Into my spirit, when I paced, enclosed In Pisa's Campo Santo, the smooth floor Of its Arcades paved with sepulchral slabs, And through each window's open fret-work looked O'er the blank Area of sacred earth
Fetched from Mount Calvary, or haply delved In precincts nearer to the Saviour's tomb, By hands of men, humble as brave, who fought For its deliverance-a capacious field That to descendants of the dead it holds And to all living mute memento breathes, More touching far than aught which on the walls Is pictured, or their epitaphs can speak, Of the changed City's long-departed power, Glory, and wealth, which, perilous as they are, Here did not kill, but nourished, Piety. And, high above that length of cloistral roof, Peering in air and backed by azure sky, To kindred contemplations ministers The Baptistery's dome, and that which swells From the Cathedral pile; and with the twain Conjoined in prospect mutable or fixed (As hurry on in eagerness the feet, Or pause) the summit of the Leaning-tower. Nor less remuneration waits on him Who having left the Cemetery stands In the Tower's shadow, of decline and fall Admonished not without some sense of fear, Fear that soon vanishes before the sight Of splendor unextinguished, pomp unscathed, And beauty unimpaired. Grand in itself, And for itself, the assemblage, grand and fair To view, and for the mind's consenting eye A type of age in man, upon its front Bearing the world-acknowledged evidence Of past exploits, nor fondly after more Struggling against the stream of destiny, But with its peaceful majesty content. -Oh what a spectacle at every turn
The Place unfolds, from pavement skinned with moss,
Or grass-grown spaces, where the heaviest foot Provokes no echoes, but must softly tread; Where Solitude with Silence paired stops short Of Desolation, and to Ruin's scythe Decay submits not.
But where'er my steps Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care Those images of genial beauty, oft Too lovely to be pensive in themselves But by reflexion made so, which do best And fitliest serve to crown with fragrant wreaths Life's cup when almost filled with years, like mine. -How lovely robed in forenoon light and shade,
Each ministering to each, didst thou appear Savona, Queen of territory fair
As aught that marvellous coast thro' all its length Yields to the Stranger's eye. Remembrance holds As a selected treasure thy one cliff,
That, while it wore for melancholy crest A shattered Convent, yet rose proud to have Clinging to its steep sides a thousand herbs And shrubs, whose pleasant looks gave proof how kind
The breath of air can be where earth had else Seemed churlish. And behold, both far and near, Garden and field all decked with orange bloom, And peach and citron, in Spring's mildest breeze Expanding; and, along the smooth shore curved Into a natural port, a tideless sea,
To that mild breeze with motion and with voice Softly responsive; and, attuned to all Those vernal charms of sight and sound, appeared Smooth space of turf which from the guardian fort Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April green, In coolest climes too fugitive, might even here Plead with the sovereign Sun for longer stay Than his unmitigated beams allow, Nor plead in vain, if beauty could preserve, From mortal change, aught that is born on earth Or doth on time depend.
While on the brink Of that high Convent-crested cliff I stood, Modest Savona! over all did brood
A pure poetic Spirit-as the breeze,
Mild as the verdure, fresh--the sunshine, bright- Thy gentle Chiabrera !—not a stone, Mural or level with the trodden floor, In Church or Chapel, if my curious quest Missed not the truth, retains a single name Of young or old, warrior, or saint, or sage, To whose dear memories his sepulchral verse Paid simple tribute, such as might have flowed From the clear spring of a plain English heart, Say rather, one in native fellowship
With all who want not skill to couple grief With praise, as genuine admiration prompts. The grief, the praise, are severed from their dust, Yet in his page the records of that worth Survive, uninjured;-glory then to words, Honour to word-preserving Arts, and hail Ye kindred local influences that still, If Hope's familiar whispers merit faith, Await my steps when they the breezy height Shall range of philosophic Tusculum; Or Sabine vales explored inspire a wish To meet the shade of Horace by the side Of his Bandusian fount; or I invoke
His presence to point out the spot where once He sate, and eulogized with earnest pen Peace, leisure, freedom, moderate desires; And all the immunities of rural life Extolled, behind Vacuna's crumbling fane. Or let me loiter, soothed with what is given Nor asking more, on that delicious Bay, Parthenope's Domain-Virgilian haunt, Illustrated with never-dying verse, And, by the Poet's laurel-shaded tomb, Age after age to Pilgrims from all lands Endeared.
