ITALY,
A POEM.
SAMUEL ROGERS.
LONDON:
EDWAKD MOXON, DOVER STREET.
1839.
CHISVV ICK :
PRINTED EY C. WHITTINGHAM.
K.^JLA LIBRARY
^oLOy- XJJSIVERSITY OF CALIFORNL
-21^ SANTA BARBARA
PREFACE.
Whatever may be the fate of this Poem, it has led
the Author in many an after-dream through a beauti-
ful country ; and may not perhaps be uninteresting to
those who have learnt to live in Past Times as well as
Present, and whose minds are familiar with the Events
and the People that have rendered Italy so illustrious ;
for, wherever he came, he could not but remember ; nor
is he conscious of having slept over any ground that
had been ' dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue.'
Much of it was originally published as it was written
on the spot. He has since revised it throughout, and
added many stories from the old Chroniclers and
many Notes illustrative of the manners, customs, and
superstitions there.
VIGNETTES.
Dog of St. Bernard .
Cries of Bologna
Stag at bay
Galileo's Villa .
Thrasymene
Return from the Chase
A Shepherd
An ancient Tomb .
Deer drinking
Grotto of Posilipo .
Tlie Cardinal
A Chapel .
E. Landseer, R. a. .
Sir a. W. CALLcorr, R.A
E. Landseer, R.A. .
Sir A. W. Callcoit, R. A
E. Landseer, R.A.
C. L. Eastlake, R. a.
Sir a. W. CAi-corr, R.A.
E. Landseer, R. .4.
Sir A. W. Calixott, R. A.
E. Landseer, R.A.
T. UwiN.«, R. A. .
The Well C. L. Eastlake, R. A. .
A Bacchanalian . . .
A Lady in a bower . . . T. Uwins, R. A. .
Engraved in Wood by J. Thomison.
The rest by J. Thompson and L. Clennell,
from drawings by T. Stothard, R.A.
Pace
19
115
1-27
137
151
l.-)6
101
•214
•218
'234
•235
•27!)
319
3^20
CONTENTS.
Page
The Lake of Geneva ....
1
Meillerie
6
St. Maurice
. 11
The Great St. Bernard
13
The Descent
. 20
Jorasse
22
Marguerite de Tours ....
. 28
The Brothers
31
The Alps
. 35
Como ......
38
Bergamo ......
. 43
Italy
48
CoU'alto
. 50
Venice ......
54
Luigi
. 63
St. Mark's Place ....
66
The Gondola
. 76
The Brides of Venice
82
Foscari .......
90
Marcolini
10-2
Arquii
. 10.")
Ginevra ......
110
Bologna ......
. 115
Florence
121
Don Garzla
127
The Campagna of Florence
Tlie Pilgrim
An Interview
Montorio
Rome
A Funeral
National Prejudices
The Campagna of Rome
The Roman Pontiffs
Caius Cestius .
The Nun .
The Fire-fly .
Foreign Travel
The Fountain
Banditti
An Adventure
Naples
The Bag of Gold
A Character
Paestum .
Amalfi
Monte Cassino
The Harper
The Feluca
Genoa
Marco Griftbni
A Farewell
Notes
THE LAKE OF GENEVA.
Day glimmered in the east, and the white Moon
Hung like a vapour in the cloudless sky,
Yet visible, when on my way I went.
Glad to be gone ; a pilgrim from the North,
Now more and more attracted as I drew
Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan
Had from his window leant, drowsy, half-clad,
To snuff the morn, or the caged lark poured forth,
From his green sod upspringing as to heaven,
(His tuneful bill o'crflowing with a song
Old in the days of Homer, and his wings
With transport quivering) on my wav I went,
Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily,
Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut ;
As on that Sabbath-eve when He arrived, *
Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee,
Such virtue dwells in those small syllables,
Inscribed to consecrate the narrow street,
His birth-place, — ^when, but .one short step too late,
In his despair, as though the die were cast.
He sat him down to weep, and wept till dawn ;
Then rose to go, a wanderer through the world.
'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it.
