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Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round

On the rough pediment to sit and sing ;
They stand between the mountains and the sea; And up the fluted shaft with short quick motion,

Or the green lizard rustling through the grass,
Awful memorials, but of whom we know noi!'

To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck.
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,

In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk Points to the work of magic and moves on.

Seen at his setting, and a flood of light
Time was they stood along the crowded streeh

Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries,
Temples of Gods! and on their ample steps
What various habits, various tongues beset

(Gigantic shadows, broken and confused,

Across the innumerable columns flung)
The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice!
Time was perhaps the third was sought for Justice;. Led by the mighty Genius of the Place."

In such an hour he came, who saw and told,
And here the accuser stood, and there the accused;
And here the judges sate, and heard, and judged.
All silent now as in the ages past,

Walls of some capital city first appear'd,

Half razed, half sunk, or scatter'd as in scorn; Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust.

-And what within them? what but in the midst

These Three in more than their original grandeur How many centuries did the sun go round From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea,

And, round about, no stone upon another?

As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear,
While, by some spell render'd invisible,

And, turning, left them to the elements.
Or, if approach'd, approach'd by him alone
Who saw as though he saw not, they remain'd
As in the darkness of a sepulchre,

"T is said a stranger in the days of old

(Some say a Dorian, some a Sybarite ; Waiting the appointed time! All, all within Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right,

But distant things are ever lost in clouds), And taken to herself what man renounced ;

"T is said a stranger came, and, with his plow,

Traced out the site ; and Posidonia rose, (173) No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus, But with thick ivy hung or branching fern;

Severely great, Neptune the tutelar God; Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure! And in her haven many a mast from Tyro.

A Homer's language murmuriug in her streets,

Then came another, an unbidden guest. From my youth upward have I longed to tread

He knock'd and enter'd with a train in arms; This classic ground—And am I here at last?

And all was changed, her very name and language Wandering at will through the long porticoes, And catching, as through some majestic grove,

The Tyrian merchant, shipping at his door Now the blue ocean, and now,

Ivory and gold, and silk, and frankincense, chaos-like,

Sail'd as before, but sailing, cried “ For Pæstum !" Mountains and mountain gulfs, and, half-way up, Towns like the living rock from which they grew?

And now a Virgil, now an Ovid sung

Pæstum's twice-blowing roses ; while, within, A cloudy region, black and desolate,

Parents and children mourn'd-and, every year, Where once a slave withstood a world in arms.2

('T was on the day of some old festival) The air is sweet with violets, running wild (171) Talk'd in the ancient tongue of things gone by.”

Met to give way to tears, and once again, 'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals;

At length an Arab climb'd the battlements,
Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts,
Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost, (172) Slaying the sleepers in the dead of night;
(Turning to thee, divine Philosophy,

And from all eyes the glorious vision fled !
Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul)

Leaving a place lonely and dangerous, Sail'd slowly by, two thousand years ago,

Where whom the robber spares, a deadlier foe 3

Strikes at unseen-and at a time when joy
For Athens; when a ship, if north-east winds
Blew from the Pestan gardens, slack'd her course.

Opens the heart, when summer-skies are blue,
And the clear air is soft and delicate;

For then the demon works- then with that air
On as he moved along the level shore,
These temples, in their splendor eminent

The thoughtless wretch drinks in a subtle poison Mid arcs and obelisks, and domes and towers,

Lulling to sleep; and, when he sleeps, he dies. Retlecting back the radiance of the west, Well might He dream of Glory-Now, coild up,

But what are These still standing in the midst ?