And who-if not a man as cold
In heart as dull in brain—while pacing ground Chosen by Rome's legendary Bards, high minds Out of her early struggles well inspired To localize heroic acts could look Upon the spots with undelighted eye, Though even to their last syllable the Lays And very names of those who gave them birth Have perished?-Verily, to her utmost depth, Imagination feels what Reason fears not To recognize, the lasting virtue lodged
In those bold fictions that, by deeds assigned To the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race, And others like in fame, created Powers With attributes from History derived, By Poesy irradiate, and yet graced, Through marvellous felicity of skill, With something more propitious to high aims Than either, pent within her separate sphere, Can oft with justice claim.
And not disdaining Union with those primeval energies To virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your height Christian Traditions! at my Spirit's call Descend, and, on the brow of ancient Rome As she survives in ruin, manifest Your glories mingled with the brightest hues Of her memorial halo, fading, fading, But never to be extinct while Earth endures. O come, if undishonoured by the prayer, From all her Sanctuaries !-Open for my feet Ye Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse Of the Devout, as, mid your glooms convened For safety, they of yore enclasped the Cross On knees that ceased from trembling, or intoned Their orisons with voices half-suppressed, But sometimes heard, or fancied to be heard, Even at this hour.
And thou Mamertine prison, Into that vault receive me from whose depth Issues, revealed in no presumptuous vision, Albeit lifting human to divine,
A Saint, the Church's Rock, the mystic Keys Grasped in his hand; and lo! with upright sword Prefiguring his own impendent doom,
The Apostle of the Gentiles; both prepared To suffer pains with heathen scorn and hate Inflicted;-blessed Men, for so to Heaven They follow their dear Lord!
Time flows-nor winds,
Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course, But many a benefit borne upon his breast For human-kind sinks out of sight, is gone, No one knows how; nor seldom is put forth An angry arm that snatches good away, Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream Has to our generation brought and brings Innumerable gains; yet we, who now Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely To a chilled age, most pitiably shut out From that which is and actuates, by forms, Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact Minutely linked with diligence uninspired, Unrectified, unguided, unsustained,
By godlike insight. To this fate is doomed Science, wide-spread and spreading still as be Her conquests, in the world of sense made known. So with the internal mind it fares; and so With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear Of vital principle's controlling law, To her purblind guide Expediency; and so Suffers religious faith. Elate with view Of what is won, we overlook or scorn The best that should keep pace with it, and must, Else more and more the general mind will droop, Even as if bent on perishing. There lives No faculty within us which the Soul Can spare, and humblest earthly Weal demands, For dignity not placed beyond her reach, Zealous co-operation of all means Given or acquired, to raise us from the mire, And liberate our hearts from low pursuits. By gross Utilities enslaved we need More of ennobling impulse from the past, If to the future aught of good must come Sounder and therefore holier than the ends Which, in the giddiness of self-applause, We covet as supreme. O grant the crown That Wisdom wears, or take his treacherous staff From Knowledge!-If the Muse, whom I have
This day, be mistress of a single pearl
Fit to be placed in that pure diadem;
Then, not in vain, under these chesnut boughs Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul To transports from the secondary founts
Flowing of time and place, and paid to both Due homage; nor shall fruitlessly have striven, By love of beauty moved, to enshrine in verse Accordant meditations, which in times Vexed and disordered, as our own, may shed Influence, at least among a scattered few, To soberness of mind and peace of heart Friendly; as here to my repose hath been
This flowering broom's dear neighbourhood, the light
And murmur issuing from yon pendent flood, And all the varied landscape. Let us now Rise, and to-morrow greet magnificent Rome.
THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO AT ROME.
I SAW far off the dark top of a Pine Look like a cloud-a slender stem the tie That bound it to its native earth-poised high 'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, Striving in peace each other to outshine. But when I learned the Tree was living there, Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's care, Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine! The rescued Pine-tree, with its sky so bright And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home, Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight, Supplanted the whole majesty of Rome (Then first apparent from the Pincian Height) Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome†.
AT ROME.-REGRETS. IN ALLUSION TO NIEBUHR AND OTHER MODERN HISTORIANS.