Yet at a City-gate, from time to time,
Much may be learnt ; nor, London, least at thine,
Thy hive the busiest, greatest of them all.
Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by.
And note who passes. Here comes one, a Youth,
Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power,
A Chatterton — in thought admired, caressed,
■* J. J. Rousseau. ' J'arrive essouflB^, tout en nage ; le cteur
me bat; je vois de loin les soldats a leur poste; j'accours, je
crie d'une voix etoufiee. II etoit trop tard.' — Les Confession!;,
1. i.
And crowned like Petrarch in the Capitol ;
Ere long to die, to fall by his own hand,
And fester with the vilest. Here come two,
Less feverish, less exalted — soon to part,
A Garrick and a Johnson ; Wealth and Fame
Awaiting one, even at the gate ; Neglect
And Want the other. But what multitudes,
Urged by the love of change, and, like myself.
Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's fare.
Press on — though but a rill entering the sea.
Entering and lost ! Our task would never end.
Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze
Ruffling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave,
If such they might be called, dashed as in sport,
Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach
Making wild music, and far westward caught
The sun-beam — where, alone and as entranced,
Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff
Lay with his circular and dotted line
On the bright waters. When the heart of man
Is light with hope, all things are sure to please ;
And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by,
Laden with peasant-girls and fruits and flowers,
And many a chanticleer and partlot caged
For Vevay's market-place — a motley group
Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 'twas gone.
The shifting sail flapped idly to and fro,
Then bore them off. I am not one of those
So dead to all things in this visible world,
So wondrously profound, as to move on
In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old*
(His name is justly in the Calendar)
Who through the day pursued this pleasant path
That winds beside the mirror of all beauty,
And, when at eve his fellow-pilgrims sat,
Discoursing of the lake, asked where it was.
They marvelled, as they might ; and so must all,
Seeing what now I saw : for now 'twas day,
And the bright Sun was in the firmament,
A thousand shadows of a thousand hues
Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb
Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont Blanc,
Thy seas of ice and ice-built promontories,
That change their shapes for ever as in sport ;
* BERNAno, Abbot of Clairvaux. ' To admire or despise
St. Bernard as he ouglit,' says Gibbon, ' the reader, like myself,
should have before the windows of his library that incomparable
landskip.'
Then travelled onward, and went down behind
The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up
The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe
Borne homeward through the forest in his hand ;
And on the edge of some o'erhanging cliff,
That dungeon-fortress* never to be named,
Where, like a lion taken in the toils,
Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit.
Ah, little did He think, who sent him there.
That he himself, then greatest among men,
Should in like manner be so soon conveyed
Athwart the deep, — and to a rock so small
Amid the countless multitude of waves.
That ships have gone and sought it, and returned,
Saying it was not !
* The Castle of Joux in Franclie-Comte.
MEILLERIE.
These grey majestic cliffs that tower to heaven,
These ghmmering glades and open chesnut groves,
That echo to the heifer's wandering bell,
Or woodman's axe, or 'steers-man's song beneath,
As on he urges his fir-laden bark,
Or shout of goat-herd boy above thorn all.
Who loves not ? And who blesses not the light.
When thro' some loop-hole he surveys the lake
Blue as a sapphire-stone, and richly set
With chateaux, villages, and village-spires.
Orchards and vineyards, alps and alpine snows ?
Here would I dwell ; nor visit, but in thought,
Ferxey far south, silent and empty now
As now thy once-luxurious bowers, Ripaille;*
* The retreat of Amadlus, the first Duke of Savoy. Voltaire
thus addresses it from his windows:
' Ripaille, je te vois. O bizane Araedee,' &c.
The seven towers are no longer a land-mark to the voyager.
Vevay, so long an exiled Patriot's* home;
Or Chillon's dungeon -floors beneath the wave,
Channelled and worn by pacing to and fro ;
Lausanne, where Gibbon in his sheltered walk
Nightly called up the Shade of ancient Rome;-j-
Or CoppET, and that dark untrodden grove J:
Sacred to Virtue, and a daughter's tears !
