero clausain qui murmure vallern 
 Implet inexhausto descendens alveus arrme, 
 Et videt hinc illinc Nympharurn mille choreas, 
 Mnsarunique audit totidem per littora cantus. 
 
 Popnlus est ingens niveo contermina fonti, 
 Quaesimul et fluviuin,et ripas, et proxima catnpi 
 Jngera ramorum densa testudine opacat. 
 Hie olini multaque loci dulcedine captum, 
 Et rerum novitate oculos, animumque movente 
 Aggere florigero magnum posuisse Robertum 
 Membra diu lassata ferunt, curisque gravatum 
 Pectus et exigui laudasse silentia ruris. 
 
 Exul ab Italia furiis civilibus actus, 
 Hucsubii,partimquevolens,partimque coactus. 
 Hie nemus, hie amnes, hie otia ruris amoeni : 
 Sed fidi comites absunt, vultnsque sereni. 
 Hoc ju vat, hoc cruciat: nihil illis dulce remotis. 
 Gratulor ; at licuisse locis insistere notis ! 
 Hie puer, Ijic juvenis, hie sit inea serior sela*;
 
 48 
 
 IN" a ni res, fama, novas properat nisi pandere 
 ketas. 
 
 11 11 re tuo statui, quae restant tempora vitae, 
 
 Degere : nee bellis, nee tristi turbida lite. 
 
 llic patrioe tellus, prrcsul venerandc Philippe : 
 
 II ic mihi mons Helicon, hie sit mihi fons Aga- 
 nippe. 
 
 Hie profugas fessasquededi requiescere Musas; 
 
 Et tihi nobiscum locus est, nisi forte reeusas. 
 
 Hie mihi crede,Pater, tranquilla in pace manebis ; 
 Ad tua te revoco ; quod postulat usus, habebis, 
 Cura supervacui trepidis linquatur avaris ; 
 Dulce nitens aurum laqueis cor nectit amarit. 
 Non muros aulaea tegent, sed corpora vestis, 
 Et cibus altor erit stomachi, 11011 fercula pestis ; 
 Non torus ordinibus surget, scandendus 
 
 eburnis, 
 
 Membra sed accipiet rebus quassata diurnis. 
 Non tibi sollicito splendebit purpura lecto, 
 Nee niveus thalamus fulgebit, mar more secto. 
 Ncngemmasostrumque premes,sed laetavirenti 
 Gramine, sed fluvio circumdata prata recenti. 
 Yideris ipse tamen de te, cui ccelitus almum 
 Contigitingenium,fragilemsubducerescalmum. 
 
 Umbra ex pomiferis veniet gratissima ramis, 
 Diun curvisscopulos uncis scrutabimur hamis.
 
 49 
 
 Catera Clansa quidem Vallis preestabit abund^ 
 Persica mala, pyra,mensye decus adde secundse. 
 Tu, precor, ista tuos jubeas perqnirere, nee to 
 Anna paruin validae pigeat conferre senectse. 
 Hsec tibi per sylvas scripsit, dignissinie Praesul, 
 llle tuns, Sorgae dicam peregrinus, an exul? 
 
 Ilic mecurn exilio reduces statione reposta 
 Pierides habitant ; rarus superadvenit hospes, 
 Nee nisi rara nocent noti iniracula fontis. 
 Yix mora nostra quidem, licet annua, bisve 
 
 semelve 
 Congregat optatos Clausa sub Valle sodales. 
 
 Saspe dies totos agimus per devia soli, 
 luque m ami calamus dextra est, at carta si- 
 
 n is tram 
 Occupat, et varia? complent prsecordia cura?. 
 
 Turbida nos urbis species, et dulcis amceni 
 Ruris amor tulerat nitidos invisere foutes, 
 Mirand unique caput Sorgre, quod vatibus in- 
 
 gens 
 
 Calcar et ingenio generosas admovetalas. 
 Ilic ubi te mecum convulsa revolvere saxa 
 Non puduit, campumque satis laxare malignum, 
 Vernantem variis videas nunc floribusortum 
 Natura cedente operi, pars amne profi ndo 
 Cingitur, ad partein prseruptis rupibus ambit 
 
 H
 
 MOMS gelid us, calidumque jugis ohversus ad 
 
 Austrum ; 
 
 Ilinc medio ruit umbra die, pars nuda tepcnti 
 Porta fovet Zcpbyro ; sed et hinc j)rocul arcet 
 
 agrestis 
 Murus, ab accessu prohibens pecudesquc vi- 
 
 rosque. 
 
 Aerias scd enim ram is viridantibus alte 
 Littoreos volucres scopulis intcxere nidos ; 
 Has musco velare domos, sed frondibus illas, 
 Progeniemque inopern fidis trepidare sub alls 
 Aspicias, atque ore cibos captare trementi. 
 Concava turn querulis complentur vocibus 
 
 antra, 
 
 Et color hinc oculos, illinc sonus advocat aures 
 Certatim, dulci spectacula plena tuinultu 
 Suspendunt, gratove quies condita labore. 
 Hie unus cum pace dies exactus Aventi 
 Vix totus, tot me laqueis, tot curia curis 
 Implicat, id meritum quin vincula nota libenter, 
 Infelix, trituque jugum cervice recepi. 
 Nunc tamen illius juvat hie meminisse diei. 
 Diun latices, dum prata vagor, d unique insita 
 
 miror 
 
 Arbuta, dumlauros alia regione petitas, 
 Obvia Gnlelmi facies truncisque vadisque ; 
 Inque oculis tu solus eras, hoc aggere fessi 
 Sedimns, has tacito accnbitu compressimus 
 
 herbas, 
 Lusimus hie puris subterlabentibus undis,
 
 Hie longo exilio sparsas revocare camceiias ; 
 Hie Graios Latiosque simul conferre Poetas 
 Dulce fuit, veterumqiiesacros memorare labores 
 Nostrorum immemores, bic coenain in tempora 
 
 noctis 
 
 Traximus, alterno pariter sermone relicti. 
 Singula dum repeto, lux ilia brevissima furtim 
 Labitur, et Clans A, vix serum Valle revolvor 
 Faucibus egressus, quum jam sylvestriatempe, 
 Urnbrososqu sinus spectans post terga vide- 
 
 rem, 
 Lucidus ac mecum ad laevain descenderet 
 
 amnis, 
 Snrgit ab adverse vulgus muliebre, virisque 
 
 Jntermixta acies. 
 
 Brevis angulus haeret 
 
 Rupibus, ille quidem Nympharum ab origine 
 
 sedes, 
 Nunc mea, Pieridumque domus satis ampla, 
 
 quod hospes 
 
 Adveniet rarus, sordent quia carmina vulgo, 
 Vitaque nostra furor sub judice facta furenti. 
 Hanc rnodo vallamus, quam nullarevellit aquae 
 
 vis, 
 
 Ni montem oppositum a radicibus eruat imis. 
 Si tibi cura animum dederit, si curia tempos 
 Oinriia mutato nostrum decus ordinc rerum
 
 ,V2 
 
 Me Nympliis, Nymphasque inilii cessissc vicis- 
 
 siin, 
 
 El cccidisse minas, compressaque bella videbis. 
 Hetianunc sunt anna niilii etlabyrinthius error 
 Viminea contextus acn, qui pervius undis 
 Piscibusest career, nulla remcabilis arte ; 
 Pro gladiis curves hanios, fallacibus escis 
 Implicitos, tremulasque sudes, parvumque Iri- 
 
 dentem 
 
 Piscator niodo factus ego, quo tcrga natantum 
 Sisterejam didici, duroque affigere saxo 
 Primitias en fluminea? transmittimus artis, 
 Et versus quot Clausa domos habet arctaque 
 
 Vallis, 
 Quic libi piscicidos et rustica carmina pascit. 
 
 SONETTO '27. 
 
 Solo e pensoso i piu deserti campi 
 Vo misurando a passi tardi e lenti ; 
 1Z gli occhi porto per fuggire intent! 
 Dove vestigio uman la rena stampi. 
 
 Altro schermo non trovo chi mi scampi 
 Dal manifesto accorger delle genti ; 
 l^rche negli atti d'allegrezza spenti 
 J)i fuor si legge com' io dentro avvampi : 
 
 Sich' io mi credo omai che monti, e piagge, 
 li* fiume, e selve sappian di che tempre 
 Sia la mia vita ; ch' e celata altrui.
 
 53 
 
 Ma pur si aspre vie, ne si selvagge 
 Cercar non so, ch' Amor non venga sempre 
 Ragionando con ineco, ed io con lui. 
 
 SONETTO 13. 
 
 Qnante fiate al mio dolce ricetto 
 Fuggendo altrui, e, s' esser puo, me stesso, 
 Vo con gli occhi bagnando I' erba e'i petto ; 
 Rompendo co' sospir 1' acre da presso. 
 
 Quante fiate sol pien di sospetto 
 Per luoghi ombrosi e foschi mi son messo 
 Cercando col pensier 1' alto diletto 
 Che morte ha tolto ; oud' io la chiamo spesso : 
 
 Or in forma di Ninfa, o d' altra Diva, 
 Che del piu chiaro fondo di Sorga esca, 
 E pongasi a seder in su la riva ; 
 
 Or 1' ho veduta su per 1' erba fresca 
 Calcare i fior com' una donna viva, 
 Mostrando in vista che cli me le 'ncresca. 
 
 SONETTO 21. 
 
 1' ho pien di sospir quest' aer tutto, 
 D' aspri colli mirando il dolce piano 
 Ove nacque colei, ch' avendo in mano 
 Mio cor in sul fiorire e 'n sul far frutto, 
 
 E gita al cielo, ed ham mi a tal condutto 
 Col subito partir, che di lontano
 
 54 
 
 Gli occhi miei stanchi, lei cercando invano, 
 Presso di se non lascian loco asciutto. 
 
 Non e sterpo, ne sasso in questi monti ; 
 Non ramo, o f'ronda verde in queste piagge ; 
 Non nor in queste valli, o foglia d' erba ; 
 
 Stilla d' acqua non vien di queste fonti ; 
 Ne fiere han questi boschi si selvagge ; 
 Cue non sappian quant' e mia pena acerba. 
 
 SONETTO 03. 
 
 Valle, clie de' lamenti miei se' piena ; 
 Fiume, chespesso del mio pianger cresci; 
 Fere silvestri, vaghi angelli, e pesci 
 Che 1' uu a e 1' altra verde riva afFrena ; 
 
 Aria de' miei sospir calda e serena ; 
 Dolce sender, che si amaro riesci ; 
 Colle, che mi piacesti, or mi rincresci, 
 Ov' ancor per usanza Amor mi mena; 
 
 Benj'iconosco in voi 1' usate forme, 
 Non, lasso, in me ; che da si lieta vita 
 Son fatto albergo d'infinita doglia. 
 
 Quinci vedea 'Imio bene ; e per quest' orme 
 Torno a veder ond' al ciel nuda egita 
 Lasciando in terra la sua bella spoglia.
 
 55 
 
 SONETTO 35. 
 
 Amor, die meco al buon tempo ti stavi 
 Fra queste rive a' pensier nostri amiche ; 
 E per saldar le rag-ion nostre antiche, 
 Meco e col fiume ragionando andavi ; 
 
 Fior, frondi, erbe, ombre, antri, onde, aure 
 
 soavi, 
 
 Valli chiuse, alti colli, e piagge apriche ; 
 Porto dell' amorose mie fatiche, 
 Delle fortune mie tante, e si gravi ; 
 
 vaghi abitator de' verdi boschi ; 
 
 O Ninfe, e voi che '1 fresco erboso fondo 
 Del liquido cristallo alberga e pasce: 
 
 1 miei di fur si chiari ; or son si foschi ; 
 Come morte che '1 fa. Cosi nel mondo 
 Sua ventura ha ciascun dal di che nasce.
 
 Avignon is of Celtic origin, and named by the 
 Greeks Avtv'uov, by the Latins Avennio, and 
 more modern authors Avinio, and Avenio, and 
 Avignon. TheGreeks that first possessed them- 
 selves of Marseilles, six centuries before the 
 Christian era, settled also at Avignon in pro- 
 cess of time, but in what Olympiad it is by no 
 means certain ; and Strabo, in his details of 
 the republic of Marseilles, only names Avig- 
 non. It must then be considered as one of the 
 Marseille cities, that grew out of the mother 
 colony, after the conquest of the Gauls by the 
 Romans, as it is not to be supposed that the 
 Marseillois, who were under the necessity of 
 calling in the Romans to defend them against 
 their neighbours, could have had possessions 
 beyond the Durance. We know that the Gauls 
 were forced by the Romans to repass the Alps, 
 when they, the Romans, were called in by the 
 Marseillois to defend them against the incur- 
 sions of the Gauls, and that Fulvius Flaccus 
 was sent, after his defeat of the Transalpine 
 Ligurians, to drive away the Gauls from the 
 Massilian territories in the hundred and twenty- 
 second year before Christ. After these victo- 
 ries Avignon probably became the property of 
 the Romans., who named among the towns of 
 Gallia Xarbonensis, Vienna of the Allobroji, 
 Avenio, Xomausus (Nisrnes), Tolosa, and Aiau-
 
 57 
 
 sio, according to Pomponius Mela, as some of 
 the most opulent and flourishing. Avenio Ca- 
 varum was inhabited by the Celts or Gauls on 
 the left bank of the Rhone ; the country of the 
 Cavars was below the Segulunians, whose Me- 
 diterranean towns were Akousion, Avenion, 
 Arausion, and Cabellion, as Ptolemy informs 
 us. Julius Caesar and Hadrian appear both to 
 have sent colonies to Avignon, by an inscription 
 in Mr. Calvet's Museum, where we read COL. 
 JUL. HADRIAN. AVEN. signifying, that both the 
 Emperors had sent colonies to Avenio. On 
 the decline of the Roman empire, the state 
 of Avignon was far from peaceable, and the 
 keys of the government were bought and sold 
 by the different factions, as they rose and fell. 
 In the reign of Valens, of Honorius, and Arca- 
 dius, the countries between the Rhine and the 
 sea, the Alps and the Pyrenees, were laid waste, 
 and the inhabitants put to the sword. The only 
 region in all the Gauls that remained to the Ro- 
 mans was Provence, but the bravery of Aetius 
 could not resist the Goths and the Burgundians, 
 and he was forced to make peace and give up 
 all the countries he had conquered except those 
 that lay between the Durance and the sea. 
 Avignon was still disturbed, and in continual 
 trouble. King Gundicaire had fallen in battle, 
 
 i
 
 58 
 
 and Clovis, at the head of a powerful army, had 
 obliged Gondebaud, his successor, to fly, and 
 throw himself into Avignon, which he fortified, 
 and forced the enemy to raise the siege. Clovis 
 then joined Theodoric king of the Ostrogoths, 
 and with his assistance conquered the country, 
 and Avignon fell to Theodoric's lot, who made 
 Wandalius governor of the place. It is from 
 Gregory of Tours that we learn the length of 
 the siege, the strength of the fortifications, the 
 desolation of the country, and the ravages made 
 by the array of Clovis, the destruction of the 
 olive-trees, and the extirpation of the vineyards, 
 till at last Gondebaud agreed to the advice of 
 Artedius, and sent hostages to Clovis; and, 
 receiving an officer of the king within the gates, 
 submitted to a perpetual tribute to his acknow- 
 ledged sovereign. Cassiodorus has preserved 
 a letter of Theodoric to Wandalins, in which he 
 speaks, in his third book and thirty-ninth letter, 
 of Avignon as a place of great strength, and 
 says, that its inhabitants should be honoured 
 with the name of Romans. 
 
 From the sixth century to the middle of 
 the thirteenth, Avignon underwent variety of 
 changes, both in its fortunes and its masters. 
 In the year 1243, Pope Innocent IV. gave up 
 to the Comte de Tholouse all the territory the
 
 Popes had been in possession of since the year 
 1228. At the death of Raimond VII. Comte 
 de Tholouse, Alphonse de Poitiers, and Charles 
 d'Anjou, counts of Provence, became, by the 
 treaty of 1228, joint heirs of Avignon. On the 
 demise of Alphonse, his heir Philip the Bold 
 became master du Comtat,which he surrendered 
 to the court of Rome, and of the half of Avig- 
 non, that Philip le Bel, his successor, gave up 
 to Charles II. king of Naples and count of 
 Provence, the possessor of the other half, and 
 the Counts of Provence were the sole masters 
 of this city till it was sold to Clement VI. by 
 the Queen of Naples. Avignon now began to 
 recover itself, and its law-school erected by a 
 bull of Pope Boniface, in 1303, into a univer- 
 sity, subsisted to the end of the eighteenth 
 century. 
 
 In the year 130.9, Pope Clement V. arrived 
 at Avignon, and shed a new lustre on the city, 
 which successive pontiffs still more embellish- 
 ed by a palace, by ramparts, and a number of 
 churches from Clement V. John XXII. Bene- 
 dict XII. &c. to Benedict XIII. In the four- 
 teenth century, Avignon was one of the first 
 courts in Europe, and contained 80,000 souls ; 
 before the plague of 1348, and at the conclu- 
 sion of it, was reduced to 50,000, and still far-
 
 (JO 
 
 ther after the scourges of a similar nature in 
 1580, 1639, and 1720, to 18,000. In J789, the 
 inhabitants were numbered, and the sum total 
 amounted to 20,000, but since the Revolution 
 has sunk nearly one-third. In its good days, 
 before the Holy See abandoned it, many kings 
 were crowned in the capital of Provence, 
 and Benedict XII. received at Avignon an em- 
 bassy from the Khan of Tartary. 
 
 Thus much for the princes of this city, of 
 which there are still fine remains ; and we may 
 say, as of many a beauty, la farine a ete jettoe, 
 mais le son se vend. Avignon is on the left 
 bank of the Rhone, within half a league of the 
 place where the Durance falls into that river, 
 five leagues from the fountain of Vaucluse, four 
 from Orange, seven from Nimes, and seventeen 
 from Marseilles. The town is upon a plain ; 
 the whole of it, if you except the vice-legat's 
 palace, the archbishop's, and the metropolitan 
 church, which are all on an eminence. You 
 may walk round the town under the shade of 
 fine elms, and the walls of the ramparts raised 
 and decorated during the residence of the 
 popes. 
 
 The depositions of the rapid Rhone have bu- 
 ried so deep, and so far concealed, the antiqui- 
 ties of Avignon, that few medals of early empe-
 
 61 
 
 rors have been dug up, and repeated revolutions 
 have contributed to efface, what time itself has 
 not destroyed. The metropolitan church had 
 been probably on the site of a temple dedicated 
 to Diana, and a part of another consecrated to 
 Hercules : Pope Urban ordered a statue and 
 other antiquities to be buried, in order to abo- 
 lish all remembrance of idolatry. The pedestal 
 of the statue of Hercules was inscribed Herculi 
 Avennico, and set up by the citizens of Avenio. 
 Various other objects, that serve to explain 
 the history of Avignon, the traveller will find 
 most industriously collected, and arranged with 
 scientific taste, in the museum .of Mr. Calvet. 
 Prior to the Revolution, and antecedent to the 
 political storms of France, there were seven 
 parish-churches in Avignon, and seventeen re- 
 ligious houses, the total of whose revenue 
 amounted to six thousand pounds sterling 
 yearly. The income of the female communi- 
 ties, fourteen in number, was five thousand, 
 and the hospitals, of which there were twelve, 
 that fed, clothed, and lodged, more than 500 
 unfortunate beings, expended four thousand 
 pounds sterling in charities. Louis \III. king 
 of France, founded seven fraternities, which 
 cost 25>000 francs annually. Add to these the 
 colleges, the university for civil and canon law,
 
 62 
 
 the seminaries, &c. and the whole amount will 
 be twenty thousand pounds sterling a year. 
 There was also a quarter for the Jews, apart 
 from the other inhabitants. In this fraternity, 
 Joseph Meir, the learned rabbi, who published 
 Annals of the Kings of France and of the 
 house of Ottoman, was educated. 
 
 The present state of Avignon now becomes 
 an object of inquiry. It is then situated in the 
 most agreeable position of the south of France, 
 and has more than 22,000 inhabitants. Its 
 ramparts are embattled, flanked with towers, 
 and adorned with alleys, in which you may 
 make the tour of Avignon in an hour and 
 twenty minutes. The Rhone is a majestic ri- 
 ver, over which are the ruins of a noble bridge, 
 and whose quays command a view of the hills 
 of Languedoc, that present themselves to the 
 spectator in the form of a lengthened amphi- 
 theatre. The monuments of the fourteenth 
 century, such as the ruined bridge of St. Bene- 
 zet, the towers of the palace and the ramparts, 
 fall infinitely short in grandeur of the noble edi- 
 fices of Roman pride at Orange, Cavaillon, 
 Vaison, St. Remy, Aries, the Gard, and above 
 all and beyond all, the amphitheatre, and Mai- 
 son Carree of Nismes. There are some fine 
 hotels at Avignon, such as the one in which
 
 63 
 
 Napoleon lodged the King of Spain in his late 
 passage through the city ; and beautiful houses, 
 for instance the hotel and garden of Mr. De- 
 leutre; but the greatest part of the town is ill- 
 built, its streets are narrow, short and winding. 
 The best place to take a view of Avignon, is 
 from the Rocher de Don, north-west of the city, 
 about 150 feet above the level of the river that 
 runs at a short distance from its base. From 
 this promenade on the Don, you have a view 
 to the south of the Durance that bounds the de- 
 partment ; to the east you see the hills of Vau- 
 cluse and the valley where the Sorgue rises, to 
 the north-east the mountain Ventoux of lime- 
 stone that is 6,000 feet above the Mediterra- 
 nean, where the inhabitants of Avignon get ice 
 for their summer soirees. At present there is 
 but one English family, one English lady, who 
 is herself a host, and one English gentleman in 
 this delightful residence. On coming down 
 from the rock, before you arrive at the Legat's 
 palace, the metropolitan church attracts your 
 notice, whose pillars that form the peristyle of 
 the cathedral are evidently antique, and most 
 probably the remains of some Grecian temple. 
 TheLegat's palace, shut up since the Revolu- 
 tion, is a very labyrinth with its vast courts, its 
 immense halls, its walls, whose thickness ad-
 
 64 
 
 mil of cabinets, narrow staircases that open in- 
 to vast apartments, and dark vaulted rooms lit 
 by single windows, and supported by a pillar, 
 to which Rienzi is said to have been chained, 
 who, in the fourteenth century made Rome re- 
 sound with cries of liberty and equality, by his 
 letters dated from the Capitol, the first year of 
 the free republic. The fine apartments occu- 
 pied by the Vice-legat have been destroyed, 
 and the building now serves for a prison, a bar- 
 rack, and a hospital. The whole was the work 
 of different popes at various times, and its pre- 
 sent irregular and confused mass is all its claim 
 to grandeur or sublimity. 
 
 ORANGE. 
 
 Artemidorns, who lived one hundred years 
 before the Christian era, is quoted by Strabo in 
 his 4th book for the town of Arausion or Orange, 
 which probably derives its name from the river 
 nearest to it, and the word ion in the language 
 of the Celtes, lord, thus Aral's with ion will 
 make Araision or Arausion. It was not known 
 for some time where to look for the name of the 
 river, till it had been observed that a group of 
 houses on the river Meyne had the name of 
 Aral's, which has served as a proof that it might 
 be the primitive appellation of the river. Accord-
 
 65 
 
 ing to Monsieur Gasparin 1'Aine in his History 
 of Orange, this conjecture is much strengthened 
 by the towns of Aouvenion, Vaison, and Caba- 
 lion, that are thus interpreted : Aouvenion is 
 composed of two Celtic words, Aoue and ion, 
 Lord of the Flood ; Ouasion or Vaison, Lord of 
 the Oueze, Cabalion or Cavalion, Lord of the 
 Cabal, now called Caulon. Arausion, Cavail- 
 lon, Avignon, and Aeria, are all in the country 
 of the Cavares, who made a considerable part 
 of the great nation of the Celtes, and its nume- 
 rous hordes and migratory crews; they were 
 for the most part shepherds or hunters, unac- 
 quainted with the art of agriculture, and they 
 neither cultivated the elite, nor planted the vine ; 
 but when they had exhausted one country, like 
 Tartars or wandering Arabs, they invaded ano- 
 ther. At length the Greeks came and settled 
 among them, and they learnt so quickly the 
 arts of civilization from their invaders, that 
 Greece did not seem so much, says Justin,* to 
 be arrived in Gaul, as that Gaul had been trans- 
 ported to Greece. The Greeks sent colonies 
 into the country of the Cavares, and Cavaillon 
 and Avignon were rebuilt and peopled by the 
 Mar sei Hois. The Cavares in process of time 
 became strictly united with the people of Mar- 
 
 * Lib. 43. cap. 4-. 
 K
 
 (Jo' 
 
 settles. The Marseillois were also allied to the 
 Romans, because, after the burning of Koine by 
 the Gauls, part of the * ransom money required 
 by the victors was furnished from Marseilles. 
 As soon as the Romans were informed that 
 Hannibal was preparing to invade Italy, they 
 sent ambassadors into Gaul, to invite the people 
 to oppose the Carthaginian in his passage. The 
 Gauls thought the request inadmissible on two 
 accounts : they had no obligations to Rome, and 
 the Carthaginians had never offended them ; they 
 therefore determined to remain neuter. The 
 exact point where Hannibal passed the Rhone 
 cannot be decided but by a comparison of the 
 writers on the subject, and the places themselves. 
 A division of the Romans was placed at the 
 mouths of the Rhone. The Carthaginians there- 
 fore were obliged to give up the road through 
 Liguria, where they must have disputed every 
 step; they determined therefore to take the road 
 that led to the upper Alps, and try to reach the 
 plains of Piemont before the enemy. With 
 this intention it was necessary to chuse a point 
 at which to pass the Rhone, where the Durance 
 should lie between them and the Roman army. 
 This point was four days journey from the 
 mouths of the river, as we learn from Polybius, 
 lib. iii. cap. 8. and not far from Orange. 
 
 * Justin, lib. xliii. cap. 5.
 
 07 
 
 From Avignon to Roquemaure the Rhone is 
 bordered with rocky hills and vast marshes 
 that have been but lately drained, and the road 
 through them must have been totally unfit for 
 cavalry, and impassable for elephants. It is 
 only therefore above Roquemaure this opera- 
 tion could have been performed, and between 
 Connaux and Orange, both sides of the Rhone 
 present an open plain fit for the purpose. It is 
 here that the Gauls which resisted the passage 
 were dispersed on both sides of the river, and 
 left Hannibal to pursue his route towards Italy. 
 The Romans found it necessary to colonise the 
 country after the Gauls had submitted to their 
 government, and Julius Caesar began by distri- 
 buting his veterans, after the war was over, 
 through the principal places and capital situa- 
 tions, such as Aries and Narbonne, and Apt 
 became Apta Julia ; and Aix was first colo- 
 nized by Sextus, and we read in * Pomponius 
 Mela and Pliny, of Orange, under the title of 
 Arausio Secundanorum,'f having received a co- 
 lony of the second legion between Julius Caesar's 
 dictatorship, and the reign of Claudius. It was 
 the practice of the Romans to construct superb 
 monuments in their new colonial possessions in 
 
 * <Lib. xi. cap. 5. 
 f Aurausio Secundanorum, Pliny s lib. iii. cap. 1.
 
 order to dazzle and astonish the natives by their 
 magnificence, and accustom them to their yoke, 
 which, if it was galling, it was grand. The fine 
 remains of these noble antiquities are still attrac- 
 tive, and fill the traveller with a majestic idea 
 of the splendour of the theatres, the circuses, the 
 aqueducts, and the temples, and make him cry 
 out with the old woman in Phadrus, 
 
 O suavis anima qualem te dicam bonam 
 Antehac fuisse, tales cum sint reliquiae. 
 
 Lib. iii. F. 1. 
 
 Another great advantage in visiting the colo- 
 nial above the mother city, is security of person, 
 exemption from pillage, protection of life and 
 limb from brigants, and their sbirri, and the in- 
 efficient escort of Papal soldiers. 
 
 TRIUMPHAL ARCH OF ORANGE. 
 
 The spectator is agreeably surprised on ap- 
 proaching this city that any monument of Roman 
 antiquity should have braved the ravages of 
 time so happily, as this arch. It must not how- 
 ever be concealed, that we owe its preservation 
 to a Prince of Orange, Raymond deBaux, of 
 the thirteenth century, who made it his strong 
 castle, by walling it round, and converting the
 
 69 
 
 interior of the building into a residence, in the 
 making of which he has done some injury to a 
 part, and preserved the rest from the barbarous 
 ignorance of his own times. The triumphal 
 arch seen in front is a square edifice with three 
 arcades, of which the two on the sides are 
 smaller than the one in the middle, and sup- 
 ported by four Corinthian pillars. Above the 
 cornish, which is over the attic, that terminates 
 commonly this sort of erection, is an overall, 
 equal in height nearly to one-fourth of the whole 
 building. It is here that the great battles and 
 other things accompanyingthem are sculptured. 
 This has the effect of elevation on the whole, 
 but depression of the arcades. The arch is 
 built of limestone, and of course is not so well 
 preserved as the Maison Carree at Nismes, 
 or the mausoleum at Saint Remi ; but the mo- 
 nument is so rich where it has been well pre- 
 served, and has not suffered by revolutionary 
 violence, of which it has never been the scene, 
 though unjustly confounded in the voyage of 
 Mr. Millin in the south of France with others 
 that have felt its undistinguishing influence. 
 
 The south side of the triumphal arch, a 
 square of sixty feet in height, has been more 
 damaged than any other part. Four fluted 
 columns support the arches, two of which have
 
 70 
 
 been repaired. The vaults of the arches are 
 richly adorned with flowers and fruits. There 
 are also arms piled up, swords, spikes, and 
 shields, on which are words half effaced, such 
 as on three VD1LLVS. AVOT. DACVRD. 
 MARIO, and on a fourth SACROVIR. The 
 frieze is covered with gladiators of a diminu- 
 tive size. The cornish on this side has been 
 nearly all defaced, but was very rich, as may be 
 concluded from the other sides where it is still 
 entire. 
 
 Over the grand arch is an attic, and over the 
 cornish above the little ones you perceive the 
 stern of a vessel, tridents, and other marine in- 
 struments. Over the great arch is a second 
 cornish, and above that the representation of a 
 battle, in which are the natives half naked co- 
 vered with long shields, and engaged with the 
 Romans in armour ; on both sides there appears 
 to have been cavalry. 
 
 The east side is well preserved, and very 
 beautiful; instead of a lengthened rectangle, 
 usual in monuments of this kind, the architect 
 has given it the form of a truncated pyramid, 
 which is more elegant. Four Corinthian columns 
 supported this side: here are captives delineated 
 two and two, with their hands tied behind their 
 backs ; over them are arms and ensigns. The
 
 71 
 
 frieze has gladiators on it as on the south side. 
 The cornish is in part wanting : it is surmounted 
 by an attic, in the middle is a head of Phoebus 
 radiated, and encircled with stars. At the cor- 
 ners of the attic are cornucopias. Above the 
 attic the second cornish is supported by two 
 Sirens. 
 
 The whole of the west side is destroyed, ex- 
 cept the figures of the captives which are 
 like those on the east end. The -upper part of 
 this side has been restored in 1722, by M. Mure 
 Roi, king of the bowmen, whose games were 
 held at this triumphal arch. 
 
 The north side is the most perfect, and in ex- 
 amining it you may get an idea of the majesty 
 and elegance of the erection. The ordonnance 
 of it is the same as that of the south side ; but 
 as it is better preserved, you are at liberty to 
 form a more perfect judgment of its details. 
 Over the small arches are shields and ensigns 
 with quadrupeds on them, and over the trophies 
 are bragues, or pantaloons, in use among the 
 Gauls. 
 
 On the north side the frieze has instead of 
 gladiators holes in which may be fixed cramps 
 for letters and figures, perhaps of Fame, such as 
 are still seen on the arc de triomphe of St. Remi. 
 A capital L has been found here by Mons. Bar-
 
 72 
 
 reillcs, the designer of the drawings of this arch. 
 On the north side, at the top of all, as on the 
 south, is a battle. The interior of the arches is 
 carved in a superior style. The roofs are rich 
 to excess, and elegant. Under the great arch, 
 and immediately under one of the imposts of 
 the lesser, are two heads of divinities finely de- 
 signed, representing a man and a young female 
 crowned with vine and olive-leaves. 
 
 In order to understand by whom and for whom 
 this monument has been erected, it is necessary 
 to remark after Monsieur Fortia d'Urban that 
 at Orange this is not the only arch of triumph, 
 but also at Carpentras and Cavaillon there are 
 arches. This leads us to recollect that the war 
 with the Gauls was undertaken by the Romans 
 for the delivery of Marseilles from its determined 
 and inveterate enemies, and to the great battle 
 of Ouindalon they owed their deliverance ; that 
 Domitius, proud of having defeated the Gauls, 
 had a triumph fordoing it, and that his straight 
 road to Rome after his pursuit of the enemy was 
 through Orange, Carpentras, and Cavaillon, 
 where there are arches of triumph of the same 
 date, which must have been the work, it is 
 highly probable, of theMarseillois, and the least 
 they could do to perpetuate the memory of so 
 great a service. Another and a better reason,
 
 73 
 
 if possible, may be given is in the absence of the 
 famous ensign of the eagle introduced byMarius, 
 and always used for the victories of the legions 
 since his time. He also might easily have been 
 tribune of the soldiers at the battle ofVindalon 
 in the army of Domitius J^nobarbus, according 
 to Monsieur de Gasparin's conjecture, as it is 
 known that his first campaign was in Spain, 
 under Scipio Africanus at the siege of Numan- 
 tia, one hundred and thirty-three years before 
 A. D. ; and although we do not know when he 
 was made tribune of the soldiers,* but of the peo- 
 ple, from Valerius Maxim us one hundred and 
 twenty years before our era; and the battle 
 ofVindalon was fought in 121, one year before 
 that epoch. He might therefore have served, 
 having been always a soldier, under Domitius, 
 as tribune of the soldiers, and been made tribune 
 of the people the year after. His name is on a 
 shield, Mario, in the dative case, and the other 
 names are in the nominative, because they were 
 foreign, and not declinable. The name Mario 
 is not in front, where the chief and captain 
 would have been inscribed, but on a shield; 
 again, Florusf tells us thatDomitiusJEnobarbus 
 raised stone towers on the field of battle a great 
 * Valerc Maximus, lib. 6. cap. 19. 
 f Fionas, lib. 7. cap. 3. 
 L
 
 74 
 
 way from Orange ; but the trophies of Domitius- 
 raised by himself have nothing to do with those 
 set up for him by the Marseillois, whom he had 
 delivered from the Gauls. It may be asked, 
 why the prows of ships, and tridents, appear on 
 the monument, and what quadrupeds, like boars, 
 mean ; as to the first it may be answered, that 
 the Marseillois were a naval people, and close 
 to the mare magnum, and boars are not ea- 
 gles, and of course not the ensigns of Marines 
 standard. 
 
 There are few ancient buildings in Italy and 
 Greece so well preserved as the theatre called 
 the circus of Orange, and the amphitheatre of 
 Nimes. The facade of the theatre is seen in 
 the form of a rectangle one hundred and seven 
 feet three inches high, and three hundred and 
 sixteen long. It is built with large blocks of 
 coarse shell limestone from the neighbouring 
 quarry of Courthezon. The interior, where the 
 finest productions of Sophocles and Euripides 
 were once re-echoed, is now fdled np with mi- 
 serable hovels, which have been the means of 
 preserving the precious walls of this curious 
 antiquity. Here the poor and houseless have 
 found an asylum ready furnished to their hands. 
 The orchestra, or pit, where the spectators 
 were seated, could hold six thousand persons
 
 70 
 
 nearly. There were two stories of graduals or 
 orders of steps, and seven in each story. Tn the 
 larger theatres three, where there was a third 
 story. There is in the facade a line of arcades 
 nineteen in number, with a large door in the 
 middle, and nine on each side. Of these nine 
 the two first which set off from the extremity of 
 the wall were open, and led to the interior of the 
 edifice ; the second at the other end served for 
 the same purpose, and is now the only one that 
 admits to the theatre from the square, and goes 
 by the name of Goulet du cirque. All the ar- 
 cades are separated by Doric pillars that sup- 
 port a simple unadorned cornice. To this theatre 
 belonged a velarium, or tent, which was attached 
 to poles that were inserted in projecting stones 
 of hard limestone pierced properly to re- 
 ceive them. The tent was meant to shade the 
 benches only; but not the arena, or the semi- 
 circular space surrounded by graduals, which 
 the ancients called the orchestrum. Orange at 
 once could boast of a theatre, a circus, and an 
 amphitheatre. The square that exists on the 
 outside of the theatre, and was originally formed 
 by the circus and the theatre, has retained the 
 name of circus, which has entirely disappeared, 
 and left nothing but its name, that is now 
 given to the remaining theatre. This has abun- 
 dantly puzzled and perplexed the antiquaries,
 
 says Monsieur Gasparin in his history of Orange 
 in 181 >, ami made them labour incessantly to 
 convert the present remains of a theatre into an 
 ancient circus, and obliged them to say that the 
 circus of Orange was in the form of a theatre.* 
 Some traces of an amphitheatre were discovered 
 in the year 1812, in a meadow near the town, but 
 three years after they were abandoned, as no- 
 thing more had been dug up. 
 
 MARSEILLES. 
 
 Of the ancient monuments existing before the 
 seventeenth century there are few remaining at 
 the present day, and no great city in France has 
 preserved so little of its ancient splendour as 
 Marseilles. The temple de la Major, the ruins 
 of the monastery of St. Victor, a marble here and 
 there of the temple of Diana, make up all its 
 antiquity. The barbarous nations that have 
 subdued it from time to time, destroyed its early 
 monuments, and the Vandals of a latter period 
 have carried away the little that was left. The 
 temple of Diana was situated in the burying 
 ground de la Major, and the choir of that church 
 probably made a part of it. The walls of the 
 city have been laid low, and raised again as 
 often as it has been taken, or enlarged. Those 
 that enclosed it before the Christian era were 
 * Lapisc, p. 196.
 
 77 
 
 raised when Caesar made himself master of the 
 place ; others were erected with towers for their 
 defence, that subsisted till 412, and then with 
 reparation, which became necessary as the town 
 increased, till 1350, when the walls were all re- 
 newed with new towers to protect the gates, 
 ten in number, of which none now remain ex- 
 cept la porte de la Joliette, Porta Gallica, the 
 only one spared by Csesar. 
 
 St. Victor, the oldest monastery in France, 
 often sacked, reduced to ruins, and rebuilt, was 
 at first a mere grot, or cavern, where the early 
 Christians celebrated their mysteries, and in- 
 terred their martyrs. Victor, who suffered 
 martyrdom under Diocletian, July 20, 303, was 
 buried here, ancl St. Cassian came from the east 
 to Marseilles in 410, and built a tomb for St. 
 Victor. The walls and the towers that fortified 
 this religious house are of the twelfth century, 
 l]0(j. Inscriptions are still extant, and grey 
 columns of the Corinthian order with two of 
 white marble, uphold the vaults of the crypt. 
 In the cloister there are pilasters of various co- 
 loured marbles, and an altar of a chapel con- 
 structed in the time of one of the Antonines. 
 This grot was the cradle of the church of Mar- 
 seilles since the first preaching of the Gospel in 
 France. Besides this curious relic of Chris-
 
 78 
 
 tianity in its infancy, there is a memorial of pope 
 Urban V. who commenced his ecclesiastical ca- 
 reer as abbe of this church. 
 
 Chateau-Babou is a great edifice, extending 
 from Fort St. Jean to the end of the hill called 
 Casteou Joli-Castrum Jnlii, because Julius 
 Cyesar built a fortress here after he was master 
 of the town. After the grot of St. Victor, La 
 Major was the first church dedicated to the 
 true God, and built out of the remains of a tem- 
 ple of Diana. The edifice fallen to ruin was re- 
 paired in 1815. In the sanctuary are six co- 
 lumns of oriental granite with their ancient 
 capitals. The tomb, which is now a baptismal 
 font, is as old as our era. 
 
 CHATEAU DIF. 
 
 Chateau d'lf is on an island called Ypea, 
 from the number of yews growing on it. Here 
 was a circus in the times of the Romans, who, 
 like the Genevois, shut the play-house out of 
 their republican city to preserve the morals of 
 the inhabitants. It is now a state prison, and 
 the comte de Mirabean was for a short time 
 confined in it. 
 
 The public baths of Marseilles preclude their 
 use from women of bad character, on every day 
 but Monday, and to Jews on every day but
 
 79 
 
 Friday, on other days if they bathe they pay 
 thirty sous. The old coin of Marseilles in gold, 
 silver, and copper, with Diana or Apollo on 
 them, on the reverse a lion, or vulture, and a 
 Greek inscription, MA2SA, are rare in the An- 
 ticaglia shops, that is, the shops of antique curi- 
 osities, in Lyons, but in private collections both 
 here and in London and Paris, not uncommon, 
 except in gold. A house is shewn in the rue des 
 Cannes, No. 37, once inhabited by Titus Nanius 
 Milo, a Roman senator, exiled to Marseilles for 
 the murder of Clodius, but the proof of the fact 
 is not merely tradition.* 
 
 The magnificent village of Marseilles without 
 walls or gates has replaced the former by its 
 boulevards, which from the summit of the Bour- 
 bon hill to the porte de la Joliette, afford a 
 shade in the greatest heats. This hill has been 
 subdued by incessant labour, and an easy path 
 of a considerable breadth has been cut through 
 the hardest rocks for public accommodation; 
 at its foot and at the head of the first boule- 
 vard a column was raised in 1801, the shaft of 
 which was given by the town of Aix. At the 
 bottom of this monument is a fountain, encir- 
 cled by an iron rail. Near this spot is a paved 
 road, leading to Notre Dame de la Mer, where 
 formerly the seamen made their offerings in a 
 * See Asconius Pcdianus in Milone.
 