The earth has rock'd beneath ; the Thunder-stone The serpent sleeps within them; the she-wolf

Passed through and through, and left its traces there, Suckles her young: and, as alone I stand

Yet still they stand as by some Unknown Charter! In this, the nobler pile, the elements Of earth and air its only floor and covering,

Oh, they are Nature's own! and, as allied

To the vast Mountains and the eternal Sea, How solemn is the stillness ! Nothing stirs

They want no written history ; theirs a voice

For ever speaking to the heart of Man! 1 The temples of Pæstum are three in number; and have survived, nearly nine centuries, the total destruction of the city. Tradition is silent concerning them; but they must have exist- 1 They are said to have been discovered by accident abog ed now between two and three thousand years.

the middle of the last century. 2 Spartacus. See Plutarch in the lifo of Crassus.

2 Athenæus, xiv.

3 The Malaria





It was a Ilarper, wandering with his harp,
“What hangs behind that curtain ?" (174) His only treasure; o majestic man,
“ Wouldst thou learn ?

By time and grief ennobled, not subdued ; If thou art wise, thou wouldst not. 'T' is by some Though from his height descending, day by day Believed to be his master-work, who look'd

And, as his upward look at once betray'd,
Beyond the grave, and on the chapel-wall,

Blind as old Homer. Al a fount he sale,
As though the day were come, were come and past, Well-known to many a weary traveller;
Drew the Last Judgment.'—But the Wisest err. His little guide, a boy not seven years old,
He who in secret wrought, and gave it life, But grave, considerate beyond his years,
For life is surely there and visible change, (175) Sitting beside him. Each had ate his crust
Lise, such as none could of himself impart, In silence, drinking of the virgin-spring;
(They who behold it, go not as they came,

And now in silence, as their custom was,
But meditate for many and many a day)

The sun's decline awaited. Sleeps in the vault beneath. We know not much ;

But the child But what we know, we will communicate.

Was worn with travel. Heavy sleep weigh'd down Tis in an ancient record of the House ;

His eye-lids; and the grandsire, when we came, And may it make thee tremble, lest thou fall! Embolden'd by his love and by his fear,

His fear lest night o'ertake them on the road, Once-on a Christmas-eve-ere yet the roof Humbly besought me to convey them both Rung with the hymn of the Nativity,

A little onward. Such small services There came a stranger to the convent-gate,

Who can refuse ?-Not I; and him who can, And ask'd admittance; ever and anon,

Blest though he be with every earthly gift,
As if he sought what most he fear'd to find, I cannot envy. He, if wealth be his,
Looking behind him. When within the walls, Knows not its uses. So from noon till night,
These walls so sacred and inviolable,

Within a crazed and tatler'd vehicle, (176)
Still did he look behind him; oft and long, That yet display'd, in old emblazonry,
With haggard eye and curling, quivering lip, A shield as splendid as the Bardi wear;(177)
Catching at vacancy. Between the fits,

We lumber'd on together; the old man
For here, 't is said, he linger'd while he lived, Beguiling many a league of half its length,
He would discourse, and with a mastery,

When question d the adventures of his life,
A charm by none resisted, none explain'd,

And all the dangers he had undergone;
Unfelt before ; but when his cheek grew pale, His shipwrecks on inhospitable coasts,
All was forgotten. Then, howe'er employed, And his long warfare.
He would break off, and start as if he caught

They were bound, he said,
A glimpse of something that would not be gone; To a great fair at Reggio; and the boy,
And turn and gaze, and shrink into himself, Believing all the world were to be there,
As though the Fiend was there, and, face to face, And I among the rest, let loose his tongue,
Scowl'd o'er his shoulder.

And promised me much pleasure. His short trance, Most devout he was ;

Short as it was, had, like a charmed cup, Most unremitting in the Services;

Restored his spirit, and, as on we crawl'u, Then, only then, untroubled, unassaild;

Slow as the snail (my muleteer dismounting, And, to beguile a melancholy hour,

And now his mules addressing, now his pipe, Would sometimes exercise that noble art

And now Luigi) he pour'd out his heart, He learnt in Florence; with a master's hand, Largely repaying me. At length the sun As to this day the Sacristy attests,

Departed, setting in a sea of gold; Painting the wonders of the Apocalypse.

