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Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round
On the rough pediment to sit and sing ;
Or the green lizard rustling through the grass,
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
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
Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries,
(Gigantic shadows, broken and confused,
Across the innumerable columns flung)
In such an hour he came, who saw and told,
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,
And, turning, left them to the elements.
"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,
And from all eyes the glorious vision fled !
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
Opens the heart, when summer-skies are blue,
For then the demon works- then with that air
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,
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,
Blind as old Homer. Al a fount he sale,
And now in silence, as their custom was,
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,
Within a crazed and tatler'd vehicle, (176)
We lumber'd on together; the old man
When question d the adventures of his life,
And all the dangers he had undergone;
They were bound, he said,
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
Fell on their garments. Thus it spoke to-day ;
Inspiring joy, and, in the young one's 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 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
As from a tale monstrous, incredible ?
Or, if we linger-but a few short years
How sure to look upon our brother's grave,
Than aggravate the evils each is heir to.
Rose like another sun, illumining
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,
Ere half was told. "Twas where in the north-wesh, When lofty spirits met, and, deck to deck,
Sull unassail'd and unassailable,
Burning in stillness on its craggy seat;
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.
This house was Andrea Doria's. Here he lived ;(181)
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
The reverence due to ancient dignity.
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,
'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,
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
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,
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,
Now lost and now descending as from Heaven!
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
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 9, page 42, col. 2.
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 10, page 42, col. 2.
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.
-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.
a wondrous monument.
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.