 80 
 
 private chapel. The ex votos are now d< po- 
 sited at Notre Dame de la Garde. It is from 
 hence, from this Ida, that you see Marseilles 
 seated in a demicircle, encompassing her port, 
 and beyond her, a rich and highly varied land- 
 scape of a territory dotted with bastides, and 
 crowned with mountains ; from the same point 
 the chateau d'lf, the isles of Pomegue and Ra- 
 tonean, the sea, and an unbounded horizon, 
 come to view. From hence you return whence 
 you set out. In the street de la Daree tra- 
 versing la rue de Rome and St. Ferreol, is a 
 fountain, whence rises a pillar of oriental gra- 
 nite bearing a bust of the prince of the poets of 
 Greece, on the pedestal you read, "This mo- 
 nument is dedicated to Homer by the descend- 
 ants of the Phocaeans, erected in 1803." 
 
 In 1802, a fountain and an antique column 
 of granite surmounted by a marble figure of the 
 genius of health, crowning the names of those 
 who devoted themselves to certain death, inlend- 
 ing their assistance to the sad victims of the 
 plague in 1720. Inscribed, "To the eternal me- 
 mory of those bold and courageous souls who,'' 
 8cc.&.c. with their names, Langeron, command- 
 ant de Marseille, &c. in all twenty-five, among 
 which are a governor, a bishop, a famous painter, 
 an intendant de la Saute, and two physicians, 
 besides <!ii* hundred and lifts reliiricnx, and
 
 81 
 
 Clement XI. who succoured the city under its 
 great affliction. 
 
 The town is divided into two quarters, one 
 named, les Beaux quartiers, the other les Vieux. 
 The former is well built, adorned with squares 
 and fountains, girt with boulevards, and paved 
 with flags and trottoirs. The latter situated 
 on the side of a hill fronts the port, and is full 
 of old and ill-built houses. The Beaux quar- 
 tiers compose the new town, and the old town 
 is made up of the Vieux. They are separated 
 by a fine street called le Cours, which joining 
 at its two ends the streets of Aix and Rome, 
 makes a superb point of view, unlike everything 
 of the kind, and the admiration of all comers 
 and goers. The rue Beau van, where strangers 
 are for the most part lodged, is terminated by 
 the great theatre, and has in its neighbourhood 
 all the agreements of cafe, spectacle, promenade, 
 and sea. The population of Marseilles amount- 
 ed in 1690, to seventy-five thousand souls, and 
 in 1720, before the plague, to ninety thousand, 
 and at the Revolution it had regained what it lost 
 by that devouring scourge. At this day the 
 number is one hundred thousand, of which only 
 half are Marseille! s. The French Ian<nia2;e has 
 
 O o 
 
 not been general in Marseilles for more than 
 forty-five years; before' that period, the favourite 
 
 M
 
 82 
 
 was the Provencal, a language composed of 
 Greek, Latin, Italian, Spanish, and French. 
 Old people of a certain class, advocates, priests, 
 and shopkeepers, converse, plead, dispute, and 
 preach, in Patois. The food of the common 
 people is of baked fruits during winter, and at 
 break of day, when the cannon has announced 
 that the harbour is open, you hear the cries of 
 Pere cuecho, toutei caoudo, des poires cuiles, 
 toutes chaudes, and in the evening, de betterabo 
 de gardano cuecho aou four, des betteraves du 
 gardane cuites au four. 
 
 All visitors agree in their remarks on the 
 climate of the south of France, that the change 
 from hot to cold is very rapid, that the winds 
 from the east and north-west are very prevalent, 
 and that the latter spoils the finest days of the 
 finest season and yet they allow it performs a 
 good office in cleansing the streets, and purging 
 them of their foul air. The Parliament, the 
 Mistral, and the Durance, are the three scourges 
 of Provence, so says the old proverb, to which 
 might be added the plague. 
 
 Le Parlement, le Mistral, et la Durance, 
 Sont les trois fleaux de la Provence.
 
 HYERES. 
 
 In the month of May there passed through 
 Marseilles, in their roacl to Toulon, twelve char- 
 rettes, with thirty galley-slaves in each. The 
 distance is about forty miles to this ancient and 
 considerable sea-port, which is in part com- 
 manded by high hills, from whence cannon by 
 great exertion dragged to the heights, forced 
 the English fleet to retire in 1 793. The arsenal 
 and its marine stores, and magazine of arms, 
 which were then in part destroyed by fire, have 
 been rebuilt, and restored in all their depart- 
 ments. The great square surrounded by a 
 double row of poplars and aspins is much ad- 
 mired; and the fort Joubert, la maison com- 
 mune, on the fine quay Marchand ; and the 
 two colossal figures that support the balcon, 
 which are by the celebrated Puget, represent 
 two distinguished consuls to the life. Hyeres 
 is in the environs of Toulon, a small town with 
 an hotel d'Angleterre, about two miles and a 
 half from the sea, opposite the isles of the same 
 name. At Hyeres the climate is favourable to 
 valetudinarians, and much frequented by inva- 
 lids. The walks among the Grangers, citron- 
 niers, lemoniers, grenadiers, and pechers, all 
 fn pleine terre, are delicious, except when ii
 
 84 
 
 vento maestrale reigns, followed by ;i sharp 
 frost, then is the \vhole territory strewed with 
 oranges, lemons, &c. &c. and the trees are killed 
 for a season, which happened in the year 181.9, 
 and there was hardly one vix nna sospes saved, 
 except the oldest of enormous girt in the pro- 
 prietor's private garden. 
 
 The caper bush, caparis spinosa, is a low but 
 beautiful shrub, grows wild, and is cultivated 
 at Toulon. In its natural state it is seen on 
 old walls, in the fissures of rocks, and in dry 
 places, common as a bramble. It flowers 
 trained against a wall at Paris, and at Camdcn 
 House, near Kensington, since the year 1710. 
 The isles of Hyeres are called Stcechades, from 
 their linear order, the first is prota, the second 
 Mesa, the last hypea. From the town there 
 is a gradual descent of two miles and a half to 
 the sea, from whence you have the best view of 
 the evergreen orange wood in looking down 
 upon it. This climate produces the most aro- 
 matic of European plants, Teucrium mar urn, and 
 the most drastic and powerful, called globularia 
 alypum, 1'herbe terrible for its purgative quali- 
 ties; but besides these is the phoenix dacty- 
 lifera, or date-tree, in the full ground.
 
 AIX. 
 
 Aix lies between Avignon and Marseilles, 
 and was heretofore the capital of Provence. 
 The approach to it represents the entrance into 
 a magnificent castle by the iron gates that en- 
 close it, and before which the high road passes. 
 In one of its faubourgs are mineral lukewarm 
 waters, and baths, whence come its name. 
 Close to the town is the orbitelle, or beautiful 
 walk of elms, in superb alleys adorned with 
 fountains. Here is also a jeu du mail, as at 
 St. Germain's, and formerly at St. James's. 
 This charming city was the birth-place of the 
 learned Peyresc, the marquis d'Argens, De 
 Brueys, Tournefort, and Adanson. 
 
 The antiquities of St. Remy, Tarascon, 
 Aries, and Frejus, require a very particular 
 detail, and are, as our ingenious neighbours re- 
 mark on long stories, a tale of twa drinks. 
 
 In approaching the towns in Provence, you 
 drive through remises of an uncommon length. 
 The roads abound too with mulberry-trees, 
 many of which are stripped naked to feed the 
 silkworms. At Avignon an enclosure of four 
 houses is called an isle, and the tenements 
 are doubly numbered, the house and the island. 
 Houses are called islands when they are not
 
 8(5 
 
 touched by the neighbouring buildings. Such 
 was lusula Clodii, or Clodius's Island, in Ci- 
 cero's oration for Coclius, xvii.c. 7. Monsieur 
 Millin has published an ancient inscription, in 
 which, a house or system of houses, consumed 
 by fire, is called insula. 
 
 NISMES. 
 
 The amphitheatre and the maison carrce of 
 PSismes are the best and finest antiquities of 
 the south of France. We may safely announce 
 the Roman amphitheatres to be the most mag- 
 nificent structures of the Romans in whatsoever 
 point of view they are considered; their solid- 
 ity, their grandeur, the ingenious distribution 
 of their parts, all entitle them to the universal 
 admiration of the best judges of architecture. 
 To make a building on a piece of ground of no 
 enormous dimensions, to contain thousands and 
 tens of thousands, and give them simultaneous 
 ingress and egress, without disorder or confu- 
 sion to a single individual : to place them all in 
 good points of view, so that no one shall ob- 
 struct or impede another, is no doubt to reach 
 the summit of success, and to arrive at the de- 
 sired perfection: and this the Romans have 
 done in their amphitheatres. 
 
 And it is for this that we admire the 1 fine
 
 remains of such buildings, although the taste 
 for the games and exercises to which they were 
 destined be now lost, and for us completely 
 extinct. The lapse of time, the rage of conten- 
 tion, and the devastation of civil war, have not 
 laid violent hands on the amphitheatre or mai- 
 son carree of Nismes,and they are still preserved 
 for the particular attention of the traveller and 
 antiquary. The form of this amphitheatre is 
 elliptical, and in that is like all others, except 
 that it is a perfect oval. The grand diameter 
 is from east to west, and taking in the thick- 
 ness of the facade, is four hundred and five feet. 
 The small diameter, from north to south, three 
 hundred and twenty-seven. The exterior cir- 
 cuit is eleven hundred and forty feet, and the 
 height, from the ground-floor to the attic, is 
 sixty-six feet nearly. The facade of the am- 
 phitheatre is composed of a ground-floor, and 
 one story over it, and an attic which crowns 
 the whole. The ground-floor has an open por- 
 tico with sixty arcades, or so many doors by 
 which you entered into the interior. The doors 
 are high, and ornamented by a pilaster two feet 
 thick and two feet wide. The arcades are at 
 equal distances from each other, on lines drawn 
 from the centre to the circumference. The 
 same order reigns in the story above, with a 
 parapet for the security of those who walked
 
 along the portico. The arcades are adorned 
 v, ith columns of two orders, here Tuscan and 
 there Doric. The attic has neither arcades, 
 pilasters,nor pillars, and terminates the building 
 with little or no ornament. 
 
 Here is the same apparatus as at Orange for 
 the reception of poles for the velarium. The 
 attic is perfect except in the eastern part of the 
 edifice ; and in some ranges of stones, up to 
 the capitals of the pillars about six-and-twenty 
 feet in length towards the country ; on the town 
 side also part of the attic has been demolished. 
 In the interior the steps served for seats all 
 round the arena, and rose one above another 
 from the podium to the attic. The podium was 
 set apart for persons ofthe first rank; the gra- 
 dins were thirty-two in number; the seats of 
 the inferior ranks, that rose from the podium to 
 the portico above, are destroyed, and yet 
 enough remains of them to shew their order, 
 and restore their symmetry. 
 
 The podium w r as formed by a wall of twelve 
 feet high that ran the whole length of the arena, 
 furnished with a rail trellised witii twisted iron 
 work, projecting and hanging over towards the 
 arena, in order to protect the spectators near it 
 from the attacks ofthe wild beasts below, who, 
 but for this defence, might easily have sprung 
 over the wall. This amphitheatre could have
 
 80 
 
 held seven thousand persons according to the 
 calculations of M. Menard. There is a variety 
 of figures carved in many places of the facade 
 of this edifice. The two bulls that are seen to 
 project half out under the pediment over the 
 northern gate, are symbolical figures, and shew 
 that Nismes was a Roman colony, which may 
 be inferred from coins on which the usual sign 
 of colonization is a single ox, or bull, or a pair 
 yoked and drawing a plough. These two are 
 the only ones in alto-relievo on the building, 
 the others are carved, or only half-relieved. 
 The stones of this building are some of an enor- 
 
 O 
 
 mous size, and many eighteen feet long, two 
 high, and twenty inches broad. It required no 
 small ingenuity to bring these masses from the 
 quarries and fix them in their places by iron 
 cramps and lead, for they have neither mortar 
 nor cement of any sort. The quarry of Roque- 
 maliere is about three-quarters of a mile off, and 
 that of Barratell at least five miles. The inten- 
 tion and destination of this amphitheatre might 
 have been as well for scenic representations or 
 combats of gladiators, as wild beasts, or of 
 criminals condemned with bears, bulls, boars, 
 and tigers. There were various sculptures on 
 the face of the amphitheatre, besides those un- 
 der the pediment of the north-door. On one of
 
 00 
 
 the pilasters near the north-door there is a wolf 
 ruckling t\vo infants. Between the bulls and 
 the wolf are two gladiators with shields and 
 poniards, and helmets in attitudes of attack, 
 and defence. On the pilaster next to the wolf 
 is a Phallus with wings and hart's feet, and 
 two others, one of which has a bell. Near the 
 western gate are others, arid on the lintel of one 
 of the vomitories of the second rank, near the 
 door towards the south, two are seen without 
 wings or feet. These were all meant to be sa- 
 crifices and exvotos to the deity of Lampsacus. 
 The interval between 138 and 161, during the 
 reign ofAntoninusPius,this building was erected 
 after the model of the coliseum at Rome. 
 
 LA MA1SON CARREE. 
 
 La maison carree is also at Nismes, and is the 
 finest piece of ancient architecture extant, and 
 the most magnificent in its ornaments. The 
 length of it, including the vestibule, is seventy- 
 two feet; the interior is forty-eight long, thirty- 
 six wide, and thirty-six high. You enter on 
 the north side of this parallelogram, the walls 
 of which are built of fine white stones two feet 
 thick. Time has worn away the basement, and 
 another has been substituted in its place. The 
 edifice is ornamented with thirty Corinthian
 
 ' r 
 
 5$ 
 
 r ..... - i ^-" | ; '"--5%C
 
 91 
 
 pillars, each of which has twenty-four flutes . 
 they are of different pieces so put together as 
 not to shew where they are joined but by nice 
 inspection. They have attic bases with astra- 
 gals delicately contorted. The capitals are of 
 olive-leaves of beautiful workmanship, and the 
 moulding of oak. The columns are distant from 
 each other four feet, or two diameters, except 
 the pillars of the two extremities, which have 
 only two feet between them. The pediment 
 over the vestibule has no ornament, neither the 
 frieze, nor the architrave ; all that is seen is the 
 holes where was the inscription made by me- 
 tallic letters fixed with cramps. Various 
 opinions have been entertained about this ele- 
 gant structure ; some have thought that it was 
 intended for a capitol, or consular building; 
 others, for a basilik of Plotina. At length its 
 true character and destination has been disco- 
 vered by the ingenuity of MOMS. Seguier,* who 
 in his valuable dissertation has shewn that by 
 following the traces of the letters in the cramps 
 this inscription will be brought out: C CAE- 
 SARI AVGVSTI F COS. L. CAESARI 
 FCOS. DESIGN ATO. PRINCIPIBVS. 
 IVVENTUTIS. 
 
 * Obliged, no doubt, to a dissertation in Latin on ancient 
 cramps, by the bishop of Vasio in 1652
 
 ,02 
 
 This temple is consecrated to Cains and Lu- 
 cius Caesar, sons of Augustus (by adoption) 
 Principibus Juventutis the one consu 1 the 
 other consul elect. 
 
 There is a number of other antiquities at 
 Nismes, detailed in all the books, but nothing 
 like what I have reported, of extraordinary in- 
 terest. 
 
 DU PONT DU GARD. 
 
 The Pont du Gard is at some distance from 
 Nismes, but yet may be said to belong to it, as 
 it was built for the use of its inhabitants. This 
 bridge is perhaps one of the finest relics of an- 
 tiquity in the south of France. It is what the 
 Italians, who are good judges, call un capo 
 d' opera, of the best, and boldest sort. The 
 Garden or Gard, over which it is constructed, 
 rises in the Cevennes, and runs from west to 
 east. This ancient bridge is ten miles to the 
 north of Nismes near the castle of St. Privat, 
 and the town of Remonlins, where the river 
 flows through a rocky valley. Three rows of 
 arches, one on another, compose it, and form 
 three bridges. The first bridge is sixty-two 
 feet high above the surface of the stream to the 
 top of the moulding, and four hundred and 
 ninety long. It has six arches ; through the
 
 93 
 
 fifth the ordinary course of the river passes, and 
 the breadth is seventy-eight feet ; the other 
 arches are not so wide. They are born on five 
 piles, eighteen feet broad, and seven feet six 
 inches thick in front. The second bridge, con- 
 structed with eleven arches, is sixty feet high 
 from the upper part of the moulding of the first, 
 to the top of the one that is over it. Five of its 
 piles answer to those of the first bridge, and 
 serve for its foundation. Its length is eight 
 hundred feet. The third and last bridge is 
 twenty-four feet hiiHi from the moulding: of the 
 
 * O O 
 
 second to its coping, and is eight hundred and 
 nineteen feet in length. It is composed of 
 thirty-five arches, of which each has fourteen 
 feet in the opening, and twelve feet in height. 
 Their piles are eight feet thick in front ; the 
 whole elevation of the edifice from the water to 
 the top of the third bridge is one hundred and 
 forty-seven feet. The whole of this great work 
 was constructed for the support of an aqueduct, 
 the level of which was to join that of the two 
 hills between which theGardon flows ; the two 
 hills are six hundred feet asunder; the aque- 
 duct is placed over the third bridge, and is four 
 feet wide and five high. Its side walls are en 
 parapet, each two feet six inches wide, covered 
 with coping-stones of one piece, a foot thick
 
 9,1 
 
 and three broad, joined by cement and project- 
 ing one foot ; within they are incrusted with 
 cement, on the sides three inches thick, and 
 painted red lo prevent the transpiration of the 
 waters. The bottom of the aqueduct is a solid 
 mass of small stones mixed with coarse sand 
 and lime eight inches thick. The bridge is 
 built of hewn stone laid without mortar or ce- 
 ment. On the bend of the third arch of the 
 second bridge is a Phallus in low-relief, with a 
 bell about his neck, terminated by three tails 
 that form three other Phalli of a smaller size, 
 symbols of the population of the colony of 
 Nismes. The bridge du Gard served to con- 
 duct the waters of two fountains of Airan, half 
 a league from Uzes, and Eure half a quarter of 
 a league from the same. The fountain of Airan. 
 poured its waters into that of Eure by an aque- 
 duct, of which traces are still to be seen. The 
 suite of aqueducts that brought the waters of 
 Airan and Eure to the Pont du Gard was of 
 considerable length, and from thence to Nismes; 
 and although the distance by the common road 
 was but four leagues, yet the detours necessary 
 to preserve the fall, and the level made the four 
 seven. 
 
 Amidst the various opinions of the public in
 
 95 
 
 France, concerning the epoch of the building 
 of the bridge, Mr. Menard is persuaded, that 
 Agrippa, son-in-law of Augustus, was the man 
 who merits the title of Pontifex Maximus in 
 Gallia Narbonensis, and at the time when he 
 was sent to appease the Gauls, in the year 735 
 of Rome, and nineteen before the era of Christ. 
 During Agrippa's stay in Gaul, he made the 
 four great roads that traverse that country ; and 
 from the title given him of curator perpetuus 
 aquaram, he might most probably have given 
 the colony of Augustus its aqueducts and its 
 bridge. This latter was not however finished 
 till four years before our era, and at the expense 
 of the Roman colony. 
 
 PONT ST. ESPRIT. 
 
 In the departement du Gard, and the road 
 from Nismes to Lyons, you pass over the Pont 
 St. Esprit on the right bank of the Rhone, re- 
 markable for being the last stone bridge, as all 
 the rest from thence to its embouchure are of 
 boats. The use of this bridge is forbid to heavy- 
 loaded waggons. It was begun to be built in 
 1205, from the produce of the offerings made 
 to a small oratory dedicated to the Holy Ghost. 
 Its length is considerable, two thousand five
 
 hundred and twenty feet, and is composed of 
 twenty-six arches. The town of Pont St. Es- 
 prit traffics in wine, oil, and silk. 
 
 LYONS. 
 
 There are two playhouses at Lyons, their 
 deportment is worthy of imitation: they begin 
 at seven and finish at ten. They give three 
 pieces, such as, the night I attended at the Ce- 
 Jestius, 1st. Les deux Czars le Bourguemes- 
 tre de Saardam. 'Jd. Taconnet et Preuille, or 
 the drunken Soldier and the Cobler. ,3d. La 
 mort de Kleber. Here they make the assassin 
 to be an enthusiastic Turk, a white man, where- 
 as in the Jardin des Plantes, in the Skeleton 
 department, we are told he was a black man, 
 and of Egypt. An extraordinary story is re- 
 lated hereofan actor who only appeared once on 
 the stage, and retired from disgust. Monsieur 
 Orfrene's voice was low, but remarkably clear 
 and distinct in the most rapid utterance, so 
 was the case with our Garrick and Jordan a 
 whisper of theirs was audible. On the debut of 
 Orfrene, the pit cried out " plus haut, he et, 
 vous plus bas." Instantly the audience rejoin- 
 ed most clamorously, "a genoux, & genoux." 
 Orfrene left the stage, and returning imme- 
 diately in a black coat, said as soon as he could
 
 97 
 
 be heard, " 1 am not come to make my excuses, 
 but to say simply how sensible I am de la bas- 
 sesse de mon etat, and that it is my intention 
 to quit the stage entirely." He then retired 
 bowing, and nothing could bring him back 
 again. 
 
 Paris has great obligations to Lyons Paul 
 and his sister, the famous opera dancers, are 
 both from the place Terreaux. The musee in 
 this square has great treasures of remains of 
 antiquity, discovered as it were on the spot. I 
 have already engraved the best and the finest 
 mosaique, in my Trimester of 1821, and now 
 announce others that were found under the 
 steps which lead to the Jardin des Plantes, and 
 were sent to Paris to be restored, where I saw 
 them in July, & 1' ecole de dessein at the Cor- 
 deliers in the rue de 1' Ecole de Medecine 
 under the hands of the operator. 
 
 The French ladies of Lyons are as fond of 
 their dogs as the English, and if you love me, 
 they say, love my dog. On admiring the beauty 
 and complaisance of a lady's lapdog, I was 
 told his whole history, and assured that he was 
 not always so well behaved. Monsieur dit-elle 
 il y a des jours, quand il est hargnieux avec le 
 moral d'un Griffon, obstine, volontaire, jusqu' 
 a faire ce qu' il voudrait, ne donnant qu' une 
 
 o
 
 08 
 
 patte jainais 1' anlrc, quoi qu' il falait le battre 
 comme platre. They find out likev, ise that les 
 Anglois ne sont ])as si betes. They tell a story 
 of an evequeniilitaire of England \vho returned 
 to Naples during the French revolution, and 
 lost no time in paying his court to Ferdinand, 
 \vho received him graciously, and wondered he 
 had not seen him for so long a time, and w ished 
 to know what brought him now to Naples. 
 His lordship said he was coine to see his ma- 
 jesty for the last time, as all kings were going 
 to be dethroned. His majesty took no notice 
 at the moment of this mal apropos pleasantry, 
 but meditated revenge, and on learning that the 
 bishop was a great hunter, and that he intended 
 to take his favourite diversion the next day, 
 sent beforehand, and knowing his route had all 
 the bushes beat, and all the covers disturbed, 
 so that his lordship toiled all day and took 
 nothing. The day following, when his lord- 
 ship came to court, the king ar>ked him pre- 
 sently, what sport he had yesterday. " None 
 at all, sire, votre majesteetait trop prevenante." 
 There are two hotels in the place Belcour at 
 Lyons, and two near the spectacle and the 
 nm see. The hotel du Nord is excellent, and 
 the new berlines in sixty hours to Paris, set 
 down and take up at it. At Lyons, like Paris,
 
 99 
 
 tout uu pays, it is no bad thing to be well 
 lodged, during a long or a short residence. 
 The hotels de 1' Europe and Provence, are not 
 so close to every thing, nor do they touch all 
 points to be indispensably visited, as the hotel 
 du Nord, although they are more airy, and 
 nearer the largest square. You pass close at 
 no distance in the road to Paris, the chateau 
 Duchere, where in the year 1814 the Austrians 
 lost a great many men, and the present land- 
 crave was second in command. The town of 
 
 o 
 
 Tarare which you go through is increased four- 
 fold in ten years in houses and inhabitants, by 
 its muslins and its blauchisseries, in which, 
 owing to the excellence of the water, it sur- 
 passes all other manufactories of the sort in 
 France. You now mount and descend the 
 hitherto impracticable mountain of Tarare, a 
 league in length, with great ease and safety, en 
 beau trot, and arrive at Paris by the new ber- 
 lines in two nights and two days. Valence, 
 that lies in the road to Lyons, is situated on 
 the left bank of the Rhone, seventeen leagues 
 and a half below Lyons, and is the chef lieu de 
 la Drome, and remarkable for being the place 
 where Pius the Sixth is buried his mausoleum 
 is in the cathedral. Vienne, at the distance of 
 seven leagues from Lyons, also on the left bank
 
 100 
 
 of the Rhone, with a hilly country close behind 
 it, has considerable remains of antique monu- 
 ments, oi.e of which is a temple or square 
 building, with pillars of thirty feet in height. 
 Between the river and the high road is a Roman 
 tomb, called Je monumemt de 1' Aiguille, from 
 the needle point in which it terminates. Be- 
 tween Vienne and Auberive on the opposite side 
 of the river is the coteau, from which the well- 
 known growth of cote rotie is derived. It is at 
 Tain that you pass the coteau de 1'Hermitage, 
 famous for its red and white wines, sixteen 
 leagues only from the cote rotie, and on the dif- 
 ferent side of the Rhone, and lower towards 
 the south. 
 
 PARIS. 
 
 Paris, ever fruitful in prodigies, has this last 
 season produced Mademoiselle Leontine Fay, 
 who at twelve years old astonished the town 
 by her uncommon talents in tragedy, comedy, 
 and farce: sinii;in<r, dancing, and excelling in 
 
 / o o ' o ' o 
 
 every department of scenic excellence. In so 
 much did she succeed in the whole circle of 
 good acting, that she drew ail the world after 
 her, and raised the receipts of the new theatre, 
 called Gymnase ; in the month of June it rose 
 to fifty-seven thousand francs, when the profits
 
 101 
 
 of the most favourite or best attended of the 
 others did not rise to more than forty thousand 
 in the same period. The new opera in the rue 
 Pelletier was nearly finished, and expected to 
 open in the month of August, on the king's 
 birth-day, or his saint's, St. Louis. The front 
 is adorned with eight muses, and no niche is 
 left for the ninth; when the architect was told 
 of this omission, he excused himself by saying, 
 that the ninth was in the house. The French 
 theatrical artists are very ready to lend their 
 assistance in cases of piteous distress, and have 
 hands open as day for good actions. Early in 
 July last, a play was announced for the benefit 
 of Monsieur Saulchoix, an old gentleman, in 
 prison for debts not his own, but for the pay- 
 ment of which he had become security. Potier 
 and Brunei, and a third, a capital actor, came 
 forward from Porte St. Martin, and the Va- 
 rietes, and played in three pieces : Les Angloises 
 pour Rire, a favourite farce; and Les Freres Fe- 
 roces, a mock tragedy, in which Potier shone 
 most brilliantly. The house was crowded to 
 excess, the boxes were from seven to ten francs, 
 and what was material, the prisoner was set 
 free, and his debt paid. 
 
 The news of the death of Sir Joseph Banks 
 produced a greater sensation than the decease
 
 10-2 
 
 of Napoleon Buonaparte; tliey wept sincerely 
 for the loss of the man whom they considered 
 as the reunion of science, and the sage femme 
 of philosophy, that brought her into the 
 world, and produced a consummation much 
 wished for by her ardent admirers; but shed 
 no tears for him who raised himself to the 
 throne, and realized in his own person what 
 the great Frederic calls the finest of all pos- 
 sible dreams, le beau reve d'etre Roi de France, 
 and verified in himself and his own time Vol- 
 taire's famous dictum, 
 
 " Le premier qui fut roi, fut uu soldat heu- 
 reux." 
 
 The French speak of Mademoiselle Leontine 
 Fay, in the language of Tasso 
 
 "Quantosemostrapiccola,tanto e pin bella/' 
 
 The ingenuity and vivacity of her answer, in 
 her interview with the stage director, produced 
 great laughter and applause. In the iirst con- 
 versation he asks her in what character she 
 means to make her debut ; she answers, " In the 
 lover's parts." "How so ?" he rejoins, "you are 
 not tall enough; the men can't stoop so low: 
 Vous ne pourez pas atteindre les homines, com- 
 ment (lit die, aprt-s avoir jour vingt ans les
 
 103 
 
 am on reuses, on scait bien ce qtie valent les 
 homines." The director continues to make 
 objections, and says Les directeurs ne vous re- 
 cevront pas ; she answers, Par ma longue ex- 
 perience je connois bien les directeurs. At 
 length he agrees to engage her ; and in the last 
 act she appears among all the actors with a doll 
 in her hand; and on being clamorously ap- 
 plauded, she comes forward, and says, Vous 
 m' effrayez la terrenr fait tomber ma poupee. 
 
 VERSAILLES. 
 
 This magnificent palace will probably be once 
 again the residence of the kings of France; in 
 the mean time St. Cloud has got possession, and 
 keeps it for the same reason that is given by a 
 man who preferred the maid to the mistress, 
 par ce quelle est si pres. 
 
 There is in the park at Versailles a pleasure- 
 ground du roi, as well as a bosquet de la reine ; 
 the former has been expressly made on the plan 
 of the garden his majesty had in England ; and 
 on the kind's seeing it for the first time he knew 
 
 o o 
 
 it in a moment, and cried out with great delight, 
 Voila moil jardin de Hartwell. This was 
 highly gratifying to the gardener, and equally 
 delightful to the English visitor who has admis- 
 sion to it.
 
 PEIIE LA CHAISE. 
 
 Tliis celebrated place of interment is naturally 
 ever increasing, and has of late received the last 
 remains of Quintin Craufnrd, and Sir Charles 
 Blagdon, whose name has been unfortunately 
 estropi6 in the catalogue, or list of names, and 
 converted by the omission of a letter into Bag- 
 don ; and he himself deprived of his knighthood, 
 and called secretary of the Royal Society of 
 London, without the prefix of Ex. The tombs 
 of this famous cemetery are for the most part 
 accompanied with the cypress, attendant on the 
 Roman funeral, to which Horace alludes in his 
 beautiful ode. 
 
 Neque harum quas colis arborum 
 Te prater invisam cupressum 
 Ulla brevem dominum sequetur. 
 
 The French, however, find out another reason 
 why the cypress is connected with funerals, 
 and say, that by an incision of the cone of a 
 cypress a death's head will be seen. This I 
 have never observed; but I know that on cut- 
 ting a fern-root oblique to the base, a spread 
 eagle will appear, whence comes the name of 
 LinniL'us's Aquilina, the trivial of Pteris.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 I have already spoken of the Patois of the 
 common Provencal language. I shall here add 
 
 i O CT 
 
 a few specimens of its poetry, &c. &c. and pre- 
 face it by quotations from Ansel me in Louis 
 IX. 's reign, &c. 
 
 La parlure Romanse est de toz les langaiges 
 la plus delitable, and from the Roman de la 
 
 Rose. 
 
 I. 
 
 Des secrets de Philosofie 
 On moult te voudras deliter, 
 Et si pourras moult profiter, 
 En delitant profiteras, 
 En prontant deliteras. 
 Pour le mist* Nature del it 
 Qu'elle veut qu'on si delit. 
 
 II. 
 Dulcibus indulget lacrymis, ambitque 
 
 dolorem.t 
 
 In Valerius Flaccus it is, aperitqtte dolorem, 
 and said of JEsonides,that he indulged in sweet 
 tears, and gave vent to grief; but the case is 
 different in le Vidame de Chartres, where the 
 person hugs his sorrow. 
 
 * mystcro. flib. 3. 371.
 
 Dolce dolor cst la move,* 
 Car taut en ai Ic mal chieiyj' 
 Que tout le mon'| n'en prendoye, 
 S'el me convenoit chang'ier; 
 I)iex! qu' ai (lit. Je ne porrove 
 Ne la volonte, n'en quier.|j 
 
 III. 
 
 Une Fable Provencalc, 
 
 Par M. Gros. 
 Lei liatos etlou Flascou. 
 
 [ ratouns bouens amis, esten per orto un 
 jour 
 
 ** sei'|"|" galariesourdinaires 
 Que soun granies,^ estagieros, armaris, 
 
 Troboun un flascoulet tapa|||| qu' a son oudour 
 lugeoun plen d'oli fin ; velei s'acquito en festo, 
 
 Si delegoun, fan tour sur tour, 
 Etde Tabasima*!^ li ven en testo* 
 
 Louf pu'|. fouer s'apuntclo au soou,|| 
 S'esquicliOjfj" enpigne,** fa esquinetoft 
 L'a utre doou ta'{;j; pren la courdeto^> 
 Fa fouerso, tiro, et fa tout ce que ])oou, 
 
 * mienne. t chcr. J inonde. f" Dicu. 
 fjchcrche. ^jduo. ** dans. +TSOS Icssiens. 
 $ Jgreniers. Jtablcttcs shelves. [ |] bouclu; ta bouchon dc licsrc. 
 fjcdu fond. * les a la tx-te. -tl'un. j plus, ^ibssoyour. 
 |[ fond. fl se comprime. ** en pci-nc. ++ pretcr les 
 epaules ii quclc^u un pour inontcr. j"| luge. i la cord; 1 .
 
 107 
 
 Per Ten pan* boulega,f mai noun ha ren a faire ; 
 
 Tous seis efforts pecairej 
 Amonssaren pas un calen[] 
 
 Las fatiguas, prenoun alen. 
 Quand 1'uu del houstigouns^ clis a Vautre coin- 
 
 paire 
 Fasen pas refleccien que ce que** sen- 
 
 voou ren, ft 
 Mi ven nno milloueJJ pensado, 
 
 Qu'es de rata lou tap,|||j ensuita de saussa^f 
 IVouestrei coiias* din lou flascou, et puisdelei 
 
 sussa. 
 
 Taut fa, tant ba la cauvo es approvado. 
 Lou tapes assiegea montoun i\ Fescalado, 
 Ixouigoun tant, qu' a. la fin lou flascou es destapa, 
 Fan navega lei coue, vaguef de lei lipa, 
 
 Tiro,^ lipo, lipo bouto, 
 ]\'en leisseroun pas uno gouto ; 
 Engien voou mai que fouer^o en qu'soou 
 s'entraina. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Fragment des Troubadours, 1138. 
 Ben den en bona cort dir 
 Bon sonnet qu'il fay. 
 
 * pcu. + rcmucr. J la pauvrc creature. eteignoient pal. 
 |j Calon, Calcu ou-Kalicu petite lampe enusagc en Provence. 
 [ maraudeurs. ** raisori. r+vautricn. +^ better thought, 
 
 ronger. [| j| le bouchon. *f^| souse. * queues. 
 
 *- reniuent ca et la. t friand flacon tonneau,
 
 108 
 
 Celni qui iu it un hon sonnet, inerite 
 13ien Ic reciter dans tine belle cour. 
 
 (Juiraut cle BernetL 
 V. 
 Avez conneissu Mcstre Piere 
 
 J)u let rail on* lou plus ancien, 
 Pecaire!f ero.j; men Signegrand 
 Eou|| lero*j esta en roiiiavagi.** 
 
 Recueil de Marseilles. 
 VI. 
 
 Moult ainar li criehes,|t moult arder, 
 Moult patir, tot morir. 
 
 At the beginning- of the thirteenth century, 
 the Provencal, Tuscan, French, Gascon, and 
 Spanish languages, \vere in promiscuous use; 
 and it is told of the Marquis cle Montserr.it, 
 that to shew the changeable mind of Beatrix, 
 he made a song in which the language changed 
 in every line. La Combe, p. 36. 1700. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Aras^'|, (juant vey verdeiar. Provencal. 
 
 I son, quelque ben non ho. Tuscan. 
 
 Belle dolce dame chicra Francois. 
 
 Donna yeux niyrend a bous (.iascon. 
 
 M'astam temo v nest re pletto. Espaguol. 
 
 * Canton. + Pocaine Ic pauvrc liommc ! J ctoit. 
 
 grand pcrc. ]] lui. ^j Icro Ic hero. Qu. leri ccc;i- 
 
 vclc ctourdi. ** en peleriuagc tic Koine. It Its ic 
 
 i t niaintLuaut.
 
 100 
 
 The word boulega occurs in the fable of the 
 rats, and the flask, and in the sense of remuer. 
 Thus in the following distich : 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Anarai din sa chambrette 
 
 Per boulega la fillete. 
 
 J'irai dans su petite chambre pour 
 
 Faire danser la petite fille. 
 
 In the dialogue dti Mondain there are many 
 instances of extraordinary changes, the old lan- 
 guage has undergone, in coming down to us, 
 like Alfana from Equus, in Antonini's Preface. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Mez bien sarrai dissimouler, 
 Eschever* haines, et contens,t 
 Hire, flatter, taire, celer, 
 II faut vivre siloux litams.J 
 
 In the livre des Pardons there is a passage 
 that explains the name of the rue Coquilliere at 
 Paris. 
 
 X. 
 
 Demoiselles pour paroitre gentilles 
 Portent ennuyst tie justes coquilles, 
 Qu'il semble advis qu'elles soient decouefees,, 
 
 * Esclie eviter. t contention. 
 
 j scion k terns. aujourdhui.
 
 110 
 
 Et par clessus ont belles beatilles* 
 Couvertes d' or, et de pierres subtiles; 
 C'est un tresor qu'ellcs sont bieri tifees,'}" 
 Et outre ce font si bieu des safrees.^ 
 
 It appears then, that coquille was an ancient 
 head-dress of the ladies, and that the street 
 Coquillicre, at Paris, was so named, because 
 this coeffure was first made and sold there. 
 See Coquille in the Dictionary of Trevoux, 
 conchata mulierum mitella. 
 
 Chanson Provencale et Languedocienne. 
 
 XT. 
 
 Lei Castagniou don brazie 
 
 Pctoun kan sonn pas|| inordudes 
 
 Lei enfan^ons de Mountpelie 
 
 Plouroun kan soun pas battudes^f fouettes. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Qui groncer en voudra se gronce, 
 
 Et courroucer si sen courrouce, 
 
 Car je n'en rncntirage mie,** 
 
 Si je devoye perdre la vie, 
 
 On etre mis coutre droiture 
 
 Come saint Paul enff chartre obscure. 
 
 * flcurs. -f ornees. J ruseos. 
 
 rrevcnt || fenclus. ^f grouccr grondcr. 
 
 ** mie point. if career.
 
 Ill 
 
 De 1'Alcimadure, a Languedocian pastoral, 
 by Mr. Mondonville. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Poulide Pastourelle 
 Perlete daz amour 
 J)e la rose notivelle 
 Esfassaz las coulouz 
 Perke siez vouz tan bole, 
 Ei yeu* tan amourouz, 
 Poulide Pastourele 
 Perlete daz amouz, 
 Benke me siatz cniele 
 Yen n'aimarei ke bouz. 
 
 Printed liy J. F. Dnvr, St. John's Square.
 
 ADHELM AND ETHELFLED 
 
 Metrical 
 
 J. J. RIPLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Joys has he tltat sings. But ah ! not such, 
 
 Or seldom sncli, the hearers of his song. 
 
 Fastidious, or else list/ess, or perhaps 
 
 A ir arc of nothing arduous in <t task 
 
 They necer undertook, they little note 
 
 His dangers or escapes, and haply find 
 
 Their least amusement irhere he found the must. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 JSrtntea for t!je Slutijor; 
 
 AND SOLD KY KDWARD JEFFERY, COLONNADE, PALL-MALL 
 
 1 S 1 S.
 
 BY J. EVANS, LEICESTER STKKF.T, LEICESTER SCJIARE.
 
 TO 
 
 THE EARL OF CLARENDON, 
 
 THIS LITTLE POEM, 
 
 THE SCENE OF WHICH IS LAID AMONG HIS LORDSHIPS POSSESSIONS 
 IN A COUNTRY, THE BIRTH-PLACE 
 
 OF 
 
 HIS LORDSHIP'S ILLUSTRIOUS ANCESTOR, 
 
 IS, WITH GRATEFUL RESPECT AND REGARD, 
 
 DEDICATED, BY 
 
 HIS LORDSHIP'S 
 
 MOST OBEDIENT AND 
 
 VERY HUMBLE SERVANT, 
 
 .1. J. RIPLEY
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 1 . -- The Retrospect 1 
 
 2. _ The Profession 20 
 
 3. _ The Knell 35 
 
 4. The Relapse 53 
 
 5. The Narrative 65 
 
 6 The Narrative, concluded 88
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The Date of the Story related in the following 
 Poem is supposed to be subsequent to the Year 1349, when 
 Richard Duke of York, the on/// historical Personage 
 mentioned, succeeded the Duke of Bedford as Regent of 
 France. The time, comprehending the action which oc- 
 casions the narrative, and the narrative itself, is one 
 evening.
 
 ADHELM AND ETHELFLED 
 
 I. 
 
 ' PEACE to the dome, where, low and sweet, 
 " In echoes doubling ere they fleet, 
 " The measure of the solemn lay 
 " Is softened sinks and dies away ! 
 " Peace and calm joy !" 
 
 'Twas thus, of old, 
 
 Some brother, when his vows were told, 
 At Braden cried.
 
 2 
 
 The sun, which shed 
 His bright farewell o'er Avon's bed, 
 Had left a still and lovely eve 
 Sacred to blest St. Genevieve ; 
 And, as her ministers retired 
 From rites which with the day expired, 
 They dropped a bead by every shrine, 
 And, meekly bending at the sign, 
 Crossed each a venerable front 
 With holy water from the font. 
 
 The dew, that summer eventide, 
 Fell soft on Braden-hamlet side, 
 And not a breeze sank from the brow 
 Upon the brook and vale below : 
 It was so silent and serene 
 On every knoll of tufted green, 
 Her cottagers were fain to say 
 Their earthly state was past away : 
 As if its cares had been subdued 
 By somewhat like beatitude,
 
 And for their vigil they possessed 
 Another world of peace and rest. 
 
 But, when the moon shone bright and high 
 Above the cloudless eastern sky, 
 And broader lights and shadows fell 
 On holy Braden's quiet cell, 
 The din of rustic mirth began, 
 Around the laugh and whistle ran, 
 And shepherds bade their song arise, 
 With all the rude festivities, 
 Which, obsolete to tastes refined, 
 Were unforgotten by the hind, 
 Who, simply pious, every year 
 Loved to resume and keep them here* 
 ('Spite of the world's capricious will, 
 Unrivalled, and inspiring still) 
 Though many snows had beat upon 
 His nameless monumental stone, 
 And many a spring recalled to bloom 
 1'resh moss and violets round his tomb.
 