* Ludlow.
t He lias given us a very natural account of his feelings at the
conclusion of his long labour there: " It was on the night of
the 27 th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve,
that I wrote the last lines of the last page in a summer-house
in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns
in a herceuu or covered walk of acacias, which commands the
lake and the mountains ; and I will not dissemble my joy. But,
when I reflected that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old
and agreeable companion," &;c.
There must always be something melancholy in the moment
of separation, as all have more or less experienced; none more
perhaps than Cowper: — " And now," says he," I have only to
regret that my pleasant work is ended. 1"o the illustrious Greei%
I owe the smooth and easy flii;ht of many thousand hours. lie
has been my companion at home and abroad, in the study, in the
garden, and in the field ; and no measure of success, let my
labours succeed as they may, will ever comj)ensate to me the loss
of the innocent luxury that I have enjoyed, as a Translator ot
Homer."
i The burial-i)lace of jS'itiiiH.
Here would I dwell, forgetting- and forgot ;
And oft methinks (of such strange potency
The spells that Genius scatters where he will)
Oft should I wander forth like one in search,
And say, half-dreaming, ' Here St. Preux has stood !'
Then turn and gaze on Clarens.
Yet there is,
Within an eagle's flight and less, a scene
Still nobler if not fairer (once again
Would I behold it ere these eyes are closed.
For I can say, ' I also have been there !')
That Sacred Lake * withdrawn among the hills,
Its depth of waters flanked as with a wall
Built by the Giant-race before the flood ;
Where not a cross or chapel but inspires
Holy delight, lifting our thoughts to God
From God-like men, — men in a barbarous age
That dared assert their birth-right, and displayed
Deeds half-divine, returning good for ill ;
That in the desert sowed the seeds of life,
Framing a band of small Republics there,
Which still exist, the envy of the world !
* The Lake' of tlie Four Cantons.
9
Who would not land in each, and tread the ground ;
Land where Tell leaped ashore ; and climb to drink
Of the three hallowed fountains ? He that does
Comes back the better ; and relates at home
That he was met and greeted by a race
Such as he read of in his boyish days ;
Such as MiLTiADEs at Marathon
Led, when he chased the Persians to their ships.
There, while the well-known boat is heaving in,
Piled with rude merchandise, or launching forth,
Thronged with wild cattle for Italian fairs,
There in the sun-shine, 'mid their native snows.
Children, let loose from school, contend to use
The cross-bow of their fathers ; and o'er-run
The rocky field where all, in every age,
Assembling sit, like one great family,
Forming alliances, enacting laws ;
Each cliff and head-land and green promontory
Graven to their eyes with records of the past
That prompt to hero-worship, and excite
Even in the least, the lowhest, as he toils,
A reverence no where else or felt or feigned ;
Their chronicler great Nature ; and the volume
Vast as her works — above, below, around I
10
The fisher on thy beach, Thermopyl.!;;,
Asks of the lettered stranger why he came,
First from his lips to learn the glorious truth I
And who that whets his scythe in Ruxnemede,
Though but for them a slave, recalls to mind
The barons in array, with their great charter ?
Among the everlasting Alps alone.
There to burn on as in a sanctuary,
Bright and unsulhed lives the' ethereal flame ;
And 'mid those scenes unchanged, unchangeable,
Whv should it ever die ?
ST. MAURICE.
Still by the Le.man Lake, for many a mile,
Among those venerable trees I went,
Where damsels sit and weave their fishing-nets,
Singing some national song by the way-side.
But now the fly was gone, the gnat careering ;
Now glimmering lights from cottage-windows broke.
'Twas dusk; and, journeying upward by the Rhone,
That there came down, a torrent from the Alps,
I entered where a key unlocks a kingdom ;
The road and river, as they wind along,
12
Filling the mountain-pass. There, till a ray
Glanced through my lattice, and the household-stir
Warned me to rise, to rise and to depart,
A stir unusual, and accompanied
With many a tuning of rude instruments,
And many a laugh that argued coming pleasure,
Mine host's fair daughter for the nuptial rite
And nuptial feast attiring — there I slept.