And, as we gazed, he bade me rest assured

That like the setting would the rising be. At length he sunk to rest, and in his cell

Their harp—it had a voice oracular, Left, when he went, a work in secret done

And in the desert, in the crowded street, The portrait, for a portrait it must be,

Spoke when consulted. If the treble chord That hangs behind the curtain. Whence he drew, Twanged shrill and clear, o'er hill and dale they None here can doubt : for they that come to catch

went, The faintest glimpse—to catch it and be gone, Gaze as he gazed, then shrink into themselves,

The grandsire, step by step, led by the child ;

And not a rain-drop from a passing cloud
Acting the self-same part. But why 't was drawn,

Fell on their garments. Thus it spoke to-day ;
Whether in penance, to atone for Guilt,
Or to record the anguish Guilt inflicts,

Inspiring joy, and, in the young one's mind,
Or haply to familiarize his mind

Brightening a path already full of sunshine. With what he could not fly from, none can say,

XXII. For none could learn the burden of his soul"


Day glimmer'd; and beyond the precipice I Michael Angelo. |(Which my mule follow'd as in love with fear,

Or as in scom, yet more and more inclining Should have the power, the will to make this world
To tempt the danger where it menaced most), A dismal prison-house, and life itself,
A sea of vapor rollid. Methought we went Life in its prime, a burden and a curse
Along the utmost edge of this, our world;

To him who never wrong'd them! Who that breathes But soon the surges fled, and we descried

Would not, when first he heard it, turn away
Nor dimly, though the lark was silent yet,

As from a tale monstrous, incredible ?
Thy gulf, La Spezzia. Ere the morning-gun, Surely a sense of our mortality,
Ere the first day-streak, we alighted there, A consciousness how soon we shall be gone,
And not a breath, a murmur! Every sail

Or, if we linger-but a few short years
Slept in the offing. Yet along the shore

How sure to look upon our brother's grave,
Great was the stir; as at the noontide hour, Should of itself incline to pity and love,
None unemploy'd. Where from its native rock And prompt us rather to assist, relieve,
A streamlet, clear and full, ran to the sea,

Than aggravate the evils each is heir to.
The maidens knelt and sung as they were wont,
Washing their garments. Where it met the tide, At length the day departed, and the moon
Sparkling and lost, an ancient pinnace lay

Rose like another sun, illumining
Keel-upward, and the fagot blazed, the tar

Waters and woods and cloud-capt promontories, Fumed from the caldron; while, beyond the fort

Glades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bower, Whither I wander'd, step by step led on,

Scenes of Elysium, such as Night alone The fishers dragg'd their net, the fish within

Reveals below, nor oflen-scenes that fled At every heave flultering and full of life,

As at the waving of a wizard's wand, At every heave striking their silver fins.

And left behind them, as their parting gift, 'Gainst the dark meshes.

A thousand nameless odors. All was still; Soon a boatman's shout And now the nightingale her song pour'd forth Re-echoed; and red bonnets on the beach,

In such a torrent of heart-felt delight,
Waving, recall’d me. We embark'd and left So fast it flow'd, her tongue so voluble,
That noble haven, where, when Genoa reign'd, As if she thought her hearers would be gone
A hundred galleys shelter'd—in the day,

Ere half was told. "Twas where in the north-wesh, When lofty spirits met, and, deck to deck,

Sull unassail'd and unassailable,
Doria, Pisani (178) fought; that narrow field Thy pharos, Genoa, first display'd itself,
Ample enough for glory. On we went,

Burning in stillness on its craggy seat;
Ruffling with many an oar the crystalline sea, (179) That guiding star, so oft the only one,
On from the rising to the setting sun,

When those now glowing in the azure vault, In silence—underneath a mountain-ridge,

Are dark and silent. "T was where o'er the sea, l'ntamed, untamable, reflecting round

For we were now within a cable's length, The saddest purple; nothing to be seen

Delicious gardens hung; green galleries, Of life or culture, save where, at the foot,