 Beneath tlu 1 abbey's central tower, 
 Who gave tlie swains that festive hour. 
 
 Forth from their home, which bine and brake- 
 Had perfumed for the hamlet wake, 
 To lead and grace the moonlight game 
 Fond youth and conscious maiden came 
 The aged to admire apart 
 The triumphs of their country's art, 
 Such as their sires were wont to prize. 
 And future sons will solemnize. 
 
 These in a swift and simple round 
 Pursued the tabor's merry sound. 
 Those placed the loftiest vats, tinned o'er, 
 And lightened of their generous store ; 
 There, upon transverse perches closed, 
 The level planks a stage composed. 
 The bonnets there aloof were hurled, 
 A challenge to the rustic world,
 
 The gage each stout appellant gave, 
 
 Accepted by a foe as brave : 
 
 There too a bonnet hung on high, 
 
 The aim for village rivalry. 
 
 The umpires there, of skill and force 
 
 Once matchless in the rural course, 
 
 More temperate then, and timely wise, 
 
 Stood to award another's prize. 
 
 By them the handkerchief was wound 
 
 The champion's nether thigh around 
 
 By them the ground ash sapling peeled, 
 
 And fitted with an osier shield 
 
 To guard his right his weaker hand 
 
 Was fettered by the silken band. 
 
 'Twas theirs the onset to decide, 
 
 And watch th'essay on either side, 
 
 The arm fix'd motionless and high 
 
 Before the front the level eye 
 
 The half open lip the WTist's swift play, 
 
 And each descending weapon's sway,
 
 Impelled now here, now there withstood, 
 'Till one or other blow drew blood. 
 
 These are the trials this the fame 
 Indigenous with England's name, 
 Which nurse the germ of early worth, 
 And draw the latent virtue forth ! 
 Free born, and generously bred, 
 'Tis in a higher Nature's stead, 
 Commanding hearts of foreign mould, 
 More feebly sprung, or formed less bold : 
 Her triumphs hence, and mercies rise 
 Proceed, and lift her to the skies. 
 The rustic, conquering or subdued, 
 By valour, skill, and fortitude, 
 Aspires beyond his native strain, 
 Not patient, wise, nor brave, in vain. 
 From such began the mighty line 
 By Richard led to Palestine, 
 Through seas which murmured hoarse reply 
 To the crusader's victory.
 
 Thy rescue, and thy glory, those, 
 
 Henry ! at Agincourt arose, 
 
 And rushed, where Ternois' waters streamed, 
 
 A race devoted and redeemed. 
 
 As thus the hamlet whiled away 
 The vigil of their holiday, 
 Some unaccustomed guests were by, 
 Gazing in glad tranquillity, 
 And half withdrawn from things divine, 
 The ministers of Braden's shrine 
 Their service o'er their simple fare 
 Blest, and acknowledged by a prayer, 
 They had assembled round a torch, 
 Which burned within the abbey porch, 
 A holy, still, and solemn light, 
 Parting the shadows of the night 
 So Faith o'er mental gloom more dense 
 Sheds its effusive influence, 
 Arid where the mists of error lie 
 Descends, a day spring from on high
 
 8 
 
 And over and anon they cast 
 Upon the groupc, in careless haste, 
 Flitting along the moonlight sward, 
 A meek and bountiful regard. 
 
 Retired from longer orisons, 
 Within the circle of his sons, 
 Their venerable abbot came 
 Adhclm his loved and sainted name. 
 A charm impressively serene 
 Attempered his exalted mien, 
 For, undeclining yet, he bore 
 The burthen of the years of yore. 
 Though with aspiring youth were flown 
 The graceful vigour, once his own 
 The gallant port, and simple air, 
 Which ministered to soul as fair 
 Affections to a few resigned, 
 And openness with all mankind 
 The fancy favoring, bright, and clear, 
 A cloudless summer hemisphere,
 
 And warmth, imparting to his tongue 
 
 An eloquence refined, though strong. 
 
 But time, which silently had worn 
 
 His years to few, and those forlorn, 
 
 Had left him leizure to reflect 
 
 Securely on the retrospect, 
 
 More bright, perhaps, when less sincere, 
 
 Yet still, though disenchanted, dear. 
 
 Of hopes which dazzle and then die 
 
 Was Adhelm's youthful fantasy, 
 
 The wisdom of his life's decline 
 
 Exalted, equable, benign. 
 
 Old age, too passionless to buoy 
 
 His incomplete ideal joy, 
 
 Had soothed unwelcome thoughts to rest, 
 
 But kalendared his happiest, 
 
 With such subdued and perfect love 
 
 As follows sainted friends above. 
 
 Changed as he was, he once had been 
 
 The hero of his native green,
 
 10 
 
 And some remembered yet to praise 
 The darling of more distant days, 
 What time lie urged the flying deer 
 Foremost of all in swift career 
 From Hindon, then a sylvan name, 
 Or Braden, bosoming the game, 
 And won its branching spoils to deck 
 The canopy of Severnec. 
 
 In one such hour as Adhelm chose 
 For feats of enterprize like those, 
 He had gone forth before the day, 
 By chance or fancy led away, 
 Uncertain whether to pursue 
 Familiar paths, or seek some new. 
 The solitary field was won 
 While he beheld the rising sun 
 Inhale the mist which lightly rolled 
 O'er his bright orb of beamlcss gold, 
 And left the bright celestial bow 
 Reflected in the expanse below,
 
 11 
 
 And to the deepening blue above 
 Bore all the freshness of the grove. 
 
 The stag, amidst the wide obscure 
 Aroused, had caught a breeze less pure, 
 And doubled eastward up the gale ; 
 Far distant in the foggy veil 
 He seemed to the deluded eye, 
 And larger than reality : 
 But, as he bounded down the glade 
 The hapless fool his hue betrayed ; 
 Just when the sunbeam broke away, 
 And his dun frontlet met its ray. 
 The hunter chose with fatal art 
 And winged with aim as true his dart ; 
 The stag received it in its force 
 Once bounded short, and pressed the gorse, 
 Empurpling, as he bled to death, 
 The browzes of his parent heath.
 
 12 
 
 An ample spoil was early gained ; 
 And what for him who won remained ? 
 He plucked his arrow from the wound, 
 And for a moment gazed around ; 
 While one idea, in his mind 
 Not new, perhaps, though undefined, 
 And which had, but for this success, 
 Been longer hushed in wariness, 
 Suffused his cheek with warmer hue 
 Than toil or early breezes drew ; 
 Then, as the adventure o'er supplied 
 Fair augury for one beside, 
 He merrily and swiftly sped 
 To gain the bower of Ethelfled. 
 
 With twilight blush, serenely pale, 
 Reviving all the gentle vale, 
 Which woods of less luxuriant growth 
 And livelier walks of pasture clothe, 
 Though spots of corn-land intervene, 
 Gilding at intervals the green;
 
 13 
 
 With the first ray, obliquely bright 
 
 Along the near inclining height 
 
 The smooth horizon of the down, 
 
 With white flocks here and there bestrowri, 
 
 The love of every living thing 
 
 Among those sweet wilds wandering 
 
 The gentle Ethelflcd arose, 
 
 Regardless of her light repose, 
 
 And at her chamber window said 
 
 The matins of a simple maid. 
 
 Pleasing and few resolves prevent 
 Short vows prepare the innocent 
 For each new task of joy and love, 
 To which with every morn they move. 
 As well the gentle maiden knew, 
 It seemed, by the sweet looks she threw 
 Where all the fertile landscape lay 
 Rejoicing in the light of day, 
 While from her lattice bent, to breathe 
 The air blown fresh from flowers beneath.
 
 14 
 
 Her cheek, which faintest breezes fanned, 
 
 Was resting on her folded hand, 
 
 And of the tress she had entwined 
 
 Two ringlets only, unconfined, 
 
 Which o'er her rounded arm were thrown, 
 
 Relieved its beauty by their own. 
 
 A lively and yet softened eye 
 Revealed her heart unfeignedly, 
 With modest cheerfulness elate 
 In artless mirth affectionate. 
 To her the morn, like yesterday, 
 Was passing bright and dear away, 
 In cares and offices beloved, 
 And leizure happily improved. 
 What fortunes were reserved to blesx 
 One so secure in gentleness 
 How many a cloudless day designed 
 For one so joyful, good and kind ! 
 He, who had seen the lovely maid 
 Look from the bower, that morn, had said.
 
 15 
 
 And scarcely had she gazed around, 
 Ere hasty footsteps pressed the ground 
 Her tinkling sheep, in mazy thread, 
 Following their startled leader, tied, 
 And, springing from the underwood, 
 Adhelm beneath her chamber stood, 
 Fresh from his forest exercise, 
 And proud of his superior prize, 
 His shaft resigned, his bow unstrung, 
 Looked up, and laughed, then blithely sung. 
 His lay was such as youth who woos 
 A bride from Severnec might choose : 
 Not that of wight, unblest with sleep, 
 Who, fain to rise at morning peep, 
 His heart by suffering subdued, 
 Or weary with solicitude, 
 If not to love to pity bade 
 Some vain and half believing maid ; 
 But frolic, fond, and true, and free, 
 As earliest vows are wont to be
 
 16 
 
 The strain, like the affection, warm 
 
 With simple, yet with latent, charm. 
 
 Ere Ethclfled her place forsook, 
 
 He read acceptance in her look; 
 
 " You will your gentleness impart 
 
 " To this undeviating heart, 
 
 " And, come what may," he fondly cried, 
 
 " Adhelm will smile upon his bride." 
 
 He had begun, while yet the maid, 
 Behind her lattice half betrayed, 
 Her finger on her lip impressed, 
 Was fain to smile, and shun the rest. 
 But Adhelm, his gay carol o'er, 
 Had softly gained the opening door, 
 And, unforbidden by her eye 
 Which met his own in kind reply, 
 And scarcely hesitating air, 
 Received her from the winding stair, 
 Then by her side rcpassed each trace 
 Which he had follov/cd from the chase,
 
 17 
 
 Until among the dewy swath 
 His stag compressed their sloping path. 
 Regarding where its cheek was wet 
 With big drops which suffused it yet, 
 And blended with the trickling blood, 
 A moment earnestly she stood, 
 Then, as she left the stricken deer, 
 Shed and concealed a silent tear, 
 And on her lover's arm reclined, 
 With feeling firm, with coyness kind, 
 
 He passed like the delicious gale, 
 Balm-breathing over many a vale, 
 Which wafts in its unclouded way 
 No showers but what refresh the day ; 
 As yet too gentle to provoke 
 Loud echoes from the rocking oak, 
 And all the wildness of the brake 
 In frequent undulations wake, 
 And drift to the deserted plain 
 Rare drops of dark oppressive rain -,
 
 18 
 
 Deep blue afar ! and gloom afield ! 
 While- the sun sickens unrevealed, 
 And one faint ray from Heaven is thrown 
 Upon some yellow hill alone. 
 
 So (some one more severely taught, 
 Or less enamoured might have thought), 
 So, may no future hour prepare 
 For Adhelm more than present care, 
 Short, light, accomplishing his youth, 
 Which vigour, taste, and fancy smoothe. 
 Nor e'er his voice, melodious now, 
 Be sorrow-speaking, painful, low, 
 And faultcr at some dearer tone 
 Of sympathy which wounds his own : 
 Nor all his honorable- years, 
 Proudly begun, decline in tears; 
 Hard tears ! which from his manly eye 
 Burst but for very agony : 
 Past joys foregone expected none 
 His light of life a sickening sun
 
 19 
 
 His consolation dimly bright, 
 Awful, and far, though infinite. 
 
 But little recked the pair who sought 
 So tenderly their loved resort, 
 In Sevcrnec's sequestered bovver, 
 Of bliss beyond the present hour 
 The cloudless skies the conscious groves- 
 The moment which assured their loves : 
 Except, perhaps, t'were Christmas-tide- 
 The morn which might await a bride, 
 When to fair Braden would be led, 
 By Adhelin, happy Ethelfled, 
 And housewifes might her hall adorn 
 With misletoe, and berried thorn, 
 And garnish for her bridal cheer 
 The treasures of the frugal year 
 Blithe youths, and maidens blushing by, 
 Mix blessings with their gaiety, 
 And all her native hamlet be 
 Dissolved in rustic jubilee.
 
 20 
 
 IF. 
 
 ALAS ! that, ere the foliage fell. 
 And reddened in the tainted dell, 
 A tempest, immaturely rude, 
 Had swept its lovely solitude, 
 And half a mighty forest's wreck 
 Dishonoured graceful Severnec. 
 And, when the north wind died away 
 in dark December's sulk-n day, 
 Thick snow and vapour more severe 
 Obscured the heavy atmosphere, 
 Then fell, unmingled with the rain, 
 And froze, an adamantine chain. 
 How was the joyful country changed ! 
 The landmarks hidden, or estranged,
 
 21 
 
 Led not the pilgrim on his road 
 
 To Ethelfled's forlorn abode ; 
 
 Or, if he gained some neighbouring bound, 
 
 Uncheered by a domestic sound, 
 
 Amid the solitary vale 
 
 He stopped, and only heard the hail 
 
 Against some rattling window pour, 
 
 Which shook unclosed the livelong hour, 
 
 Then, shuddering at the loneliness 
 
 Of hearths which he was wont to bless, 
 
 Increased to speed his doubtful pace, 
 
 And sought a farther resting place. 
 
 They said, that when, at length subdued 
 By latest spring's vicissitude, 
 The level mass began to shrink 
 From lofty Hacben's southern brink. 
 Eager for toil too long forgot 
 The peasant left his cheerless cot, 
 Arid, aided by a little rill, 
 Trickling within its channel still,
 
 22 
 
 Cut through the glaciated steep 
 A rugged arch, three fathom deep, 
 And won from overhanging snows 
 His way to labour and repose. 
 The livelier emerald again 
 Had re-apparelled all the plain, 
 While towered, fantastic and sublime, 
 That relic of the ungenial time. 
 And yet the tethereal mildness threw 
 A chrystallinc and tender hue 
 On every gem and diamond spray, 
 Descending to dissolve away. 
 Such, amid olive groves and shrines, 
 August Antiparos confines 
 Within the bosom of her plain 
 Far, far below the unfathomed main 
 Which waves upon her classic sands, 
 Where, traced by no ignoble hands, 
 The living characters record 
 That man has wondered and adored.
 
 23 
 
 But what availed each opening sweet 
 Of nature round the loved retreat ; 
 Discernible between the copse, 
 And overbranching fruit tree tops ; 
 Here by the roofs' oblique ascent, 
 There by its central battlement, 
 Or the small porch above the gate, 
 Charged with some old device and date, 
 Or niches in the garden wall, 
 Disclosed at many an interval ? 
 The seedlings of a former spring, 
 Luxuriantly flowering, 
 Had climbed, as if in gay caprice, 
 Each window sill and interstice ; 
 And all the bloom of the parterre, 
 Redundant from omitted care 
 The order of the flower plot 
 In its replenishment forgot, 
 Betrayed a hand unused to cull 
 Sweets so profusely bountiful,
 
 24 
 
 For ah ! the pair who bade arise, 
 Were driven from their paradise. 
 Scene of the maiden's slow confession, 
 Not of the favored youth's possession, 
 Prepared with hopeful lover's pride, 
 Hut never blest by happy bride, 
 While yet it echoed with the blast, 
 Silent, alone, had Adhelm passed, 
 And, when the wintry months were o'er, 
 Her place knew Ethelfled no more. 
 Usurping there another sate, 
 And barred its hospitable gate ; 
 Minion of one, unknown to all, 
 Who gained, but never graced the hall. 
 The roof which, when by her possessed, 
 Had been beheld afar, and blessed, 
 Whence never wanderer withdrew 
 With expectation found untrue, 
 Nor friend, who had not to retain 
 The thought of somewhat wished again,
 
 25 
 
 No longer for a guest arose, 
 
 Nor offered to the poor repose : 
 
 The steward of his master's store 
 
 To give or seek alike forbore, 
 
 But strangely turned, almost with dread, 
 
 From eyes desiring Ethelfled, 
 
 And passed the friends of Adhelm by 
 
 With scant and silent courtesy. 
 
 The hinds saw many an April wane 
 
 To winter, and succeed again, 
 
 'Till few could in remembrance bear 
 
 What Ethelfled and Adhelm were, 
 
 Or by the wasting embers tell 
 
 Their severed loves and sad farewell. 
 
 Yet fewer the mysterious fate 
 
 They bore, divided, desolate ; 
 
 Or what the power which could withhold 
 
 Their native field and little fold. 
 
 Yet would their pleasant memory steal 
 
 Upon the matron at her wheel,
 
 26 
 
 (Their gift in careless happy years) 
 And, with the balm of pious tears, 
 Be offered her continual prayer 
 That Heaven would guard the virtuous pair- 
 That she might see them, ere she died, 
 A lover wed, and happy bride. 
 For this she brought St. Genevieve 
 All that her poverty could give, 
 And Bradcn's ministers confessed 
 Her faithful occupation blessed. 
 
 One evening, by the clear moonshine, 
 The villagers had left the shrine, 
 And, slowly scattered homewards, trode 
 The green ways to each lone abode, 
 Silent and quick a stranger passed 
 His footsteps were by some retraced ; 
 But, ere they gained the narrow brook 
 Which Braden's turrets overlook, 
 The closing of the gate was heard, 
 And the pursued had disappeared.
 
 27 
 
 Strange ! that a traveller hastening by 
 
 Should raise the common sympathy ; 
 
 Braden for such benighted guest 
 
 Had hospitality and rest, 
 
 And, at the dawning of the day, 
 
 Her prayers might speed him on his way. 
 
 " Nay," answered one, whom they had found 
 
 Alone upon the rising ground, 
 
 " Long supplications will arise 
 
 " Ere sleep descend upon those eyes, 
 
 " And many a penitential prayer, 
 
 " Ere that heart rest, or learn to bear. 
 
 " But now, by the re-kindled brand 
 
 (f Which bickered from the brother's hand, 
 
 " I saw him, as his spirit rose, 
 
 " Revealing, yet refraining, woes 
 
 " With somewhat more than fortitude, 
 
 " More soothing, solemn, and subdued : 
 
 " His sufferings could not repress 
 
 " A native charm of gentleness,
 
 28 
 
 " But, when pursued by the request 
 
 " That he would calm and clear his breast, 
 
 " With quick speech and imploring eye 
 
 " He put each reverend listener by 
 
 " Rushed, with an impulse scarce his own, 
 
 " As if to pierce the walls of stone 
 
 " Then, re-collected, turned aside, 
 
 " And gained the court without a guide. 
 
 " The fathers trembled while they blessed 
 
 " Themselves and their mysterious guest, 
 
 " And followed 'till again he turned ; 
 
 " The torch, which to extinction burned, 
 
 " In their lay brother's hand, who fain 
 
 " Had closed the creaking door again., 
 
 " Prolonged an instant lustre pale 
 
 " To Vashtcrn's tower in Tokcnham vale, 
 
 " Where, by the soft moonlight it rose 
 
 " In all the magic of repose. 
 
 " He saw a spot, perhaps, loved well, 
 
 ;t And from his self-possession fell :
 
 29 
 
 a He spread toward the view his arms, 
 
 " Then pressed between his meeting palms 
 
 ts His brow, which bursting drops embrined 
 
 " Ere his fixed lips their throb resigned, 
 
 " And one expression of dismay 
 
 " Escaped him, as he passed away. 
 
 " Re-closing heavily, the gate 
 
 " Concealed that hapless stranger's fate ; 
 
 " But " miserere" fills the gale 
 
 " Which sighs to-night o'er Tokenham vale." 
 
 To Braden, swept and garnished fair, 
 The pious far and near repair, 
 For pleased the busy fathers call 
 To unaccustomed festival. 
 All are expected every eye 
 May look on the solemnity; 
 Our gracious lady deigns redeem 
 One spirit from its worldly dream 
 A brother is professed to-day ; 
 Omit not prayer nor holy lay,
 
 30 
 
 Hark ! how the long Hosannahs swell 
 
 In prelude to the passing bell ! 
 
 And lo ! her aged sons arise 
 
 To lead the pompous sacrifice ! 
 
 The purple pale recedes in twain 
 
 Behind a lengthening votive train ; 
 
 What breathing perfumes curl around ! 
 
 What stoles of linen sweep the ground ! 
 
 How many a sign from crosicred hands, 
 
 Uplifted where their offering stands, 
 
 Vouchsafes him, while they slowly move, 
 
 Assurances of higher love ! 
 
 He comes can there be life-blood warm 
 
 In that extenuated form ? 
 
 His cheeks are pallid his regard 
 
 As if a voice called heavenward, 
 
 And he, the listener, raised his eye 
 
 In more than mortal extacy. 
 
 He humbles his devoted brow 
 
 He mingles with the dust below
 
 31 
 
 The freedom of his youthful mind, 
 Baffled how long, is here resigned ; 
 He numbers its delusions o'er, 
 And is their worshipper no more. 
 Here must the very name of friend 
 In charitable biddings end. 
 Here, even at this momentous hour 
 Pre-eminent, with all its power, 
 Loveliest, and latest to remain, 
 Alas ! how exquisite ! how vain ! 
 From Adhelm's dedicated heart 
 Must man's supreme affection part. 
 Oh ! above that dejected head 
 Repeat not, angels ! " Ethelfled !" 
 In holy silence, to his breast 
 He binds the cross his lips have pressed, 
 With aspiration now they swell 
 He speaks it is immutable 
 He has nought else to be foregone, 
 And earthly occupation none.
 
 32 
 
 Upon (he victim, where he bends, 
 
 The sable spreading pall descends: 
 
 Perhaps there sunk a stifled sigh 
 
 With that funereal canopy, 
 
 But, more triumphant now, the choir 
 
 With one full burst of song retire, 
 
 And he within the grated door 
 
 Has passed, unheard or sighs no more. 
 
 Autumn had fled the abbot gave 
 His name and virtues to the grave : 
 When the last offices were o'er, 
 A page the regent's mandate bore 
 " Let our beloved Adhelm lead 
 " His brothers, in Anselmo's stead." 
 He led them, like a faithful guide, 
 Apart from lofty zeal and pride ; 
 By his admonishment they knew 
 The wisdom of the chosen few; 
 Monastic leisure was refined 
 liv hiti- the meekest of mankind.
 
 33 
 
 The peasant, comforted, and fed, 
 Poured daily blessings on his head ; 
 And yet with every worldly one 
 He held a frank decided tone, 
 Which let not meaner natures stray, 
 And kept the doubtful in the way. 
 But he, to a delighted race 
 The minister of mental grace, 
 And wanting least of all the trust 
 Which conscience whispers to the just, 
 Felt somewhat yet ungratified, 
 For which incautiously he sighed, 
 And would by secret looks confess 
 His heart unformed for happiness. 
 The season of tranquillity, 
 When disemburthened souls are free, 
 And wander from their waking sense 
 In visionary confidence 
 The time which to the weary brought 
 Relief from care repose from thought,
 
 34 
 
 In self communion calm and wise 
 
 He passed, but never closed his eyes, 
 
 And long before the rising sun 
 
 Had bade the matins be begun. 
 
 But, when he reached his hand to taste 
 
 At noon the temperate repast, 
 
 Slumber, like that which wraps the dead, 
 
 Lay heavy on his careful head, 
 
 'Till he from the restorer drew 
 
 A power to watch and think anew.
 
 35 
 
 III. 
 
 ASLOPE the lengthening sunbeams shot 
 O'er Father Adhelm's favorite spot, 
 And light abrupt on deepest shade 
 Fell, all along the colonnade 
 A cloister arched in solemn taste, 
 Where he with Brother Rudic paced. 
 To them the monks a peasant led ; 
 Earnest, and quick, though awed, he said. 
 " Father ! last night to Tokcnham 
 " A sad and weary stranger came, 
 " Our homely cares cannot restrain 
 " The pangs of unrelenting pain 
 " Which seem about to lay him low, 
 " From sickness less than mortal woe : 
 " Oh ! let his broken spirit flee 
 " Absolved and blessed for charity."
 
 36 
 
 The Father laid his stole aside, 
 
 And hade the 1 suppliant be his guide ; 
 
 Less curious than compassionate, 
 
 The monks had led him to the gate, 
 
 At leisure, in their sympathy, 
 
 For little question or reply. 
 
 One only gained some words, in haste 
 
 Repeated as the abbot passed, 
 
 Their import was obscurely learned 
 
 By those the listener returned ; 
 
 He seemed a moment to recede 
 
 From his first eagerness to speed, 
 
 Then, waving his paternal hand, 
 
 Gave with his farewell this command 
 
 That none should follow, as he sped 
 
 Whither the obedient rustic led ; 
 
 But Rudic, whom he marked, and blessed, 
 
 Pursued his footsteps nnrepressed. 
 
 The twilight thrice unlovely fell ! 
 They prayed our lady guard him well :
 
 37 
 
 For how could the reluctant choir 
 
 In heartless melody aspire ? 
 
 How, inharmonious all, rejoice ? 
 
 He was away the master voice, 
 
 Awaited, ere his time was sped, 
 
 With expectation worn to dread. 
 
 But, while the second hour-glass ran, 
 
 He came again, an altered man 
 
 Calm without hope in anguish mute 
 
 His spirit still and destitute, 
 
 And sought the shrine, and kissed the ground ; 
 
 The monks with wonder thronged around : 
 
 It seemed since he had parted last 
 
 His middle age was overpast 
 
 His manhood from meridian sway 
 
 Fall'ii, undeclining, to decay. 
 
 Youthful so late his darkened brow, 
 
 That day was white with age's sno\v 
 
 His hollow cheek could hardly bear 
 
 The hectic warmth which kindled there
 
 38 
 
 His broken spirit scarce sustain 
 
 The body it possessed \Vith pain. 
 
 He \vus beyond refleetion wrought 
 
 Bewildered by a weight of thought, 
 
 \Vhieh misery, from mere excess, 
 
 Had rendered almost reasonless. 
 
 Oh ! any impulse even the sting 
 
 Of the acutest suffering 
 
 Had been less wretched than that sense 
 
 Of paraly/ed intelligence 
 
 The wish without the power to melt 
 
 Into a thousand griefs all felt. 
 
 Long lapsed, at last his spirit came ; 
 A shudder, which convulsed his frame, 
 A tear flood, and a fearful cry 
 Relieved that struggling agony; 
 Another effort and the burst 
 Of bitterness had spent its worst; 
 Another, fainter, half suppressed 
 In sobs, sank, or was sighed to rest,
 
 39 
 
 And stcdfastly, yet sadly mild, 
 He with a faint assurance smiled. 
 Then, prostrate on the holiest spot, 
 He moved his lips, yet uttered not, 
 While offering to no mortal care 
 The burthen of his soul in prayer ; 
 But inly exercised his mind 
 To be submissive and resigned ; 
 Until the feeling he had won 
 Aspired to a triumphant tone, 
 And, with a more exalted glow 
 Than when he ratified his vow, 
 Had changed his face from that despair 
 To somewhat a celestial air, 
 And to his loosened tongue restored 
 Words such as angels might record. 
 To Heaven the supplication rose, 
 Himself, at its prevailing close, 
 Extended to their utmost scope 
 His arm and eye, in heavenly hope,
 
 40 
 
 And sprang transported from the ground, 
 His lips yet quivering with the sound, 
 As if beyond the starry sphere 
 Pursuing to present it there. 
 
 Then looks of wonder and surmise 
 Were glancing from the brothers' eyes, 
 And many a bead uncounted passed 
 'Twixt terror and religious haste : 
 But, ere a murmur was expressed, 
 Rudie had awed each troubled breast. 
 He gave, arising on his knee, 
 One sign, and " benedicite." 
 The monks around replied " Amen," 
 And trembling turned to prayer again. 
 For then, sedately sorrowful, 
 The father re-assumed his rule, 
 While brows were crossed, and chaplcts fell, 
 And Braden had begun a knell, 
 In solemn iterations told 
 To the sad vale, and silent fold ;
 
 41 
 
 Silent, as though its voice were fled 
 In sorrow for a shepherd dead 
 Sad, as if nature bade her choir, 
 In sympathy with one, expire. 
 The melancholy echo moaned 
 Amid such stillness deeper toned, 
 Once and again the pause between 
 Was heavier than its swell had been : 
 The ploughman with his patient yoke 
 Stopped at the twice repeated stroke, 
 And pious maids arose to pray 
 For a soft spirit called away. 
 
 The shadow of a cross of stone 
 Yet in fair eventide is thrown 
 Upon the turf, now rarely trod, 
 A nameless, not unhonored sod. 
 Whither at morn some shepherds bare 
 The bier of the lamented fair. 
 The gathering peasantry, who bowed 
 In silent sadness o'er her shroud
 
 42 
 
 The maids, who hung in soft distress 
 
 Around that withered loveliness, 
 
 Had known her by no other name 
 
 Than such as the departed claim; 
 
 But yet there wanted not a few 
 
 Who rendered there affection's due 
 
 With wondrous sensibility 
 
 The tenderness of many a sigh 
 
 The tribute of a frequent tear, 
 
 Which fell upon her modest bier : 
 
 But they were strange, and, w r ith their chief, 
 
 Silent alike, except in grief. 
 
 Her corse was laid her turf bedight 
 With mingled and mysterious rite ; 
 The scarcely blushing roses, shed 
 As for a plighted maiden dead, 
 Descended in a fragrant fall 
 On sable for the virgin pall 
 They offered the appointed prayer 
 Bin Father Adhelrn was not there.
 
 43 
 
 From one attendant full of days, 
 
 The first who mourned the last to gaze, 
 
 Alone a valediction fell 
 
 " Loveliest, and most forlorn, farewell !" 
 
 " All hail to the beatified !" 
 
 The ministering priest replied. 
 
 When Braden's sons were, every one, 
 With interchange of blessings, gone, 
 Her villagers, omitting nought 
 Which pious custom meetly taught, 
 Collected round the turf again, 
 And broke a spicy cake in twain ; 
 Not tokening now festivity, 
 But laid in simple sadness by, 
 Or doled, a charitable store 
 In generous hands Avhich could no more. 
 Then went, each to his dwelling place, 
 A sadder and a wiser race.
 
 44 
 
 But oh ! on lonely thoughts intent, 
 His far severest punishment, 
 How heavily had Adhelm met 
 That hour, to them, of calm regret ! 
 Theirs a kind duty to supply 
 Fond offices of sympathy, 
 Hopeful for one, while all beside 
 Were in fulfilment gratified : 
 His to wear out an interval 
 Heart-harrowing, yet vacant all, 
 Without the subterfuge from woes 
 Which even a wretched office shews. 
 In his extremity of grief, 
 Beyond resource, without relief, 
 Again an unresisting prey 
 To feelings conquered yesterday, 
 He lay, and wept beneath his cowl, 
 In very bitterness of soul. 
 Until, from innate- rectitude, 
 'Shamed of a spirit unsubdued,
 
 45 
 
 From holy resolution, more 
 
 Resigned to suffer and adore, 
 
 He worshipped, and resumed, perforce, 
 
 His customary intercourse 
 
 With those he was ordained to seek 
 
 The somnving, the poor, and meek : 
 
 And, though the power himself desired 
 
 Was not at once to be acquired, 
 
 Nor could, without relapses, soothe 
 
 Some recollections of his youth, 
 
 Yet he beheld his suns revolve 
 
 With ever a confirmed resolve, 
 
 And daily for himself prepared 
 
 Mental improvement and reward. 
 
 'Till, long instructed to forget 
 
 The pangs of that supreme regret, 
 
 He lived, regarding her who died 
 
 As called accepted glorified, 
 
 And framed his thoughts to nothing less 
 
 Than her eternal blessedness
 
 HIT death as>umption to a crown 
 The sole unliappiness his own, 
 For oh ! his solitary lot 
 \Vas in their parting hour forgot. 
 Little remained but to elude, 
 Or charm the fond solicitude, 
 Which, mindful of the form of her 
 Who faded in the sepulchre, 
 Had fancifully sought to dress 
 Her poor remains with gracefulness, 
 And mingled with no other dead 
 The dust from which her spirit fled. 
 
 Blooming upon its lonely stem 
 The flower a fairy diadem 
 Dew drops and rays serene receives ; 
 Then falls upon a lap of leaves, 
 By some autumnal wind despoiled, 
 And left to wither in the wild, 
 A barren seed, or sproutless germ, 
 Unlovely, tor the winter term.
 
 47 
 
 The nymph, who wont the stalk to rear, 
 Repasses, and no bloom is there j 
 She, not unmindful, turns away 
 From her own emblem of decay, 
 O'erblown, deserted, drooping, dead 
 The bright and verdant lustre shed 
 The fondly cherished perfume lost, 
 Even in the gale it gladdened most. 
 
 Again Favonian mildness, borne 
 Upon the breezes of the morn, 
 Distils the frost and vapour drop, 
 And wakes the world to genial hope : 
 The voice of nature is abroad 
 Her beauty from decay restored ; 
 From one exhausted stock arise 
 Gems numberless of thousand dyes, 
 Which heavenward open, and expand 
 The fragrance of the flowery land.
 
 18 
 
 The husbandman, his ripe reward 
 Collecting from the yellow sward, 
 Ere yet he heap the spiky store 
 Profuse upon his threshing floor, 
 With care apart dividing, spreads 
 The lighter and the weightier heads ; 
 Those temperately gathered up 
 His feast to fill ferment his cup ; 
 These to benignant earth, the leaven 
 And garner of the gifts of Heaven, 
 Committed hopefully, to hold 
 For retribution manifold. 
 Succeeding spring will re-assure 
 A pledge for autumn to mature, 
 And over all the golden plain 
 Increase his thinly scattered grain. 
 
 And shall we not to kindred dust 
 Our loveliest and most graceful trust ? 
 The lot is universal one 
 For every tribe beneath the sun :
 
 49 
 
 For man, of the terrestrial frame 
 
 Vicegerent absolute, the same. 
 
 Xot renovate, cxeept he fade, 
 
 Like seeding flower, or fruitful blade, 
 
 The vegetable law his own, 
 
 He in the bed of earth is sown, 
 
 Corruptible, to mellow there 
 
 His winter time, and re-appear, 
 
 Changed from the form with which he fell 
 
 To perfect incorruptible. 
 
 There his unconscious limbs recline 
 
 Within their consecrated shrine 
 
 Caressingly the south wind blows 
 
 O'er his pavilion of repose 
 
 The dew falls in as soft a shower 
 
 As watered Eden's sinless bower, 
 
 And planets of benignant sphere 
 
 Have happy influences there. 
 
 Such visit still the hallowed green. 
 Where once that nameless grave was sccu-
 
 50 
 
 Thr spot unhappy Adhelm's pride 
 
 Rather than all the world beside. 
 
 The turf, by his affection laid, 
 
 Was lavish in that holy shade, 
 
 And with the most luxuriant bloom 
 
 Had tapestried the stranger's tomb. 
 
 The vernal and autumnal hours 
 
 Were redolent alike with flowers, 
 
 Here found to blow and disappear 
 
 The first and latest of the year. 
 
 But he had chosen that sacred earth 
 
 For other than the floweret's birth ; 
 
 Here there was intercourse between 
 
 His chastened heart and Heaven this scene, 
 
 Accordant with his simple mind 
 
 A solemn temple uneon fined 
 
 Its height the firmament the space 
 
 Of consecrated earth its base, 
 
 Received him ever, while he paid 
 
 His praise at even, at morning prayed.
 
 51 
 
 Here, with a pious shepherd's care, 
 He numbered his full flock for prayer; 
 Here, in his patriarchal right, 
 Their consolation, strength, and light, 
 Between them and the tomb he stood, 
 And shewed the worth of being good. 
 Here, upon holy truths intent, 
 And powerful in their argument, 
 He led by reason where its clue 
 Could aid the unassisted view, 
 And left the humbler power to rest 
 On points by nature manifest : 
 Patient, until he taught ascend 
 That Pisgah where all proof must end, 
 Then turned triumphant to expand 
 The vision of the promised land : 
 From things perceived, to things ubow 
 Perception sure by faith and love. 
 
 Here most, if ever weakness stole 
 Upon the quiet of his soul,
 
 52 
 
 Or images of joys divided 
 
 Within the mental mirror glided, 
 
 He came; the spot the calm combined 
 
 With its idea in his mind, 
 
 Could by unerring influence all 
 
 His lost tranquillity rccal.
 
 53 
 
 IV. 
 
 So it befel, that, on the eve 
 Sacred to blest St. Genevieve, 
 When all the sports I sang ercwhile 
 Were viewed with many a saintly smile, 
 And Adhclm in the circle stood, 
 Benignest of his brotherhood, 
 He cast a placid look among 
 The busy, gaily scattered throng, 
 Who, when their rustic field was o'er, 
 Had wandered to the abbey door. 
 The village favorite, Valance, 
 With modest Amice led the dance $ 
 Anxious, while pleased, the youth the maid. 
 Though urireluctant, yet afraid ;
 
 And, <os he wound with her the maze, 
 
 They thus expressed by mutual ga/e 
 
 " Would, dearest love ! to Heaven I might 
 
 " Attend thec in a holier rite !" 
 
 And, " Kver alas ! what hearts have those 
 
 " Who eause and seorn true lovers' woes?' 
 
 Too well were to the father known 
 
 Those looks exchanged which met his own, 
 
 And raised to recollection cares 
 
 As hapless and as fond as theirs. 
 
 Even then his aged aspect grew 
 
 More faint his cheek of colder hue, 
 
 While yet within himself secure, 
 
 And certain where to find his cure, 
 
 " My youth !" he said, and from the crowd 
 
 His sacristan, Edwcllyn, bowed 
 
 Arose, and folded to his breast 
 
 The hand which with affection pressed, 
 
 Then faintly motioned him away ; 
 
 The ^tripling hastened to obey.
 
 55 
 
 " Save ye, my sons !" their sire pursued, 
 
 " Yourselves, by no regrets subdued, 
 
 " 3\Iay safely profitably ken 
 
 " The careless hours of simple men, 
 
 " Rejoicing and religious too ; 
 
 " But what hath age with sport to do ? 
 
 " Be yours the eve of holiday 
 
 " I'll to my cross of stone, and pray." 
 
 Then on his youthful guide reclined, 
 
 And slowly left the sports behind. 
 
 Their path had traced the smooth hill top. 
 And channelled its unequal slope, 
 Escaping in the sweetest shade 
 Which summer twilight ever made, 
 To where a spring arose, and flowed 
 Across the turf on which they trode. 
 The freshness of the filmy air 
 Revealed it, and invited there ; 
 Although the saturated green 
 Upon its brink was bright unseen,
 
 And foliage, overhung it high 
 
 In colourless variety, 
 
 As on its eool and secret way 
 
 It wandered on, by sedge, and spray, 
 
 So faintly, that the calm around 
 
 Was but remembered in its sound. 
 
 Edwellyn lightly overstepped 
 
 The stream, where it supinest crept 5 
 
 The father, while with weaker pace 
 
 He pressed upon the landing place, 
 
 Impelled to sudden reverence, 
 
 Perhaps lie was unconscious whence, 
 
 Immersed his hollow palm, and took 
 
 The treasure of the sleepy brook, 
 
 And signed his forehead and hi.s breast 
 
 With those pure drops which he had blessed ; 
 
 Then let the shrinking water drain 
 
 Through his expanding hand again, 
 
 And, while it gemmed the murky tide, 
 
 With pious recollection cried,
 
 57 
 
 " And I shall conquer in this sign 
 " Imperial Lord ! thy trust is mine." 
 
 Then, as he gained the doubling hill, 
 Wrapt in th' imagination still, 
 " Though I my sign of worshipping 
 " Receive in water from the spring, 
 " And thy bright confirmation came 
 " Amid the blaze of heavenly flame 
 " Illuminating wide and far 
 " The countless pomp of Roman war ; 
 " What time with painful laboring pace, 
 " Thy myriads to their resting place 
 " One more turf couch, perhaps their last- 
 " In tired array tumultuous passed, 
 iC And scarcely drew with slackened rein, 
 "' Their chivalry, impelled in vain. 
 u Yet freshly from the west arose 
 " A breeze to lull them to repose, 
 By sound.s and streamers o'er the host 
 i; In heavy undulation tossed.
 
 58 
 
 " And whore the parting sun was .set 
 " On brazen eoil and annulet, 
 " The music of their sad farewell, 
 " As from the fabled image, fell. 
 
 " Before a burst of brighter day 
 " They sink they fail they fade away. 
 " Is there a faulchion flashing keen 
 " A .spear among ten thousand seen 
 " A knee, in all the mighty crowd 
 " Of men and animals, unbowed ? 
 
 " Lightening upon the peopled plain, 
 " Th' ethereal splendour streams in twain ; 
 " The sunbeams which divide the air 
 " Are shadows to its brightness, where, 
 " Too glorious to be gazed upon, 
 " It bears, as from the eternal throne, 
 " The title and triumphant sign 
 " Of second covenant divine.
 
 59 
 
 " Hearts of the brave ! from rank to rank, 
 
 " Before the high portent, ye shrank, 
 
 " Despairing to appease or fly 
 
 " Some fiercely present deity ; 
 
 " Whether stern Jove, or Mars your sire, 
 
 " Or other of the idol choir, 
 
 " Adored on Capitolian height 
 
 " With prodigality of rite, 
 
 " Gods of voluptuousness and fear ! 
 
 " But when again your heads ye rear, 
 
 u 'Tis to behold, and bow them down 
 
 " To one, of all your sects unknown 
 
 " One unimagined 'till this hour 
 
 " Most Merciful, Almighty Power. 
 
 " By his benign protection blest, 
 
 " Soldiers ! sink sweetly to your rest ; 
 
 " Ye shall awake, with Constantine 
 
 " Regenerate, conquering in his sign." 
 