And in my dreams wandered once more, well pleased.
But now a charm was on the rocks and woods
And waters ; for, methought, I was with those
I had at morn and even wished for there.
--n\
THE GREAT ST. BERNARD.
NiCiHT was again descending, when my mide,
That all day long had climbed among the clouds,
Higher and higher still, as by a stair
Let down from heaven itself, transporting me,
Stopped, to the joy of both, at that low door,
That door which ever, as self-opened, moves
To them that knock, and nightly sends abroad
Ministering Spirits. Lying on the watch.
Two dogs of grave demeanour welcomed me,
14
All meekness, gentleness, though large of limb ;
And a lay-brother of the Hospital,
Who, as we toiled below, had heard by fits
The distant echoes gaining on his ear,
Came and held fast my stirrup in his hand
While I alighted. Long could I have stood,
With a religious awe contemplating
That House, the highest in the Ancient World,
And destined to perforai from age to age
The noblest service, welcoming as guests
All of all nations and of every faith ;
A temple, sacred to Humanity I *
It was a pile of simplest masonry.
With narrow windows and vast buttresses.
Built to endure the shocks of time and chance ;
Yet showing many a rent, as well it might.
Warred on for ever by the elements.
And in an evil day, nor long ago.
By violent men — when on the mountain-top
The French and Austrian banners met in conflict.
On the same rock beside it stood the church,
Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity ;
' In the course of the year they entertain from thirty to
ihirtv-five thousand travellers.— Le Phe Bisilx, Prienr.
15
The vesper-bell, for 'twas the vesper-hour,
Duly proclaiming through the wilderness,
' All ye who hear, whatever be your work,
Stop for an instant — move your lips in prayer !'
And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale,
If dale it might be called, so near to heaven,
A little lake, where never fish leaped up.
Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow ;
A star, the only one in that small sky.
On its dead surface glimmering. 'Twas a place
Resembling nothing I had left behind,
As if all worldly ties were now dissolved ; —
And, to incline the mind still more to thought,
To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore
Under a beetling cliff stood half in gloom
A lonely chapel destined for the dead.
For such as, having wandered from their way,
Had perished miserably. Side by side,
Within they lie, a mournful company.
All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them ;
Their features full of life yet motionless
In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change.
Though the barred windows, barred against the wolf.
Are always open! — But the North blew cold ;
\6
And, bidden to a spare but cbeerful meal,
I sat among tbe holy brotherhood
At their long board. The fare indeed was such
As is prescribed on days of abstinence,
But might have pleased a nicer taste than mine ;
And through the floor came up, an ancient crone
Serving unseen below ; while from the roof
(The roof, the floor, the walls of native fir,)
A lamp hung flickering, such as loves to fling-
Its partial light on Apostolic heads.
And sheds a grace on all. Theirs Time as yet
Had changed not. Some were almost in the prime ;
Nor was a brow o'ercast. Seen as they sat.
Ranged round their ample hearth-stone in an hour
Of rest, they were as gay, as free from guile,
As children ; answering, and at once, to all
The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth ;
Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk
Music ; and gathering news from them that came,
As of some other world. But when the storm
Rose, and the snow rolled on in ocean-waves,
When on his face the experienced traveller fell,
Sheltering his lips and nostrils with his hands.
Then all was changed ; and, sallying with their pack
17
Into that blank of nature, they became
Unearthly beings. ' Anselm, higher up,
Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long,
And now, as guided by a voice from Heaven,
Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence
Whose can it be, but his who never erred ? *
A man lies underneath I Let us to work ! —
But who descends Mont Velan ? 'Tis La Croix.
Away, away ! if not, alas, too late.
Homeward he drags an old man and a boy,
Faltering and falling, and but half awaked,
Asking to sleep again.' Such their discourse.
Oft has a venerable roof received me ;
St. Bruno's once -j- — where, when the winds were
hushed,
Nor from the cataract the voice came up.