And marble terraces in many a flight, Some village and its church, a scanty line,

And fairy-arches flung from cliff to cliff, Athwart the wave gleam'd faintly. Fear of ill Wildering, enchanting ; and, above them all, Narrow'd our course, fear of the hurricane, A Palace, such as somewhere in the East, And that yet greater scourge, the crasty Moor,

In Zenastan or Araby the blest, Who, like a tiger prowling for his prey,

Among its golden groves and fruits of gold, Springs and is gone, and on the adverse coast And fountains scattering rainbows in the sun, (Where Tripoli and Tunis and Algiers

Rose, when Aladdin rubb'd the wondrous lamp; Forge fetters, and white turbans on the mole Such, if not fairer; and, when we shot by, Gather, whene'er the Crescent comes display'd

A scene of revelry, in long array Orer the Cross) his human merchandise

The windows blazing. But we now approach'd To many a curious, many a cruel eye

A City far-renown'd;' and wonder ceased.
Esposes. Ah, how oft where now the sun
Slept on the shore, have ruthless cimeters

Flash'd through the lattice, and a swarthy crew

Dragg'd forth, ere-long to number them for sale,
Ere-long to part them in their agony,

This house was Andrea Doria's. Here he lived ;(181)
Parent and child! How oft where now we rode (180) And here at eve relaxing, when ashore,
Over the billow, has a wretched son,

Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse (189) Or yet more wretched sire, grown grey in chains, With them that sought him, walking to and fro Labor'd, his hands upon the oar, his eyes

As on his deck. "T is less in length and breadth
Upon the land--the land, that gave him birth; Than many a cabin in a ship of war;
And, as he gazed, his homestall through his tears But 't is of marble, and at once inspires
Fondly imagined; when a Christian ship

The reverence due to ancient dignity.
Of war appearing in her bravery,
A voice in anger cried, “ Use all your strength!"

He left it for a better; and 't is now

A house of trade, (183) the meanest merchandise But when, ah when, do they that can, for bear To crush the unresisting? Strange, that men,

Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is, Creatures so frail, so soon, alas' lo die,

1 Genoa.

'Tis still the noblest dwelling-even in Genoa ! Where, when the south-wind blows, and clouds op And hadst thou, Andrea, lived there to the last,

Thou hadst done well; for there is that without, Gather and fall, the peasant freights his bark
That in the wall, which monarchs could not give, Mindful to migrate when the king of foods'
Nor thou take with thee, that which says aloud, Visits his humble dwelling, and the keel,
It was thy Country's gift to her Deliverer.

Slowly uplifted over field and fence,

Floats on a world of waters from that low, 'Tis in the heart of Genoa (he who comes, That level region, where no Echo dwells, Must come on foot) and in a place of stir; Or, if she comes, comes in her saddest plight, Men on their daily business, early and late, Hoarse, inarticulate-on to where the path Thronging thy very threshold. But when there, Is lost in rank luxuriance, and to breathe Thou wert among thy fellow-citizens,

Is to inhale distemper, if not death ; Thy children, for they hail'd thee as their sire ; Where the wild-boar retreats, when hunters chafe And on a spot thou must have loved, for there, And, when the day-star flames, the buffalo-herd, Calling them round, thou gavest them more than life, Afflicted, plunge into the stagnant pool, Giving what, lost, makes life not worth the keeping. Nothing discern'd amid the water-leaves, There thou didst do indeed an act divine;

Save here and there the likeness of a head, Nor couldst thou leave thy door or enter in, Savage, uncouth ; where none in human shape Without a blessing on thee.

Come, save the herdsman, levelling his length Thou art now

Of lance with many a cry, or, Tartar-like, Again among them. Thy brave mariners,

Urging his steed along the distant hill They who had fought so often by thy side,

As from a danger. There, but not to rest, Staining the mountain-billows, bore thee back; I travellid many a dreary league, nor turn'd And thou art sleeping in thy funeral-chamber. (Ah then least willing, as who had not been ?)