 The father told, or pondered o'er 
 Such k'gends of monastic lore,
 
 60 
 
 For oft the- musings of his mind 
 Were, without utterance, resigned, 
 While with his silent guide he wound 
 Within the consecrated ground. 
 Between them and the beaten way 
 Low monumental hillocks lay ; 
 Many which might from either claim 
 Remembrance, and an honoured name, 
 Where slumbered Ilraden's sometime race, 
 Known each in his last resting place. 
 None better, nor beloved so well 
 As he, around whose narrow cell, 
 Protected by a maple cross, 
 Clung lavishly the constant moss : 
 There, gathered to his fellow clay, 
 What once was zealous Rudic lay. 
 Fondly the father, while they passed, 
 A look of salutation cast, 
 And, turning to his youthful guide, 
 " Gentle, my sacristan !" he cried,
 
 Gl 
 
 " Were he, o'er whose remains we bend 
 
 " My wisest and most fervent friend, 
 
 " Now haply wandering by my side, 
 
 " (As on the evening ere he died), 
 
 " Myself had, not admired, expressed 
 
 " The fancies of a weary breast ; 
 
 " Perhaps deemed passionless of all 
 
 " In cloister and confessional : 
 
 " Yet, if the painful chord be started 
 
 " Which vibrates with one stricken hearted, 
 
 " Away from sad realities, 
 
 " To visionary themes he flies, 
 
 " Seeking in any thoughts soe'er 
 
 " A refuge from one heavier 
 
 " The secret sickness of his mind, 
 
 " Soothed haply, but still left behind. 
 
 " The sons of Bratlen have not seen 
 " Young Adhclm as he once has been, 
 " Few even remember or relate 
 " My entrance and noviciate ;
 
 62 
 
 " They augur from my solemn brow 
 
 " That I am sad and holy now, 
 
 " Or, doubting what 1 was, revere 
 
 " The office which invests me here. 
 
 " But, though 1 let the busy cry 
 
 " Of rumour pass as easily 
 
 " As if my lifeless ear were cold, 
 
 " And it were to my ashes told, 
 
 " The honor of our house may claim 
 
 " From its chief son a spotless name. 
 
 " To thee, whose gratitude repays 
 
 " My fond instruction, and my praise, 
 
 " I trust the tale by love forbidden 
 
 " The sorrows in seclusion hidden ; 
 
 " Guard them until my days are passed, 
 
 " And then explain them, as thou rnayst 
 
 " Not for the many to review, 
 
 " But to convince the cherished few 
 
 " That I have sought a reverend grave, 
 
 " Requiting the esteem they gave."
 
 63 
 
 He paused, and followed up the height, 
 A faultcring pace, by doubtful light ; 
 But, ere he breathed again, the gloom 
 And the ascent were overcome. 
 A little while he stood to gaze 
 Upon the slant and clear moon-rays, 
 Which issued from their cloudy vest, 
 Until the planet, all confessed, 
 Appeared to lift and rarify 
 The dark grey concave of the sky, 
 And shed upon the solemn scene 
 A light so lustrous and serene, 
 It seemed as if her crescent shone 
 In radiance for that spot alone. 
 For every floweret which withdrew 
 Its beauty from the drops of dew 
 The spangling of the moisture, shed 
 Upon its variegated bed, 
 And hoar moss, which had overgrown 
 The pillar of the cross of stone,
 
 64 
 
 Appeared more faint and lovelier 
 Than when the day delighted there: 
 While lucid all the holy sign 
 Expanded o'er that verdant shrine, 
 A spotless form, as if to shew 
 The heavenly way to those below. 
 
 The Father to the cast inclined, 
 And took the path his guide resigned, 
 With calm and grateful aspect led 
 Beside the turf of Ethelfled. 
 There, when he gained his wonted seat. 
 Edwellyn hung upon his feet, 
 And listened to the themes he chose ; 
 Wrought to be eloquent in woes, 
 While wandering in his plaintive tale 
 Far from the grief he would bewail ; 
 Yet skilled to suffer or restrain 
 The indulgence of that pensive pain, 
 'Till he had told it all, and smiled. 
 Sad, but to sorrow reconciled.
 
 V. 
 
 " MUST Nature smile for me in vain 
 " The vale retire expand the plain 
 " The water wind and murmur round 
 " My hill, with yon fair forest crowned ? 
 " And is my soul too sick to bear 
 " The influence of a scene so fair ? 
 " Yet more, shall day, in Heaven new-born, 
 " The shadows chase, and bring the morn 
 " With all the pomp of thousand dyes 
 " In clear or lightly clouded skies ? 
 " And, if the sun serenely break, 
 " Will every heart but one awake ? 
 " Before the tufts of trees absorb 
 " Yon rising moon almost an orb. 
 
 E
 
 66 
 
 " Between their branching stems it throws 
 
 " A light so soft so like repose, 
 
 " That all but this unquiet breast 
 
 " May sink beneath it into rest. 
 
 " There was a time alas ! the pain 
 " Of numbering perished joys, how vain ! 
 " How fruitless for a mind entombed 
 " To feel that love has fondly bloomed ! 
 " A time, when not alone the day 
 " With niii'ht alternating its way, 
 " And all th' expanse beneath their scope, 
 " Like rest serene, or bright as hope, 
 " But e'en the very simplest thing 
 " Of gracious Nature's offering 
 " Had lifted up a secret voice 
 " Which called on Adhelm to rejoice : 
 " More cherished, when the beauty shone 
 " No longer for himself alone. 
 " Witness the flowers which mantle here, 
 " The shrine of Nature's worshipper,
 
 67 
 
 *'' That such she was from Heaven she drew 
 
 " Her pure delights, as they the dew, 
 
 " And in her charms appeared a rose 
 
 " As blooming and short-lived as those. 
 
 " Beheld at virgin distance moving 
 
 " By many scarce, perhaps, approving ; 
 
 " There were who might have met her eye, 
 
 " Admiring, yet unconscious why, 
 
 (t For ah ! she knew not to elance 
 
 " In bright pursuit its gentle glance ; 
 
 " But, when her favouring smile remained, 
 
 " Maidenly, blithe, and unconstrained, 
 
 " Beyond a sister's confidence 
 
 " Above the softly lavish sense 
 
 " Of all but the first pair who loved, 
 
 " It soothed, delighted, and improved. 
 
 " The feelings she forbore to speak 
 
 " Were eloquent upon her cheek, 
 
 " But scarcely raised her brow to less 
 
 " Than its accustomed evenness :
 
 (58 
 
 " And yet a thousand gaieties, 
 
 " \\ T itliout designing, or disguise, 
 
 " Seemed, at some moments, to unite 
 
 " That pensive charm with one more bright- 
 
 " That bland with more inspiring power, 
 
 " E;i-jh ever haziest in its hour, 
 
 " And so she innocently won 
 
 " Most admiration, seeking none. 
 
 " Wherefore recall I from lier grave 
 
 " A grace, save such as angels have? 
 
 " Her voice was for a heavenly ear, 
 
 " Mild, but expressive, low, yet clear, 
 
 " As preluding her doom her hand, 
 
 " Swayed with more powerful command, 
 
 " A \vokc to the bright themes she sung 
 
 " A loftier chord, how soon unstrung! 
 
 " But, in the dawn of our delight, 
 " Unguarded, hopeful, exquisite, 
 " With melody more mirthful yet 
 " She carolled the slow sun to set,
 
 69 
 
 " And to domestic evenings gave 
 
 " A charm which rose to gay from grave. 
 
 " It brightened in lier orphan hall 
 
 " More lovely for one interval 
 
 " Which her last cherished })arent's doom 
 
 " Had saddened with unwonted gloom ; 
 
 " When, sinking in her widowhood, 
 
 " Lamented by the kind and good, 
 
 " With her loved Lord Elfrida chose 
 
 " An undivided last repose; 
 
 " And lordly Harold, Avon's chief, 
 
 " The feudal guardian of the fief, 
 
 " Retained in paramount command 
 
 " The orphan heiress and her land. 
 
 " Preserving, as affection bade, 
 
 " Some filial thoughts, serenely sad, 
 
 " (Those consolations of the mind 
 
 " Which keener sorrow leaves behind) 
 
 " On russet Severnec she stood, 
 
 " The pride and honor of the wood,
 
 70 
 
 " And filled her solitary place 
 
 ' With duteous ease, and modest grace. 
 
 " So, conquered by the smile I won, 
 
 " So, pleased returning hers alone, 
 
 ' I thought that all beneath the sky 
 
 " Conspired for our felicity, 
 
 " And earth held none who would not bless 
 
 " Our plighted love, or wished it less. 
 
 " In full and bright tranquillity, 
 
 * ; Fond and secure, the hours tied by. 
 
 ' ; And confidence a calm content 
 
 " To moments almost bridal lent ; 
 
 <; Charmed and enchanting as they passed 
 
 " In interchange of thought and taste 
 
 '' A mutual course serenely run 
 
 ' ; Our business and our leisure one. 
 
 ' It chanced through Severnec we strayed. 
 
 Till we had gained its deepest >hade ; 
 
 i- To counsel, sweet as unconfined, 
 
 " Succeeded silence not less kind,
 
 71 
 
 "' While both perhaps were pondering o'er 
 
 " The hope so eloquent before. 
 
 " Then I could easily confide 
 
 " In all which promised me my bride; 
 " Her feudal liege had seldom spared 
 " A thought for his neglected ward, 
 " For, shrinking from his proud salute, 
 " She paid him undistinguished suit ; 
 " And if an orphan maid should claim 
 " For so forlorn a fonder name, 
 " It booted not to one so great 
 " Who might partake her humble state. 
 " While vainly musing thus we stood, 
 " A pipe re-echoed from the wood 
 " The groves within each sylvan way 
 " Repeated a light roundelay, 
 " Which accents of a stranger's tongue 
 " With intermissions gaily sung t 
 
 " ' I love (the voice began) to try 
 " ' Mv arrow in the trackless skv
 
 " ' To swim the stream of depth un found 
 
 " ' To listen to unwonted sound 
 
 " ' J love to wander as I will 
 
 " ( From scenes new gained to newer still, 
 
 " c And these are won to be resigned 
 
 " ' For somewhat future undefined.' 
 
 " The minstrel paused, then told again 
 
 " His restless thought, without the strain. 
 
 " ' My wild career had well been checked 
 " ' By sophists of another sect ; 
 " ' And some in Harold's bowers there were 
 " ' Beauteous enough, but too severe. 
 " f I would a nymph of so much art 
 " e As just to fix this frolic heart, 
 " ' Then yield her own at my request' 
 " He faultcrcd, and forbore the rest; 
 " And, ere he found his song to aid 
 " The meaning he had left unsaid, 
 " How many youthful thoughts had passed 
 " Between these numbers and the last !
 
 73 
 
 " f A heedless spirit in its soar 
 
 " e Can feel unhappily no more 
 
 " ' Than that there may be love like this, 
 
 " ' And those who merit have the bliss ; 
 
 " ' But, let the witchery proceed 
 
 " l Her, once hoped his, be his indeed, 
 
 " f And where's the spell which will divide 
 
 " ' The plighted lover and his bride.' 
 
 " I saw reluctant blushes streak 
 
 " My tender maiden's conscious cheek, 
 
 " And felt her timidly entwine 
 
 " Her trembling yielded hand in mine, 
 
 " While whispering, " what will e'er divide 
 
 " ' The plighted lover and his bride.' 
 
 " We heard the tuneful wanderer's measure 
 " With fontl and undissembled pleasure ; 
 " His thoughts seemed like our own believing 
 " His wishes bright as we were weaving : 
 " Oh ! were there recollection found 
 " Accordant with that hopeful sound !
 
 74 
 
 " Our former way was soon retraced 
 
 " My love before her mansion placed, 
 
 " And \ve had interchanged adieu, 
 
 " When the musician came in view. 
 
 " He met us with a frank address, 
 
 " Inviting ease by gracefulness, 
 
 " Such as the court and camp confer 
 
 " Upon a youthful follower 
 
 " Accused his own desire to rove, 
 
 " Which had impelled him to the grove, 
 
 " And prayed refreshment and a guide 
 
 " The first her pleasing care supplied ; 
 
 " I blithely led him to regain 
 
 " The nearest of Lord Harold's train, 
 
 " Who, upon Liddel's lofty brink, 
 
 " Let slip their greyhounds from the link, 
 
 " And made our boundaries the aim 
 
 " Of all the agitated game, 
 
 " Which to their sheltering covert led, 
 
 " Or doubled on its side, and bled.
 
 75 
 
 " The wanderer, when he surveyed 
 
 " A track determining the shade, 
 
 " And heard along its level run 
 
 " A cry, which told the chace begun, 
 
 " Repaid what he had deigned to ask 
 
 " With courtesy above the task, 
 
 " Then sprang across the emerging green, 
 
 " And in a moment was unseen. 
 
 " I scarcely held, as I withdrew, 
 
 " A thought on our past interview j 
 
 " And, if my gentle love had dwelt 
 
 " On such as maidenly she felt, 
 
 " While at the stranger's near survey 
 
 " She blushed, remembering his lay, 
 
 " Or how, when she had poured the draught, 
 
 " He kissed the cup before he quaffed ; 
 
 " All these were quickly overcome, 
 
 " When I revisited her home. 
 
 " Alas ! our exquisite distress 
 
 " Had no degrees in bitterness,
 
 "6 
 
 " And we securely fond remained, 
 " 'Till, by some secret influence gained, 
 " Her feudal guardian gaA'e his voice 
 " In disavowal of her choice. 
 
 " The day designed our nuptial one 
 " Upon our wretched parting shone ; 
 " Forlorn in Severnec the maid 
 " Watched every bride-flower undecayed, 
 " And I beyond the distant Seine 
 " Bore hopes not yet imagined vain. 
 " For York held o'er the rival .strand 
 " No doubtful voice, nor powerless hand ; 
 " At Vashtern's he had deigned to praise 
 " The promise of my happier days 
 " To his munificence was due 
 " That ever knightly fame 1 knew 
 " I hoped from his appeal a bride 
 " To suit and claim of mine denied 
 " To his humanity I owe 
 " The only gifts which grace me now.
 
 77 
 
 " Welcomed, assured, caressed, I joined, 
 " And left, as soon, the chief behind. 
 " How favouringly my pinnace stood 
 " Home-bound across the lessening flood ! 
 " How gallantly bore up beside 
 " Each sea-mark, late its distant guide ! 
 " I thought it easy to regain 
 " My parent shore, and native plain 
 " To cheer my love York's high request 
 " Prefer to Harold and be blest. 
 " But, when I reached the well-known door, 
 " It opened at my touch no more ; 
 " No sound of hasty steps, the same 
 " Which used to bear me welcome, came. 
 " My plighted Ethelfred was gone 
 " Who could have gladdened it alone ; 
 " And wandering where, or whence compelled, 
 " None augured, and no eye beheld : 
 " At evening in her porch she sate 
 " Morn rose her bower was desolate.
 
 78 
 
 u And I what boots it to recall 
 
 " Pan^s, efforts, unrequited all 
 
 " The hopes, which failed with each cssay- 
 
 " The fears, confirmed by long delay ? 
 
 u Three miserable years I pined 
 
 " For one unfound, but unrcsigned. 
 
 " At length, triumphant in his art, 
 " Lord Harold deigned to York impart, 
 " That his fair charge, by chance restored, 
 " Devolved upon a youthful lord, 
 " Who, while among her woods he roved, 
 " Had seen the peerless maid and loved. 
 " Then came who told in thankless haste 
 " How pompously the pageant passed 
 " The music of the merry lay 
 " By Cambrian harpers tuned that day, 
 " And answered from the banks of Wye 
 " By shouts of mountain revelry, 
 " l r ntil the morrow's sunshine stole 
 " On (luivering chord, and flowing bowl.
 
 79 
 
 " But rumour of less blithe. import 
 
 " Had broken the declining sport : 
 
 " 'Twas whispered that, ere evening fell, 
 
 " The lord had bade his love farewell 
 
 " A joyless chief, for battle bound, 
 
 " While draughts to his delight were crowned. 
 
 " Alas ! in evil so intense, 
 " I turned to somewhat like suspense : 
 " They might have mingled with the throng 
 " Who bore the timid bride along 
 " Have seen her lavish, as she came, 
 " Her beauteous smiles upon her shame 
 " Have heard her plight a happier love, 
 " For Heaven, not Adhelm, to approve ; 
 " Yet, if some perfidy had failed, 
 " Some pity, or remorse prevailed, 
 " A bridegroom but in name alone 
 " Might pause might faulter might atone. 
 " Such, and ten thousand vainer things, 
 " Hope's last revived imaginings,
 
 80 
 
 " At once impelled me to pursue 
 
 " The secret by its doubtful clue. 
 
 " Between the sunrise and decline 
 
 " These paths and those of Wye were mine: 
 
 " None ever had with heart less light 
 
 " Than I, ascended Wyng Cliff's height, 
 
 " Or so unconsciously won 
 
 " The summit of a mountain throne, 
 
 " The watch tower of so many realms, 
 
 " And guardian of their golden streams 
 
 " The nearer Wye, scarce seen to shape 
 
 " Its wanderings in their escape 
 
 " From rock and headland veiled in wood 
 
 " The confines of its infant flood, 
 
 " Until triumphant in the tide 
 
 " By Severn's reflucnee supplied. 
 
 ' And Severn, smooth in its advance 
 
 " Amid the irregular expanse, 
 
 " To where it wafted all the store 
 
 u Of glebe and mead which love its shore
 
 81 
 
 " From each extending boundary 
 " Seaward, almost itself a sea. 
 
 " Once I had cast delighted eyes 
 <e Upon those vales of paradise, 
 " Reposing in th' oblique sun-ray 
 " And thought the future fair as they. 
 " Then, comfortless, I gained the gate 
 " Where dwelt the bride without her mate, 
 " And stood aloof, and questioned all 
 " Who left it at each interval. 
 " Their tale was that already known, 
 " And added nothing to my own, 
 " Except that, since the nuptial hour, 
 " She had remained within her bower. 
 " I watched its lattices, untired, 
 " 'Till the last light of day expired, 
 " Then nearer and more near I crept, 
 " And listened 'till, it seemed, all slept. 
 " Thus every evening I renewed 
 " My vigil, vain, yet still pursued.
 
 82 
 
 u A shepherd's hovel far away 
 
 " Became my resting place by day. 
 
 " At length, upon my twilight guard, 
 
 " I heard the sound of bolts unsparrcd 
 
 " A wicket opened in my view, 
 
 " On some who parleyed, and withdrew, 
 
 " Then, slowly re-appearing, led 
 
 " A little maid and Ethclflcd ; 
 
 " A light upon her features shone, 
 
 " But her supporters were unknown. 
 
 " ' Lady, you have your wish the air, 
 
 " ' And dew which these green alleys bear 
 
 " ' The fainting spirit's medicine 5 
 
 " ' Oh may they be the balm of thine.' 
 
 " The damsel said, and led away 
 
 " By the inclosure where I lay : 
 
 " The others hid the lamps they bore, 
 
 " And passed more hastily before. 
 
 " 1 crossed the thicket, unawares, 
 
 " And found a path encircling theirs ;
 
 83 
 
 " My steps fell noiseless on the green 
 
 " My form was 'mid the leaves unseen 
 
 " I sought whatc'er the words of each 
 
 " To listener, perchance, might teach; 
 
 " But nought was spoken or replied 
 
 " Between the lady and her guide. 
 
 " Closer and yet more close I came, 
 
 " And whispered mine and her loved name ; 
 
 " Alas ! they fell upon an car 
 
 " Chill as the breeze which bore them there. 
 
 " Her seeming caution mocked my own, 
 
 " And I pursued, in vche cut tone, 
 
 " (Advancing, where the wood was cleft, 
 
 <f Between her and the towers she left) 
 
 " ' Oh ! if thou ever didst design 
 
 " c The hand thou gavcst another mine, 
 
 " ' Speak once, and 1 will pass thee by, 
 
 " i Without reproach without reply : 
 
 " ( Say how and wherefore thus thou art* 
 
 u She did not tremble did not start
 
 84 
 
 " Did not disturb that horrid calm 
 
 " Hy any accent of alarm ; 
 
 " Though mine at once recalled the rest 
 
 ' From every path to that we pressed, 
 
 " And their awakened torches glanced, 
 
 " These kindling those as they advanced, 
 
 " Upon a throng of listeners, 
 
 " Whose looks, and mine were fixed on hers : 
 
 " But stood angelic guards remove 
 
 " Such misery from all who love ! 
 
 " A beauteous image, which enshrined 
 
 " No light of memory or mind 
 
 " The temple of a power destroyed, 
 
 " Cold, unilluminated, void. 
 
 " Her happiest hours had winged their flight 
 " In equal course, serene, though bright, 
 " Her spirit met in its decay 
 " None more tumultuous than they, 
 " And her infirmity was less 
 " Anguish of thought than feebleness.
 
 85 
 
 " It drew from her devoted air 
 
 " No traces, save of earthly care, 
 
 " And all the expression which, it gave 
 
 " Was of a world beyond the grave. 
 
 " But oh ! that grace in no controul 
 
 " Seemed sympathetic with her soul 
 
 " Not then admitted to the bliss 
 
 " Of saints in Heaven, as now it is ; 
 
 " But lost to genius, fancy, taste, 
 
 " To future hopes, and blessings past 
 
 " Without the power or wish to prize 
 
 " Human regards and charities 
 
 " Without the consciousness of love 
 
 " For aught below or aught above. 
 
 " I hid my miserable head 
 
 " In utter agony, and fled, 
 
 " Passing, I know not how unfound, 
 
 " The vassals who were gathering round, 
 
 " And some involuntary might 
 
 " Sustained me in my wretched flight
 
 86 
 
 " A long and solitary way, 
 
 " Wlicrc chance and sorrow led astray, 
 
 " The first remembrancers I knew 
 
 " Came from the portal in our view; 
 
 " They sheltered one, who had defied 
 
 " All mortal intercourse beside, 
 
 " And lured a mind which Mercy spared 
 
 " By slow approaches heavenward. 
 
 " I gave the world again its cares 
 " Great York a poor man's thankful prayers 
 " My hapless Ethel fled her part 
 " A blessing fervent from my heart, 
 " And sought beneath my priestly vest 
 " The sabbath of a life-long rest. 
 
 " Here has my occupation been, 
 " If not without regret, serene, 
 " From worldly disappointments free, 
 u Though saddened by their memory :
 
 87 
 
 " It steals upon my vacant hour 
 
 '' With feebler and more feeble power ; 
 
 u Retained so long, so late removed, 
 
 " Solicitude for her I loved 
 
 " My fervour for her happiness 
 
 " My dread of her supposed distress 
 
 " The last of fruitless sympathies, 
 
 '* Concluded, when I closed her eyes."
 
 VI. 
 
 " THE memory of some recalls 
 " The eve I left these holy walls, 
 " By one who eanie from Tokenham led 
 " To an expiring stranger's bed. 
 " Our brother, in my parting ear 
 " Whispering I know not what of fear, 
 " And Rudic, an unbidden guard, 
 " Seemed both for some mischance prepared 
 " 1 was with holier thoughts elate, 
 ' ; And only sought to vindicate 
 " The last sad right our natures crave 
 " Leave to look calmly on the grave, 
 u And bathe in consecrated dew 
 u A dying youth whom no one knew.
 
 " His pity and alarm supplied 
 " Increasing swiftness to our guide, 
 " And \vc unhesitating trod 
 " With him the hill and beaten road, 
 " And passed beside the narrow eleft 
 " By yon long scattered village left. 
 " There, bowcred witli elm, two knolls give place 
 " To copsewood bosomed at their base, 
 " And, farther, hills of verdure lay, 
 " Tracked lightly by the long footway 
 " Which peasants follow from the heath 
 " To Dantsey, and the vale beneath. 
 " There the rude labour of the swains 
 " Preserves a flood of wintry rains, 
 " And rills from all the green slopes pour 
 " Their silent increase to the store; 
 " Escaping through the hollow wheel 
 " The whitened woofs of water reel, 
 " And down the millpool babble on 
 " In narrow channels flaked with stone.
 
 90 
 
 " Just when a higher upland brow 
 " Conceals the streamless vale below 
 " Our guide advanced a space before, 
 " And pointed to a lonely door. 
 " Rudic sprang instantly to join 
 " The youth, his speed preventing mine, 
 " And came again with equal haste 
 " To lead me whither he had passed. 
 " I scarcely raised my eyes to dwell 
 " Upon the shepherd's homely cell, 
 " Though, where the stranger slumbering lay, 
 " Amid its scant and rude array, 
 " Some care had o'er the hovel thrown 
 " A seemly order, not its own. 
 " ' He is asleep, Heaven to an end 
 " ' Healthful and calm his rest extend !' 
 " The peasant cried, arid, as he spoke, 
 " That which he would have cherished broke, 
 " ' Argulio here ?' the stranger said, 
 " And raised his imrefreshened head,
 
 91 
 
 " ( Content you, sir,' the youth replied, 
 
 " ' 'T\vas in id -day ere he left your side, 
 
 " ' And scarce can have his errand done 
 
 " ' 'Till half another glass be run, 
 
 " ' Meanwhile, the crone your drink prepares, 
 
 " i And here are some to aid your prayers.' 
 
 " He passed his brow with heavy palm 
 
 " Looked up in half-subdued alarm, 
 
 " And answered, ' Save ye, reverend sires ! 
 
 " ' Ye offer what my state requires 
 
 " ' Physician less than saintly friend 
 
 " ' To bless and bring me to my end : 
 
 " f So please it either to receive 
 
 " ' My present shrift, the others leave.' 
 
 " Yet Rudic laboured to obtain 
 
 " Some intermission of his pain, 
 
 " And busied him about the couch ; 
 
 " But, when the pulse escaped his touch, 
 
 " He faultered, and in stifled tone 
 
 " Revealed the truth to me alone,
 
 92 
 
 " ' He dies, ere morning dawn,' he said, 
 " ' Perhaps less hardly for my aid.' 
 " And, hastening, from his vest he drew 
 " A medicine of purple hue ; 
 " Its slow distilling moisture hung 
 " Sueeous upon the stiffened tongue ; 
 (e I watehcd him filter drop by drop, 
 " Which sparkled like expiring hope, 
 " And some unwonted sympathy 
 " Dejected me, I knew not why. 
 " The stranger's eyes more mildly fired, 
 " As Rudic with the guide retired, 
 " A respiration calm and free 
 " Suspended his last energy, 
 " While, lightlier on his couch composed 
 " His hands inflexed his eyes half closed 
 " He spoke, as in a placid dream 
 " ' Father ! 1 am not what I seem, 
 " ' Yet 1 have nothing to repress 
 " ' From him whose hand is stretched to 
 bless ;
 
 93 
 
 " f No secret with a sainted mind, 
 
 " ' For you are good, and will be kind, 
 
 " ' And pity rather than reprove 
 
 " i The fault of fervent hopeless love ; 
 
 " ' Ah me ! its visitations urge 
 
 " ' My youth on an eternal verge.' 
 
 " , Alas ! my son, thyself resign 
 " ' To goodness mightier than mine ; 
 " * No more than fellow suppliant I 
 " ' Perhaps, like thee, love's votary : 
 " ' If thus, how sovereign a cure 
 " ' Do piety and age insure ! 
 " ' Love, which 'tis mortal to retain, 
 " ' Must be, my son, alas ! in vain/ 
 
 " ' Your daughter, say,' the stranger cried, 
 " And strove a sickly blush to hide, 
 " Herself recoiling from the word, 
 " And leaving my reply unheard. 
 " Then, having meekly sighed to rest 
 " Th' emotion with her sex confessed,
 
 94 
 
 " And suffered one descending tear 
 " ( Father and friend ! absolving hear. 
 
 " ( Orphan in early youth denied 
 " ( To one my comforter, and guide 
 " ' My chosen, but by Harold's word 
 " ( Disowned as my affianced lord, 
 " e I wept alone, while he essayed 
 " ' A distant mediator's aid, 
 " ' For such was wanting to remove 
 " ' The interdiction of our love. 
 " ' Haply the tale, so far, remains 
 " f With some among the neighbouring swains, 
 " ' For 1 am like the hunted hare, 
 " ' Doubling to die upon my lair ; 
 " f And would that the last air I breathe 
 " ' Were freshened with thy fragrant heath, 
 " ' Nor other posy culled to deck 
 " ' My bier, than thine, sweet Severnec ! 
 " ' Father ! forgive my simple mind, 
 " c 1 am not vain, nor less resigned
 
 95 
 
 " c Because reluctant to forget 
 
 " ( Past hours unsaddened by regret : 
 
 " l And, if the love of scenes like those, 
 
 " ' Where my first happiness arose 
 
 " ( Where from each parent's tongue I caught 
 
 " ' Instruction with my earliest thought 
 
 " ' Of those adorned at their request, 
 
 " ' And now, with their remembrance, blessed, 
 
 " ' Attend, perhaps, my latest sigh, 
 
 " ' Shall I be less absolved on high? 
 
 " ' My sorrow, at this awful hour, 
 
 " ' Subdued and chastened by its power, 
 
 " ' Conducts me to my end of days 
 
 " * In humble gratitude and praise 
 
 " ' To Him, my refuge, and defence 
 
 " ' In years of childish innocence 
 
 " ' When wondering at a world untried, 
 
 " ' In youth's incautious hour, my guide 
 
 " ' My consolation and my trust, 
 
 " ' When 1 resigned my parents' dust.
 
 96 
 
 " ' And all the hope's, a darling train, 
 
 " ' Which charmed my orphan hours in vain. 
 
 " ' Father! my strength begins to fail, 
 
 " ' I veer no longer in my tale. 
 
 " ' One evening found me at my gate, 
 " ' Pondering my past and future fate 
 " ( Fair promises of joy reversed, 
 " ' And lovelorn fears, of all the worst : 
 " ' The ploughman, from his furrow free, 
 " ' Had parted homewards wearily 
 " ' I deemed me in the vale alone, 
 " ' When suddenly a pipe was blown : 
 " ' I knew its note, a stranger's tongue 
 " ' With such had preluded his song, 
 " ' W T hat time his weaiy footsteps bore 
 " ' The wandering gallant to my door ; 
 " ' But my sad days so nearly pressed 
 " ' Upon the visit of my guest, 
 " ' That it seemed secretly combined 
 " ' With all the train of ills behind,
 
 97 
 
 " ' And I had since unkindly thought 
 
 " ( Of him, and what his music taught : 
 
 " ' Then, as I heard the pipe again, 
 
 " f I rose arid hastened toward the strain. 
 
 " Alas ! the mind is led to swerve 
 
 " ' In sorrow from its own reserve, 
 
 " ' I would the secret of my doom, 
 
 " ' And sought it of I knew not whom. 
 
 " ' I gained the thicket, and pursued 
 
 " ' A path of leaves by autumn strewed, 
 
 " ( Until the only sound I heard 
 
 " f Was that which my own footsteps stirred; 
 
 " ( But o'er the foliage, as I passed, 
 
 " ' Some drops of dewy light were cast, 
 
 " f (Such as the glow-worm wont to leave 
 
 " ' Upon a bank, at summer eve) 
 
 " ' I traced them to a hollow oak, 
 
 " ' From which the broadest lustre broke 
 
 " l A solitary watch fire's glare 
 
 " ( Discovered one who waited there
 
 98 
 
 " ' He was the same I sought he said, 
 
 " " You have prevented me, bright maid ! 
 
 " " I bear your guardian's seal, the rest 
 
 " " Is in the scroll it signs expressed." 
 
 " ' I drew the mandate from his hand, 
 
 " ' And stooped before the flashing brand ; 
 
 " ' But when I met the heedless gaze 
 
 " ' Of some who trimmed or spread the bla/c. 
 
 " ' And looked again upon the knight, 
 
 " ' Who smiled in triumph and delight, 
 
 " ' I struggled with a heart-wrung sigh, 
 
 " ' And sank in senseless apathy. 
 
 " ' My eyes, when T revived, were thrown. 
 " ' Ah me ! upon a bower unknown 
 " ' A gorgeous place, profusely gay 
 " ( With strange and undcsired array, 
 " ' And all the landscape in my view 
 " ' Beneath its lattices was new. 
 " ' I thought upon my simple home, 
 " ' And scorned for it the lordly dome
 
 99 
 
 " ' Which was my gilded prison where 
 " ' I wept what none around could share- 
 " ' A solitude from which restraint 
 " * Took the sad solace of complaint. 
 
 " ( My guardian had resigned his trust 
 " ( To one whom passion made unjust, 
 " ' Who offered unrequited love, 
 " i Yet held the maid he could not move ; 
 " e My suitor first, and then my guard 
 " e By either name alike ill-starred. 
 
 " ' When my captivity began, 
 " ' Its course in silent sorrow ran, 
 " * Disturbed by his attempts to gain 
 <c f What he believed not sought in vain 
 " A female heart, perhaps, alarmed, 
 " f Yet still to be consoled and charmed ; 
 " c But, with his loss of hope, arose 
 " l More fearful, and severer woes
 
 100 
 
 " ' Much which I pass, recalling, more 
 
 " ' Than memory retains, I bore : 
 
 " ' For oh ! my dread of violence 
 
 " ' Bewildered each conflicting sense, 
 
 " ' And apprehensions of the worst 
 
 " ' Left me unconscious when it burst. 
 
 " ' To nights, in sleepless anguish worn, 
 
 " ' And woes, fresh springing with the morn- 
 
 " ( Sad morn, reviving me to grieve, 
 
 " ' And weariness of thought at eve, 
 
 " ' To one dear hope, the last the first 
 
 " ' In ill, almost in phrenzy, nursed, 
 
 " ' Succeeded silence so profound 
 
 " ' Such tacitness to all around, 
 
 " ' That he believed me won, and bade 
 
 " ' The nuptial pageant be arrayed : 
 
 " ' (So of my gentle handmaids they 
 
 " l Who watched my slow revival, say) 
 
 ' ' My malady seemed virgin guise 
 
 " ' In an impatient lover's eyes ;
 
 101 
 
 " ' And those who in his hand placed mine 
 
 " ' Were all too busy to divine 
 
 " ' That aught unwonted lurkc d beneath 
 
 " ' My bridal coronet and wreath. 
 
 " ' But, when the twilight hour arose, 
 
 " ' And 1 was led to my repose, 
 
 " ' Some consciousness of where I passed, 
 
 " ' Sudden and horrid, long my last, 
 
 " ' Urged me to grief so stern and high 
 
 " ' That it dispelled the mysteiy, 
 
 " ' And told my miserable state 
 
 " 'To all around, alas ! too late. 
 
 " ' No care of joyful matrons spread 
 
 " ' The pillow for my wretched head, 
 
 " ' Almost to dissolution low 
 
 " ' In ago J iv of mortal woe ; 
 
 O * 
 
 " c But, in tumultuous affright, 
 " ' They hurried from the imperfect rite ; 
 " ' The bridegroom shuddered as he came, 
 " ' Then, hastening to conceal his shame,
 
 102 
 
 " ' Left for the field at evening fall, 
 " ' Unblessed, his bride and native hall. 
 
 " ' Before he sought his home again, 
 " ' My reason had resumed its reign ; 
 " ( And grief, transferring, by degrees, 
 " f To this frail form my mind's disease, 
 " ' Had left me just sufficient force 
 " ' To linger on my wretched course, 
 " ' Not energy to bear, or shun 
 " f Fresh sorrows but I suffered none. 
 " ' He yielded to his hapless part, 
 " c Compelled by his imperious heart 
 " ' To look, and love, ungratified ; 
 " ' Oh ! had it been more early tried, 
 " ' We should have saved a futile vow, 
 " ' And all were well, not anguish now : 
 " * Yet ever sanguine to reclaim 
 " e My heart from its unhappy flame, 
 " e He saw the flushing of my cheek 
 " ' For one I dared not wish to seek,
 
 103 
 
 *' ' And held, a wretched captive thing, 
 " ( Her whom he loved to worshipping. 
 
 " f My days have been a dream a shade 
 
 " ' A death impending, yet delayed : 
 
 " f He now with fatal malady 
 
 " l Strives, eager, yet averse to die. 
 
 " ' The vassals in alarm had spared 
 
 " ( The wonted order of their guard 
 
 " ( Argulio aided my request 
 
 " * To sleep where I was happiest 
 
 " { I summoned my remaining strength, 
 
 " ' And have attained thus far, at length ; 
 
 " ( And though behind yon smooth green hill 
 
 " ' My home be unsaluted still, 
 
 " < This lovely spot was sometime dear, 
 
 " ' And I might part contented here. 
 
 " ' He is at watch on yonder height, 
 
 " c Lest any intercept my flight. 
 
 " e But I have en'ed to entertain 
 ff { A holy man with theme so vain,
 
 104 
 
 " ' And oh ! the moments which I need 
 
 " ' For shrift and absolution speed. 
 
 " ' There's something that afflicts my heart 
 
 " ' Prove purify it, ere I part ! 
 
 " ' It to a nameless one aceords 
 
 " ' The thoughts, which should have been my 
 
 Lord's, 
 
 " ' By troth to whom, however plighted, 
 " ' My love and I are disunited ; 
 " ' And, in these moments, I have wept 
 " ' That I have nought he can accept 
 " ' Not even an enfranchised vow, 
 " ' In expiration to bestow. 
 " ' Oh ! for how many days repressed, 
 " ' The thought of him had seemed at rest 1 
 " ' But here, alas ! in vain I strive 
 " ' Youthful remembrances survive ; 
 " ' My little strength too soon resigned, 
 kt * And somewhat sympathizing mind, 
 11 ' Have failed me at a place unsought. 
 " ' \\"hich ereri now recalls that thought.
 
 105 
 
 " ( There was a voice, as I awoke 
 
 " c O Father ! I believed he spoke, 
 
 " ' And strove unguarded eyes to raise 
 
 " ' Strange fancies followed on my gaze ; 
 
 " ' Perhaps, alas ! my sight was dim, 
 
 " ' But, while you pray, I think of him 
 
 " ' These dear infirmities debase 
 
 " ' My last aspirings after grace, 
 
 " ' I strive to banish them in vain, 
 
 " ' They but deceive me, and remain. 
 
 " ' So fond, and fruitlessly resolved, 
 
 " e May I be comforted absolved ? 
 
 " " Absolved ! O patient goodness ! blessed !" 
 
 " ' Father ! you lull my heart to rest, 
 
 " ' It was not vain, the wish which led 
 
 " ' To thy sweet counsel Ethelfled.' 
 
 11 Exhausted, happily she sank, 
 " And passed the bitter cup 1 drank, 
 " While gaxing in her altered face, 
 " But for that last look's lingering grace
 
 106 
 
 " The cadcnt sweetness of her tone, 
 
 " Unrecognized, almost unknown. 
 
 " Ah! whither veered not then my mind 
 
 " What thoughts resisted, and resigned ? 
 
 " To name myself Oh ! one caress 
 
 " Were cruelty, not tenderness. 
 
 " In priestly offices to close 
 
 " Her eyes, unnamed the last I chose. 
 
 " But, on my purpose incomplete 
 " Broke busy sounds the dint of feet 
 " Two strangers to the chamber sped, 
 " Breathless, and by Argulio led. 
 " ' Lady,' he cried, ' awake ! arise ! 
 " ' No further fear ! no more disguise ! 
 " f Your miserable lord has passed ' 
 " She trembled, and looked up aghast, 
 " The vassals, as they met her eye, 
 " Presented homage silently, 
 ' c And, ' Adhelm smiles upon his bride,' 
 ' c I said, but scarcely had replied,
 
 107 
 
 " Ere those subduing hands were wound 
 " My stretched out arm my neck around. 
 " I saw my cheek that faint rose join 
 " Received her breath, embalming mine 
 " Felt the dear burthen which I bore 
 " Retrieved to part in life no more. 
 
 " ( My own, and ever loved !' she said, 
 " ' How has a moment overpaid 
 " * Out-paragoned my suffering ! 
 " ' Now, heavenward when my soul has wing, 
 " ( It will like summer morning fleet, 
 " ' As soft, as silent, and as sweet/ 
 
 " The consciousness serened her eye 
 " Her blessed thought was prophecy ; 
 " For of all sainted spirits, gone 
 " To our first mortal parent, none, 
 " In suffering humanity, 
 " So looked on death, content to die.
 
 JOS 
 
 " Oil ! with what eloquence she poured 
 
 " Each humblest, holiest, happiest word ! 
 
 " Then waited while I bade Amen, 
 
 " And she found strength for prayer again, 
 
 " Or, in the affection of her mind 
 
 " Revived so wonderfully kind ! 
 
 " The hours of our endearments passed 
 
 " Were all remembered in her last, 
 
 " And yet she taught me to resign 
 
 " Our earthly love for love divine. 
 
 " As Heaven had dealt with her no less 
 
 " Than in parental graciousness, 
 
 " She asked to be assured that I 
 
 " Would live and guard her memory. 
 
 " Swift fled our moments, 'till, as morn 
 " Drew brightening to its fatal dawn, 
 " Rudic, who knelt by us, rose up, 
 " And, wresting from my hands the cup, 
 " Whence ever and anon I shed 
 " Drops on her lips, or bathed her head,
 
 109 
 
 " Replaced it with the holy oil ; 
 
 " She marked his action by a smile, 
 
 " And, as I bowed myself to sign 
 
 " Her brow, impressed a kiss on mine. 
 
 " Then turned to me her fixing eye, 
 
 " With one long look one lingering sigh 
 
 " e I am, of miserable, blest,' 
 
 " Was all she said, and sank to rest." 
 
 Thou ! whom, perhaps, the tale I sing, 
 And thine own sympathy may bring, 
 In some sad moment, to survey 
 The vale where Avon's waters stray 
 Beneath the woodlands which surround 
 Braden's once dedicated ground ; 
 To hear the careless shepherd raise 
 His song, where swelled the hymn of praise, 
 And gain the choir, a garden now, 
 Where yet some solemn yew trees grow,
 
 HO 
 
 The broken cloisters that remain 
 
 Of those which once embraced the fane, 
 
 And that imperfect cross of stone, 
 
 Where then the moonbeam brightly shone ; 
 
 Remember, that beneath its shade, 
 
 By Ethelfled is Adhelm laid : 
 
 Valance and Amice had been wed 
 
 Upon the morn his spirit fled ; 
 
 He blessed their re-united love, 
 
 And sought his better hope above.
 
 NOTES.
 
 113 
 
 'T;as thus of old, 
 
 Some brother, when his vows were told, 
 At P.radcn, cried. P. 1. 
 
 Bradenstoke, in Wiltshire, on the south side of Braden 
 Forest, between Christian Melford and Lyneham, had formerly 
 
 a priory, and was a seat of the Dukes of Somerset. 
 
 Gazetteer. 
 