You might have heard the mole work underground,
So great the stillness of that place ; none seen,
* Alluding to Barii, a dog of great renown in his day- Mf-
is here" admirably represented by a j)encil that has done
honour to many of his kind, but to none v/ho deserved it
more. His skin is stuffed, and preserved iu the Museum of
Berne.
t The Grande Chartreuse.
18
Save when from rock to rock a hermit crossed
By some rude bridge — or one at micbiight tolled
To matins, and white habits, issuing forth,
Glided along those aisles interminable,
All, all observant of the sacred law
Of Silence. Nor is that sequestered spot,
Once called ' Sweet Waters,' now ' Tlie Shady Vale,' *
To me unknown ; that house so rich of old.
So courteous, and, by two that passed that way,f
Amply requited with immortal verse,
The Poet's payment. But, among them all.
None can with this compare, the dangerous seat
Of generous, active Virtue. ^Vhat though Frost
Reign everlastingly, and ice and snow
Thaw not, but gather — there is that within.
Which, where it comes, makes Summer ; and, in thought,
Oft am I sitting on the bench beneath
Their garden-plot, where all that vegetates
Is but some scanty lettuce, to observe
* Vallombrosa, formerly called Acqua Bella.
' una badia
Ricca e cortose a chiunque vi venia.' — AniosTo.
t Akiosto and iMii.ton. Milton was there at the fall of the
leaf.
19
Those from the South ascending, every step
As though it were their last, — and instantly-
Restored, renewed, advancing as with songs,
Soon as they see, turning a lofty crag.
That plain, that modest structure, promising
Bread to the hungry, to the weary rest.
20
THE DESCENT.
My mule refreshed — and, let the truth be told,
He was nor dull nor contradictory.
But patient, diligent, and sure of foot,
Shunning the loose stone on the precipice,
Snorting suspicion while with sight, smell, touch,
Trying, detecting, where the surface snailed ;
And with deliberate courage sliding down,
Vv'here in his sledge the Laplander had turned
With looks aghast — my mule refreshed, his bells
Gingled once more, the signal to depart,
And we set out in the grey light of dawn.
Descending rapidly — by waterfalls
Fast-frozen, and among huge blocks of ice
That in their long career had stopped mid-way.
At length, unchecked, unbidden, he stood still ;
And all his bells were muffled. Then my Guide,
Lowering his voice, addi'essed me: ' Thro' this Gap
On and say nothing — lest a word, a breath
21
Bring down a winter's snow — enough to whelm
The armed files that, night and day, were seen
Winding from cliff to cliif in loose array
To conquer at Marengo. Though long since, •
Well I remember how I met them here,
As the sun set far down, purpling the west ;
And how Napoleon, he himself, no less,
Wrapt in his cloak — I could not be deceived —
Reined in his horse, and asked me, as I passed.
How far 'twas to St. Remi. Where the rock
Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away,
Narrows almost to nothing at the base,
'Twas there ; and down along the brink he led
To Victory ! — Desaix*, who turned the scale,
Leaving his life-blood in that famous field,
(When the clouds break, we may discern the spot
In the blue haze) sleeps, as you saw at dawn.
Just where we entered, in the Hospital-church.'
So saying, for a while he held his peace.
Awe-struck beneath that dreadful Canopy ;
But soon, the danger passed, launched forth again.
* ' JNIauy able men have served under me ; but none like
him. He loved glory for itself.'
90
JORASSE.
JouASSE was in his three-and-twentieth year;
Graceful and active as a stag just roused ;
Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech,
Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up
Among the hunters of the Higher Alps ;
Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness,
Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies,
Arising (so say they that dwell below)
From frequent dealings wath the Mountain- Spirits.
But other ways had taught him better things ;
And now he numbered, marching by my side,
The great, the learned, that with him had crossed
The frozen tract — with him familiarly
Thro' the rough day and rougher night conversed
In many a chalet round the Peak of Terror *,
Round Tacul, Tour, Well-horn, and Rosenlau,
* The Sclirekliorn.
23
And Her, whose throne is inaccessible *,
Who sits, withdrawn in virgin-majesty.
