said frankly, that he slept because from bodily exhaustion he
could not help it. In like manner it is noticed that criminals
on the night previous to their execution seldom awake before
they are called, a proof that the body is the master of us far
more than we need be willing to allow. Should this note by
any possible chance be seen by any of my countrymen who
might have been in the gallery at the time (and several persons
were there) and witnessed such an indecorum, I hope he will
give up the opinion which he might naturally have formed to
my prejudice.]

THE Baptist might have been ordained to cry
Forth from the towers of that huge Pile, wherein
His Father served Jehovah; but how win
Due audience, how for aught but scorn defy
The obstinate pride and wanton revelry
Of the Jerusalem below, her sin

And folly, if they with united din

Drown not at once mandate and prophecy?

Therefore the Voice spake from the Desert, thence
To Her, as to her opposite in peace,

Silence, and holiness, and innocence,

To Her and to all Lands its warning sent, Crying with earnestness that might not cease, "Make straight a highway for the Lord-repent!"

XXI.

AT FLORENCE.-FROM MICHAEL ANGELO.

[HOWEVER at first these two sonnets from Michael Angelo may seem in their spirit somewhat inconsistent with each other, I have not scrupled to place them side by side as characteristic of their great author, and others with whom he lived. I feel nevertheless a wish to know at what periods of his life they were respectively composed. The latter, as it expresses, was

written in his advanced years when it was natural that the
Platonism that pervades the one should give way to the
Christian feeling that inspired the other: between both there
is more than poetic affinity.]

RAPT above earth by power of one fair face,
Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights,
I mingle with the blest on those pure heights
Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place.
With Him who made the Work that Work accords
So well, that by its help and through his grace
I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words,
Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace.
Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn,
I feel how in their presence doth abide

Light which to God is both the way and guide;
And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn,

My noble fire emits the joyful ray

That through the realms of glory shines for aye.

XXII.

AT FLORENCE. FROM M. ANGELO.

ETERNAL Lord! eased of a cumbrous load,
And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee;
Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee
To thy protection for a safe abode.

The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon
The meek, benign, and lacerated face,
To a sincere repentance promise grace,
To the sad soul give hope of pardon free.

the tree,

AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE APENNINES. 217

With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine,
My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear;
Neither put forth that way thy arm severe;
Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto incline
More readily the more my years require
Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire.

XXIII.

AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE APENNINES.

[THE political revolutions of our time have multiplied, on the Continent, objects that unavoidably call forth reflections such as are expressed in these verses, but the Ruins in those countries are too recent to exhibit, in anything like an equal degree, the beauty with which time and nature have invested the remains of our Convents and Abbeys. These verses it will be observed take up the beauty long before it is matured, as one cannot but wish it may be among some of the desolations of Italy, France, and Germany.]

YE Trees! whose slender roots entwine
Altars that piety neglects;

Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine

Which no devotion now respects;
If not a straggler from the herd
Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird,
Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride
In aught that ye would grace or hide-
How sadly is your love misplaced,
Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste!

Ye, too, wild Flowers! that no one heeds,
And ye-full often spurned as weeds—

In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness
From fractured arch and mouldering wall-
Do but more touchingly recal

Man's headstrong violence and Time's fleetness,
Making the precincts ye adorn
Appear to sight still more forlorn.

XXIV.

IN LOMBARDY.

SEE, where his difficult way that Old Man wins
Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves !—most hard
Appears his lot, to the small Worm's compared,
For whom his toil with early day begins.
Acknowledging no task-master, at will
(As if her labour and her ease were twins)
She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still ;-
And softly sleeps within the thread she spins.
So fare they the Man serving as her Slave.
Ere long their fates do each to each conform :
Both pass into new being, but the Worm,
Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave;
His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend.
To bliss unbounded, glory without end.

XXV.

AFTER LEAVING ITALY.

[I HAD proof in several instances that the Carbonari, if I may still call them so, and their favourers, are opening their eyes to the necessity of patience, and are intent upon spreading knowledge actively but quietly as they can. May they have resolution to continue in this course! for it is the only one by which they can truly benefit their country. We left Italy by the way which is called the "Nuova Strada de Allmagna," to the east of the high passes of the Alps, which take you at once from Italy into Switzerland. This road leads across several smaller heights, and winds down different vales in succession, so that it was only by the accidental sound of a few German words that I was aware we had quitted Italy, and hence the unwelcome shock alluded to in the two or three last lines of the latter sonnet.]

FAIR Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few,
Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, fame,
Part from thee without pity dyed in shame:

I could not-while from Venice we withdrew,
Led on till an Alpine strait confined our view
Within its depths, and to the shore we came
Of Lago Morto, dreary sight and name,
Which o'er sad thoughts a sadder colouring threw.
Italia! on the surface of thy spirit,

(Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake)
Shall a few partial breezes only creep ?-
Be its depths quickened; what thou dost inherit
Of the world's hopes, dare to fulfil; awake,
Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like sleep!