 The remains of this mansion, which can be traced to have 
 been of great extent, now inhabited as a farm house, are 
 extremely simple. I have been principally interested in the 
 ^election of it for the scene of my story, by the beauty of its 
 
 H
 
 114 
 
 situation, midway in the roach of a very fine and bold ridge of 
 hills, intersected at one extremity by the road from Oxford to 
 Bath, commanding a rich and extensive country watered by 
 the Avon, and covered at the other by continued woods. 
 
 Those placed the loftiest vats, &;c. P. 4. 
 
 The game intended to be here described is almost peculiar 
 to Wiltshire, and is still retained by the population of that 
 country, with all the predilection of their forefathers. They 
 number its most successful champions at the present day. It 
 bears with them the name of backsword. 
 
 Among the more simple, the stage for the contest is formed 
 precisely in the manner described in the poem. The challenge 
 is given by throwing down a hat. A hat is the conqueror's 
 usual prize. The two combatants are attended by umpires, 
 who confine the left hand of each with a handkerchief to the 
 thigh, arm either with a ground-ash stick, stripped of the 
 bark, obtuse at one end, and fitted at the other with a basket 
 guard. The attack is aimed at the head only : the most ap- 
 proved mode of annoy and defence is to keep the arm steadily 
 fixed, and trust to the action of the wrist ; and the effusion 
 of one drop of blood is decisive of the contest.
 
 115 
 
 Through seas, which murmured hoarse reply 
 To the Crusader's victor//. P. G. 
 
 King Richard the First, on his return from Palestine, not 
 daring to pass through France, sailed to the Adriatic, and was 
 shipwrecked near Aquiliea. 
 
 Thy rescue, and thy glory, those 
 
 Henry ! at Agincourt arose, 
 
 And rushed, where Ternois waters streamed, 
 
 A race devoted and redeemed. P. 7. 
 
 Henry, finding the passage clear, forded the river (Somme) 
 between St. Quintin and Peronne, and advancing to Blagney, 
 where he passed the small river of Ternois, perceived the 
 whole French army on the march towards Rousseauville and 
 Agincourt, which lay in his route to Calais. He found himself 
 in the midst of an enemy's country, during the severest season 
 of the year, at the head of a handful of men, exhausted by 
 distemper and fatigue, while a prodigious army, amounting to 
 one hundred thousand fighting men, blocked up the passage to 
 the only place where lie could expect to find shelter and
 
 11(5 
 
 assistance. I If gave his soldiers plainly to understand they 
 hud no resource from death or captivity, but in the extra- 
 ordinary efforts of their own valour. After the victory, Henry 
 inarched back to Marcoucelly, where he had encamped the 
 preceding night, in order that his troops might be more 
 conveniently refreshed, and next day proceeded on his route 
 to Calais. 
 
 Smollett. 
 
 Prom Hlndon, then a sylvan name. P. 10. 
 
 Hindon is a small borough town in Wiltshire, the name of 
 which is adopted by the Earls of Clarendon in their second title. 
 
 The canopy of Sevcrnec. P. 10. 
 
 This name (properly Savernake) belongs to a part of 
 Marlborough Forest, the beautiful domain of Lord A vies bury, 
 about fifteen miles from Braden. 
 
 Tlte solitary field was icon, $c, P. 10. 
 
 While travelling near Oxford, in a morning d" the autumi:
 
 117 
 
 of the year 1813, I saw the beautiful effect of a rainbow, 
 produced by the sun shining upon a valley filled with thick 
 mist. The vapour floated in large clouds from before the sun's 
 disk, and the sky above was a cloudless blue, deepening as 
 the fog melted away. 
 
 And larger than reality P. 1 1 . 
 
 The effect of fog is to subdue the colour of objects, without 
 diminishing their size, and, consequently, causes every thing 
 to appear more remote, but larger than it really is. 
 
 The hapless fool his hue betrayed. P. ] 1. 
 
 DUKE SEN. " Come, shall we go and kill us venison ? 
 And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools, 
 Being native burghers of this desert city, 
 Should, in their own confines, with forked heads 
 Have their round haunches gored." 
 
 Xhakspcarc. A* ymi. like it-
 
 118 
 
 II. 
 
 From lofty Hacbcns southern brink. P. 21. 
 
 This name is given to one of the highest of a fine ridge of 
 hills, the boundary of Marlborough Downs, which is divided 
 by the road to Wootten Basset, winding obliquely from its 
 declivity. 
 
 Cut through the glaciated steep 
 
 A rugged arch three fathom deep. P. 22. 
 
 Thi? passage is suggested by a circumstance which occurred 
 in the country chosen for the scene of the poem,, after the 
 winter 1813-14, there remarkably severe and distressing.
 
 119 
 
 Suc/i, amid olive groves and shrines, 
 
 August Antlparos confines 
 
 IF'ithin the bosom of her plain. P. 22. 
 
 The following description of the celebrated grotto of 
 Aiitiparos is extracted from one contained in a work, entitled, 
 " Letters from several parts of Europe and the East," written 
 in the year 1 7.>0. 
 
 " The grotto is a vast vault, the roof arched and irregular, 
 the pavement, in some places, very even, and in others rough 
 enough. The sides, which in most places form sweeps of 
 circles, are, in some, of the naked rock, but in others, they 
 are covered with an infinite number of incrustations. The 
 height of the roof is about fourscore feet. The length of the 
 grotto about three hundred its breadth nearly as much. The 
 greatest depth is towards the middle, but not exactly in the 
 centre. We were now between nine hundred and one thousand 
 feet from the surface of the ground where we came in. 
 
 " The matter which forms these incrustations, is, in other 
 places, often very clear and bright, but it is no where so pure 
 as in this. It is here perfect bright chrystal, and the whole 
 surface of the cavern, roof, floor, and sides, is covered with it. 
 The form into which it is thrown exceeds the materials. The 
 light of the flambeaux was reflected at once, from above, from
 
 120 
 
 bclou , iind from all sides ; and, as it was thrown back from 
 angle to alible among the ornaments of the roof and sides, gave 
 all tlic colours of the rainbow. 
 
 " \\ e entered a grove of chrystal trees. Tlie floor was in 
 general of a smooth glossy spar, but give me leave to call it 
 chrystal, of which it has all the appearance*. We walked on 
 this bright pavement in a kind of serpentine rn;eander, among 
 shrubs and taller masses of this chrystal, rising from the 
 common pavement with large and thick stems, and spreading 
 out into heads and tufts of branches. Some of these were 
 from eight to ten feet high ; the generality between two and 
 five feet. They were all of the same materials as the floor ; 
 and what added greatly to their beauty, as well as to the 
 resemblance to trees, was, that they were not smooth on the 
 surface, but covered all over with little shining points. These, 
 when examined, appeared to be pyramids of the same matter. 
 At some distance from the entrance we came up to a pillar of 
 chrvstal, seven feet in height, and more than a foot in diameter: 
 this rises immediately from the floor, and is of equal thickness 
 to the top; its surface is very glossy, ami of a pure and perfect 
 lustre. About this there stand three or four others, of four 
 feet high, and a proportionate thickness ; one of these lias been 
 broken, and the piece lays by it. 
 
 " The sides of the grotto next came into consideration. In 
 some places the plain rock is covered with a vast sheet of this 
 chrystal, like a cake of ice spread evenly over it, and of the
 
 121 
 
 thickness of an inch or two, its surface perfectly smooth, and 
 every where following the shape of the rock. In other places 
 this sheet of chrystal is variegated with a strange quantity of 
 irregular and modulated figures, all over its surface : these were 
 in some spots more raised, in others less, but their inlanders 
 very beautiful. In other parts, where the walls were so 
 prominent that drops from the roof could reach them, there 
 grew from their surface, in the same manner as from the floor, 
 shrubs of chrystal ; but these were in general lower and more 
 spreading than those of the floor. In some places the sheet of 
 chrystal, instead of clinging immediately to the wall, or rock, 
 stood out a distance from it, forming a kind of curtain of pure 
 pellucid matter. These curtains of chrystal were not plain, 
 but folded and plaited, and their undulations added not a little 
 to their beauty. 
 
 " It yet remains that I describe the roof of this wonderful 
 place. In some places there diverged rays of pure and glossy 
 chrystal in the manner of a star from a lucid centre, stretching 
 themselves to two or three yards diameter ; in another, clus- 
 ters like vast branches of grapes hung down ; and from others 
 there v\ ere continued festoons, loose in the middle, but fixed 
 at either end, and formed of a vast variety of foliage, fruit, 
 and flowers. There is a rudeness in all these, that would, 
 wherever one saw them, speak them the absolute work of 
 nature ; but art would be proud to imitate them. At every 
 little space between these, there hang the stalactites, or stony
 
 122 
 
 icicles, as they arc called, in a surprizing number, hut ol a 
 magnitude much more surprizing. Sonic of these have doubt- 
 less been many hundred years in forming, and they are from 
 ten to twenty or thirty feet in length. One hangs nearly from 
 the centre of the grotto, which must be considerably more 
 than that ; it is eight or nine feet longer than all the others, 
 and, at the base, seems five or six feet in diameter. It is a 
 cone in form, and its point tolerably fine. Nearly under the 
 centre of the arch there is a little pyramid of natural congela- 
 tions of the shrubby kind, of those I have already mentioned 
 to yon. It is the finest cluster in the whole floor, and is 
 ornamented with a parcel of festoons and cones, from the 
 overhanging part of the roof, which make a kind of attic story 
 to it. Behind it is one of the natural closets, curtained off 
 from the main hollow of the grotto, and full of beautiful con- 
 gelations. They call this pyramid the altar. Some of the 
 pieces have been cut down, and upon the basis of the pyramid 
 we read an inscription that puzzled us extremely : " Hie ipse 
 Christus adfuit, ejus natali die, media nocte celebrata."' There 
 was a date of 1 673 annexed ; but, not being of the Romish 
 communion, we could by no means make out the meaning of 
 the words, till our guides had informed us that a French person 
 of quality, Ambassador to the Porte, had caused mass to be 
 celebrated there, with great solemnity, on Christmas Day, at 
 that time, and had spent two or three days in the grotto with 
 a very numerous company.
 
 123 
 
 To VasJiterns tower in Tokenham Vale. P. 28. 
 
 Tokenham in Wiltshire, to the south-west of Wootton Bas- 
 set, was a manor, forfeited by the two Spenscrs, favourites of 
 Edward the Second. King Edward the Third gave it to his 
 son, the Duke of York ; and two centuries before the present, 
 a Duke of York, that was his descendant, had his seat, and 
 made a very large park here. One of the late Dukes of 
 Somerset had this seat. West Tokenham belonged to Braden- 
 stoke Abbey, and was held by lease by the Danvers family 
 for many generations. 
 
 Gazetteer. 
 
 the Regent's mandate. P. 32. 
 
 Richard Duke of York, who succeeded the Duke of Bedford 
 as Regent of France in the year 1349.
 
 124 
 
 III. 
 
 slrtpe the lengthening sunbeams shot 
 
 Yr Father Adhelm s favorite .spot. P. 3.v. 
 
 And the slope sun his upward beam, 
 Shoots against the dusky pole. 
 
 ] outhful xn late, hi* darkened 
 
 That day iras irhlte irith a^es snow. P. 37. 
 
 I u as acquainted with a French gentleman, resident in this 
 country at the commencement of the Revolution, who ha> 
 assured me that violent emotion, occasioned by his hearing an 
 account of the murder of his mother, who had been assassinated 
 in her house at Paris by the populace, caused his hair to turn 
 trrev in one n'ujht.
 
 125 
 
 Miss Johanna Baillie, in her tragedy on the passion of 
 hatred, has beautifully introduced an incident of the same 
 nature. 
 
 JER. " Merciful Heaven ! his hair is grisly grown, 
 Changed to white age, what was but two days since 
 Black as the raven's plume. How may this be ? 
 
 BERN. Such change from violent conflict of the mind 
 Will sometimes come." 
 
 De Montfort. 
 
 With wondrous sensibility, 1'. -12. 
 
 " And with affection wondrous sensible 
 
 He wrung Bassanio's hand, and so they parted." 
 
 Merchant of I'enici. 
 
 " Loveliest and most forlorn ! farewell /" 
 " All hail to the leatijied /" P. 43. 
 
 The contrast here is in imitation of the following beautiful 
 extempore epitaph attributed to Mr. Hayter. 
 
 ' Too soon, alas !" affection cries, 
 " Her spirit mounted to the skies." 
 " Absent too long !" the angels say, 
 " Come sister to the realms of day."
 
 126 
 
 Ands hall we not to kindred dust 
 
 Our loveliest and most graceful trust ? #c. P. 48. 
 
 This sentiment is in Xenophon's speech of the dying Cyrus 
 to his children. 
 
 To (J tfMV a-ZfM, a irafSes %-ca.v TfXtvr'fau, pfre (v %pv<ru Byre, 
 tv apyi'fu, ^Se ev aXXu f/.t$vt. A'XXa rrj yy u$ ra.y^a'Tcc ai 
 Ti'yap TO-JTW [^ay-dfiurepdv rov yrj jU(^6^va(, fj mvTo. [A(v TO, x.aAa., iravra 
 Se rayafia (fivei -re v.ou Tf>e'<f>ei ; Eyw xat aXXw^ (f>i7Mv
 
 127 
 
 IV. 
 
 His sacristan, Edwellyn, bowed. P. 54. 
 
 Sacristan was a treasurer of the utensils or moveables of the 
 church. 
 
 Tlie careless hours of simple men, 
 Rejoicing, and religious too. P. 55. 
 
 In one of the divisions of the " Sentimental Journey/' 
 entitled " the Grace," Sterne has fully and beautifully illus- 
 trated tliis imagination. 
 
 " It was not till the middle of the second dance when, from 
 some pauses in the movement,, wherein they all seemed to look 
 up, 1 fancied I could distinguish an elevation of spirit, different 
 from that which is the cause or the effect of simple jollity.
 
 128 
 
 In a word, I thought I beheld religion mingling in the dance, 
 but, as 1 had never seen her so engaged, I should have looked 
 upon it now as one of the illusions of an imagination, which is 
 eternally misleading me, had not the old man, as soon as the 
 dance was ended, said that this was their constant way; and 
 that all his life long he had made it a rule, after supper was 
 over, to eall out his family to dance and rejoice, believing, he 
 said, that a cheerful and contented mind was the best sort of 
 thanks to Heaven that an illiterate peasant could pay." 
 
 And I shall conquer in this sign, 
 Imperial Lord ! P. 57. 
 
 " Constantine the Great, in prosecuting his expedition into 
 Italv against Maxentius, having resolved to lay aside the vulgar 
 deities, and adhere to the God of his father to whom he humbly 
 addressed himself, beseeching him to make himself known 
 to him, and assist him in this expedition ; Heaven heard his 
 prayer, and answered it in a manner so miraculous, that 
 Eusebius acknowledges it would not have been credible, if he 
 had not received it from the emperor's own mouth, who 
 ratified the truth of it with his oath. 
 
 The army was upon their march, and Constantine seriously 
 employed in these devout ejaculations, when, the sun declining, 
 there suddenly appeared a pillar of light in the Heavens in the
 
 129 
 
 fashion of a cross, with this inscription about or upon it, 
 TOVTV vita., " In this overcome." This was a surprising sight 
 to Constantino and his whole army ; and the commanders and 
 officers, prompted by their auspices, looked upon it as an 
 inauspicious omen, portending a very unfortunate expedition. 
 But it made such a happy impression on the emperor's mind, 
 that being farther encouraged i'V visions that night, he caused 
 the next day a royal standard (or labarmn) to be made like 
 that which he had seen in the Heavens, and to be borne before 
 him in his wars, as an ensign of victory and safety." 
 
 Ecliard'-i Roman History. 
 
 M. Ladvocat, in his Biographical Dictionary, under the head 
 Constant! ne, has it, that the sign or monogram which was seen 
 by the emperor, was properly a P cut by a strait line. 
 
 The music of their sad farewell 
 
 si s front the failed image fell. P. .")8. 
 
 The famous statue of Memnon, the son of Tithonus and 
 Aurora, which, according to the fable, sent forth sounds of 
 rejoicing, when the rays of the sun fell upon it, and lamentation, 
 when they were withdrawn. 
 
 A spear among ten thousand seen. P. f>8. 
 
 Was there a shield or spear seen among forty thousand in 
 Israel -
 
 130 
 
 V. 
 
 Above the softly lavish senvt 
 
 Of all but the first pair ic/to luted. P. 67 
 
 The idea of regarding our first parents as a model Cot- 
 conjugal affection has been pursued by Mrs. Hannah More with 
 peculiar beauty and delicacy in several parts of her work from 
 \rhich the following passage is quoted. 
 
 " Our mutual admiration of the " Paradise Lost/' and its 
 ' heroine, seemed to bring us nearer together than we had yet 
 " been." 
 
 Who, upon Liddel'a lofty brink, 
 
 Let slip their greyhounds from the link. P. 74. 
 
 Liddel Hill is one of the highest summits of the down between 
 Ssvindon and Marlborough, and is in the vicinity of a spot 
 chosen at the present day for the field sport alluded to in t In- 
 put-in.
 
 131 
 
 yng Cliff's height. P. 80. 
 
 Wyng Cliff, or Wyng Hill, one of the loftiest points in 
 Monmouthshire, rises almost immediately behind Piercefield. 
 The view described in the text is from an eminence near the 
 ascent, and appears to be one of those distinguished by Mr. 
 Gilpin, in his book on the river Wye and South Wales, by the 
 following observations. 
 
 " The views on this side are not the romantic steeps of 
 " the Wye : but though of another species, they are equally 
 " grand. They are chiefly distances, consisting of the vast 
 ' ' waters of the Severn, here an arm of the sea bounded by a 
 " remote country 'of the mouth of the Wye entering the 
 " Severn and of the town of Chepstow, and its castle and 
 " abbey."
 
 132 
 
 VI. 
 
 The hill and beaten road, 
 
 A nd passed beside the narroir cleft 
 
 By yon long sea tiered village left, &<. 1'. Si). 
 
 After passing the hill and following the road alluded to in the 
 first note, Lynehain, a small scattered village, intervenes. The 
 cleft at the eastern end of it, mentioned in the poem, contains a 
 store of water, principally obtained from land rills, and confined 
 hy dams, for the purpose of supplying a water mill, liy which 
 it escapes in a narrow channel through a romantic pass, the 
 onlv one in the vicinity which can boast a stream, with uplands 
 on each side, across the vale of Tokenham. A small tract of 
 heath lays on the further side of the cleft, and both arc crossed 
 by a footpath leading to Dantsey, a village in the valley, where 
 is the mansion of the late Earl of Peterborough.
 
 133 
 
 But, while you pray, I think of him ' P. 105. 
 
 This passage is in recollection of that most beautiful one in 
 the " Winter's Tale" of Shakspeare, in which the art of the 
 poet has almost prevented that of the tragedian. 
 
 Lioox. " I'd beg your precious mistress, 
 
 Which he counts but a trifle. 
 
 PAUL. Sir ! my liege ! 
 
 Your eye hath too much youth in't : Not a month 
 Tore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes 
 Than what you look on now. 
 
 LEON T . I thought of her 
 
 Even in those looks I made." 
 
 Winter's Tale, Act b, Scene 1. 
 
 For of all sainted spirits, gone 
 
 To our first mortal parent. P. 107. 
 
 " I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me." 
 
 Samuel 2, Chap. 12. 
 
 Or, in the affection of her mind 
 Revived, so wonderfully kind ! P. 108. 
 
 The following pathetic narrative of the like behaviour in 
 death is extracted from Dr. Atterbury, the Bishop of Rochester's 
 letter to Mr. Pope, on the demise of the bishop's daughter.
 
 " I am not yet master enougli of myself, after the late 
 wound I have received, to open my very heart to you, and am 
 not content with less than that whenever I converse with you. 
 My thoughts are, at present, vainly, but pleasingly employed 
 on what I have lost and can never recover. The earnest 
 desire of meeting one I dearly loved, called me abruptly to 
 Montpelier ; \\here, after continuing two months under the 
 cruel torture of a sad and fruitless expectation, I was forced 
 at last to take a long journey to Toulouse ; and even there 1 
 had missed the person I sought, had she not with great spirit 
 and courage ventured all night up the Garonne to see me, 
 which she above all things desired to do before she died. By 
 that means she was brought where I was between seven and 
 eight in the morning, and lived twenty hours afterwards ; 
 which time was not lost on either side, but passed in such a 
 manner as gave great satisfaction to both, and such as on her 
 part every way became her circumstances and character. For 
 she had her senses to the last gasp, and exerted them to give 
 me, in those few hours, greater marks of duty and love than she 
 had done in all her life time, though she had never been 
 wanting in either. The last words she said to me, were the 
 kindest of all ; a reflection on the goodness of God which had 
 allowed us in this manner to meet once more, before we parted 
 for ever. Not many minutes after that, she laid herself on her 
 pillcnv, in a sleeping posture, 
 
 I'lacidaOjiie ibi demum jiiorte quievit.
 
 135 
 
 She asKd to be assured that I 
 
 JVould live and guard her memory. P. 108. 
 
 " Horatio, what a wounded name, 
 Things standing thus unknown shall live behind me ? 
 [f thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, 
 Absent thee from felicity awhile, 
 And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, 
 To tell my story." 
 
 Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 2. 
 
 / am, of miserable, blest, P. 109. 
 
 In the speech of Adam after the fall, in the tenth book of 
 1'aradise Lost, beginning with the words " O miserable of 
 happy." A peculiar beauty arises from the abrupt contrast 
 which I have endeavoured to render applicable to Ethelfled. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 -. Printed by J. Evans, Leicester Street, Leicester Square.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 BY MISS HOLFORD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF WALLACE, OR THE FIGHT OF FALKIRK 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORMK, 
 AND BROWN 
 
 1811.
 
 J. M'Cm KKV, Printer, 
 
 Blaik-Jlorse-Court, Fleet-Street, 
 
 London.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DEDICATORY ADDRESS i 
 
 The Poet's Fate 7 
 
 To a Friend with a Ring 12 
 
 The Pursuit . 14 
 
 Lady Emme/ine .19 
 
 Ode to Time 27 
 
 Where is Happiness '! ... 32 
 
 Lady Isabel : a Song 39 
 
 Lines in imitation of the style of 'Reattie's Minstrel 42 
 
 To Devti 46 
 
 Ode ?<> Genius . , 50
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Thnc 55 
 
 To the Butterfly 58 
 
 Lines addressed to the Right Honourable Lady x 
 
 Isabella K , suggested by a passage V 61 
 
 in Ariosto ) 
 
 Dreams 63 
 
 Science : inscribed to Mrs. 67 
 
 Carisbrooke : a Ballad 71 
 
 On witnessing the decline of Health, Spirits, * 
 
 79 
 
 and Genius in a well-known Author . . - 
 
 November 83 
 
 Good Bye to the Muse 89 
 
 Lines suggested by a perusal of the Lay of the \ 
 
 - 92 
 Last Minstrel -> 
 
 A ttnllad 98 
 
 Yesterday: a Song 108 
 
 Ode to the Memory of Lieut. -Colonel I/' assail . 1 10
 
 POEMS. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 TO 
 
 MY MOTHER, 
 
 iVly MOTHER, thou hast not forgot the hour, 
 Tho' Time since then is far upon his way, 
 When youth and beauty crown'd thy bridal bcnv'r, 
 And on thy lap thy first-born infant lay 
 Catching the parting breath of lingering May, 
 Which, as it whisper'd o'er thy green alcove, 
 Gave life and freshness to the fervid day ; 
 O'er thee the woodbine's flexile tendrils wove, 
 .And wafted on thine ear the woodland son-j of love
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 .Nor did the sportive zephyr, as it flew 
 Through vales where Flora's modest tram repose, 
 Or the bright meadow spangled o'er with dew, 
 From Morn's lirst blush to Evening's fragrant close, 
 Fan with its \\ing, than thee, a fairer rose ! 
 Such wert thou, when the natal Genius stood 
 Beside thy couch, and wav'd his wand, and smil'd ; 
 His bright eye shed of light a glittering ilood, 
 Half didst thou fear that aspect strange and wild, 
 As with immortal hand he touch'd th' unconscious child ' 
 
 " Fear not," he cried, " my office is to bless ! 
 Which of the toys, that mortals blessings name, 
 
 4 
 
 Shall deck thy babe ? be thou the arbitress ! 
 The gift be thine, of Beauty, Wealth, or Fame- 
 Mine be the task to grant, and thine to claim !" 
 .lust then a crystal mirror on thine eye 
 
 is u pallid cheek, a languid frame
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 " See ! Beauty tlies the transient agony ! 
 
 I ask not for my babe what blooms so soon to die ! 
 
 " And, Genius, well I know, that gold in vain 
 Swells the clos'd coffer, and encrusts the heart ; 
 But, the sad vigil kept thro' nights of pain, 
 Grief's throbbing ulcer, Envy's rankling smart, 
 To lull and to appease, has Wealth the art ? 
 No ; I would lead my child, where lurking care 
 Ne'er whets the sting, or brandishes the dart, 
 Would lead it to yon fairy region, where 
 No cloud obscures the day, no vapour loads the air 
 
 " Where on the vivid flower no canker preys, 
 That decks the bank of glancing Hippocrene, 
 Where Fancy's rule the laughing realm obeys, 
 Obedience mild, a willing meed I ween ; 
 For who would rebel prove to such a queen ! -
 
 A DEDICATION. 
 
 Be this the boon!" The natal Genius smil'd, 
 
 Auspicious shone the guardian's brow serene, 
 
 " Go range," he cried, " the visionary wild, 
 
 AY here lickle Fancy reigns, a wayward, wandering child 
 
 Since then, thro' every mountain, dell, or grove, 
 Y\ herever fountain gush'd, or murmur 'd rill, 
 Fancy beheld her fondest votary rove 
 Her grassy glens, and climb each mist-crown'd hill : 
 And thus the 'tranced pilgrim wanders still ; 
 And who would rudely break the enthusiast's dream. 
 Or vex v.ith worldly cares that bosom's thrill, 
 As bending pensive o'er some wizard stream, 
 ft ponders silently, the sweet, yet lofty theme ? 
 
 Mother, how oft the lucre-loving sire 
 Commits his offspring to luigenial skies, 
 ^( nds him to burn beneath the tropic lire,
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 And waste far off his native energies, 
 
 To glad, with foreign gold, a parent's eyes ! 
 
 And has thy child a thriftless wanderer stray 'd, 
 
 Bringing for thee no tributary prize ? 
 
 Lo ! at thy feet, a varied garland laid, 
 
 Of blossoms pluck'd for thee, from Fancy's flowery glade :
 
 THE POET'S FATE. 
 
 WHY idly, shepherd, thro' the live-long day, 
 In thriftless song, thy youthful leisure waste ? 
 The busy world now beckons thee away, 
 Oh quit thy dream, of solid joys to taste ; 
 Nor vainly liberal of youth's golden prime, 
 Give to the thankless Muse, thy swiftly fleeting time ! 
 
 Say, will thy Muse, 'mid Fortune's varying gleams, 
 On age and want her air) favours shed, 
 Lull thee with hopes, and flatter thee with dreams, 
 And bind her laurels round thy drooping head ;
 
 8 THE POET'S FATE. 
 
 Bless with bright visions thy declining hour, 
 
 And on thy closing ears her heavenly accents pour? 
 
 Or will she, should neglect thv bosom rend, 
 From thy dim eye forbid the tear to flow, 
 Teach thee, unmov'd, to meet each alien friend, 
 And bid thee smile on Memory's hoarded woe ? 
 Will air-built castles yield thy homeless form 
 Rest from perturbing cares, and shelter from the storm : 
 
 How wilt thon bear, when Folly's ideot smile. 
 Shall coldly mark thec for the vulgar scorn ; 
 And sneering, thank indulgent Heav'n the while 
 That genius beam'd not on her natal morn ; 
 But worldly thrift a glimmering light supplied, 
 She hail'd the taper's gleam and took it for her guide 
 
 Whilst thon, poor Bard, the Muse's luckless child, 
 In evil hour a dazzling track pursued,
 
 THE POET'S FATE. 9 
 
 Which bteer'd thy wandering course thro' regions wild, 
 Where never Prudence led her pigmy brood, 
 Where never toil uptore the verdant sod 
 To seek man's glittering prize, his earth-extracted god ! 
 
 There, seldom Fortune's summer-breathing gale 
 Fans the young impulse with auspicious wing, 
 But Poverty uprears her visage pale, 
 And checks, with icy grasp, the bosom-spring, 
 Blasts the fair promise of youth's vernal hour, 
 Arrests the vital sap, and nips each opening flower ! 
 
 Ah ! many a name does dark oblivion claim, 
 Once cherished names, to faithless genius dear ! 
 Ah ! many a Bard, too late the boast of Fame, 
 Press'd with cold limbs an unattended bier, 
 And felt unmark'd hope's transient hoctic die, 
 And breath'd, where none could hear, his last unecho'd sigh !
 
 l* THE POET'S FATE. 
 
 Thus vainly, Otway, did thy numbers flow, 
 Thus idly, swell'd thy unavailing song ? 
 Ah ! did thy Muse immortal aid bestow 
 When Famine's fever parch'd thy tuneful tongue 
 When man, thy brother, from thy suppliant eye 
 Regardless turn'd a\vay, and let the poet die : 
 
 Oh why each throbbing sense to anguish wake r 
 Why, on the Bard, fix Fate's tremendous seal 
 Which bids him suffer for the Muse's sake 
 Such pangs, as common souls ne'er dar'd to feel ? 
 Why does the touch of Sorrow's venom'd dart 
 Thro' ev'ry fine-strung nerve run quivering to his heart ? 
 
 Oh, Chatterton ! how gay thy morn arose ! 
 Bright on thy youth celestial Genius smil'd, 
 But " Poverty the genial current fro/e," 
 And Misery clasp'd thee, her devoted child !
 
 THE POET'S FATE. 11 
 
 Urg'd, while thy lips her poison'd chalice drain'd, 
 And on thy wasting form each lurid eye-ball strain'd ! 
 
 Yet, from thy breast, tho' each fair form was fled, 
 Pride held her sullen empire in thy soul 
 " What ! shall I, bending low my laurel'd head, 
 From affluence ask the slowly yielded dole, 
 From Pity's boon, life's poor support obtain, 
 Or drag its weary load in Flattery's helot train !" 
 
 Oh ! ever following in the Muse's rear, 
 Of perish'd hopes, a .spectre band is seen ; 
 There, Melancholy drops the frequent tear ; 
 There, Memory raves of joys that once have been ; 
 There keen-eyed Want assails with famish'd cry 
 Who clanks the sounding chain ? 'tis wild Insanity !
 
 ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND, 
 
 \V 1 T II A KIN G. 
 
 NAY, pretty Gertrude, do not fear me 
 Kind Friendship's easy chain am I, 
 No tickle tyrant bids thee \\ear me, 
 My bondage ne'er shall force a sigh ; 
 
 Then let me clasp thy taper finger, 
 In me no treacherous fetter fear, 
 i \vill but ask thy thoughts to linger 
 Upon the friend \vlio plac'd me their,
 
 TO A FRIEND, WITH A RING. 
 
 Oh scorn not then a pledge so tender, 
 But let me deck thy snowy hand, 
 Till I, my envied post surrender, 
 And yield to Hymen's mystic band ; 
 
 And when to Love's imperious token 
 My transient triumph I resign, 
 Oh ! may'st thou never wish it broken, 
 \nd be its weight as light as mine !
 
 THE PURSUIT. 
 
 I'\ E often thought, the world around 
 Might echo to our footsteps' sound, 
 \V hilc social scene, and desert drear. 
 Alike our vagrant track might bear, 
 And \ve might roll our searching eves 
 Round native, and round foreign skies, 
 And still the soother Friendship iind 
 A gay chimera of the mind ; 
 A flame, blown up by Fancy's breath, 
 -\ flower, to deck the poet's wreath.
 
 THE PURSUIT. 
 
 A wandering meteor, which pursued 
 Would still the following step elude ; 
 A painted charm from Circe's bower, 
 \\ hich, like the bow in summer shower 
 Would gleam across the gloomy sky, 
 Then fade upon the baffled eye, 
 And leave it aching to deplore 
 Those colours which are bright no more : 
 But yet a whisper from within 
 Urg'd me this shadowy prize to win ; 
 Each heart with life's warm current fraught 
 Must still pursue some favorite thought ; 
 And never must the heaving breast 
 Till the last silence, hope to rest : 
 Nay, even in the hermit's cell, 
 Where dank oblivion seems to dwell, 
 Scattering her slumb'rous dews around. 
 And shedding thick her mist.-; profound.
 
 1C THE PURSUIT. 
 
 Nature's true spark, tho' languid, burns, 
 
 And the dim spirit world-ward turns ! 
 
 Still, still we see earth's giddy race 
 
 All pushing on with eager pace, 
 
 The grave, the gay, the sage, the vain. 
 
 Some gilded tritle to obtain ! 
 
 Various their aims, alike their toil ; 
 
 Some seek an empire, some a smile, 
 
 Some ask for wealth, and some for fame, 
 
 And pant and labour for u name ! 
 
 I smil'd to see the crowd pursue, 
 
 Yet felt the restless impulse too. 
 
 " Perchance," said I, " mv anxious breast 
 
 Throbs for a bauble like the rest ; 
 
 Friendship may prove an emptier name 
 
 Than even power, or wealth, or fame- 
 
 But \\hat of that! the doom is past, 
 
 And all must run to drop at last :
 
 THE PURSUIT. 
 
 And if the toy should disappear. 
 Elusive of my vain career, 
 Yet all who run beneath the sky, 
 Have follow'd cheats as well as I !' r 
 Philosophy, with brow severe, 
 Turn'd slowly from his task austere. 
 And bade me think before I ran, 
 Nor waste on dreams life's little span ; 
 Since ancient lore, and modern use, 
 Full many a warning might produce, 
 Of those who follow'd, to no end, 
 That ignis-fatuus, a Friend ! 
 Then bent on his more ,so//f/ aim 
 He turn'd again to hunt a name ! 
 The gay coquette, with laughing eyes, 
 Beheld my progress with surprise. 
 And smiling shook the rosy chain, 
 Jn which she held her \otive train 
 c
 
 18 THE PURSUIT. 
 
 Wealth smil'd contempt, to see my aim 
 Was such unprofitable game ; 
 But would not chide me from my whim, 
 Lest I should interfere with him. 
 Thus, each maintained his own pursuit 
 Led to the only solid fruit, 
 And found in every neighbour's aim 
 Food for compassion, mirth, or blame ! 
 With ardent heart I urg'd the chase, 
 I reach'd the goal, 1 won the race ! 
 With the high prize my toils are bless'd, 
 And now I wear it in my breast. 

 
 LADY EMMELINE 
 
 Now howls the dark storm, the torrent falls fast, 
 And the moon glimmers wat'ry and pale, 
 And the night-wand'ring traveller shudders aghast, 
 For the fiend of the tempest bestrides the rough blu'-t, 
 And shrieks in the eddying gale ! 
 
 " And who is the damsel all mantled in white '' 
 And why does she wander alone ? 
 And why does she stray mid the horrors of night, 
 Since her cheek is all wan with despair and affright, 
 And wherefore that sorrowing groan r" 
 c <2
 
 LADY EM ME LINK. 
 
 " Oh stay me not stranger, the merciless sky 
 On me darts its fury in vain : 
 
 Tis despair's lurid meteor that gleams from my eye. 
 Tis the demon of anguish that urges the sigh, 
 And perplexes my wandering brain ! 
 
 " Then stay me not stranger ! the path I explore 
 Is dreary, and dark, and unknown ! 
 See the corpse-candles flitting my footsteps before ! 
 All ! soon shall the toil of my journey be o'er, 
 But I must pursue it alone." 
 
 ' Now turn thee rash maiden! now tarn, I pray! 
 All sternly the stranger exclaimed : 
 Oh where art thou wending thy desolate way f 
 From thy sire's shelt'ring turrets what tempt* thee to stray, 
 Once tor prudence and piety lamed r''
 
 LADY EMMELINE. 21 
 
 "' Oh ! stay me not stranger," and wild glared her eye, 
 '' Or morning will crimson the east! 
 The vow of my grief is recorded on high, 
 And ere night's dusky shadows have quitted the sky, 
 Must the billow roll over my breast ! 
 
 " Ye towers of my Father ! no more shall the song 
 Resound thro' yon desolate hall, 
 Nor beauty nor chivalry lead the gay throng, 
 But the bell of the castle with deep muffled tongue. 
 Shall toll Lady Emmeline's fall ! 
 
 " And where the bright banner once wav'd to tlie wind 
 Shall the dark Hag of funeral float, 
 And the scenes, once to mirth's frolic revels resign'd, 
 Where the soft strains of minstrelsy sooth'd the light mind, 
 Shall but echo the hoarse raven's note i
 
 LADY EMMELINE. 
 
 " Oh ! once not the fluttering zephyr of May 
 Was lighter than Emmeline's heart, 
 But sad was the hour, and ill-omen'd the day, 
 When destiny mark'd me for sorrow a prey, 
 And levell'd the love-poison'd dart. 
 
 ' Ye powers of delusion ! how oft ye restore 
 The scenes which forever are fled, 
 Ere my Edwin the red-cross of chivalry bore, 
 And wav'd it aloft o'er the blood-crimson'd shore, 
 Doom'd to pillow his warrior head ! 
 
 " Sir Edwin I come ! and the wavering gleam 
 Of the corpse-fires my footsteps shall light, 
 To where the cliff nodding above the dark stream, 
 i may quench in death's bosom, life's feverous beam ; 
 And repose 'mid the shadows of night!"
 
 LADY EMMELINE. V" 
 
 Then swift to the clififs craggy summit she hied, 
 And gazed on the torrent below, 
 1 Now chide not, Sir Edwin, thy lingering bride, 
 Soon sinking to slumber beneath the cold-tide, 
 Shall I cancel despair's sullen vow !" 
 
 Now loudly the thunder rolled over her head, 
 And wild flashed the blue lightning's glare, 
 The earth all convulsed trerabl'd under her tread, 
 And a deep murmur'd sound, like the voice of the dead, 
 Echo'd sternly, " Rash maiden beware !" 
 
 The heart of the lady beat quick at the tone, 
 As it solemnly dwelt on her ear, 
 She gazed on the pilgrim, no longer unknown, 
 " Oh God ! 'tis my Edwin !" she utter'd a groan 
 " 'Tis the voice of my Edwin I hear !"
 
 i LADY EM ME LINE. 
 
 All hollow and motionless glare on her view 
 Those eyes which once sparkl'd so bright, 
 ()u that once-blooming cheek, sits the grave's livid hue, 
 And the cold reptile crawls in that bosom so true, 
 Once the mansion of love and delight ! 
 
 " Far, far from the tomb where his fathers are laid, 
 Do the bones of Sir Edwin decay ! 
 But the voice of thy murmuring wak'd his wan shade, 
 And rais'd his dim spectre thy crime to upbraid, 
 And snatch thee from misery away ! 
 
 " Oh ! think on the doom, which by justice decreed, 
 The self-franchised spirit awaits ; 
 No), ages of torture shall cancel the deed, 
 The worm of remorse on thy bosom shall feed, 
 Who.se greediness never abates !
 
 LADY EMMELINE. 
 
 " JN T ow farewel my Emmeline !" sadly he said, 
 And a sigh heav'd his shadowy breast 
 " To the far distant land where my relics are laid, 
 See the grey morning summons my lingering shade, 
 But we'll meet in the realms of the blest !" 
 
 The form of Sir Edwin now faded in air, 
 And Emmeline dropt on her knee 
 " Forgive me," she murmured, " my guilty despair, 
 Oh ! Heaven ! in mercy receive my sad prayer, 
 And soon set thy penitent free !" 
 
 Now homeward she wander'd, and silent and slow, 
 Towards the towers of her father she pass'd ; 
 All wan and dejected, she mus'd on her vow, 
 Unheeded the torrent beat cold on her brow, 
 And she felt not the pitiless blast !
 
 26 LADY EMMELINE. 
 
 Hark ! the wild raving storm how it rends the dark sky, 
 And threatens the wanderer's head, 
 And mark the red bolt, how it darts from on high 
 See Death's chilling vapours have quench'd her dim eye, 
 Lady Emmeline's spirit is fled ! 
 
 Ev'n yet, when the shadows of twilight prevail, 
 Will the grey-headed villager tell, 
 How low-moaning spectres, all ghastly and pale, 
 On the cold breeze of evening heavily sail 
 Tovv'rds the spot where fair Emmeline fell !
 
 ODE TO TIME. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1 802. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO MISS SEWARD. 
 
 OH Thou, whose viewless form, slow-stealing Time, 
 
 Has silent march'd o'er many a conquer'd year, 
 
 Shall thy chill pow'r pervade the glowing rhyme ! 
 
 Shall thy rude hand each tuneful record tear ! 
 
 Shall genius raise aloft the soul-fraught strain, 
 
 And swell the choral tide of heav'ri-taught verse in vain! 
 
 Tho' ages past have own'd thy tyrant sway, 
 Tho' many a wreck the spoiler's power reveals,
 
 28 ODE TO TIME. 
 
 Beneath thy scythe, tho' empires pass away, 
 
 And countless charms the unconscious grave conceals, 
 
 Tho' o'er the laurel'd brow the dusky tomb 
 
 In sullen silence sheds its deep impervious gloom ; 
 
 Not with his ebbing breath the poet dies, 
 He lives, he speaks to ages yet unborn ! 
 Then boast not Time thy earthly mouldYmg prize. 
 Still shall the Bard thy envious efforts scorn ; 
 Ne'er shall his triumphs to thy sway belong, 
 All-hail'd by distant years, victorious in his song ! 
 
 Direct thy glance beyond life's fragile hour, 
 Oh Seward ! lov'd of the Aonian Nine ! 
 On thy full gaze bid all the future pour, 
 And raptur'd, see the admiring future thine ! 
 See laurels bloom thy shadowy brow to wreathe, 
 Hear Bards, yet uncrcate. an uwi'ul tribute breathe !
 
 ODE TO TIME. 89 
 
 For not to thoe, with niggard hand, assign'd 
 The transient triumph of some local strain : 
 Thine, the proud empire of the enthusiast mind, 
 Thine, the fine chords which swell to pleasing pain ; 
 To joy's tumultuous throb, to mystic fear, 
 To friendship's bosom glow, or pity's hallow'd tear ! 
 