Nor oft unveils. Anon an Avalanche
Rolled its long thunder ; and a sudden crash,
Sharp and metallick, to the startled ear
Told that far-down a continent of Ice
Had burst in twain. But he had now begun ;
And with what transport he recalled the hour
When, to deserve, to win his blooming bride,
Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound
The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod
The Upper Realms of Frost ; then, by a cord
Let half-way down, entered a grot star-bright.
And gathered from above, below, around.
The pointed crystals ! — Once, nor long before f,
* The Jung-frau.
t M. Ebel mentions an escape almost as miraculous : " L'an
1790, Cliristian Boren, j)ro]irietaire de Taubcrge du Grindel-
vvald, eut le mallieur de se jeter dans une fente du glacier, en
le traversant avec un troupeau de moutons qu'il raraenoit des
paturages de Biiniseck. Ileureusement qu'il tomba dans le
voisinage du grand torrent qui coule dans I'interieur, il en suivit
le lit par-dessous les voutes de glace, et arriva au pied du glacier
avec un bras casse. Get bomme est actuellenient encore en
vie." Manuel da I'oyagein .
24
(Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet,
And with an eloquence that Nature gives
To all her children — breaking off by starts
Into the harsh and rude, oft as the Mule
Drew his displeasure,) once, nor long before,
Alone at dav-break on the Mettenberg,
He slipped and fell ; and, through a fearful cleft
Gliding insensibly from ledge to ledge,
From deep to deeper and to deeper still,
Went to the Under-world I Long-while he lay
Upon his rugged bed — then waked like one
Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever !
For, looking round, he saw^ or thought he saw
Innumerable branches of a Cave,
Winding beneath that sohd Cinist of Ice ;
With here and there a rent that showed the stars
\\'hat then, alas, was left him but to die ?
What else in those immeasurable chambers.
Strewn with the bones of miserable men.
Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on,
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free !
And, risinof, he began his drear}- round ;
WTien hark, the noise as of some mighty Flood
Working its way to light I Back he withdrew.
25
But soon returned, and, fearless from despair,
Dashed down the dismal Channel ; and all day.
If day could be where utter darkness was.
Travelled incessantly ; the craggy roof
Just over-head, and the impetuous waves,
Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength,
Lashing him on. At last as in a pool
The water slept ; a pool sullen, profound,
Where, if a billow chanced to heave and swell,
It broke not; and the roof, descending, lay
Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,
His journey ended ; when a ray divine
Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her
Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin,
He plunged and swam — and in an instant rose.
The barrier passed, in sunshine ! Through a vale,
Such as in Arcady, where many a thatch
Gleams thro' the trees, half-seen and half-embowered.
Glittering the river ran ; and on the bank
llie Young were dancing ('twas a festival-day)
All in their best attire. There first he saw
His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
When all drew round, inquiring ; and her face.
Seen behind all and varying, as he spoke,
26
With hope and fear and generous sj'mpathy,
Subdued him. From that very hour he loved.
The tale was long, but coming to a close,
When his wild eyes flashed fire ; and, all forgot,
He listened and looked up. I looked up too ;
And twice there came a hiss that thro' me thrilled I
'Twas heard no more. A Chamois on the cliff
Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear,
And all were gone. But now the theme was changed ;
And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes.
When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay,
(His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung.
His axe to hew a stair-way in the ice)
He tracked their wanderings. By a cloud surprised.
Where the next step had plunged them into air,
Long had they stood, locked in each other's arms,
Amid the gulfs that yawned to swallow them ;
Each guarding each through many a freezing hour,
As on some temple's highest pinnacle.
From treacherous slumber. Oh, it was a sport
Dearer than life, and but with life relinquished !
' My sire, my grandsiro died among these wilds.
As for myself,' he cried, and he held forth
His wallet in his hand, ' this do I call
27
My winding-sheet — for I shall have no other !'