THOSE old credulities, to nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of History, stript naked as a rock 'Mid a dry desert? What is it we hear? The glory of Infant Rome must disappear, Her morning splendors vanish, and their place Know them no more. If Truth, who veiled her face With those bright beams yet hid it not, must steer Henceforth a humbler course perplexed and slow; One solace yet remains for us who came Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth's heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
COMPLACENT Fictions were they, yet the same Involved a history of no doubtful sense, History that proves by inward evidence From what a precious source of truth it came. Ne'er could the boldest Eulogist have dared Such deeds to paint, such characters to frame, But for coeval sympathy prepared
To greet with instant faith their loftiest claim. None but a noble people could have loved Flattery in Ancient Rome's pure-minded style: Not in like sort the Runic Scald was moved; He, nursed 'mid savage passions that defile Humanity, sang feats that well might call For the blood-thirsty mead of Odin's riotous Hall.
Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill? Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock, Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still That name, a local Phantom proud to mock The Traveller's expectation?---Could our Will Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere done Thro' what men see and touch,-slaves wandering on, Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill. Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh; Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn, From that depression raised, to mount on high With stronger wing, more clearly to discern Eternal things; and, if need be, defy Change, with a brow not insolent, though stern.
PLEA FOR THE HISTORIAN.
FORBEAR to deem the Chronicler unwise, Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth, Who, gathering up all that Time's envious tooth Has spared of sound and grave realities, Firmly rejects those dazzling flatteries, Dear as they are to unsuspecting Youth, That might have drawn down Clio from the skies To vindicate the majesty of truth.
Such was her office while she walked with men, A Muse, who, not unmindful of her Sire All-ruling Jove, whate'er the theme might be Revered her Mother, sage Mnemosyne, And taught her faithful servants how the lyre Should animate, but not mislead, the pen *.
* Quem virum-lyra- --sumes celebrare Clio?
THEY-who have seen the noble Roman's scorn Break forth at thought of laying down his head, When the blank day is over, garreted In his ancestral palace, where, from morn To night, the desecrated floors are worn
NEAR Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove Perched on an olive branch, and heard her cooing 'Mid new-born blossoms that soft airs were wooing, While all things present told of joy and love. But restless Fancy left that olive grove To hail the exploratory Bird renewing
By feet of purse-proud strangers; they-who have Hope for the few, who, at the world's undoing, read
In one meek smile, beneath a peasant's shed, How patiently the weight of wrong is borne; They-who have heard some learned Patriot treat Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole theme From ancient Rome, downwards through that bright dream
Of Commonwealths, each city a starlike seat Of rival glory; they-fallen Italy— Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of Thee!
NEAR HOME, IN SIGHT OF ST. PETER'S. LONG has the dew been dried on tree and lawn; O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon Is shed, the languor of approaching noon; To shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn Mute are all creatures, as this couchant lawn, Save insect-swarms that hum in air afloat, Save that the Cock is crowing, a shrill note, Startling and shrill as that which roused the dawn. -Heard in that hour, or when, as now, the nerve Shrinks from the note as from a mis-timed thing, Oft for a holy warning may it serve, Charged with remembrance of his sudden sting, His bitter tears, whose name the Papal Chair And yon resplendent Church are proud to bear.
On the great flood were spared to live and move. O bounteous Heaven! signs true as dove and bough Brought to the ark are coming evermore, Given though we seek them not, but, while we plough This sea of life without a visible shore, Do neither promise ask nor grace implore In what alone is ours, the living Now.
FROM THE ALBAN HILLS, LOOKING TOWARDS ROME. FORGIVE, illustrious Country! these deep sighs, Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills bestrown With monuments decayed or overthrown, For all that tottering stands or prostrate lies, Than for like scenes in moral vision shown, Ruin perceived for keener sympathies; Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her gaudy crown; Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies. Yet why prolong this mournful strain?-Fallen Power,
Thy fortunes, twice exalted, might provoke Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour When thou, uprisen, shalt break thy double yoke, And enter, with prompt aid from the Most High, On the third stage of thy great destiny.
DAYS passed-and Monte Calvo would not clear His head from mist; and, as the wind sobbed through
Albano's dripping Ilex avenue,
My dull forebodings in a Peasant's ear
Found casual vent. She said," Be of good cheer; Our yesterday's procession did not sue In vain; the sky will change to sunny blue, Thanks to our Lady's grace." I smiled to hear, But not in scorn:-the Matron's Faith may lack The heavenly sanction needed to ensure Fulfilment; but, we trust, her upward track Stops not at this low point, nor wants the lure Of flowers the Virgin without fear may own, For by her Son's blest hand the seed was sown.