 Lo ! where the oral Muse of former time 
 By thee invok'cl, in gothic state descends, 
 With potent hand awakes the runic rhyme. 
 And the thick veil of dark oblivion rends ! 
 See from the tomb the fateful weapon wave !* 
 Oh cease the mutter'd rite ! respect the secret grave ' 
 
 To drop soft dews on beauty's wither'd flower, 
 From the full breast to urge the slow-heav'd sigh, 
 
 Scs.- Miss Si'wani's Runic Dialogue, Horvar and Argantyr.
 
 50 ODETOTIME. 
 
 Or bid descend the tributary shower 
 
 To wet the turf where worth and valour lie, 
 
 Snatch Fame's bright banner from the grasp of Time, 
 
 O'er the illustrious dead to wave its folds sublime. 
 
 The gen'rous task be thine ! Lo Andre's shade. 
 With flight indignant quits yon murd'rous shore ! 
 Spirit of Song! instruct the matchless Maid, 
 Teach her sweet pity's seraph strain to pour, 
 Bid the sad tale descend to latest years, 
 Embalm'd to time remote, in friendship's tuneful tears ! 
 
 What nameless thousands crowd life's little day, 
 Minions of sordid wealth, or pageant pow'r ! 
 Born but to sport in Fortune's gilded ra\, 
 The weak ephemera of a sunshine hour ! 
 E'en Memory o'er their urns forgets to weep, 
 For them how dark the tomb, the oblivious grave how deep
 
 ODE TO TIME. SI 
 
 And are those eyes but meteors of a day : 
 Doom'd is that hand in mould'ring dust to sleep r 
 Those eyes whence Genius pours his living ray, 
 That hand, so skill'd the Muse's lyre to sweep ! 
 Yes, tho' the hand must perish, yet the song 
 Wak'd by its touch survives, in echoes loud and long ! 
 
 Then Seward, live till Time itself shall close, 
 Nor mourn mortality's promiscuous doom, 
 Since Death in vain his dreaded ice-bolt throws, 
 To blast the laurel Genius bids to bloom ! 
 Lift to thy Muse the soul-enkindled eye, 
 She grants a glorious boon 'tis Immortality !
 
 WHERE IS HAPPINESS? 
 
 PILGRIM, I ween, tliat darken'd brow 
 Full many a summer's sun has known 
 And o'er that bending head of snow 
 Has many a wintry whirlwind blown : 
 
 Pilgrim, they say in search of lore 
 That form thro' various realms has past, 
 Shiv'ring on Zembla's ice-bound shoie.. 
 Gasping 'mid Zaara's burning wast*' ; 
 
 Now Pilgrim linger ; on thine t v. 
 Fast fades the varvinir world awav.
 
 WHERE IS HAPPINESS? 
 
 Age in grey mist involves thy sky., 
 And closes swift thy chequer'd day ; 
 
 And let it close ! thro' storm and fair, 
 Thro' cold and heat thy course liawrun . 
 Farewel to travel, toil, and care, 
 And greet with smiles thy setting sun ! 
 
 Yet ere thy faltering tongue shall ceast 
 And ere thy glimmering sense is fled. 
 And ere yon green-sward turf, in peace, 
 Shall kindly wrap thy weary head ! 
 
 Oh ! stranger tell, oh quick declare ! 
 Wherever stray 'd thy wandering feet. 
 Of Happiness, delusive fair. 
 Say, didst thou find the lov'd retreat r
 
 WHERE TS HAPPINESS? 
 
 The Pilgrim rais'd his pensive eye 
 And mildly shook his hoary head, 
 His cold breast heav'd a trembling sigh 
 As thus the time-worn wanderer said, 
 
 " In life's warm spring, youth's transient pride, 
 Boldly I sought the flying Maid, 
 Hope led the way, a rapid guide, 
 .And youn Ambition lent his aid ; 
 
 " What then were travel, toil, aud pain ! 
 Omvard the ardent chase I press'd, 
 For I was young, and gay, and vain, 
 And Fancy revell'd in my breast ! 
 
 " 'T\vas joy, 'twas glory to pursue ! 
 We panted up the steep hill's side,
 
 WHERE IS HAPPINESS? 
 
 Yet swifter from our eager view 
 We saw the rosy phantom glide ! 
 
 " Idly we rang'd each proud alcove., 
 Each gilded dome, and lofty tower, 
 'Twas vain thro' grandeur's paths to rove, 
 There never dwelt the smiling power. 
 
 " Now, weary of the fruitless chase, 
 Ambition, halting, tuni'd aside, 
 Gut Hope still urg'd the lagging race. 
 And Fancy spoke of scenes untried ; 
 
 " To cottage seats our steps we bent. 
 With hinds we ate our hard-earu'd fare, 
 But soon we fled for Discontent. 
 And joyless ignorance were there : 
 :o 2
 
 WHKKK IS HAPPINESS? 
 
 il Love, fickle, Meeting, fro ward love, 
 Thro' briarv patlis no\v lit the way, 
 Bless'd we pursu'd thro' glen and grove 
 'Twas but the meteor's sportive ray ! 
 
 " Next Friendship lur'd, as yet untried : 
 Her mildest guise the tempter wore, 
 Yes, I will dwell with thee ! I cried, 
 And seek life's bustling scenes no more ! 
 
 " She heard, but soon her form decay 'd, 
 And Friendship press'd the silent bier ! 
 Thus, still escap'd the futile shade, 
 And coldly gleam'd the fruitless tear: 
 
 " 'Twas now, I own'd Despair supreme, 
 E'en Hope, in silence heard me rave,
 
 WHERE IS HAPPINESS? 37 
 
 Since love had prov'd a fev'rish dream, 
 And Friendship moulder 'd in the grave : 
 
 " Yet still the sweet consoler strives 
 To lull this weary heart to rest, 
 And still a glimmering spark survives, 
 And cheers the twilight of the breast." 
 
 " Beshrew thy tale, oh, pilgrim grey ! 
 Say fares it thus with human life ? 
 And must we bend our toilsome way 
 Thro' rugged scenes of grief and strife ; 
 
 " While fancy, youth, and health decay, 
 To chase a flying shade, oar doom, 
 Till Age arrests our feeble way 
 To plunge us 'mid the dreary tomb ?'
 
 WHERE IS HAPPINESS? 
 
 The Palmer rais'd his placid eye 
 " Yet, lingering Hope forbids despair ! 
 The gnivc's dark realm I go to try-- 
 Haply the fugitive is there !"
 
 LADY ISABEL. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 OH, soft crept repose o'er thy gentle breast, 
 Oh mild on thine eyes the slumbers fell ! 
 While a seraph still lull'd thee to thy rest 
 With" Bless thee Lady Isabel !" 
 
 Oh sweet is thy walk in the rosy morn, 
 When the drop hangs bright in the lily's bell ! 
 E'en the linnet which bends yon slender thorn 
 Sings" Bless thee Lady Isabel !"
 
 LADY ISABEL. 
 
 Oh sweet is thy walk in the twilight hour, 
 A\ hen thine ear drinks the distant curfew's swell ! 
 For the silence which dwells on the moonlight bow'r 
 Says " Bless thee Lady Isabel !" 
 
 Oh .sweet is thy walk 'mid the crowds of life ! 
 Sweeter than tongue of Bard can tell ! 
 They are hush'd the sounds of woe and strife, 
 For " Bless thee Lady Isabel !" 
 
 Oh the old have bless'd thee ere they died, 
 And from lisping tongues the blessing fell ; 
 And from blushing morn till even tide 
 Tis Bless thee Lady Isabel!" 
 
 That blessing shall lay on thy breast at night, 
 To guard thy sleep from MSIOUS iell,
 
 LADY ISABEL. 41 
 
 And the sound that hails thy morning light 
 Be" Bless thee Lady Isabel !" 
 
 And, Lady, when thy farewel sigh 
 Has sadden'd a world that loves thee well,- 
 Then, Seraphs shall sing thee to their sky 
 With" Bless thee Sister Isabel !"
 
 LINES 
 
 IN IMITATION OF THE S T Y L 1 . 
 
 OF BEATTIE'S MINSTREL. 
 
 " Ah who can tell how hard it is to climb," ovc. 
 
 BEATT1ES M1NSTKEL. 
 
 V RS, it is hard the steep ascent to climb 
 
 Whence Fame's proud structure beams upon the eyr, 
 
 And well I wot, that many a son of rhyme, 
 
 Loth to give o'er, yet timorous to try. 
 
 Pours from his weary heart the anxious suih ; 
 
 Fearful he \\tnds: lor by llit; mountain's \.idf
 
 IMITATION OF THE MINSTREL, 43 
 
 Grim satire him appals with frequent cry, 
 And flaps her harpy wings, while envious Pride 
 Mocks from his side fair Hope, his comfort and his guide! 
 
 Yet, tho' the way be rude, and wild, and steep, 
 Tho' satire's irksome scream be in mine ear. 
 Yet will I toil the upward path to keep. 
 Inflexible amid those phantoms drear, 
 Euvy, and lurking Hate, and Sconi severe ; 
 For should my feet you shining summit gain, 
 And should I grasp at length the prize so dear. 
 Oh i what were labour, weariness, and pain, 
 The meed, the immortal meed of glory to obtain! 
 
 Mcthinks, arrived :it Fame's eternal dome,, 
 Already round my brow her leaves entwine ; 
 Smiling, I mark how Time's overwhelming gloom 
 St'-ais silently o'er many a soul supine,
 
 U LINES fN IMITATION 
 
 And feel oblivion never can be. mine ! 
 
 Cease soaring Thought ! thy rapid pinions stay ! 
 
 For sometimes Hope's frail taper will decline, 
 
 And often must I rue her wav'nng ray, 
 
 Lest it should die indeed, and fail me on my way. 
 
 Oh ! if to me, ye Muses, 'tis assigned 
 That pinnacle to reach, attained by few, 
 If Fame's loud trump shall cheer this ardent mind. 
 And her wide prospects glitter on IDA view, 
 Yet, for one boon, one precious boon I sue ! 
 Still, let each social, simple feeling, thrive 
 Within my heart, to Nature's dictates true, 
 Still, let affection's gentler flame survive ! 
 Or take, ye Muses, all Ambition has to give! 
 
 Change, they who list, the fond maternal smile, 
 And friendship's honest, heart-consoling glow,
 
 OF BEATTIE'S MINSTREL. 45 
 
 For the proud honours of yon air-built pile, 
 And flattery, empty food of man below ; 
 All Pride can ask, or glory can bestow ! 
 Yet, hear me Muses from your sacred shrine ! 
 Oh ! bid these various flow'rs together grow, 
 
 Let gentleness with radiant genius twine, 
 
 Life's rnild, unenvied sweets, and glory's wreath be mine !
 
 TO DEVA 
 
 INSCRIBED TO THE MISSES G ', 
 
 O H , Deva i as thy crystal wave 
 
 By yonder primrose bank is gliding 
 
 Softly its verdant surface lave. 
 
 Nor mock the boist'rous torrent'? chiding ' 
 
 And as with soothing, murmuring s\vetl. 
 Thy whispering wave is lightly Mowing 
 List, lingering to the tuneful shell, 
 Its .sweet responsive meed bestowing
 
 TO DEVA. 
 
 No green hair'd Naiad wakes the strain 
 Which on thy glist'ning breast reposes, 
 Or floating o'er th' enamel'd plain 
 Its warbled cadence gently closes. 
 
 Yet linger, Deva ! tho' the spell 
 From mortal hand derives its power, 
 Yet listen to its dulcet swell, 
 And loiter round yon magic bower ! 
 
 For there, tho' human pow'rs preside, 
 Immortal soul her light diffuses, 
 There Science, Truth, and Feeling guide, 
 Nor Taste her potent aid refuses : 
 
 And see, where bending o'er thy stream 
 Some musing grace each charm discloses !
 
 TO DEVA. 
 
 Thy wave reflects her blue eye's beam, 
 And glows with youth's transparent roses ! 
 
 Oh may thy dimpled waters long 
 Such hues of bliss and beauty borrow. 
 Nor e'er, these gifted shades among, 
 Obtrude the tear-stain'd cheek of sorrow ! 
 
 For here, within each gentle breast, 
 Its genuine treasure, worth has rested :, 
 Here sense resides, a native guest, 
 And Wit, of Satire's sting divested ! 
 
 Then, as thy smooth waves glide alona, 
 Ami in the silvery moon-beam glisten. 
 Murmur the tributary song, 
 And woo some partial ear to listen ;
 
 TO DEVA. 
 
 And whisper, Deva, as you stray, 
 How Flattery's strain the Muse despises, 
 Limpid like thee the votive lay, 
 Fresh from the heart's pure fountain rises !
 
 ODE TO GENIUS. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1805- 
 
 INSCRIBED TO THE YOUNG ROSCIUS. 
 
 VV HENCE is that pow : 'r, whose awful magic call, 
 Imperious bids the astonish'd world attend, 
 Before whose shrine adoring myriads fall, 
 To whom the hero, sage, and monarch bend ; 
 Whose touch has force to chain the rebel mind, 
 To teach the Critic's torpid heart to feel, 
 Silence the snakes round Envy's brow entwin'd, 
 And bid the tear from sullen eye-balls steal
 
 ODE TO GENIUS, 
 
 'Tis Genius, rushing from his native sky, 
 
 Lord of the kindling soul, and brightly-beaming eye ! 
 
 Oh, Genius! who can bear thy solar blaze, 
 Nor dazzled shrink, by too much splendour blind : 
 Yet lo ! thy wildest, warmest, iiercest rays, 
 Fling their untemper'd radiance on the mind 
 Of feeble infancy ! thy lightnings play 
 With mystic lustre round an infant's brow ; 
 On his clear'd vision breaks unclouded day, 
 And his rapt soul receives the quickening glow; 
 Throbs his young breast, wild rolls his sparkling eve, 
 And all his form betrays the inspiring deity ! 
 
 Lo ! where he soars ; Experience, far behind, 
 Astomsh'd views the wondrous infant range 
 The mighty empire of mysterious mind, 
 Tracing its vast recesses, dark and strange !
 
 .->> onr. TO GEM rs. 
 
 And see, the Passions, an infuriate crew, 
 
 IJush on his sight ! he smiles to see them rage 
 
 FT is fancy sports 'mid visions wild and new, 
 
 The great, the sad, the terrible, engage 
 
 F.ach tranced sense ! behold his hand he rears, 
 
 Tears Time's all covering veil, and leaps the mound of years ! 
 
 And dares an ovc, just open'd on the light, 
 Search the black tablet of the villain's soul ; 
 With mad ambition climb the dizzy height, 
 Or headlong down the gulph of danger roll? 
 And can that ear where childhood's lullaby 
 Has scarcely ceas'cl to hum its sleepy sound, 
 List unappalFd to horror's midnight cry, 
 \N hen murder bids the death-shriek echo round ? 
 And can the brow youth's greenest garland binds, 
 Beam with th' unutter'd thoughts, that swell a thousand minds!
 
 ODE TO GENIUS. 
 
 And may it be, that sounds so widely felt, 
 Can from the lisping tongue of childhood ilow ! 
 Oh ! Genius ! canst chou bid a nation melt 
 In anguish o'er an infant's mimic woe ? 
 See ! from his lab'ring breast the expiring pang- 
 Heaves its quick-throb ! what death-like stillness reigns, 
 While breathless crowds in mute amazement hang, 
 The freezing stream scarce moving in their veins ! 
 And ah ! he dies ! grief claims the transient pause, 
 Then yields a people's voice the thunder of applause ! 
 
 Children of Genius, on that lasting page 
 Where ne'er oblivion's chilling lingers rest, 
 Your names shall dwell thro' many an after age, 
 \\hen long, life's scene has clos'd upon the breast! 
 When wealth and pow'r, of short-liv'd honours proud, 
 Their pageant play'd, obey the general doom, 
 Mix unrecorded with the mouldering crowd.
 
 ODE TO OEMUS. 
 
 And never stranger footstep seeks their tomb, 
 Borne on the breath of Memory's warmest sigh 
 Your name shall float thro' time to dim futurity !* 
 
 * This Poem was written early in the year 1803, when the 
 Young Koscius made his first appearance, in London ; thither it was 
 sent to him by the author, who had stten him in his favorite charac- 
 ters at the Chester theatre ; the author likewise sent it to Miss 
 Scward, from whom two years subsequent she received a letter 
 inclosing a copy of the lines on the same subject inserted in the col- 
 lection of poems lately edited by Mr. Scott; she now thinks it ex- 
 pedient to mention this circumstance to prevent a suspicion of pla- 
 giarism, though in all probability the letter to which she alludes 
 makes one of the series in the possession of Mr. Constable, and 
 promised to the public.
 
 TIME. 
 
 TTS but a dull ungrateful saying, 
 That life and joy are still decaying, 
 That all is spent in vision-weaving, 
 A strife of trusting and deceiving ; 
 That time but mocks us as he flies, 
 Vexes our hearts and cheats our eyes ! 
 Oh ! as we mark the hour-glass waning, 
 How vain, how thriftless our complaining ! 
 Time, o'er my head thy wing has past 
 With swift, unseen, unconscious haste, 
 I feel already on my brow 
 Life's warm, yet temperate noon-day glow ;
 
 TIME. 
 
 And shall I heave the ungrateful sigh 
 
 That morn has faded from my sky, 
 
 Call life a day-dream of deceit, 
 
 A scene of toys, a painted cheat, 
 
 \\ Inch smiles, and promises, and flies 
 
 Because pert Fancy told me lies ; 
 
 Or with Suspicion's scowling eye 
 
 Look onward thro' futurity r 
 
 Time, like ourselves, m limits bound, 
 
 Enforced runs the allotted round, 
 
 And we poor, silly, wayward elves, 
 
 Are dupes indeed, but -to ourselves ! 
 
 Then, farewel hours, and days, and years, 
 
 Embahn'd m Memory's grateful tears, 
 
 Lov d for the joys ye led along, 
 
 And pardon' d now, each vamsh'd wrong: 
 
 ilo\v mam a fragile child of rhyme 
 
 Has mock'd thee on thy passage, Time,
 
 TIME. 57 
 
 Or tried to coax thee on thy way, 
 Spell-bind thy wing, and win thy stay ! 
 I call thee, but to pay thee, Time, 
 The tribute of one child of rhyme, 
 Who thanks thee, that thy wing has shed 
 So many blessings on her head ; 
 Who thanks thee, for the wreathing bough 
 Whose verdant leaves entwine her brow ; 
 For that best prize to mortals given, 
 Which lends our world a gleam from heaven- 
 Friendship ! while life owns such a guest, 
 Is Time a cheat, a dream, a jest ? 
 No ! Time when I have done with thee, 
 That gift shall gild Eternity !
 
 TO THE BUTTERFLY 
 
 OH ! why does my approach alarm thee. 
 Thou pretty, fluttering, fragile thing .' 
 I do not bear the heart to harm ihee, 
 Then fearless rest thy speckl'd wing : 
 
 How often when oppress'd with sorrow 
 Pensive I've mark'd thy gay career, 
 And long'd that buoyant wing to borrow, 
 Like thee my careless course to steer ! 
 
 And when with thee in fancy soaring 
 Light sails the visionary mind,
 
 TO THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Then grief, and care, and vain deploring, 
 Knrth's cumbrous brood, it leaves behind : 
 
 Then wave thy wing we'll rise together. 
 While man, the reptile, crawls below ; 
 We'll float mid golden fields of aether, 
 And revel 'mid the sun-beam's glow ! 
 
 And when the dewy-mantled even 
 Summons each weary wing to rest, 
 With thee I'll quit yon spangled heaven, 
 To slumber on a rose's breast ! 
 
 No ! fare thee well ! for Fate's dominion 
 Lias bound to earth my dull career ; 
 do, wave far off thy gaudy pinion, 
 And leave the wayward murm'rer here !
 
 60 TO THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 Oh ! haste away, thou pretty rover, 
 Nor idly waste thy sunshine hour, 
 Thy span of bliss shall soon be over, 
 And summer zephyrs sigh no more ! 
 
 And rest my thoughts, till Time unfailing 
 To me the immortal moment brings, 
 When I thro' clouds of tether sailing 
 May wave my everlasting wings !
 
 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 LADY ISABELLA K- 
 
 " Per 1'avvenir vo', che ciascuna ch'aggia 
 II nonie tuo, sia di sublime iiigegno 
 E sia bella, gentil, cortesc e saggia, 
 E di vera onestade arrivi al segno ; 
 Onde materia agli scrittori cacrgia 
 Di celebrar il nonie iuclito e degno, 
 Tal che Paniasso, Pindo, cd Elicone 
 Sempre Isabella, Isabella! risuone." 
 
 ORLANDO FURIOSO. 
 
 YES, gifted name, by Poet bless'd, 
 That blessing still shall dwell with thee; 
 'Tis but a sound, yet none shall wrest 
 Its claim to immortality !
 
 62 TO LADY ISABELLA K 
 
 That magic sound shall still express 
 The gentle, lovely, chaste, and \\ise, 
 All that the kindling bard may bless, 
 All, that to heaven may look and rise ' 
 
 All that is noble, just, and kind, 
 True to the bard's benignant spell, 
 Still swells the breast, refines the mind. 
 And rills the heart of Isabel !
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 WHAT is a dream ? Why fools and sages 
 Have wisely puzzled o'er the theme, 
 Till swept away by rolling ages, 
 Their being is become a dream ! 
 
 Tho' vainly ponder'd, long and deep, 
 From early times these sapient fellows, 
 O'er the grave riddle fall'n asleep, 
 Not one, the wish'd result can tell us ! 
 
 Onward the ignis-fatuus flits ; 
 In vain they stretch'd the hand to hold it,
 
 64 DREAMS 
 
 And lost their time, and wore their wits. 
 Illusive vapours still enfold it ! 
 
 Youth wakes elate to life's warm beam. 
 Flings away toys, for love and battles, 
 Smiling looks back on childhood's dream, 
 With all its jingling bells and rattles ; 
 
 Short is his smile, for glowing youth 
 Is but a brilliant morning vision ! 
 The fading cheats, call'd love and truth. 
 But themes for riper man's derision ! 
 
 Yet. who but sees with fond regret 
 These phantoms bright, so quickly wasted: 
 Oh ! stay dear forms, and cheat me yet, 
 For pleasant w r ere ye while ye lasted !
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 But now adieu to idle dreaming, 
 For manhood's graver brain too light, 
 Int'rest sedate, with sober seeming, 
 Puts every gentler shade to flight ! 
 
 Yet even interest's form shall perish ! 
 Int'rest must fade like all the rest ! 
 And let it go for who would cherish 
 Care's ugliest night-mare in his breast ! 
 
 Now Father Time, who ne'er reposes 
 Leads to the couch, with rapid feet, 
 Where failing nature dreams and dozes 
 On the cold worm and winding-sheet ! 
 
 What is a dream ? the earth, the sky, 
 Our love and hate, our joy and sorrow,
 
 66 DREAMS. 
 
 Shall all dissolve beneath our eye, 
 
 And prove an empty dream to-morrow ! 
 
 Miser, the hoard thou gazest on 
 Is not so solid as thou doernest; 
 Thy glittering heap shall soon he gone. 
 It is but air, and thou but dreamest ! 
 
 Poet, these dreamers laugh at thce, 
 And mock thy fancy's fragile scheming. 
 
 */ o o 
 
 Too much asleep, poor elves, to see, 
 That tlu y themselves are only dreaming !
 
 SCIENCE, 
 
 INSCRIBED TO MRS. 
 
 " WHO art thou, stranger, with the beard of snow, 
 
 Th' unwavering glance, and deeply furrow'd brow, 
 
 Eye, which with strange, yet temper'd radiance shines. 
 
 Brow, where iix'd thought, with treasur'd lore combines?" 
 
 The sage replied, " Not all unknown to fame, 
 
 A student I, and Science is my name ! 
 
 Yet start not thou ; Humility my guide, 
 
 I chide no meek inquirer from my side ; 
 
 The erring, wandering, shade-pursuing crowd, 
 
 Have still my honours on a cheat bestow'd.
 
 dr, sc IKNCK. 
 
 Whose solemn weed, anil quaint, and crabbed phrase 
 
 Beguile the foolish million of their praise ; 
 
 I 'at he is IVdantrv, howe'er he claim 
 
 ]\Iy attributes, my volarie:;, and my name ! 
 
 i am the same who pointed Newton's eye 
 
 To pierce the niyst'ric.s of the concave sky, 
 
 And, when recali'd to earth his daring view, 
 
 Breath'd in his ear the secret known to few, 
 
 That worlds explor'd, and clouds and oceans past. 
 
 All man ran CTasp, is emptiness at last ! 
 
 This truth is mine, in painful study learn'd, 
 
 By deep research, and 1 <,;></ inquiry carn'd. 
 
 The social bond knits Pedantry and Pride, 
 
 1 Lumihty is still mi/ faithful guide, 
 
 Tho' (ienius sometimes rashly bounds before, 
 
 And tempN where rocks arise and billows roar . 
 
 Xow for awhile the wanderers arc at rest, 
 
 1 and m\ jiuide- secure in Harriet's breast;
 
 SCIENCE. '* 
 
 No hermit refuge, no secluded bourn, 
 
 Where selfish Discontent has fled to mourn ; 
 
 A goodly band divide the bless'cl retreat, 
 
 There, Piety has iix'd her firmest seat ; 
 
 Not she, who stern explores each neighbour's eye, 
 
 Well pleas'd therein the blinding mote to spy, 
 
 Who never smil'd on virtue but her own, 
 
 And owes her safety to a heart of stone ! 
 
 No ! let her build her hut 'mid polar snows, 
 
 Not in the realm where heav'n's own day-beam glows ! 
 
 Ah no ! far different is the hallow'd guest 
 
 Who rears a. spotless shrine in Harriet's breast ! 
 
 Peace, Hope, and Charity, her offspring fair, 
 
 Seek the bless'd home, and love to commune there: 
 
 There stern Reflection views with brow unbent 
 
 Th' unblotted record of a life well spent : 
 
 There, unmolested, Genius twines his wreath. 
 
 For even .Envy holds her poison'd breath,
 
 70 SCIENCE. 
 
 Nor dare she bid the rankling vapour blow 
 To blight one leaf that shadows Harriet's brow ! 
 ^ et fear not mortals, to approach too near 
 The sacred shrine for gentleness is there ! 
 Oh ! when at length the scattered virtues mourn, 
 That kite has reft them of their fav'rite bourn, 
 When that bright spirit sojourns in the skies, 
 And when the mortal form in silence lies ; 
 Still Fame shall tell the world in honest pride, 
 That Harriet liv'd, and weep that Harriet died !
 
 CARISBROOKE 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 Now woe to yon castle's ruthless tow'r! 
 Now woe to yon rugged wall ! 
 And tenfold woe to the dreary hour 
 Which beheld our king in thrall ; 
 
 Oh Carisbrook ! how thou smilest now, 
 Like a rebel bold and gay ! 
 Ah soon may the ivy on thy brow 
 Creep over thy ruins grey !
 
 CARISBROOKE: 
 
 Then, h<; who views thy mouldering gate, 
 And .stands in thy desert hall, 
 Shall breathe a curse on the rebel hate 
 \\ liich decreed our martyr's lall : 
 
 Whenever thy battlements shall lie 
 Inglorious in the dust, 
 Each Briton who marks thy destiny 
 Shall smile on a fate so just ! 
 
 'Twas the dull and dusky twilight hour, 
 When close to his window grate, 
 Catching the breath of an April show'r 
 The captive sovereign sate : 
 
 A tear glisten'd bright in Stuart's eye, 
 And his cheek was deadly pale,
 
 A BALLAD. 73 
 
 And his bosom answer'd ev'ry sigh 
 
 Hcav'd by the evening gale. 
 
 His cheek was pale, and his princely eye 
 Was fill'd with memory's tears, 
 As he ponder'd on the destiny 
 Which flatter'd his early years ; 
 
 He thought on the friends for him who died, 
 Yet was not that pang the worst ; 
 He thought on friends who had left his side, 
 And felt as his heart would burst ! 
 
 But he shudder'd, as in looking back 
 On the days forever lost, 
 Reflection 'mid the shadowy track 
 Met Stratford's headless ghost!
 
 74 CARISBROOKE: 
 
 What armour can that breast defend 
 From Memory's home-struck blows ? 
 The shade of one deserted friend, 
 Outfrowns a thousand foes ! 
 
 It plagues us in the silent hour, 
 It haunts us as we sleep, 
 It stays the heart-relieving show'r, 
 And mocks us as we weep ! 
 
 The crown from off his sacred head 
 By rebels rudely torn, 
 An exil'd wife, and children fled, 
 The chnstian King had borne ! 
 
 But when to Heaven he took'd and pray'd 
 To heal Ills agony,
 
 A BALLAD. 7A 
 
 Still niurmur'd in his ear the shade 
 " Thus did I hope in thee !" 
 
 Yet Stuart weep not ! in yon skies, 
 Where thou shalt quickly be, 
 Say, can thy loyal servant prize 
 A life-drop shed for thee ? 
 
 Oh ! the red-drop, the transient groan. 
 The struggle and farewei, 
 Were quickly pass'd, forever gone; 
 And but with memory dwell : 
 
 Nay, in that last, stern, bitter hour. 
 Even as the spirit fled, 
 The noble victim felt its pow'r, 
 \ml gloried as he bled i
 
 76 CARIS BROOKE: 
 
 Oli ! thickens fast the twilight .shade, 
 Yet Stuart's aching eye 
 Pursues the dim lights as they fade 
 Along the silent sky : 
 
 Now all are gone ! each glimm'ring ray 
 Has vanish'd in the west, 
 And all in night and silence lay- 
 Like Stuart's dreary breast ! 
 
 Bending to earth, behold the bro\\ 
 Which holy balsam steep 'd, 
 Oppress'd beneath a load of woe, 
 By heartless traitors heap'd ! 
 
 Oh! spare him Kngland ! \cl too late 
 The loyal hearts appeal!
 
 A BALLAD. 77 
 
 E'en now he drains the cup of hate, 
 And feels what wretches feel ! 
 
 If ever tyrant's irksome reign 
 Oh England ! blot thy throne, 
 Bethink thee then, of Stuart's pain, 
 \nd Heav'n's justice own ! 
 
 If ever but indignant lay, 
 Shalt thou prescribe to Heaven ! 
 The traitor swarm is swept away, 
 And England is forgiven ! 
 
 Time, thro' thy mist, with daring eye 
 Even now the JBard can trace, 
 The hour when many a realm shall lie 
 Uprooted from its base.
 
 78 CARISBKOOKE: A BALLAD. 
 
 While Britain stems the storm alone, 
 Free 'mid a world of slaves, 
 Firm on her ocean-planted throne, 
 The empire of the waves I
 
 ON WITNESSING THE DECLINE 
 
 7V A V, ELL-KNOWN AUTHOR 
 
 Now Phoebus has flung back the mantle of night, 
 And taught blushing nature her charms to unfold, 
 His orb o'er the mountains looks beamy and bright, 
 And the breast of the rivulet glistens with gold ! 
 
 " And cold is the bosom," exulting, I cried, 
 " That scorns to reflect back thy life-giving rays ! 
 And dull is the stream that can silently glide, 
 Nor murmur in flowing, its tribute of praise !"
 
 80 ON THE DKCLINK OP HEALTH AND GKMUS 
 
 For youth's rising energies gilded the hour. 
 And the quick throb of pleasure sprang high in each vein 
 And Fancy imparted her magic; 1 ' po\v V 
 To each prize that Ambition was panting to gain. 
 
 Thus S d, the dawn of thy morning \\as bnghl. 
 
 Thus iucid and warm was the beam of thy noon ! 
 
 And Hope's fairy flatteries shed o'er thy sight 
 
 Kosy mists, which were destin'd to vanish too soon ! 
 
 Bright forms, is it thus, that ye bloom and decay ? 
 Is it thus, that ye glance in gay colours awhile r 
 
 J O ~ w 
 
 Is it thus that ye fade with the swift-setting day, 
 Delusively promise, and transient!} .smile ' 
 
 Yes S- -d, thy day-star is waning apace. 
 
 And sorrow and sickness hau: chosen iheir hour.
 
 IN A WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR, 
 
 And as feebly concludes thy once vigorous race, 
 See Envy's grim smiles are beginning to lovv'r ! 
 
 Ah! little the sweet- warbled promise of mom 
 Presag'd fleeting Friendship's untimely decay, 
 Nor of life's dusky twilight, when dim and forlorn, 
 The gay hour of fame should be gliding away ! 
 
 Ah ! even thy Muse, like the world's giddy throng. 
 Ungrateful forsakes thee, and shuns thy decline ! 
 No longer she deigns to awaken thy song, 
 Or mingle her high-soaring spirit with thine ; 
 
 And the wreath which she gather'd in happier years. 
 Lov'd tribute, which only the Muse can bestow, 
 Now withering, neglected, and blighted with tears, 
 Hangs drooping and languidly over thy brow ! 
 
 r.
 
 88 ON THE DECLINE OF GENIUS, &c. 
 
 Farcwel silent lyre ! for thy once cherish'd strain 
 So lofty and sweet thrills the bosom no more, 
 Thy strings^re all broken, and never again 
 On the nipt ear of taste shall thy melodies pour ! 
 
 And S d farewel ! soon the slumber of years 
 
 Shall shed its repose o'er thy world-wearied breast,* 
 But the dim smile of Memory shall shine thro' her tears, 
 As she rescues thy name from the regions of rest. 
 
 * The accomplishment of this event too soon followed its pre- 
 diction.
 
 NOVEMBER, 
 
 SAD wears the hour! heavy and drear 
 
 Creeps, with slow pace, the waning year, 
 
 And sullen, sullen, heaves the blast 
 
 Its deep sighs o'er the lonely waste ! 
 
 Nature looks pale, and sick, and waning, 
 
 And loads the dank air with her hoarse complaining ; 
 
 'Mid the blue mist stands a dusky form, 
 
 T gaze and shudder to remember 
 
 That grim precursor of the storm, 
 
 The generous Briton's foe, dull, scowling, dark November !
 
 fU NOVEMBER. 
 
 O'er the fallen leaves he takes Ins way 
 
 \\ hispering, and murmuring themes of sorrow : 
 
 lie- points at the cloud which veils the day, 
 
 .And smiting his breast, In; seems to say, 
 
 " It shall burst on thy head to-morrow I" 
 
 Then he hints, in deep sepulchral tone, 
 
 At the peace which is under the church-yard stone ! 
 
 November, ever by thy side 
 .Lurk wan despair, ungeiiial pride ! 
 No roses round thy mornings bloorn, 
 And thy eve descends with tenfold gloom, 
 Gladness, abash 'd when thou art nigh, 
 Enforced heaves a timid sigh ; 
 Lo ! blighted by thy withering frown 
 .Love, sickening, sees his myrtle crown 
 Fade, fall, and change 1 , beneath his eye
 
 NOVEMBER. 25 
 
 To the yellow tint of jealousy, 
 
 Then .scattered by the winds, dispers'd and trampled lie ! 
 
 November, why does every brow 
 -Droop, as thy dun cloud sails the sky, 
 Why do thy hours o'er mortals flow 
 Lagging and sullenly ? 
 Seldom, dark Month, thy form is seen 
 To wear December's warrior mien ; 
 Still does thy scanty verdure grow, 
 Unburied yet by winter's snow, 
 The storms, which soon shall burst amain, 
 With all their winds, a boisterous train. 
 But menace now yet who but sighs 
 For louder winds, and wilder skies ? 
 Who but looks onward with desire 
 To the clustering group, and social lire I
 
 86 NOVEMBER. 
 
 Then get thee hence tread them the path 
 
 Which circling months have trod before, 
 
 Give way to Winter's honest wrath, 
 
 .For, grateful that tin/ reign is o'er, 
 
 Welcome the fleecy shower ! welcome th whirlwind's roar 
 
 November, why o'er yonder tomb 
 Low'rs thy dark sky with denser gloom : 
 O'er yon deserted, lonely grave, 
 Thy rushing winds more shrilly rave, 
 There thic k descends thy yellow leaf 
 Jn whirling eddies from on high, 
 And in the sudden sob of grief 
 Thv voice mourns hollowly ! 
 \\ ho slumbers there what silent friend, 
 Th;.t on his chill dank bed thv iralher'd \\oe-s descend :
 
 NOVEMBER. 87 
 
 He was a man, whose rugged way 
 Still led thro' paths of sorrow, 
 Still dark and joyless rose his day, 
 Still did he fear to-morrow ! 
 November lowYd, the moaning wind 
 Breath'd sadness on a sadden'd mind ! 
 Why did he listen, for it told 
 In whispers, low, and faint, and cold, 
 Of perish'd hope, of that still sleep 
 Which never wakes to groan and weep r 
 He heard alas ! And now the gust 
 W ails loudly o'er his mouldering dust ! 
 
 November, Fancy's wayward child 
 Speaks to thee now, full well she knows 
 That fraught for her, with omens wild, 
 Heavy thy breath's dank vapour blows !
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 But far beyond thy dusky sky, 
 Beyond poor Nature, fading fast, 
 She pierces with confiding eye, 
 And spies a beacon 'mid the waste
 
 GOOD BYE TO THE MUSE. 
 
 TARE thee well, my dear Muse! I have lov'd thee, 'tis true. 
 And our severing costs me a sigh, 
 
 But Time, Chance, and Destiny, must have their due, 
 And 'tis sooner or later Good bye ! 
 
 Good bye to Ambition, to pleasure, to pelf, 
 Good bye to our air-founded views, 
 Good bye to our follies Good bye to ourself, 
 Good bye to the once-cherish'd Muse ! 
 
 Yet linger a moment ! for ere thou depart 
 Methinks 1 would commune awhile.
 
 90 GOOD BYE TO THE MUSE. 
 
 On moments which thou hast made clear to my heart 
 With thy converse, thy song, and thy smile ; 
 
 For I bear not a heart, all relentless and stern, 
 Without once looking back which can sever, 
 And which scorns that the high-seated spirit should vearn 
 Over joys which are parting for ever ; 
 
 I bear not a heart, which can sullenly sa\ , 
 " Because I have found thee deceiving, 
 Past illusions, forgotten in truths of to-day, 
 Farewel ! without thinking or grieving !" 
 
 I have sigh'd o'er the rose which but blushes to fade, 
 O'er the shadow which darkens our views, 
 Over ev'ry frail beauty which bloom'd and decay 'd, 
 And shall I not sigh for my Muse !
 
 GOOD BYE TO THE MUSE. 9t 
 
 Yet they say, and I fear there is truth in the tale, 
 Jn sickness, in age, or in sorrow, 
 The lair-promising Muse will her votary fail, 
 And a hint from expediency borrow ; 
 
 Then 'tis better to tear the fresh laurel, I ween, 
 While it blossoms and flaunts on my brow, 
 Than to wait till cold winter has wither'd its green, 
 And to watch while it perishes slow ; 
 
 And 'tis better to yield while unbiassed and free, 
 Than to wait till a blessing is taken ; 
 So I take a proud leave gentle Musie of thee, 
 That bv thee I may ne'er be forsaken !
 
 LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED RY \ PERUSAL 
 
 LAY OF THE LAST MIXSTRK1. 
 
 IN yon ungentle clime whose steeps 
 Still frown with unrelenting snows, 
 Whose rugged breast the north wind sweeps, 
 How warm the minstrel spirit glows ! 
 
 Amid her whirlwinds rude and hoarse, 
 What sweetly-solemn strums arise .'
 
 ON PERUSING THE LAY, &c. 93 
 
 Wild, as her torrents' rapid course, 
 And awful as her stormy skies ! 
 
 And soft! along the heathy waste 
 What strange mysterious warblings pour ! 
 All silent sinks the mountain blast, 
 The deafening him suspends its roar. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis a deep, a potent strain ! 
 No vulgar minstrel strikes the lyre, 
 But on his heart and on his brain, 
 Flashes the Muse's lambent fire ! 
 
 Aloft his mystic wand he rears 
 When lo ! the vapoury clouds of time 
 Leave all unveil'd the dark brown years, 
 Obedient to the wizard rhyme
 
 94 ON PERUSING THE LAY 
 
 Hark Caledonia ! from the tomb, 
 From the rude cairn's unsculptur'd heap, 
 From the pale cloister's twilight gloom 
 It breaks the warrior's grizly sleep ! 
 
 On the dim legends gothic page 
 What lofty deeds obscurely slept, 
 While o'er them still, from age to age, 
 Oblivion's mouldering mildew crept ! 
 
 Mark Scotland, mark ! the wondrous song 
 Rouses from dust each slumbering name, 
 Oh mark its echoes loud and long ! 
 It gives your vanish 'd sires to fame ! 
 
 Once more the chieftain's eye severe, 
 Gleams with the lightning's vivid riVsh,
 
 OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 95 
 
 And half appall'd, we seem to hear 
 His glittering claymore's mortal clash ! 
 
 Oh Scotland ! if within thee rest 
 One spark, to fame, to honour dear, 
 How must he warm thy rugged breast, 
 Who tells thee what thy fathers were ! 
 
 And do we doubt, if still remains 
 In Scottish hearts the patriot glow ? 
 Go ask, 'mid Egypt's distant plains, 
 How Caledonians meet the foe ! 
 
 While to the whistling northern blast 
 The thistle rears her purple head, 
 So long shall Scotland's glory last, 
 And wide her song of fame be spread,
 
 96 ON PERUSING THE LAY, &c 
 
 For still, amid her whirlwinds hoarse 
 Her minstrel's patriot strain shall rise. 
 \Vild, as her torrents' rapid course. 
 And awful as her stormy skie?
 
 A BALLAD, 
 
 ie THE tapers are quench'd and the mass is said, 
 Lady, Lady ! cease to weep ! 
 WK lingest thou thus round die silent dead, 
 >es to his grave so deep r" 
 
 On the sable bier die Ladv she sra/'d. 
 
 / O 
 
 Her woe it is wild despair, 
 
 Her lip it is pale and her eye is glax'd, 
 
 : Lady, Lady ! hence to pray'r I' 
 
 H
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 " And if I might open that eye so bright 
 To look on another day, 
 
 Oh then I would kneel thro' the live-long night, 
 Ye should not bid me pray ! 
 