And he spoke truth. Within a little month
He lay among these awful solitudes,
('Twas on a glacier— r-half-way up to heaven)
Taking his final rest. Long did his wife,
Suckling her babe, her only one, look out
The way he went at parting, but he came not ;
Long fear to close her eyes, from dusk till dawn
Plying her distaff through the silent hours.
Lest he appear before her — lest in sleep,
If sleep steal on, he come as all are wont.
Frozen and ghastly blue or black with gore,
To plead for the last rite.
28
MARGUERITE DE TOURS.
Now the grey granite, starting through the snow,
Discovered many a variegated moss*
That to the pilgrim resting on his staff
Shadows out capes and islands ; and ere long
Numberless flowers, such as disdain to live
In lower regions, and delighted drink
The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues,
With their diminutive leaves covered the ground.
There, turning by a venerable larch,
Shivered in two yet most majestical
With his long level branches, we observed
A human figure sitting on a stone
Far down by the way-side — just where the rock
Is riven asunder, and the Evil One
Kas bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument f
* Lichen geograpliicus,
t Almost every mountain of any rank or condition has sudi a
bridge. The most celebrated in this country is on the Swiss
side of St. Gothard.
29
Built in one night, from which the flood beneath,
Raging along, all foam, is seen not heard.
And seen as motionless ! — Nearer we drew ;
And lo, a woman yomig and delicate,
Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot.
Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand,
In deepest thought. Over her tresses fair,
Young as she was, she wore the matron-cap ;
And, as we judged, not many moons would change
Ere she became a mother. Pale she looked,
Yet cheerful ; though, methought, once, if not twice,
She wiped away a tear that would be coming ;
And in those moments her small hat of straw.
Worn on one side, and glittering with a band
Of silk and gold, but ill concealed a face
Not soon to be forgotten. Rising up
On our approach, she travelled slowly on ;
And my companion, long belbre we met.
Knew, and ran down to greet her. — She was born
(Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears)
In Val d'Aosta ; and an Alpine stream.
Leaping from crag to crag in its short course
To join the Doha, turned her father's mill.
There did she blossom, till a Valai^an,
30
A townsman of Martigny, won her heart,
Much to the old man's grief. Long he refused,
Loth to be left ; disconsolate at the thought.
She was his only one, his link to life ;
And in despair — year after year gone by —
One summer-morn, they stole a match and fled.
The act was sudden ; and, when far away.
Her spirit had misgivings. Then, full oft.
She pictured to herself that aged face
Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in wrath ;
And, when at last she heard his hour was near.
Went forth unseen, and, burdened as she was.
Crossed the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness.
And hold him to her heart before he died.
Her task Vi^as done. She had fulfilled her wish,
And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping.
A frame like hers had suffered ; but her love
Was strong' within her ; and rig'ht on she went,
Fearing no ill. May all good Angels guard her !
And should I once again, as once I may.
Visit Martigny, I will not forget
Thy hospitable roof. Marguerite de Tours ;
Thy sign the silver swan. Heaven prosper thee !
31
THE BROTHERS.
In the same hour the breath of Ufe receivrng,
They came together and were beautiful ;
But, as they slumbered in their mother's lap,
How mournful was their beauty ! She would sit.
And look and weep, and look and weep again ;
For Nature had but half her work achieved.
Denying, like a step-dame, to the babes
Her noblest gifts ; denying speech to one,
And to the other — reason.
But at length
(Seven years gone by, seven melancholy years)
Another came, as fair and fairer still ;
And then, how anxiously the mother watched
Till reason dawned and speech declared itself I
Reason and speech were his ; and down she knelt,
Clasping her hands in silent ecstasy.
On the hill-side, where still the cottage stands,
('Tis near the upper falls in Lauterbrounn ;
For there I sheltered now, their frugal hearth
Blazing with mountain-pine when I appeared
And there, as round they sate, I heard their story)
On the hill-side, among the cataracts.
In happy ignorance the children played ;
Alike unconscious, through their cloudless day.
Of what they had and had not ; every where
Gathering rock-flowers ; or, with their utmost might,
Loosening the fragment from the precipice.