When in the South, against the azure sky, Thine was a glorious course; but couldst thou Three temples rose in soberest majesty, there,

The wondrous work of some heroic race. Clad in thy cere-cloth—in that silent vault,

But now a long farewell! Oft, while I live, Where thou art gather'd to thy ancestors

If once again in England, once again
Open thy secret heart and tell us all,
Then should we hear thce with a sigh confess,

In my own chimney-nook, as Night steals on,

With half-shut eyes reclining, oft, methinks, A sigh how heavy, that thy happiest hours

While the wind blusters and the pelting rain Were pass'd before these sacred walls were left,

Clatters without, shall I recall to mind Beforu the ocean-wave thy wealth reflected, (184)

The scenes, occurrences, I met with here, And pomp and power drew envy, stirring up

And wander in Elysium; many a note The ambitious man,' that in a perilous hour

Of wildest melody, magician-like,
Fell from the plank. (185)

Awakening, such as the Calabrian horn,

Along the mountain-side, when all is still,

Pours forth at folding-time; and many a chant, And now farewell to Italy—perhaps

Solemn, sublime, such as at midnight fows For ever! Yet, methinks, I could not go,

From the full choir, when richest harmonies I could not leave it, were it mine to say,

Break the deep silence of thy glens, La Cava; “ Farewell for ever!"

To him who lingers there with listening ear,
Many a courtesy,

Now lost and now descending as from Heaven!
That sought no recompense, and met with none
But in the swell of heart with which it came,
Have I experienced ; not a cabin-door,
Go where I would, but open'd with a smile;

NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS. From the first hour, when, in my long descent, Strange perfumes rose, as if to welcome me,

Note 1, page 40, col. 2. From flowers that minister'd like unseen spirits ;

As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived. From the first hour, when vintage-songs broke forth,

“ J'arrive assoufflé, tout en nage ; le cœur me bat, A grateful earnest, and the Southern lakes,

je vois de loin les soldats à leur poste ; j'accouns, jo Dazzlingly bright, unfolded at my feet;

crie d'une voix étouffee. Il étoit trop tard."-See Les They that receive the cataracts, and ere-long Dismiss them, but how changed-onward to roll

Confessions, L. I. The street, in which he was born,

is called Rue Rousseau. From age to age in silent majesty, Blessing the nations, and reflecting round

Note 2, page 40, col. 2. The gladness they inspire.

He sate bim down and wept-wept till the morning. Gentle or rude,

“Lines of eleven syllables occur almost in every page No scene of life but has contributed

of Milton; but though they are not unpleasing, they Much to remember—from the Polesine,

ought not to be admitted into heroic poetry; since the narrow limits of our language allow us no other dis

1 Fiesco.

2 Written at Susa, May 1, 1822.

1 The Po.

2 The temples of Pæstum.

Noie 7, page 42, col. 1. tinction of epic and tragic measures."-JOHNSON.

St. Bruno's onceIt is remarkable that he used them most at last. The Grande Chartreuse. It was indebted for its In the Paradise Regained they occur oftener than in foundation to a miracle; as every guest may learn the Paradise Lost, in the proportion of ten to one; there from a little book that lies on the table in his and let it be remembered that they supply us with cell, the cell allotted to him by the fathers. another close, another cadence; that they add, as it

“ In this year the canon died, and, as all believerd, were, a string to the instrument; and, by enabling the in the odor of sanctity: for who in his life had been Poet to relax at pleasure, to rise and fall with his so holy, in his death so happy? But false are tho subject, contribute what is most wanted, compass, judgments of men; as the event showeth. For when variety.

the hour of his funeral had arrived, when the mourn Shakspeare seems to have delighted in them, and ers bad entered the church, the bearers set down the in some of his soliloquies has used them four and five bier, and every voice was lifted up in the Miserere, times in succession; an example I have not followed suddenly, and as none knew how, the lights were er. in mine. As in the following instance, where the sub- tinguished, the anthem stopt! A darkness succeeded, ject is solemn beyond all others:

a silence as of the grave; and these words came in To be, or not to be, that is the question.

sorrowful accents from the lips of the dead. “ I am Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer

summoned before a Just God SA Just God judgeth The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

me! I am condemned a Just God!" And, by opposing, end them.