 " From that silent voice, if but one sound mor< 
 Might to mine ear be given, 
 Oh ne'er should my cry and my pray'r be o'er 
 'Till I had wearied Heaven ! 
 
 " But my heart upon yonder bier is laid, 
 Ye are bearing it away ! 
 And how can .she plead to Heaven for aid 
 Who has not a heart to pray ! 
 
 " Go hide my love under the damp green stone ! 
 Cut bury him low and deep !
 
 A BALLAD, 99 
 
 I'll build me a bow'r in the church-yard lone 
 To watch my husband's sleep, 
 
 " And when the moon rises above the yew 
 Which shadows his silent breast, 
 I'll mingle my tears with the glitt'ring dew 
 That sprinkles his place of rest." 
 
 " Oh cold is the night, and the wind it blows, 
 Aud thy husband sleeps in peace, 
 Then pray for the balsam of soft repose, 
 It shall bid thy sorrows cease ! 
 
 " But seek not thou 'mid the shadows of nigh 
 
 Yon church-yard dark and wide, 
 
 
 
 For there hovers oft the shivering sprite, 
 And the shrouded phantoms glide !" 
 H 2
 
 loo A BALLAD. 
 
 Yet tho' sick and wan is the moonlight ray r 
 Tho' hollow the night-blasts rave, 
 The Lady has taken the dreary way 
 Which leads to the new-made grave. 
 
 And the morning cock it crows loud and shnil, 
 And the clouds of night are gone, 
 Yet the Lady is watching pale and still 
 By the side of the silent stone ! 
 
 .Now heavily, heavily pass'd the day, 
 And again the night is come, 
 And the owl has call'd the Lady away 
 To visit her husband's home; 
 
 But the bat is flapping its leathern wing, 
 And 'tis sad to sit alone,
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 And when the cock crows and the matins ring, 
 The Lady she is gone ! 
 
 " Now Lady, Lady, the moon shines clear, 
 And soft the night-winds blow, 
 Thy watch will be sweet by the chambers drear 
 Where thy true love sleeps below !'" 
 
 Now slowly, slowly, her steps she bent 
 Thro' the church-path's lonely track, 
 Yet tho' all so slowly she thither went, 
 Full quickly she hied her back ! 
 
 " Oh its I would shrive, go call me a priest, 
 I have sinr.'d in too much sorrow, 
 And I will away to the midnight least 
 And throw by my weeds to-morrow !
 
 JOS; A BALLAD. 
 
 " Of a cheek like this to wither the bloom 
 Alas I 'tis a deadly crime I 
 So I'll sit no more by the lonely tomb, 
 'Tis good to repent in time." 
 
 Then her maidens braided her yellow hair, 
 And with jewels deck'd her brow ; 
 And they tinted that Lady's cheek so fair, 
 With the rose-bud's softest glow. 
 
 And her mantle of silk it floated proud 
 Around her slender form, 
 
 While her Lord lay wrapt in his mould'ring shroud, 
 A feast for the crawling worm \ 
 
 But the dead arc gone, and we may be gay ; 
 Time mocks us from our sorrow,
 
 A BALLAD. 1<).'J 
 
 For if we are sullen and sad to-day 
 We too may be dead to-morrow ! 
 
 " Oh 1 lov'd my lord while beauty and life 
 hi charms array'd his form, 
 But 'tis vain with the grave to hold my strife, 
 Or rival the loathsome worm !" 
 
 Now wise I ween was that Lady's mind, 
 Her moonlight watch for leaving ; 
 For love is a dream, and sighs they are wind 
 What e'er was gain'd by grieving r 
 
 Then Lady away to the midnight ball ! 
 Waste no more time in weeping, 
 For the vapours float and the dews they fall, 
 Thy husband's pillow steeping.
 
 H A HALLAO. 
 
 By echoing harps and by tapers bright, 
 By mirth and dance surrounded, 
 That Lady she soon bade her grief good night, 
 And her light heart gaily bounded! 
 
 And if yet upon her wavering sense 
 A saddening thought remains. 
 
 O ~ ' 
 
 Hark! Flattery is nigh to drive it thence, 
 With its false yet dulcet .strains ! 
 
 See how she 'listens, and blushes, and smiles, 
 Her vow and her griefs forgetting, 
 \YhiIe entranced by the syren's warbled \vile-: 
 She marks each rival fretting ! 
 
 '' Now Lady, and are those sweet smiles thiiie own, 
 Or to another given r"
 
 A. BALLAD. 105 
 
 " Oh, their Lord sleeps under the damp green stone, 
 And his soul is gone to heaven ! 
 
 " And the gale that flutters thro' scented groves, 
 And the lark that skims the sky, 
 And the mountain kid that merrily roves, 
 Are not less fetter'd than I." 
 
 Then she gave her hand to the gallant gay 
 (Already her heart \vas dancing,) 
 And blythe to the crowd she hasten'd away, 
 Where nimble feet were glancing. 
 
 Now floated a damp and earthy smell, 
 Twas like a church-yard vapour ! 
 And a ghastly mist o'er the dancers fell, 
 \w). iimm'd each struggling taper ;
 
 106 A BALLAD. 
 
 And frozen and terror-struck stood the crowd, 
 Which of late so jocund were, 
 For a spectre was there in his wavering shroud. 
 And the dress which dead men wear ! 
 
 And hollowly hollowly sounds his tongue, 
 And it says in the Lady's ear, 
 " Thou earnest not tho' I waited long. 
 So I come for thee my dear !" 
 
 Then quick on her shuddering hand he plac'd 
 His ringers livid and cold, 
 And his ghastly arm it grasp'd her waist, 
 Which shrank from its icy hold ! 
 
 " We must not tarry 'tis time to come ! 
 Why art thou my love so slow ?
 
 A BALLAD. 107 
 
 The glow-worm is waiting to light thee home, 
 And all is ready below !" 
 
 The Lady is gone with her spectre spouse, 
 Tho' she had fain denied, 
 The grave is a sad and a dreary house 
 For a gay and blooming bride ! 
 
 The mist is fled, and the tapers are bright, 
 And all is as before ; 
 
 But each dancer's heart is frozen with fright. 
 And the joy of the ball is o'er !
 
 YESTERDAY. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 WHY my truant thoughts return 
 O'er the pleasing past to stray, 
 Why my fancy wilt thru mourn 
 The lost delights of yesterday ! 
 
 Light-\ving ; d minutes, laughing hours, 
 Blushing youth, and pleasure gay, 
 Careless ease and social pow'rs. 
 Are ye too tied with yesterday !
 
 YESTERDAY: A SONG. 109 
 
 Scenes of vanish'd bliss adieu ! 
 Flit ye airy shapes away ! 
 Hope gives a morrow to my view 
 Which looks not back on yesterday !
 
 ELEGIAC ODE; 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF 
 
 LIEUTENANT-COLONEL VASSALL 
 
 MUSES of Britain! shall the tear 
 Which Memory sheds o'er valour's bier, 
 
 Fall silent in the grave ? 
 Are mute despair, and heart-drawn sighs 
 
 Meet tribute for the brave ! 
 No, raise your pealing voices high,
 
 ELEGIAC ODE. ill 
 
 And bid them pierce the echoing skies 
 With hymns of victory ! 
 
 Amid life's humblest, lowliest scene, 
 Where the year glides untraced away, 
 And man, as he had never been, 
 Forgot, unheeded, or unseen. 
 
 Resigns his little day, 
 E'en o'er his undistinguish'd brow 
 A while the mourner Pity weeps, 
 Her teeming eyes incessant flow, 
 To wet the turf, where pale and low, 
 Some silent mortal sleeps : 
 But when the hero dies, 
 A suffering country sighs ! 
 Yet soon the melancholy pause. 
 To grateful sorrow given,
 
 Lit ELEGIAC ODE. 
 
 Yields to the thunder of applause. 
 Which sweeps the vaulted heaven; 
 Whilst ye immortal Nine ! 
 V\ ith busy ringers twine 
 From ever-living plants fair chaplets for his shnm 
 
 Where was the generous flush of youth ( 
 
 On Vassall's cheek it glow'd ! 
 Where thy pure dictates, manly Truth r 
 
 From V assall's lips they liow'd ! 
 Honour, unsafe ; but noble guest, 
 Sate proudly thron'd in V assall's breast '. 
 His gleaming faulchion wav'd on high. 
 Like the red meteor in the sky, 
 Glar'd terror on the startled eye : 
 Yet often o'er his prostrate foe, 
 His British arm withheld the blow.
 
 ELEGIAC ODE, 
 
 And bade the trembler rise and live, 
 To tell thro' distant years how Britons can forgive ! 
 
 Shall he, the gallant and the young, 
 Drop from his high career unsung ? 
 
 Ye Muses, no, 
 
 The living glow 
 
 Which fills your sacred strains was giv'n, 
 To snatch from Lethe's chilling wave 
 The well-earned honours of the brave, 
 And bid his name survive below, 
 Whom Destiny, with sudden blow, 
 Untimely sent to heaven ! 
 
 Mighty La PlahC* giant .shore 
 Shook at the British lion's roar,, 
 And wild the death-star gleam'd. 
 
 And wide, 
 
 Slaughter pom VI a crimson tide ; 
 i
 
 11 i F,LF.GIAC ODE. 
 
 E'en warriors shrunk, dismay 'd to view 
 
 Death wear his grimmest, ghastliest hue, 
 
 And half reluctant seem'd ; 
 
 For fierce athwart the gloom of night, 
 
 The war-tires cast their lurid light ! 
 
 Elate against the hurtling storm, 
 
 V assail opposed his dauntless form, 
 
 And chcer'd his martial tram: 
 
 " Come on, my Friends ! yon bulwark's pride. 
 
 Snail fall before war's sweeping tide, 
 
 And strew the smoking plain." 
 On, on he rush'd ! the crashing wall 
 (iave way and nodded to the fa'i ! 
 Victory, thy flame inspir'd his breast, 
 .Shed sparkles from his eyes, and flashed -around his crest ! 
 
 England ! thy conquering banner flies, 
 Fann'd by the breath of hostile skies ; 
 And to the quell'd Iberian's ryo
 
 ELEGIAC ODE. 115 
 
 Recals those times when stories say, 
 That Britons never lost the day : 
 
 Yet on La Plata's shore 
 
 Wild Triumph lifts her echoing shouts no more ! 
 But Silence with portentous form, 
 Points to the relics of the storm, 
 Where Victory hangs her wreathed head 
 In sadness o'er the glorious dead, 
 And exultation's feverous glow 
 Freezes in every generous breast, 
 Since he, the bravest and the best, 
 Pride of his country's youth ! is laid thus early low. 
 
 'Tis o'er ! for now the funeral knell 
 Comes on the gale with sullen swell ! 
 The martial drum, so wont to cheer 
 The hero in Ins bright career, 
 With deaden'd stroke saddens the ear !
 
 116 ELEGIAC ODE. 
 
 All ! all is past ! no trumpet's sound 
 
 Shall raise him from th' unconscious ground ! 
 
 England may call her valiant band 
 
 The champions of her land, 
 
 But Vassal 1's day is o'er, 
 
 Spent on a distant shore, 
 And still'd the beating heart, unnerv'd the patriot hand. 
 
 Ah ! who is she whose streaming eye, 
 Disdaining earth, M'ould pierce the sky, 
 
 To seek her hero there r 
 But soft ! let no rude glance intrude 
 Upon the sacred solitude, 
 
 That veils the widow's tear ! 
 
 Muses of Britain ! shall the tomb 
 Fold in its unrelenting gloom
 
 ELEGIA CODE. 11? 
 
 All that is good and great r 
 In vain did Britain's soldier fall, 
 And must oblivion's dusky pall 
 
 Spread darkness o'er his fate ? 
 Ah ! no ! his praise shall shine in story, 
 
 While Fame shall blazon on his grave, 
 That while he iiv'd, he liv'd to glory, 
 
 And died the foremost of the brave ! 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 ,T. M'Ciii-Kiiv, Printer, 
 Black-Horse-Court, Fleet-Si reet, 
 London.
 
 THE 
 
 SIEGE OF CORINTH 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 P A R I S I N A 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 .SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON.- 
 
 HUNTED FOR JOHN MURRAY, ALBKAJARLE-STRK! L 
 
 1816.
 
 THE 
 
 SIEGE OF CORINTH 
 
 ' (iuns, Trumpets, Blunderbusses, Drums, und Thunder."
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ. 
 
 THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED 
 BY HIS 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 B '1
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 "Imj grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the 
 " Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way into the 
 " heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di 
 " Romania, the most considerable place in all that coun- 
 " try*, thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth., 
 " upon which they made several storms. The garrison 
 " being weakened, and the governor seeing it was impos- 
 " sible to hold out against so mighty a force, thought fit 
 " to beat a parley : but while they were treating about 
 " the articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, 
 " wherein they had six hundred barrels of powder, blew 
 
 * Nupoli (ii Romania is not no.v the most considerable place in the Mo- 
 rea, but Tripolitza, where tlie Pacha resides, and mu'niUiiis his government. 
 Napoli is near Argus. I visited all three in IblO-l 1 ; and in the course of 
 journeying through the country from my first arrival in 1809, 1 crossed the 
 Isthmus eight times in my way from Attica t<> the JMorcfi, over the moun- 
 tains, or in the other direction, when passing from the Gulf of Athens to that 
 of Lepanto. Both the routes are picturesque and beautiful, though very 
 different: that by sea has more sameness, bnt the voyage being always 
 within sight of land, and often very near it, presents many attractive view t- 
 of the islands Salamis, yEgina, Poro, &c. and the coast of the nmtin'nf-
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 " up bv accident, whereby six or seven hundred men 
 "were killed: winch so enraged the infidels, that they 
 " would not grant any capitulation, but stormed the 
 <c place with so much fury, that they took it, and put 
 fi most of the garrison, with Signior ]SIinotti, the gover- 
 " nor, to the sword. The rest, with Antonio Bembo. 
 ft proveditor extraordinary, were made prisoners of war." 
 llistun/ oj'lhe Turks, vol. iii. p. 151.
 
 THE 
 
 SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 I. 
 
 MANY a vanished year and age, 
 
 And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 
 
 Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands 
 
 A fortress formed to Freedom's hands. 
 
 The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock, 5 
 
 Have left untouched her hoary rock, 
 
 The keystone of a land, which still, 
 
 Though fali'u, looks proudly on that hill, 
 
 The land-mark to the double tide 
 
 That purpling rolls on either side, 10 
 
 As if their waters chafed to meet, 
 
 Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 
 
 lint could the blood before her shed 
 
 Since first Timoleon's brother bled,
 
 THR SI EOF. OF CORINTH. 
 
 Or baffled Persia's despot fled, ] 5 
 
 Arise from out the earth which drank 
 
 The stream of slaughter as it sank, 
 
 That sanguine ocean would overflow 
 
 Her isthmus idly spread below : 
 
 Or could the bones of all the slain, 20 
 
 Who perished there, be piled again, 
 
 That rival pyramid would rise 
 
 More mountain-like, through those clear skies, 
 
 Than yon to\ver-capt Acropolis 
 
 Which seems the very clouds to kiss. '2 ") 
 
 II. 
 
 On dun Citlia-ron's ridge appears 
 
 The gleam of twice ten thousand spears; 
 
 And downward to the Isthmian plain 
 
 From shore to shore of either mam, 
 
 The tent is pitched, the crescent shines ; ; ,0 
 
 Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
 
 And the dusk Spahi's bands advance 
 
 Beneath each bearded pasha's glance ; 
 
 And far and wide as eye can reach 
 
 The turbaned cohorts tliruii-^ the beach ; 3,5
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 9 
 
 And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
 
 And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
 
 The Turcoman hath left his herd 1 , 
 
 The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
 
 And there the volleying thunders pour, 10 
 
 Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
 
 The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
 
 Wings the far hissing globe of death ; 
 
 Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
 
 Which crumbles with the ponderous ball ; 45 
 
 And from that wall the foe replies, 
 
 O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
 
 With fires that answer fast and well 
 
 The summons of the Infidel. 
 
 II f. 
 
 But near and nearest to the wall 50 
 
 Of those who wish and work its fall, 
 
 With deeper skill in war's black art 
 
 Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
 
 As any chief that ever s'u,;od 
 
 Triumphant in the iields of blood ; 55 
 
 From post to post, and deed to deed, 
 
 Fast spurring on his reeking steed,
 
 10 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
 
 And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
 
 Or where the battery guarded well, to 
 
 Remains as yet impregnable, 
 
 Alighting cheerly to inspire 
 
 The soldier slackening in his fire ; 
 
 The first and freshest of the host 
 
 Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, 6.5 
 
 To guide the follower o'er the field, 
 
 To point the tube, the lance to wield, 
 
 Or whirl around the bickering blade; 
 
 Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 From Venice once a race of worth 
 His gentle sires he drew his birth ; 
 J3ut late an exile from tier shore, 
 Against his countrymen lie bore 
 The arms they taught to bear; and now 
 The turban girt his shaven brow. 
 Through many a change had Corinth passed 
 With Greece to Venice' rule at last; 
 And here, before her walls, with t hose- 
 To Greece and Venice equal foes,
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. i i 
 
 He stood a foe, with all the zeal 80 
 
 Which young and fiery converts feel, 
 
 Within whose heated bosom throngs 
 
 The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
 
 To him had Venice ceased to be 
 
 Her ancient civic boast " the Free;" 85 
 
 And in the palace of St. Mark 
 
 Unnamed accusers in the dark 
 
 Within the " Lion's mouth" had placed 
 
 A charge against him uneffaced: 
 
 He fled in time, and saved his life, 90 
 
 To waste his future years in strife, 
 
 That taught his land how great her loss 
 
 o o 
 
 In him who triumphed o'er the Cross, 
 
 'Gainst which he reared the Crescent high, 
 
 And battled to avenge or die. 95 
 
 V. 
 
 Coumourgi 3 he whose closing scene 
 
 Adorned the triumph of Eugene, 
 
 When on Carlowitz' bloody plain 
 
 The last and mightiest of the slam 
 
 He sank, regretting not to die, 100 
 
 But curst the Christian's victory
 
 THE SlliGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Coumourgi can his glory cease, 
 
 That latest conqueror of Greece, 
 
 Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
 
 The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 10.; 
 
 A hundred years have rolled away 
 
 Since he reiixed the Moslem's sway; 
 
 And no\v he led the Mussulman, 
 
 And gave the guidance of the van 
 
 To Alp, who well repaid the trust ] 10 
 
 By cities levelled with the dust ; 
 
 And proved, by many a deed of death, 
 
 How rirm his heart in novel faith. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The walls grew weak; and fast and hot 
 
 Against them poured the ceaseless .shot, I I ~> 
 
 With unabating fury sent 
 
 From battery to battlement; 
 
 And thunder-like the pealing din 
 
 liose from each heated eulverm; 
 
 And here and there some crackling doim iL'U 
 
 A\ as iired before the exploding bomb: 
 
 And as the fabric sank beneath 
 
 The shuttering shell's volcanic breath,
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 1 
 
 Tn red and wreathing columns flashed 
 
 The flame, as loud the ruin crashed, !'&> 
 
 Or into countless meteors driven, 
 
 Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 
 
 Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun, 
 
 Impervious to the hidden sun, 
 
 With volumed smoke that slowly grew 11U) 
 
 To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But not for vengeance, long delayed, 
 
 Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 
 
 The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
 
 His skill to pierce the promised breach: 1:;5 
 
 Within these walls a maid was pent 
 
 His hope would win, without consent 
 
 Of that inexorable sire, 
 
 Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
 
 When Alp, beneath his Christian name, lit) 
 
 Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
 
 In happier mood, and earlier time, 
 
 While unimpeached for traitorous crime, 
 
 Gayest in gondola or hall, 
 
 He glittered through the Carnival; 145
 
 THE SI HOP. OF CORINTH. 
 
 And tuned the softest serenade 
 That e'er on Adria's waters played 
 At midnight to Italian maid. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And many deemed her heart was won ; 
 For sought by numbers, given to none, l. r ><) 
 
 Had young Fraucesca's hand remained 
 Still by the church's bonds unchained : 
 And when the Adriatic bore 
 Lanciotto to the Paynirn shore, 
 
 Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, i >.'" 
 
 And pensive waxed the maid and pale ; 
 More constant at confessional, 
 Mon: rare at masque and festival; 
 O: seen at such, with downcast eyes, 
 \\ inch conquered hearts they ceased to prize : I 60 
 With hsilo:.-i look .she seems to gaze; 
 ^\ ill- humbler ca.r>.. IM - fo:m arrays; 
 ii' T voice k:-.s lively r.i ti^e song; 
 I Ur step, though .'jgli', l<v- : s rleet among 
 The pairs, on v, hcr.i ihj Morning's ghmce !<";- 
 
 ve? un-?aU,u \\ith the dance.
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 15 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sent by the state to guard the land, 
 
 (Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand, 
 
 While Sobieski tamed his pride 
 
 By IJuda's wall and Danube's side, 170 
 
 The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
 
 From Patra to Eubcea's bay,) 
 
 Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
 
 The Doge's delegated powers, 
 
 While yet the pitying eye of Peace 1 7.5 
 
 Smiled o'er her long forgotten Greece : 
 
 And ere that faithless truce was broke 
 
 Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 
 
 With him his gentle daughter came; 
 
 Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 1 80 
 
 Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
 
 What woes await on lawless love, 
 
 Had fairer form adorned the shore 
 
 Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 
 
 X. 
 
 The wall is rent, the ruins yawn; 185 
 
 And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn,
 
 THK SIKGE OK CORINTH. 
 
 O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
 
 The foremost of the fierce assault. 
 
 The bauds are ranked ; the chosen van 
 
 Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 1 90 
 
 The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn," 
 
 Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
 
 And win their way with falchions' force, 
 
 Or pave the path with many a corse, 
 
 O'er which the following brave may rise, 1D5 
 
 Their stepping-stone the last who dies! 
 
 XL 
 
 'Tis midnight : on the mountain's brown 
 The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; 
 .Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 'JOO 
 
 Bespangled with those isles of light, 
 So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
 Who ever gazed upon them shining, 
 And turned to earth without repining, 
 Nor wished for wings to flee away, '20s 
 
 And mix with their eternal ray ? 
 The waves on either shore lay there 
 Calm, clear, and azure as the air;
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. J7 
 
 And scarce their foam tl-o pebbles shook, 
 
 But murmured meekly as t'ie brook. 210 
 
 The \vmds were pillowed on the waves; 
 
 The banners drooped along their staves, 
 
 And, as thev fell around them furling, 
 
 Above them shone the crescent curling; 
 
 And that deep silence was un broke, 215 
 
 Save where the watch his signal spoke, 
 
 Save where the steed neighed oft and shrill, 
 
 And echo answered from the hill, 
 
 And the wide hum of that wild host 
 
 Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 220 
 
 As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
 
 In midnight call to wonted prayer; 
 
 It rose, that chaunted mournful strain, 
 
 Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 
 
 'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, 2'25 
 
 Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 
 
 And take a long unmeasured tone, 
 
 To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 
 
 It seemed to diose within the wall 
 
 A cry prophetic of their fall: 230 
 
 It struck even the besieger's ear 
 
 With something ominous and drear,
 
 18 THK S1EG1-: OF CORINTH. 
 
 An undefined and sudden thrill, 
 
 Which makes the heart a moment still, 
 
 Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 235 
 
 Of that strange sense it's silence framed ; 
 
 Such as a sudden passing-bell 
 
 Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The tent of Alp was on the shore; 
 
 The sound was hushed, the prayer was o'er; 240 
 
 The watch was set, the night-round made, 
 
 All mandates issued and obeyed : 
 
 'Tis but another anxious night, 
 
 His pains the morrow may requite 
 
 With all revenge and love can pay, <:4,-; 
 
 In guerdon for their long delay. 
 
 Few hours remain, and he hath need 
 
 Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 
 
 Of slaughter ; but within his soul 
 
 The thoughts like troubled waters roll. <25u 
 
 He stood alone among the host ; 
 
 Not his the loud fanatic boast 
 
 To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 
 
 Or risk a life with little loss,
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 19 
 
 Secure in paradise to be 255 
 
 By llouiis loved immortally : 
 
 Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 
 
 The stern exaltedness of zeal, 
 
 Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 
 
 When battling on the parent soil. 260 
 
 He stood alone a renegade 
 
 Against the country he betrayed ; 
 
 He stood alone amidst his band, 
 
 Without a trusted heart or hand : 
 
 They followed him, for he was brave, 265 
 
 And great the spoil he got and gave ; 
 They crouched to him, for he had skill 
 To warp and wield the vulgar will : 
 
 But still his Christian origin 
 
 With them was little less than sin. 270 
 
 They envied even the faithless fame 
 
 He earned beneath a Moslem name; 
 
 Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 
 
 In youth a bitter Nazareue. 
 
 They did not know how pride can stoop, 275 
 
 When baffled feelings withering droopj 
 
 They did not know how hate can burn 
 
 Ja hearts once changed from soft to stern ; 
 
 < '2
 
 20 Tin-: SII-:(;K OF CORINTH. 
 
 Nor all the false and fatal zeal 
 
 The convert of revenue can feel. 280 
 
 He ruled them man may rule the worst, 
 
 By ever daring to be first : 
 
 So lions o'er the jackal sway; 
 
 The jackal points, he fells the prey, 
 
 Then on the vulgar yelling press, 2*5 
 
 To gorge the relics of success. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 His head grows fevered, anil his pulse 
 
 The quick successive throbs convulse; 
 
 In vain from side to side lie throws 
 
 His form, in courtship of repose ; 290 
 
 Or if he dozed, a sound., a start 
 
 Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
 
 The turban on his hot brow pressed, 
 
 The mail weighed lead-like on his breast, 
 
 Though oft and long beneath its weight 2fj5 
 
 Lpon his eyes had slumber sate, 
 
 \\ ithout or couch or canopy, 
 
 Except a rougher lield and sky 
 
 Than now might yield a warrior's bed. 
 
 Than now along the heaven \\as spread. oOO
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 2 1 
 
 He could not rest, he could not stay 
 
 Within his tent to wait for day, 
 
 But walked him forth along the sand, 
 
 Where thousand sleepers strewed the strand. 
 
 What pillowed them ? and why should he 30,5 
 
 More wakeful than the humblest be? 
 
 Since more their peril, worse their toil, 
 
 And yet ihcy fearless dream of spoil; 
 
 While he alone, \\here thousands passed 
 
 A night of sleep, perchance their last, 310 
 
 In sickly vigil wandered on, 
 
 And envied all he gazed upon. 
 
 XIV 7 . 
 
 He felt his soul become more light 
 Beneath the freshness of the night. 
 Cool was the silent: skv, though calm, 
 And bathed his brow with an v balm : 
 Behind, the camp before him lay, 
 In mam a winding creek and bav, 
 Lepanto's liult; and, on the brow 
 Of .Delphi'* hill, unshaken snow, 
 High and e'en;:;!, such as shone 
 Through thousand Mim::icr.s brightly gone,
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Along the gulf, the mount, the clime ; 
 
 It will not melt, like man, to time: 
 
 Tyrant and slave are swept away, 325 
 
 Less formed to wear before the ray; 
 
 But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
 
 Which on the mighty mount tliou hailest, 
 
 While tower and tn e are torn and rent, 
 
 Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 330 
 
 In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
 
 In texture like a hovering shroud, 
 
 Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
 
 As from her fond abode she fled, 
 
 And lingered on the spot, where long 335 
 
 Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
 
 Oh, still her step at moments falters 
 
 O'er withered lields, and ruined altars, 
 
 And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
 
 By pointing to each gloriou-> token. 340 
 
 But vain her voice, till better davs 
 
 Dawn in tliose yet remembered rays 
 
 Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
 
 And saw the Spartan smile in dying.
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. g 3 
 
 XV. 
 
 Not mindless of these mighty times 345 
 
 Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes; 
 
 And through this night, as on lie wandered, 
 
 And o'er the past and present pondered, 
 
 And thought upon the glorious dead 
 
 Who there in better cause had bled, 350 
 
 He felt how taint and feebly dim 
 
 The fame that could accrue to him, 
 
 Who cheered the band, and waved the sword, 
 
 A traitor in a turbaned horde ; 
 
 And led them to the lawless siege, 355 
 
 Whose best success were sacrilege. 
 
 Not M) had those his lancy numbered, 
 
 The chiefs whose dust around him slumbered; 
 
 Their phalanx marshalled on the plain, 
 
 Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 360 
 
 They fell devoted, bat undying; 
 
 The very gale their names seemed sighing: 
 
 The waters mummied 01 their name; 
 
 The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
 
 The silent pillar, lone and gray, 365 
 
 Claimed kindred with their sacred clay;
 
 24 T1IK SIECK OF CORINTH. 
 
 Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 
 
 Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
 
 The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
 
 Rolled mingling with their lame lor ever. 370 
 
 Despite or every yoke she b; ars, 
 
 That land is glory's still and theirs ! 
 
 Tis still a watch-word to thu earth. 
 
 When man would do a deed oi worth, 
 
 lie points to Greece, and turns to tread, 375 
 
 So sanctioned, on the tyrant's head : 
 
 He looks to hi r, and rushes on 
 
 \\ here hie is lost, or freedom won. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 
 
 And wooed the freshness Night diffused. 380 
 
 There shrinks no ebb in that tidcless sea 5 , 
 
 Which changeless rolls eternally; 
 
 So that wildest of waves, in then aniiTie.st mood, 
 
 Scarce break on the bounds ol the land lor a rood ; 
 
 And the powerless moon beholds them llow, 38 5 
 
 Heedless il she come or go : 
 
 Calm or high, in mam or bay, 
 
 On their course she hath no sway.
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 25 
 
 The rock umvom its base doth bare, 
 
 And looks o'er the surf, but it tomes not there; 390 
 
 And the lunge of the loam may be seen below, 
 
 Oil the line that l, iei't long ages ago: 
 
 A smooth short space of yellow .sand 
 
 Between it and the greener land. 
 
 He wandered on, along the beach, 39,3 
 
 Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
 Of the Itagikied wall; but they saw him not, 
 Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot? 
 Did traitois lurk m the Christians' hold? 
 Were their hands giowu still', or their hearts waxed 
 cold : 400 
 
 I know not, in sooth; but from yonder \\all 
 There Hashed no lire, and there hissed no bail, 
 Though lu- stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
 That Hanked the sea-ward _atc of the town; 
 Though lie heard the sound, and could almost tell 
 The sullen \\or.is ot ihe sentinel, 40(> 
 
 As his measured sti |> on the stout* below 
 Clanked, as he paced it to ami iro; 
 And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
 Hold o'er the dead their carnival, 410
 
 26 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Gorging and growling oYr carcase and limb; 
 Thcv \vere too busy to bark at him! 
 From a Tartar's skull they had stripped the flesh, 
 As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 414 
 
 And iheir white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull 4 , 
 As it slipped through their jaws, \vhcu their edge 
 
 grew dull, 
 
 As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
 When they scarce could rise from the spot where 
 
 they fed ; 
 
 So well had they broken a lingering fast 
 "With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 420 
 And Alp knew, by the turbans that rolled on the sand, 
 The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
 Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 
 And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair 5 , 
 All the rest was shaven and bare. 423 
 
 The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
 The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
 But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, 
 There sat a vulture Happing a wolf, 
 Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 130 
 Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ;
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 27 
 
 But lie seized on his share of a steed that lay, 
 Picked by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Alp turned him from the sickening sight: 
 
 Never hud shaken his nerves in tight; 435 
 
 But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
 
 Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
 
 Scorched with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 
 
 Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
 
 There is .something of pride in the perilous hour, 4-1O 
 
 Whate'er le the shape in which death may lower; 
 
 For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 
 
 And Honour's eye on daring deeds! 
 
 But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 
 
 O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 445 
 
 And .see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 
 
 Beasts of the forest, all gathering there; 
 
 All regarding man as their prey, 
 
 All rejoicing in his decay. 
 
 XVI11. 
 
 There is a temple in ruin stands, 1-50 
 
 Fashioned by long forgotten hands ;
 
 26 THE SIFGF. OF CORINTH. 
 
 T\vo or three columns, ami many a stone, 
 
 Ma 1 Me and u-ni-ute, \\iih -jrass o'ergrown! 
 
 Out 111:011 Time! iiv.il! leave no ;nore 
 
 ()i ihe : lungs to come than the thing-; before! -155 
 
 Out upon 'Ij.ne! \\lio tor ever \\ill leave 
 
 But enough of the past for the future to "neve 
 
 ~ I O 
 
 O'er ibat which hatli l)een ; and o'er that which must be: 
 \\ hat \ve have seen, our sons shall see ; 
 Remnants of things that have passed away, 4()0 
 
 Fragments of stone, reared by creatures of clay ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He sate him down at a pillar's base, 
 
 And passed his hand athwart his face ; 
 
 Like one in dreary musing mood, 
 
 Declining was his attitude; 4iiA 
 
 His head was drooping on his breast, 
 
 Fevered, throbbing, and opprest ; 
 
 And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 
 
 Ol't his beating ringers vu nt, 
 
 liurriedlv, as you nriy ^ee 470 
 
 \our own run over the ivory key, 
 
 l^ie the niiasured tone is taken 
 
 liy the chords you would awaken.
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 0.9 
 
 There he sate all heavily, 
 
 As he heard the night-wind sigh. 4T5 
 
 Was it the wind, through some hollow stone 6 , 
 
 Sent that soft and tender moan? 
 
 lie lifted his head, and he looked on the sea, 
 
 But it was unrippled as glass may be; 
 
 He looked on the long grass it waved not a blade; 
 
 How was that gentle sound conveyed ? 481 
 
 He looked to the banners each ilag lay still, 
 
 So did the leaves on Cithaerou's hill, 
 
 And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 
 
 What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 485 
 
 He turned to the left is he sure of sight? 
 
 There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 He staried up with more of fear 
 
 Than if an aimed foe were near. 
 
 " G'.(l of my fathers ! what is here ': 190 
 
 '' Who art thou, and wherefore .svut 
 
 " So mar a hostile anuame.,1: ' 
 
 His trembling hands rcfusod to si. n 
 
 The cross he deemed no more 1 d-vint:
 
 90 THE S1KGK OF CORINTH. 
 
 He had resumed it in that hour, 49J 
 
 But conscience wrung away the power. 
 
 He gazed, lie saw : he knew the face 
 
 Of beauty, and the form of grace; 
 
 It was Francesca by his side, 
 
 The maid who might have been his bride! 500 
 
 The rose was yet upon her cheek, 
 
 But mellowed with a tenderer streak : 
 
 Where was the play of her soft lips tied? 
 
 Gone was the smile that enlivened their red. 
 
 The ocean's calm within tluir view, 50.5 
 
 Beside her eye had less of b'ue; 
 
 But like that cold wave it stood still, 
 
 And its glance, though clear, was chill. 
 
 Around her form a thin robe twining, 
 
 Nought concealed her bosom shining; 510 
 
 Through the parting of her hair, 
 
 Floating darkly downward there, 
 
 Her rounded arm showed white and bare : 
 
 And ere yet she made reply, 
 
 Once she raised her hand on high ; 515 
 
 It was so wan, and transparent of hue, 
 
 You might have seen the moon shine through.
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 31 
 
 XXL 
 
 <c I come from my rest to him I love best, 
 
 " That I may be happy, and he may be blest. 
 
 " I have passed the guards, the gate, the wall; 520 
 
 " Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
 
 " 'Tis said the lion will turn and flee 
 
 " From a maid in the pride of her purity; 
 
 " And the Power on high, that can shield the good 
 
 " Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 9Q5 
 
 " Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
 
 {< From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 
 
 " I come and if I come in vain, 
 
 " Never, oh never, we meet again ! 
 
 " Thou hast done a fearful deed 530 
 
 " In falling aw a) from thy father's creed : 
 
 " But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
 
 " The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine; 
 
 " Wring the black drop from thy heart, 
 
 " Arid to-morrow unites us no more to part." 535 
 
 " And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 
 " In the 'midst of the dying and the dead?
 
 32 THK SIKGR OF CORINTH. 
 
 " For to- morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 
 
 " The sons and the shrines of (he Christian name. 
 
 " None, save thon and thine, I've sworn 540 
 
 " Shali be !( ft upon the morn : 
 
 (t ]>ut thee will I bear to a love'y spot, 
 
 t( Where our hands shall be joined, and our sorrow 
 
 forgot. 
 
 " There thou yet shall be my bride, 
 " When once again I've quelled the pride 545 
 
 " Of Venice; and her hated race 
 " Have felt the arm they would debase 
 " Scourge, with a whip o( scorpions, those 
 " Wliom vice and envy made my foes." 
 
 Upon his hand she laid her own 550 
 
 Light was the touch, bat it thrilled to the bone, 
 
 And shot a dullness to his heart, 
 
 Which fixed him beyond the power to siurt. 
 
 Though slight \vas that L ra>p so mortal cold, 
 
 Jbie could not loose him from its hold ; 5." 5 
 
 Jjut never did clasp oi one so dear 
 
 Strike on the pulse with such feeling oi iear, 
 
 As those thin fingers, long and \\hite, 
 
 Froze through Ins blood bv their touch that night.
 
 THIi SIF.GH OF CORINTH. 33 
 
 The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 560 
 
 And his her-.rt sank so still that it felt like stone, 
 
 As he looked on the face, and beheld its hue 
 
 So deeply changed from what he knew : 
 
 Fair but faint without the ray 
 
 Of mind, that made eacli feature play 5G.5 
 
 Like sparkling waves on a sunny day; 
 
 And her motionless lips lay slill as death, 
 
 And her words came forth without her breath, 
 
 And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell, 
 
 And there seemed not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 
 
 Though her eve shone out, vet the lids were fixed. 571 
 
 o v ' <s * 
 
 And the glance that it gave was wild and unmixed 
 
 With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
 
 Of the restle.-s who walk in a troubled dream ; 
 
 Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare 57.5 
 
 Stirred by the breath of the wintry air, 
 
 So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 
 
 Liftles?, but life-like, and awful to sight; 
 
 As they seem, through the dimness, about to come 
 
 down 
 
 From the shadowy wall where their images frown ; 
 
 n
 
 34 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Fearfully flitting to and fro, 
 
 As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
 
 " If not for love of me be given 
 
 " Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, 
 
 " Again I say that turban tear 585 
 
 " From off thy faithless brow, and swear 
 
 " Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
 
 " Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see 
 
 " Not earth that's past but heaven or me. 
 
 " If this thou dost accord, albeit 590 
 
 " A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, 
 
 " That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 
 
 " And mercy's gate may receive thee within: 
 
 " But pause one moment more, and take 
 
 " The curse of him thou didst forsake ; 5i}~> 
 
 " And look once more to heaven, and see 
 
 " Its love for ever shut from thee. 
 
 " There is a light cloud by the moon 
 
 " 'Tis passing, and will pass full soon 
 
 " If, by the time its vapoury sail GOO 
 
 " Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 
 
 " Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
 
 " Then God and man are both avenged ;
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. - ]5 
 
 " Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
 
 ' Thine immortality of ill." ti05 
 
 Alp looked to heaven, and saw on high 
 
 The sign she spake of in the sky ; 
 
 But his heart was swollen, and turned aside, 
 
 By deep interminable pride. 
 
 This first false passion of his breast Mo 
 
 Rolled like a torrent o'er the rest. 
 
 He sue for mercy ! He dismayed 
 
 By wild words of a timid maid ! 
 
 He, wronged by Venice, vow to save 
 
 Her sons, devoted to the grave! tjl;> 
 
 No though that cloud were thunder's worst, 
 
 Arid charged to crush him let it burst ! 
 
 He looked upon it earnestly, 
 Without an accent of reply ; 
 
 He watched it passing ; it is flown : GliO 
 
 Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 
 And thus he spake " \\ hate'er my fate, 
 " I am no channeling 'ti.i too late : 
 " The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 
 " Then rise again; the tree must shiver. vQ.* 
 
 n 2
 
 36 TIIK SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 " What Venice made me, I must be, 
 
 " Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
 
 " But thoti art safe : oh, fly with me !" 
 
 He turned, but she is gone ! 
 
 Nothing is there but the column stone. 630 
 
 Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? 
 
 He saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The night is past, and shines the sun 
 
 As if that morn were a jocund one. 
 
 Lightly and brightly breaks away 63/5 
 
 The Morning from her mantle grey, 
 
 And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 
 
 Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
 
 And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 639 
 
 And the ilap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, 
 
 And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
 
 And the clash, and the shout, ' they come, they come!' 
 
 The horsetails 8 are plucked from the ground, and the 
 
 sword 
 I' rom iis sheath; and they form, anil but wait for the 
 
 word.
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 37 
 
 Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 645 
 
 Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
 
 Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
 
 That the fugitive may flee in vain, 
 
 When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
 
 Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 650 
 
 While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
 
 Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
 
 The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein; 
 
 Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
 
 White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 655 
 
 The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 
 
 The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 
 
 And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 
 
 Forms in his phalanx each Janizar; 
 
 Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 660 
 
 So is the blade of his scimitar ; 
 
 The khan and the pachas are all tit their post ; 
 
 The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
 
 When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 
 
 Leave not in Corinth a living one 665 
 
 A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 
 
 A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls.
 
 5 THK SIEGE OF -CORINTH. 
 
 God and the prophet Alia Hu ! 
 
 lip to thu skies with that wild halloo! 
 
 " There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to 
 
 scale ; 670 
 
 " And your hands on your sabres, and ho\v should ye 
 
 fail ? 
 
 " He \vho first downs with the red cross may crave 
 " His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have!" 
 Thus uttered Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
 The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 675 
 And the shout of tierce thousands in joyous ire : 
 Silence hark to the signal fire ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 As the wolves, that headlong go 
 
 On the stately buffalo, 
 
 Though with tiers eyes, and angry roar, 6SO 
 
 And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 
 
 He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 
 
 The foremost, who rush on his strength but to die: 
 
 Thus against the wall they \\eut, 
 
 Thus the tir.st were backward bent; (i$5 
 
 Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 
 
 Strewed the earth like broken la 5 ";,
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 39 
 
 Shivered by the shot, that tore 
 
 The ground whereon they moved no more : 
 
 Even as they fell, in files they lay, 690 
 
 Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 
 
 When his \vork is done on the levelled plain ; 
 
 Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 
 
 From the cliffs invading dash 695 
 
 Huge fragments, sapped by the ceaseless flow, 
 
 Till white and thundering down they go, 
 
 Like the avalanche's snow 
 
 On the Alpine vales below; 
 
 Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, TOO 
 
 Corinth's sons were downward borne 
 
 By the long and oft renewed 
 
 Charge of the Moslem multitude. 
 