NEAR THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE.
WHEN here with Carthage Rome to conflict came, An earthquake, mingling with the battle's shock, Checked not its rage; unfelt the ground did rock, Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly aim.- Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's shame, Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure, Save in this Rill that took from blood the name* Which yet it bears, sweet Stream! as crystal pure. So may all trace and sign of deeds aloof From the true guidance of humanity, Thro' Time and Nature's influence, purify Their spirit; or, unless they for reproof Or warning serve, thus let them all, on ground That gave them being, vanish to a sound.
NEAR THE SAME LAKE.
FOR action born, existing to be tried, Powers manifold we have that intervene
To stir the heart that would too closely screen
Her peace from images to pain allied. What wonder if at midnight, by the side Of Sanguinetto or broad Thrasymene, The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms glide, Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen; And singly thine, O vanquished Chief! whose corse, Unburied, lay hid under heaps of slain:
But who is He?—the Conqueror. Would he force His way to Rome? Ah, no,-round hill and plain Wandering, he haunts, at fancy's strong command, This spot-his shadowy death-cup in his hand.
LIST-'twas the Cuckoo.-O with what delight Heard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint, Far off and faint, and melting into air, Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again! Those louder cries give notice that the Bird, Although invisible as Echo's self,
For see, Laverna! mark the far-famed Pile, High on the brink of that precipitous rock, Implanted like a Fortress, as in truth It is, a Christian Fortress, garrisoned In faith and hope, and dutiful obedience,
By a few Monks, a stern society,
Dead to the world and scorning earth-born joys. Nay-though the hopes that drew, the fears that drove,
St. Francis, far from Man's resort, to abide Among these sterile heights of Apennine, Bound him, nor, since he raised yon House, have ceased
To bind his spiritual Progeny, with rules Stringent as flesh can tolerate and live;
His milder Genius (thanks to the good God
That made us) over those severe restraints Of mind, that dread heart-freezing discipline, Doth sometimes here predominate, and works By unsought means for gracious purposes; For earth through heaven, for heaven, by changeful earth,
Illustrated, and mutually endeared.
Rapt though He were above the power of sense, Familiarly, yet out of the cleansed heart Of that once sinful Being overflowed On sun, moon, stars, the nether elements, And every shape of creature they sustain, Divine affections; and with beast and bird (Stilled from afar—such marvel story tells--
Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy Creature, By casual outbreak of his passionate words,
For this unthought-of greeting!
From vale to hill, from hill to vale led on, We have pursued, through various lands, a long And pleasant course; flower after flower has blown, Embellishing the ground that gave them birth With aspects novel to my sight; but still Most fair, most welcome, when they drank the dew In a sweet fellowship with kinds beloved, For old remembrance sake. And oft-where Spring Display'd her richest blossoms among files Of orange-trees bedecked with glowing fruit Ripe for the hand, or under a thick shade Of Ilex, or, if better suited to the hour, The lightsome Olive's twinkling canopy- Oft have I heard the Nightingale and Thrush Blending as in a common English grove Their love-songs; but, where'er my feet might roam, Whate'er assemblages of new and old, Strange and familiar, might beguile the way, A gratulation from that vagrant Voice Was wanting;-and most happily till now.
And from their own pursuits in field or grove Drawn to his side by look or act of love Humane, and virtue of his innocent life) He wont to hold companionship so free, So pure, so fraught with knowledge and delight, As to be likened in his Followers' minds To that which our first Parents, ere the fall From their high state darkened the Earth with fear, Held with all Kinds in Eden's blissful bowers.
Then question not that, 'mid the austere Band, Who breathe the air he breathed,tread where he trod, Some true Partakers of his loving spirit Do still survive, and, with those gentle hearts Consorted, Others, in the power, the faith, Of a baptized imagination, prompt To catch from Nature's humblest monitors Whate'er they bring of impulses sublime.
Thus sensitive must be the Monk, though pale With fasts, with vigils worn, depressed by years, Whom in a sunny glade I chanced to see,
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