In the church, says the legend, “ there stood a They come nearest to the flow of an unstudied young man with his hands clasped in prayer, who eloquence, and should therefore be used in the drama; from that time resolved to withdraw into the desert but why exclusively? Horace, as we learn from him. It was he whom we now invoke as St. Bruno." self, admitted the Musa Pedestris in his happiest

Note 8, page 42, col. 1. hours, in those when he was most at his ease; and

that house so rich of old, we cannot regret her visits. To her we are indebted

So courteous. for more than half he has left us ; nor was she ever

The words of Ariosto. at his elbow in greater dishabille, than when he

Ricca-e cortesa a chiunque vi venia. wrote the celebrated Journey to Brundusium.

Milton was there at the fall of the leaf.
Note 3, page 41, col. 1.

Note 9, page 42, col. 2.
-like him of old.

Bread to the hungry. The Abbot of Clairvaux. “ To admire or despise

They distribute, in the course of the year, from St. Bernard as he ought," says Gibbon, “ the reader, thirty to thirty-five thousand rations of food; receiving like myself, should have before the windows of his travellers of every description.—LE PERE BISELX, library that incomparable landscape.”

Note 4, page 41, col. 1.

Note 10, page 42, col. 2.
That winds beside the mirror of all beauty.

Dessaix, who turn'd the scale. There is no describing in words; but the follow- “Of all the generals I ever had under me, Dessaix ing lines were written on the spot, and may serve possessed the greatest talents. He loved glory for itself." perhaps to recall 10 some of my readers what they

Note 11, page 43, col. 1. have seen in this enchanting country.

And gather'd from above, below, around. I love to watch in silence till the Sun

The Author of Lalla Rookh, a Poet of such singuSets; and Mont Blanc, array'd in crimson and gold, Flings his broad shadow half across the Lake;

lar felicity as to give a lustre to all he touches, has That shadow, though it comes through pathless tracts

written a song on this subject, called the Crystal Of ether, and o'er Alp and desert drear,

hunters. Only less bright, less glorious than himself.

Note 12, page 43, col. 1.
But, while we gaze, 't is gone! And now he shines
Like burniah'd silver; all, below, the Night's.-

-nor long before. Such moments are most precious. Yet there are

M. Ebel mentions an escape almost as miraculous. Others, that follow them, to me still more 80 ;

L'an 1790, le nommé Christian Boren, proprié. When once again he changes, once again

taire de l'auberge du Grindelwald, eut le malheur de Clothing himself in grandeur all his own : When, like a Ghost, shadowless, colorless,

se jeter dans une fente du glacier, en le traversant He melts away into the Heaven of Heavens;

avec un troupeau de moutons qu'il ramenoit des pâtuHimself alone reveal'd, all lesser things

rages de Bâniseck. Heureusement qu'il tomba dans As though they were not!

le voisinage du grand torrent qui coule dans l'intériNote 5, page 41, col. 2.

eur, il en suivit le lit par-dessous les voûtes de glace Two dogs of grave demeanor welcomed me. et arriva au pied du glacier avec un bras cassé. Cet Berri, so remarkable for his sagacity, was dead. homme est actuellement encore en vie." His skin is stuffed, and is preserved in the Museum

Manuel du Voyageur. art. Grindelwala of Berne.

Note 13, page 43, col. 2.
Note 6, page 42, col. 1.

a wondrous monument.
But the Bise blew cold.

Almost every mountain of any rank or condition The north-east wind. This description was writ-has such a bridge. The most celebrated in this coun ten in June, 1816.

try is on the Swiss side of St. Gothard.

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