 In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 
 
 Heaped, by the host of the infidel, 705 
 
 Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 
 
 Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 
 
 Stroke, and thrust, and flash , and cry 
 
 For quarter, or for victory
 
 40 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 !N1 ingle therewith the volleying thunder, 710 
 
 "Which makes the distant cities wonder 
 
 llo\v the .sounding battle goes, 
 
 If \vith them, or lor their foes; 
 
 If they must mourn, or may rejoice 
 
 In that annihilating voice, 715 
 
 Which pierces the deep hills through and through 
 
 A\ ith an echo dread and new : 
 
 ^l ou might have heard it, on that dav, 
 
 O er Salamis and Megara; 
 
 (We have heard the hearers say,) 720 
 
 liven unto Piiunis bay. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 
 
 Sabres and swords with blood were gilt: 
 
 But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 
 
 And all but the after carnage done. 7~-5 
 
 Shriller shrieks now mingling come 
 
 From vithin the plundered dome: 
 
 Hark to the haste of flying feet, 
 
 That splash in the blood of the slipperv street; 
 
 But here and there, where 'vantage ground 7;5C' 
 
 Against the foe may still be found,
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 41 
 
 Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 
 
 Make a pause, and turn again 
 
 With bandied backs against the wall, 
 
 Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 735 
 
 There stood an old man his hairs were white, 
 
 But his veteran arm was full of might : 
 
 So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 
 
 The dead before him, on that day, 
 
 In a semicircle lay ; 740 
 
 Still he combated umvounded, 
 
 Though retreating, unsurrouuded. 
 
 Many a scar of former fight 
 
 Lurked beneath his corslet bright ; 745 
 
 But of every wound his body bore, 
 
 Each and all had been ta'en before: 
 
 Though aged he was, so iron of limb, 
 
 Few of our youth could cope with him; 
 
 And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 
 
 Outnumbered his thin hairs of silver gray. 750 
 
 From right to left his sabre swept: 
 
 Many an Olhman mother wept 
 
 Sons that were unborn, when dipped
 
 42 T1-IK SlKGi- OF CORINTH. 
 
 His weapon first 111 Moslem gore, 
 
 1'lve liis years coulci count a score. 15 j 
 
 Of all he might have been the sire 
 
 V\ 'ho fell that day beneath his ire : 
 
 For, soiless left long years ago, 
 
 His wrath made many a childless foe ; 
 
 And since the da\, when in the strait 9 760 
 
 His only boy had met his fate, 
 
 His parent's iron hand did doom 
 
 More than a human hecatomb. 
 
 If shades by carnage be appeased, 
 
 Patroclus' .-pint Ic^s was pleased 7<"> .5 
 
 Than his, Min; iti's sou, who died 
 
 Where A-ia 1 s bounds and ours divide. 
 
 Buried he lay, where thousands before 
 
 For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore : 
 
 What of them is left, to tell 770 
 
 Where they he, and how they fell r 
 Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves; 
 But they live in the verse that immortally saves. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 
 Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand : T7.5
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 43 
 
 Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 
 
 Swifter to smite, and never to spare 
 
 Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 
 
 Thus in the fight is he ever known : 
 
 Others a gaudier garb may show, ISO 
 
 To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 
 
 Many a hand's on a richer hilt, 
 
 But none on a steel more ruddily gilt; 
 
 Many a loftier turban may wear, 
 
 Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; T>." 
 
 Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis there ! 
 
 There is not a standard on that shore 
 
 So well advanced the ranks before ; 
 
 There is not a banner in Moslem war 
 
 Will lure the Delhis half so far ; 7<JO 
 
 Jt glances like a falling star ! 
 
 o o 
 
 Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 
 
 The bravest be, or late have been; 
 
 There the craven cries for quarter 
 
 Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 1{)5 
 
 Or the hero, silent lying, 
 
 Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 
 
 Mustering his last feeble blow 
 
 'Gainst tVe nearest levelled fo< .,
 
 THK SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Though faint beneath the mutual wound, 800 
 
 Grappling on the gory ground. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Still the old man stood erect, 
 
 .And Alp's career a moment checked. 
 
 " Yield thce, Minotti ; quarter take, 
 
 " For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 805 
 
 " Never, renegade, never! 
 
 " Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 
 
 " Francesca ! Oh my promised bride ! 
 " Must she too perish by thy pride?" 
 
 " She is safe."" Where? where:"" In heaven ; 810 
 " From whence thy traitor soul is driven 
 " Far from thee, and undefiled." 
 Grimly then Minotti smiled, 
 As he s;iw Alp staggering bow 
 
 Before his \\ords, as \\ith a blow. 8J5 
 
 " Oh God! when diuLshe:" " Yesternight 
 ' Nor weep 1 for her spirit's flight:
 
 THE SIEGE OF COiUNTH. 45 
 
 <l None of my pure race shall be 
 
 " Slaves to Mahomet and thee 
 
 <f Come on!" That challenge is in vain 820 
 
 Alp's already with the slain ! 
 
 While Minotti's words were wreaking 
 
 More revenge in bitter speaking 
 
 Than Ills falchion's point had found, 
 
 Had the time allowed to wound, 825 
 
 From within the neighbouring porch 
 
 Of a long defended church, 
 
 Where the last and desperate few 
 
 Would the failing fight renew, 
 
 The sharp shot dashed Alp to the ground ; 90 
 
 Ere an eye could view the wound 
 
 That crashed through the brain of the infidel, 
 
 O 
 
 Hound he spun, and dmvn he fell ; 
 
 A Hash like i'lre within his eyes 
 
 Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, ^' J ' } 
 
 And then eternal darkness sunk 
 
 Through all the palpitating trunk ; 
 
 Nought of life left, .save a quivering 
 
 Where his limbs were slightly shivering: 
 
 They turned him on his back ; his breast 
 
 And brow were stained with irore and dust,
 
 46 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 
 
 From its deep veins lately loosed; 
 
 But in his pulse there was no throb, 
 
 Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 81 
 
 Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
 
 Heralded his way to death : 
 
 Ere his very thought could pray, 
 
 Unanealed he pas>ed away, 
 
 Without a hope from mercy's aid, 
 
 To the last a renegade. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Fearfully the yell arose 
 
 Of his followers, and his foes ; 
 
 These in joy, in fury those : 
 
 Then again in conflict mixing, 855 
 
 Clashing sword*, and spears transfixing, 
 
 Interchanged the blow and thrust, 
 
 Hurling warriors in the dust. 
 
 Street by street, and foot by foot, 
 
 Still Minotti dares dispute 8Go 
 
 The latest portion of the land 
 
 !/< -ft beneath his high command ;
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 47 
 
 With him, aiding heart and hand, 
 The remnant of his gallant band. 
 Still the church is tenable, 865 
 
 Whence issued late the fated ball 
 
 That half avenged the city's fall, 
 When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 
 Thither bending sternly back, 
 
 They leave before a bloody track; 870 
 
 And, with their faces to the foe, 
 Dealing wounds with every blow, 
 The chief, and his retreating train, 
 Join to those within the fane: 
 
 There they yet may breathe awhile, 87.3 
 
 Sheltered by the massy pile. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Brief breathing-time! the turbaned host, 
 
 With added ranks and raging boast, 
 
 Press onwards with such strength and heat, 
 
 Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 880 
 
 For narrow the way that led to the spot 
 
 Where still the Christians yielded not; 
 
 And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
 
 Through the massy column to turn and fly; 
 
 They perforce must do or die. 885
 
 48 THE SlKGli OF CORINTH. 
 
 They die ; but ere their eyes could close 
 
 Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 
 
 Fresh and furious, fust they till 
 
 The ranks uuthinned, though slaughtered still; 
 
 And faint the \\eaiy Christians wax 81^- 
 
 Before the still renewed attacks : 
 
 And no\v the Othmans gain the irute ; 
 
 Still resists its iron weight, 
 
 And still, all deadly aimed and hot, 
 
 From every crevice comes the shot; SCO 
 
 From every shattered window pour 
 
 The volleys of the sulphurous ^hower : 
 
 But the portal wavering grows and weak 
 
 The iron yields, the hinges creak 
 
 It bend* it falls and all is o'er; l>00 
 
 Lost Corinth may re-ist no more ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
 
 Minotti .stood o'er the altar stone : 
 
 Madonna's lace upon him shone, 
 
 Painted in heavenly hues above, 90.') 
 
 With eyes of light and looks of love ;
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. t p 
 
 And placed upon that holy shrine 
 
 To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
 
 When pictured there, we kneeling see 
 
 Her ; and the boy-God on her knee, 910 
 
 Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
 
 To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
 
 Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 
 
 Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 
 
 Minotti lifted his acred eve, 915 
 
 O / * 
 
 And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 
 Then seixed a torch \\hich blazed* thereby ; 
 And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, 
 Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The vaults beneath the mosaic stone :'2() 
 
 Contained the dead of ages gone ; 
 
 Their names were on the graven floor, 
 
 But now illegible with gore; 
 
 The carved crests, and curious hues 
 
 The varied marble's veins diffuse, 925 
 
 Were smeared, and slippery 'Stained, and strown 
 
 With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 
 
 E
 
 50 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 There were dead above, and the dead below 
 
 Lay cold in many a coffined row ; 
 
 You might see them piled in sable state, 930 
 
 By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 
 
 But War had entered their dark caves, 
 
 And stored along the vaulted graves 
 
 Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 
 
 In masses by the rleshless dead : y3: 
 
 Here, throughout the siege, had been 
 
 The Christians' chiefest magazine; 
 
 To these a late formed train now led, 
 
 Minotti's last and stern resource 
 
 Against the foe's o'envhelming force. 940 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The foe came on, and feu remain 
 
 To strive, and those must strive in vain: 
 
 For lack of further lives, to slake 
 
 The thirst of vengeance now u\\ ake, 
 
 With barbarous blows they gash the dead, <jl."< 
 
 And lop the already lifeless head, 
 
 And fell the statues from their niche, 
 
 And spoil the shrines of offerings rich.
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 51 
 
 p from each other's rude hands wrest 
 The silver vessels saints had blessed. 950 
 
 To the high altar on they go ; 
 Oh, but it made a glorious show! 
 On its table still behold 
 The cup of consecrated gold ; 
 
 Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 955 
 
 Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes: 
 That morn it held the holy wine, 
 Converted by Christ to his blood so divine, 
 Which his worshippers drank at the break of day, 
 To shrive their souls ere they joined in the fray. 960 
 Still a te\v drops within it lav ; 
 And round the sacred table glow 
 Twelve lolly lamps, in splendid row, 
 From the purest metal cast; 
 A spoil the richest, and the last. 965 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 So near they came, the nearest stretched 
 To grasp the spoil he almost reached, 
 
 When old Miuotti's hand 
 Touched with the torch the train 
 
 Tis fired ! 970 
 
 E '2
 
 ,52 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
 The turbaned victors, the Christian band, 
 All that of living or dead remain, 
 Hurled on high with the shivered fane, 
 
 In one wild roar expired! 975 
 
 The shattered town the walls thrown down 
 The waves a moment backward bent 
 The hills that shake, although unrent, 
 
 As if an earthquake passed- 
 The thousand shapeless things all driven 980 
 In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 
 
 By that tremendous blast 
 Proclaimed the desperate conflict o'er 
 On that too long afflicted shore : 
 Up to the sky like rockets go 985 
 
 All that mingled there below : 
 Many a tall and goodly man, 
 Scorched and shrivelled to a span, 
 When he fell to earth again 
 
 o 
 
 Like a cinder strewed the plain : 9pO 
 
 Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
 Some fell in the gulf, v\hich received the sprinkles 
 \\ ith a thousand circling wrinkles;
 
 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 53 
 
 Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
 
 Scattered o'er the isthmus lay ; 995 
 
 Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
 
 Let their mothers see and say! 
 
 When in cradled rest they lay, 
 
 And eacli nursing mother smiled 
 
 On the sweet sleep of her child, 000 
 
 Little deemed she such a day 
 
 Would rend those tender limbs away. 
 
 Not the matrons that them bore 
 
 Could discern their offspring more ; 
 
 That one moment left no trace 1005 
 
 More of human form or face 
 
 Save a scattered scalp or bone : 
 
 And down came blazing rafters, strowu 
 
 Around, and many a falling stone, 
 
 Deeply dinted in the clay, 1010 
 
 All blackened there and reeking lay. 
 
 All the living things that heard 
 
 That deadly earth shock disappeared : 
 
 The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
 
 And howling left the unburied dead ; 1015 
 
 The camels from their keepers broke; 
 
 The distant steer forsook the voke
 
 54 THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
 And burst his girth, and tore his rein; 
 The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 1020 
 
 Deep-mouthed arose, and doubly harsh; 
 The wolves yelled on the caverued hill, 
 Where echo rolled in thunder still ; 
 The jackal's troop in gathered cry, 10 
 Bayed from afar complainingly, 1025 
 
 With a mixed and mournful sound, 
 Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
 With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 
 The eagle left his rocky nest, 
 
 And mounted nearer to the sun, 1030 
 
 The clouds beneath him seemed so dun ; 
 Their smoke assailed his startled beak, 
 And made him higher soar and shriek 
 Thus was Corinth lost and won !
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1, page 9, line 3. 
 The Turcoman hath left his herd. 
 
 The life of the Turcomans is wandering and patriarchal: 
 rhey dwell in tents. 
 
 Note 2, page Jl, line 17. 
 Coumottrgi he. whose closing scene. 
 
 All Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and Grand 
 Vizier to Achmet III. after recovering Peloponnesus from 
 the Venetians in one campaign, was mortally wounded in the 
 next, against the Germans, at the battle of Peterwaradin, (in 
 the plain of Carlowitz) in Hungary, endeavouring to rally his 
 guards. He died of his wounds next day. His last order 
 was the decapitation of General Breuner, and some other 
 German prisoners; and his last words, " Oh that I could 
 thus serve all the Christian dogs!" a speech and act not 
 unlike one of Caligula. He was a young man of great 
 ambition and unbounded presumption : on being told that 
 Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, " was a great general, ' 
 he said, " I shall become a greater, and at his expense." 
 
 Note 3, page 24, line 15. 
 There shrinks no ebb in that tidelesa sea. 
 The reader need hardly be reminded that there are no 
 perceptible tides in the Mediterranean.
 
 .-> NOTES. 
 
 "Note 4, page 26, line 5. 
 
 And their idnte tusks crunched o'er the ivhiler skull, 
 This spectacle I have seen, such as described, beneath the 
 wall of the Seraglio at Constantinople, in the little cavities 
 worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a narro.v terrace of 
 which projects between the wall and the water. I think the 
 fact is also mentioned in Hobhouse's Travels. The bodies 
 were probably those of some refractory Janizaries. 
 
 Note 5, page 26, line 14. 
 And each .scalp had a tingle long tit ft of hair. 
 This tuft, or long lock, is left from a superstition that 
 Mahomet will draw them into Paradise by it. 
 
 Note 6, pa jre 29, line 3. 
 
 I must here acknowledge a close, though unintentional, 
 resemblance in these twelve lines to a passage in an un- 
 published poem of Mr. Coleridge, called " Christabel." It 
 was not till after these lines were written that 1 heard that 
 wild and singularly original and beautiful poem recited ; and 
 the MS. of that production I never saw till very recently, by 
 the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, I hope, is con- 
 vinced that I have not been a wilful plagiarist. The original 
 idea undoubtedly pertains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem has 
 been composed above fourteen years. Let me conclude by 
 a hope that he will not longer delay the publication of a pro- 
 duction, of which I can only add my mite of approbation to 
 tiic applause of far more competent judges. 
 
 Xote /, page 34, line 18. 
 'I ,'/crc /., a lip Jit cloud bi/ I lie maon 
 1 h^e been told that the idea expressed from lines .597 to
 
 NOTES. 57 
 
 (j03 has been admired by those whose approbation is valua- 
 ble. I am glad of it : but it is not original at least not 
 mine ; it may be found much better expressed in pages 
 182-3-4 of the English version of " Vathek" (I forget the 
 precise page of the French), a work to which I have before 
 referred ; and never recur to, or read, without a renewal of 
 gratification. 
 
 Note 8, page 36, line ]8. 
 
 The horsetails arc, plucked from the ground, and the sword. 
 The horsetail, iixed upon a lance, a Pasha's standard. 
 
 Note (J, page 42, line 7. 
 And since tfie day, when In ihc, strait. 
 
 In the naval battle ut the mouth of the Dardanelles, be- 
 tween the Venetians and the Turks. 
 
 Note 10, page 54, line /. 
 The jackal'' & troop, in gathered cry. 
 
 I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant the* 
 : itU.'kal from Asia. In (Ireece I never saw nor heard these 
 animal; ; but among the ruins of Ephesus I have heard them 
 bv hundreds. They haunt ruins, and follow armies.
 
 PARISINA.
 
 TO 
 
 SCROPE BEARDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEM 
 IS INSCRIBED 
 
 BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS 
 AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Jan. <, 1816,
 
 The following poem is grounded on a circumstance men- 
 tioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the House of Bruns- 
 wick.'' I am aware, that in modern times the delicacy 
 or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such subjects 
 unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek dramatists, 
 and some of the best of our old English writers, were 
 of a different opinion : as Alfieii and Schiller have also 
 been, more recently, upon the continent. The follow- 
 ing extract will explain the facts on which the story is 
 founded. The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, 
 as more metrical. 
 
 " Under the reign of Nicholas III. Fcrrara was polluted 
 " with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an 
 " attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of 
 " Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Pa- 
 " risina, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and 
 " valiant youth. They were beheaded in the castle by 
 " the sentence of a father and husband, \\lio published 
 " his shame, and survived their execution. He was 
 " unfortunate, if they were guilty; if tlu y were inuo- 
 " cent, lie was still mure unfortunate : nor is there any 
 " possible situation in \\hieli 1 can sincerely approve the 
 "last act of the justice o! a parent." (JiLbon's Mis- 
 cellaneous Jl'orks, vol. :>d. p. 470, new edition.
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 i. 
 
 IT is the hour when from the boughs 
 
 The nightingale's high note is heard ; 
 
 It is the hour when lovers' vows 
 
 Seem sweet in every u hispcr'd word ; 
 
 And gentle winds, and waters near, 
 
 Make music to the lonely ear. 
 
 Each flower the dews have lightly wet, 
 
 And in the sky the stars are met, 
 
 And on the wave is deeper bine, 
 
 And on the leaf a browner hue, 
 
 And in the heaven that clear obscure, 
 
 So softly dark, and darkly pure, 
 
 Which follows the decline of day, 
 
 As twilight molts beneath the moon away. '
 
 01- PAKISINA. 
 
 II. 
 
 But it is not to list to the waterfall I ; 
 
 That Parisina leaves l;er hall, 
 
 And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 
 
 That the lady walks in the shadow of night; 
 
 And if she sits in Taste's bower, 
 
 '"Tis not for the sake of its full-blown Hower 20 
 
 She listens but not for the nightingale 
 
 Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 
 
 There glides a s:ep through the foliage thick, 
 
 And her cheek grows pale and herheart beats quick. 
 
 There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
 
 And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 2t 
 
 A moment more and they shall meet 
 
 ? Tis past her lover's at her feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 And what unto them is the world beside 
 
 With all its change of time and tide ? K) 
 
 Its living things its earth and sky 
 
 Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
 
 And heedless as the dead are they 
 
 Of aught around, above, beneath;
 
 PARISINA. G5 
 
 As if all else had passed away, 35 
 
 They only for each other breathe ; 
 
 Their very sighs are full of joy 
 
 So deep, that did it not decay, 
 
 That happy madness would destroy 
 
 The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 40 
 
 Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
 
 In that tumultuous tender dream? 
 
 Who that have felt that passion's power, 
 
 Or paused, or feared in such an hour? 
 
 Or thought how brief such moments last : '1-5 
 
 But yet they are already past ! 
 
 Alas ! we must awake before 
 
 We know such vision conies no more. 
 
 IV. 
 
 With many a lingering look they leave 
 
 The spot of guilty gladness past ; 50 
 
 And though they hope, and vow, they grieve, 
 
 As if that parting were the last. 
 
 The frequent sigh the long embrace 
 
 The lip that there would cling for ever, 
 
 While gleams on Parisina's face 55 
 
 O 
 
 The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
 
 i-
 
 C,(, PA HI SIN 7 A. 
 
 As if each calmly conscious star 
 
 Beheld her frailty from afar 
 
 The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
 
 Yet binds them to their trysting- place. '>O 
 
 But it must come, and they must part 
 
 In fearful heaviness of heart, 
 
 With all the deep and shuddering chili 
 
 Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 
 
 V. 
 
 And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 0,3 
 
 To covet there another's biide; 
 
 But she must lay her conscious head 
 
 A husband's trusting heart beside. 
 
 But fevered in her sleep she seems, 
 
 And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 70 
 
 And mutters she in her unrest 
 
 A name she dare not breathe by day, 
 
 And clasps her Lord unto the breast 
 
 Which pants for one av.ay : 
 
 And he to that embrace awakes, ~ <~> 
 
 And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
 
 That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
 
 ioi such as he \vas \vont to bless;
 
 PARISINA. 67 
 
 And could in very fondness weep 
 
 O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 80 
 
 VI. 
 
 lie clasped her sleeping to his heart, 
 And listened to each broken word : 
 He hears Why doth Prince Azo start, 
 As if the Archangel's voice lie heard ? 
 And well he may a deeper doom 85 
 
 Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
 When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
 And stand the eternal throne before. 
 And well he may his earthly peace 
 Upon that sound is doomed to cease. *)() 
 
 That sleeping whisper of a name 
 Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
 And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
 Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
 Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 9S 
 
 And dashes on the pointed rock 
 The wretch who sinks to rise no more, 
 So came upon his soul the shock. 
 And whose that name ? 'tis Hugo's, his 
 Jn sooth he had not deemed of this ! 100 
 
 r 2
 
 6 g PARIblXA. 
 
 J Tit> Hugo's, lie, the child of one 
 
 He loved his own ail-evil son 
 
 The oflsprmg of his wayward youth, 
 
 When he betr i\ed Bianca's truth, 
 
 The maid whose follv could confide 10J 
 
 In linn \vho made her not his bride. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He plucked his poignard in its sheath, 
 
 But sheathed it ere the point was bare 
 
 Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
 
 He could not slay a thing so fair J JO 
 
 At least, not smiling- -sleeping there 
 
 Nay, more : lie did not Make her then, 
 
 But gaml upon her with a glance 
 
 Which, had she roused her from her trance, 
 
 Had frozen her sense to sleep again J 15 
 
 And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
 
 Gleamed on the dew-drops big and damp. 
 
 She spake DO more but still she slumbered 
 
 While, m Ins thought, her days are numbered.
 
 PARIS1NA. 69 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And with the morn he sought, and found, 120 
 
 In many a tale from those around, 
 
 The proof of all he feared to know, 
 
 Their present guilt, lis future woe; 
 
 The long-conniving damsels seek 
 
 To save themselves, and would transfer 123 
 
 The guill -the shame the doom to her: 
 
 Concealment is no more they speak 
 
 All circumstance which may compel 
 
 Full credence to the talc they tell : 
 
 And A/o's tortured heart and ear 130 
 
 Have nothing more to feel or hear. 
 
 IX. 
 
 lie was not one who brooked delay : 
 
 \Yithin the chamber of his state, 
 The chief of Este's ancient sway 
 
 Upon his throne of judgment sate ; 135 
 
 His nobles and his guaids are there, 
 Before him is the sinful pair; 
 Both young, and one how passing fair!
 
 70 PARISINA. 
 
 \\'ith swordless belt, and fettered hand, 
 
 Oh, Christ ! that thus a son should .stand IK) 
 
 Before a father's face! 
 Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
 And hear the sentence of his ire, 
 
 The tale of his disgrace ! 
 
 And yet he seems not overcome, 145 
 
 Although, as yet, his voice be dumb 
 
 X. 
 
 And still, and pale, and silently 
 
 Did Parisina \vait her doom ; 
 How changed since last her speaking eye 
 
 Glanced gladness round the glittering room, 1.50 
 Where high-born men were proud to wait 
 Where Beauty watched to mutate 
 
 Her gentle voice her lovely mien 
 And gather from IKT air and gait 
 
 The graces of it's queen : i j~ 
 
 Then, had her eye in. sorrow wrpt, 
 A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
 A thousand swords had sheathless shone. 
 And made her quarrel all their own.
 
 PARISINA. -, i 
 
 Now/ what is she ? and what are they ? 1 60 
 
 Can she command, or these obey ? 
 
 All silent and unheeding now, 
 
 With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 
 
 And folded arms, and freezing air, 
 
 And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 165 
 
 Her knights and dames, her court is there: 
 
 And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
 
 Mad yet been couched before her glance, 
 
 Who were his arm a moment free 
 
 Had tiled or gained her liberty; 1'JO 
 
 The minion of his father's bride, 
 
 lie, too, is fettered by her side; 
 
 Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
 
 Less for her own despair than him : 
 
 Those lids o'er which the violet vein 175 
 
 Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 
 
 Shining through the smoothest white 
 
 O O 
 
 That e'er did softest kiss invite 
 
 Xo\v seemed with hot and livid glow 
 
 To press, not shade, the orbs below ; 1 80 
 
 Which glance so heavily, and till, 
 
 As ti-Lir on tear irvo^s gathering still.
 
 PAR! SIN A. 
 
 XL 
 
 And he for her had also wept, 
 
 But for the eyes that on him gazed : 
 His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 185 
 
 Stern and erect his brow was raised. 
 Whate'cr the grief his soul avowed, 
 He would not shrink before the crowd; 
 But yet he dared not look on her : 
 Remembrance of the hours that were 190 
 
 His guilt his love his present state 
 His father's wratli all good men's hate 
 His earthly, his eternal fate 
 And hers,- oh, hers ! he dared not throw 
 One look upon that deathlike brow ! 19^ 
 
 Else had his rising heart betrayed 
 llemorse for all the \\reck it made. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And Azo spake: " But yesterday 
 
 I gloried in a wife and son ; 
 
 ' That dream this morning passed away ; 200 
 
 " FJV day declines, I shall have none.
 
 PAR1SINA. 73 
 
 " My life must linger on alone ; 
 
 " Well, let that pass, there breathes not one 
 
 " Who would not do as I have done: 
 
 " Those ties are broken not by me ; 205 
 
 te Let that too pass ; the doom's prepared ! 
 * Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 
 
 " And then thy crime's reward ! 
 " Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
 
 " Before its evening stars are met 210 
 
 " Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 
 
 " It's mercy may absolve thee yet, 
 " But here, upon the earth beneath, 
 
 " There is no spot where thou and I 
 " Together, for an hour, could breathe : 215 
 
 " Farewell! I will not see thee die 
 " But thou, frail thing! shall view his head 
 
 " Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 
 
 " Go ! woman of the wanton breast ; 
 " Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 220 
 
 " Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
 " And joy thee in the life 1 give."
 
 74 PAKISINA. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And here stern Azo hid his face 
 For on his brow the swelling vein 
 Throbbed as if back upon his brain 22" 
 
 The hot blood ebbed and flowed again ; 
 
 And therefore bowed he for a space, 
 
 And passed his shaking hand along 
 
 His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 
 
 While Hugo raised his chained hands, 230 
 
 And for a brief delay demands 
 
 His father's ear : the silent sire 
 
 Forbids not what his words requite. 
 
 " It is not that I dread the death 
 " For thou hast seen me by thy side 
 " All redly through the battle ride, 
 " And that not once a useless brand 
 " Thy slaves have \\rested from my hand, 
 " Ilath shed more blood in cause of thine, 
 " Than e'er can stain the axe of mine : 
 " Thou gav'st, and may'>t resume my bivstil;, 
 " A gift for which 1 thank thee not; 
 <l Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot.
 
 PARISINA. 75 
 
 " Her slighted love and ruined name, 
 
 " Her offspring's heritage of shame; 245 
 
 " But she is in the grave, where he, 
 
 " Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 
 
 (( Her broken heart my severed head 
 
 " Shall witness for thee from the dead 
 
 " How trusty and how tender were 1250 
 
 " Thy youthful love paternal care. 
 
 " 'Tis true, that I have done thee wrong 
 
 " But wrong for wrong this deemed thy bride, 
 
 " The other victim of thy pride, 
 
 " Thou know'st for me was destined long. 255 
 
 " Thou saw'st, and coveted'st her charms 
 
 " And with thy very crime my birth, 
 
 " Thou taunted'st me as little worth; 
 
 " A match ignoble tor her arms, 
 
 " Because, forsooth, I could not claim 360 
 
 " The lawful heirship of thy name, 
 
 11 Nor sit on Este'* lineal throne: 
 
 " Vet, were a few short summers mine, 
 
 " IVly name sliould mure lisan iiiae's sh;;;?. 1 
 
 '' With honours all mv o\sn. 
 
 " 1 had a sword- and ln\e a breast 
 
 ' That should have \\oii a> liaini'iit^ u cr-'s!
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 " As ever waved along the line 
 
 " Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
 
 " Not always knightly spurs are worn (i7o 
 
 " The brightest by the better born ; 
 
 " And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
 
 " Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 
 
 " When charging to the cheering cry 
 
 " Of ' Este and of Victory !'" 275 
 
 " I will not plead the cause of crime, 
 
 ** Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
 
 " A few brief hours or days that must 
 
 " At length roll o'er my reckless dust; 
 
 " Such maddening moments as my past, 230 
 
 " They could not, and they did not, last 
 
 " Albeit, my birth and name be base, 
 
 " And thy nobility of race 
 
 " Disdained to deck a thing like me 
 
 " Yet in my lineaments thev trace 28.5 
 
 " Some features ol my father's face, 
 
 " And in my spirit all of thee. 
 
 " From thee this tamelessness of heart 
 
 ' From thee nay, wherefore dost thou *tart :-
 
 PARISINA. 77 
 
 " From thee in all their vigour came 290 
 
 " My arm of strength, my soul of flame 
 
 " Thou didst not give me life alone, 
 
 " But all that made me more thine own. 
 
 " See what thy guilty love hath done! 
 
 " Repaid thee with too like a son ! 295 
 
 " I am no bastard in my soul, 
 
 " For that, like thine, abhorred conlroul : 
 
 " And for my breath, that hasty boon 
 
 " Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 
 
 " I valued it no more than thou, 300 
 
 u When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
 
 " And we, all side by side, have striven, 
 
 " And o'er the dead our coursers driven: 
 
 " The past is nothing and at last 
 
 " The future can but be the past ; SO"/ 
 
 " Vet would I that I then had died: 
 
 " For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
 
 " And made thy own my destined bride, 
 
 " I feel thou art my father still ; 
 
 " And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 310 
 
 'Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
 " Begot in sin, to die in shame, 
 " My life begun and ends the same :
 
 78 PARISINA. 
 
 " As erred the sire, so erred the son 
 
 " And thou must punish both in one.. .'31.-3 
 
 " My crime seems v. orst to human view, 
 
 " But God must judge between us too!" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 He ceased and stood with folded arms, 
 
 On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
 
 And not an ear but feJt as wounded, 320 
 
 Of all the chiefs that there were ranked, 
 
 "When those dull chains in meeting clanked : 
 
 Till Parisina's fatal charms 
 
 Again attracted every eye 
 
 Would she thus hear him doomed to die ! ,S2.^ 
 
 She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
 
 The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
 
 Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
 
 Not once had turned to either side 
 
 Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 330 
 
 Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 
 
 But round their orbs of deepest blue 
 
 The circling white dilated grew 
 
 Anil there with glassy gaze she stood 
 
 As ice were in her curdled blood ;
 
 PARISINA 7j., 
 
 Hut every now and then a tear 
 
 So large and slowly gathered slid 
 
 From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
 
 It was a thing to see, not hear ! 
 
 And those who saw, it did surprise, '$<> 
 
 Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
 
 To speak she thought the imperfect note 
 
 \V as choked within her swelling throat, 
 
 Yet seemed in that low hollow groan 
 
 Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 345 
 
 It ceased again she thought to speak. 
 
 Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
 
 And to the earth she fell like stone 
 
 Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
 
 More like a thing that ne'er had life, 350 
 
 A monument of Azo's wife, 
 
 Than her, that living guilty thing, 
 
 Whose every passion was a sting, 
 
 Which urged to guilt, but could not beai 
 
 That guilt's detection and despair. 35 :> 
 
 V5ut yet she lived and ail too soon 
 
 llecovered from that death-like swoon 
 
 But scarce to reason- every sense 
 
 Had been o'erstrung by pnngs inten<- :
 
 80 PARISINA. 
 
 And each frail fibre of her brain 360 
 
 (As bow-strings, when relaxed by rain, 
 
 The erring arrow launch aside) 
 
 Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide 
 
 The past a blank, the future black, 
 
 With glimpses of a dreary track, ,S6i 
 
 Like lightning on the desart path, 
 
 "When midnight storms are mustering wrath. 
 
 She feared she felt that something ill 
 
 Lay on her soul, so deep and chill 
 
 That there was sin and shame she knew ; 370 
 
 That some one was to die but who r 
 
 She had forgotten : did she breathe : 
 
 Could this be still the earth beneath r 
 
 The sky above, and men around ; 
 
 Or were they fiends who now so frowned 3? 5 
 
 On one, before whose eyes each eve 
 
 Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 
 
 All was confused and undefined, 
 
 To her all-jarred and wandering mind ; 
 
 A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 
 
 And now in laughter, now in tears, 
 
 But madly still in each extreme, 
 
 She strove with that convulsive dream ;
 
 PARISINA. S| 
 
 For so it seemed on her to break : 
 
 Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! ^S"> 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Convent bells are ringing, 
 
 But mournfully and slow ; 
 In the grey square turret swinging, 
 
 \Vith a deep sound, to and fro. 
 Heavily to the heart they go ! ;;<)() 
 
 Hark ! the hymn is sin<nno- 
 
 / DO 
 
 The song for the dead below, 
 
 Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
 For a departing being's soul 
 
 The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll : 
 He is near his mortal goal; :5l)f> 
 
 Kneeling at the Friar's knee ; 
 Sad to hear- and piteous to see 
 Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 
 With the block before and the guards around 400 
 And the headsman with his bare arm ready, 
 That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
 Feels it the axe be sharp and true 
 Since he set its edge anew : 
 
 While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 40/5 
 To see the Son fall by the doom of the Fatlicr. 
 
 G
 
 PARISINA. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 It is a lovely hour as yet 
 
 Before the summer sun shall set, 
 
 "Which rose upon that heavy day, 
 
 And mocked it with his steadiest ray; 410 
 
 And his evening beams are shed 
 
 Full on Hugo's fated head, 
 
 As his last confession pouring 
 
 To the monk, his doom deploring 
 
 In penitential holiness, 4 | 5 
 
 He bends to hear his accents bless 
 
 "W ith absolution such as may 
 
 Wipe our mortal stains away. 
 
 That high sun on his head did glisten 
 
 As he there did bow and listen 420 
 
 And the rings of chesnut hair 
 
 Curled half down his neck so bare ; 
 
 But brighter still the beam was thrown 
 
 Lpon the axe which near him shone 
 
 With a clear and ghastly glitter 
 
 Oh ! that parting hour was bitter! 42,v 
 
 Even the stern stood chilled with awe : 
 Dark the crime, and just the law 
 \ et they shuddered as they saw.
 
 PARISINA. 8.3 
 
 XVII. 
 
 The parting prayers are s;tul and 
 
 Of that false son and daring lover ! 430 
 
 His beads and sins are all recounted, 
 
 His hours to their last minute mounted 
 
 His mantling cloak before was stripped, 
 
 His bright brown locks must now be, dipped, 
 
 'Tis done all closely are they shorn 435 
 
 The vest which till this moment worn 
 
 The scarf which Parisina gave 
 
 Must not adorn him to the grave. 
 
 Even that must now be thrown aside, 
 
 And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 4'K) 
 
 But no that last indignity 
 
 Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 
 
 All feelings seemingly subdued, 
 
 In deep disdain were half renewed, 
 
 When headman's hands prepared to bind 445 
 
 Those eyes which would not brook such bliud : 
 
 As if they dared not look on death, 
 
 " No yours my forfeit blood and breath 
 
 " These hands are chained but let me die 
 
 " At least with an unshackled eye 450
 
 PAHISINA. 
 
 " Strike :" and as the word lie s:iid, 
 Upon (he block he bowed his head ; 
 These the last accents Husio spoke : 
 " Strike" and flashing fell the stroke- 
 Rolled the head and, gushing, sunk 4,5 "3 
 Back the stained and heaving trunk, 
 In the dust, which each deep vein 
 Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 
 His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 
 Convulsed and quick then iix for ever, 4(>0 
 
 lie died, as erring man should die, 
 
 Without display, without parade ; 
 
 Meekly had he bowed and prayed, 
 
 As not disdaining priestly aid, 
 
 .Nor desperate of all hope on high. 4Gj 
 
 And while before the Prior kneeling, 
 
 His heart was weaned from earthly feeling; 
 
 His wrathful sire his paramour 
 
 What were they in such an hour ? 
 
 ISo more reproach no more despair; 470 
 
 Iso thought but heaven no word but prayer 
 
 Save the few which from him broke, 
 
 When, bared to meet the headman's stroke,
 
 PARISTNA. s.5 
 
 He claimed to die with eyes unbound, 
 
 His sole adieu to those around. 475 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Still as the lips that closed in death, 
 
 Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 
 
 But yet, afar, from man to man, 
 
 A cold electric shiver ran, 
 
 As down the deadly blow descended 4SO 
 
 On him whose life and love thus ended ; 
 
 And with a hushing sound comprest, 
 
 A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 
 
 But no more thrilling noise rose there, 
 
 Beyond the blow that to the block 485 
 
 Pierced through with forced and sullen shock, 
 
 Save one : what cleaves the silent air 
 
 So madly shrill so passing wild r 
 
 That, as a mother's o'er her child, 
 
 Done to death by sudden blow, 4-90 
 
 To the sky these accents go, 
 
 Like a soul's in endless woe. 
 
 Through Axo's palace-lattice driven, 
 
 That horrid voice ascends to heaven,
 
 PAItlSINA. 
 
 And every eye is turned thereon ; 4<J3 
 
 But sound and sight alike are gone! 
 
 It was a woman's shriek and ne'er 
 
 In madlier accents rose despair ; 
 
 And those who heard it, as it past, 
 
 lu mercy wished it were the last. j()() 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Hugo is fallen; and, from that hour, 
 
 No more in palace, hall, or bower, 
 
 "Was Parisina heard or seen : 
 
 Her name as if she ne'er had been 
 
 Was banished from each lip and ear, 3O.1 
 
 Like words of wantonness or fear; 
 
 And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 
 
 Was mention heard of wife or son ; 
 
 No tomb no memory had they ; 
 
 Theirs was unconsecrated clay; "10 
 
 At least the knight's who died that day. 
 
 But Parisina's fate lies hid 
 
 Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 
 
 Whether in convent she abode, 
 
 And won to heaven her dreary road, 5 I J
 
 PAKISINA. si 
 
 By blighted and remorseful years 
 
 Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears; 
 
 Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 
 
 For that dark love she dared to feel ; 
 
 Or if, upon the moment smote, 520 
 
 She died by tortures less remote ; 
 
 Like him she saw upon the block, 
 
 With heart that shared the headman's shock, 
 
 In quickened brokenncss that came, 
 
 In pity, o'er her shuttered frame, 5'25 
 
 None knew and none can ever know : 
 
 But whatsoe'er its end below, 
 
 Her life began and closed m woe! 
 
 XX. 
 
 And Azo found another bride, 
 
 And goodly son? crew bv his side: />3() 
 
 O < O f ' 
 
 But none so lovely nr,d so brave 
 
 As him who Withered in the grave; 
 
 Or if they w( re on i.is cold eye 
 
 Their grov, th but glanced unheeded by, 
 
 Or noticed with a stuolhere;! su:;h. ./."; 5 
 
 But never te;;r his cheek descended, 
 
 And never smiK: \\\? brow mbc^ded ;
 
 J3 PAK1MNA. 
 
 And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 
 
 The intersected lines of thought , 
 
 Those furrows \\hich the burning share 510 
 
 Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 
 
 Scars of the lacerating mind 
 
 "Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 
 
 He was past all mirth or woe : 
 
 Nothing more remained below, 54-5 
 
 But sleepless nights and heavv days, 
 
 I O *> *- / 
 
 A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 
 
 A heart which shunned itself and yet 
 
 That would not yield nor could forget, 
 
 Which when it least appeared to melt, ,35(> 
 
 Inteutly thought intensely felt: 
 
 The deepest ice which ever froze 
 
 Can only o'er the surface close 
 
 The living stream lies quick below, 
 
 And llows and cannot cease to flow. 5.5^ 
 
 Still was his sealed-up bosom haunted 
 
 By thoughts \\hich Nature hath implanted; 
 
 Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
 
 Ilowe'er our stifled tears we banish ; 
 
 When, struggling as they rise to start, )(,() 
 
 \Ye check those waters of the heart,
 
 PARISINA. 89 
 
 They are not dried those tears unshed 
 
 But flow back to the fountain head, 
 
 And resting in their spring more pure, 
 
 For ever in its depth endure, .565 
 
 Unseen, unwept, but uncongealed, 
 
 And cherished most where least revealed. 
 
 With inward starts of feeling left, 
 
 To throb o'er those of life bereft; 
 
 Without the power to fill again 570 
 
 The desart gap which made his pain ; 
 
 Without the hope to meet them where 
 
 United souls shall gladness share, 
 
 With all the consciousness that he 
 
 Had only passed a just decree; 575 
 
 That they had wrought their doom of ill, 
 
 Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
 
 The tainted branches of the tree, 
 
 If lopped with care, a strength may give, 
 
 By which the rest shall bloom and live 80 
 
 All greenly fresh and wildly free. 
 
 But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
 
 The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
 
 The massy trunk the rum leels, 
 
 And never more a leaf reveals. ,*)S5
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1, page 63, line 14. 
 As twilight melts beneath the moon atuay. 
 The lines contained in Section I. were printed as set to 
 music some time since : but belonged to the poem where 
 they now appear, the greater part of which was composed 
 prior to " Lara'' and other compositions since published. 
 
 Note 2, page 75, last line. 
 That should have 'won as haught a crest. 
 Haught haughty " Away haught man, thou art insulting 
 me.'* Shakspeare , Richard II. 
 
 THE END.
 
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 Whitefriars, London.
 
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