And, as it tumbled, listening- for the plunge ;
Yet, as by instinct, at the 'customed hour
Returning ; the two eldest, step by step,
Lifting along, and with the tenderest care,
Their infant-brother.
* Once the hour was past ;
And, when she sought, she sought and could not find ;
And when she found — Where was the little one ?
Alas, they answered not ; yet still she asked,
Still in her grief forgetting.
With a scream.
Such as an Eagle sends forth when he soars,
A scream that through the woods scatters dismay-,
The idiot-boy looked up into the sky,
And leaped and laughed aloud and leaped again ;
33
As if he wished to follow, in its flight,
Something just gone, and gone from earth to heaven :
While he, whose every gesture, every look
Went to the heart, for from the heart it came,
He who nor spoke nor heard — all things to him,
Day after day, as silent as the grave,
(To him unknown the melody of hirds.
Of waters — and the voice that should have soothed
His infant sorrows, singing- him to sleep)
Fled to her mantle as for refuge there.
And, as at once o'ercome with fear and grief.
Covered his head and wept. A dreadful thought
Flashed thro' her brain. ' Has not some bird of prey,
Thirsting to dip his beak in innocent blood —
It must, it must be so I' — And so it was.
There was an Eagle that had long acquired
Absolute sway, the lord of a domain
Savage, sublime ; nor from the hills alone
Gathering large tribute, but from every vale ;
Making the ewe, whene'er he deigned to stoop,
Bleat for the lamb. Great was the recompence
Assured to him who laid the tyrant low;
And near his nest, in that eventful hour,
D
34
Calmly and patiently, a hunter stood,
A hunter, as it chanced, of old renown,
And, as it chanced, their father.
In the South
A speck appeared, enlarging ; and ere long,
As on his journey to the golden sun,
Upward he came, ascending through the clouds.
That, like a dark and troubled sea, obscured
The world beneath. — ' But what is in his grasp ?
Ha ! 'tis a child — and may it not be ours ?
I dare not, cannot ; and yet why forbear.
When, if it lives, a cruel death awaits it ? —
May He who winged the shaft when Tell stood forth.
And shot the apple from the youngling's head, *
Grant me the strength, the courage !' As he spoke,
He aimed, he fired ; and at his feet they fell,
The Eagle and the child — the child unhurt —
Tho', such the grasp, not even in death relinquished. f
* A tradition. — Gesler said to him, when it was over, ' Vou
had a second arrow in your belt. What was it for?' — ' To kill
you,' he replied, ' if I had killed my son.' There is a monu-
ment in the market-place of Altorf to consecrate the spot.
t The Eagle and Child is a favourite sign in many parts of
Europe.
35
THE ALPS.
Who first beholds those everlasting clouds,
Seed-time and harvest, morning noon and night,
Still where they were, steadfast, immovable ;
Those mighty hills, so shadowy, so sublime.
As rather to belong to Heaven than Earth —
But instantly receives into his soul
A sense, a feeling that he loses not,
A something that informs him 'tis an hour,
Whence he may date henceforward and for ever ;
To me they seemed the barriers of a World,
Saying, Thus far, no further ! and as o'er
The level plain I travelled silently,
Nearing them more and more, day after day,
My wandering thoughts my only company,
And they before me still — oft as I looked,
A strange delight was mine, mingled with fear,
A wonder as at things I had not hoard of!
And still and still I felt as if I gazed
36
For the first time ! — Great was the tumult there.
Deafening the din, when in barbaric pomp
The Carthaginian on his march to Rome
Entered their fastnesses. TrampHng the snows,
The war-horse reared ; and the towered elephant
Upturned his trunk into the murky sky,
Then tumbled headlong, swallowed up and lost,
He and his rider.
Now the scene is changed ;
And o'er the Simplon, o'er the Splugen winds
A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone
Flung about carelessly, it shines afar,
Catching the eye in many a broken link,
In many a turn and traverse as it glides ;
And oft above and oft below appears.
Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up.
As if it were another, through the wild
Leading along he knows not whence or whither.
Yet through its fairy-course, go where it will.
The torrent stops it not, the rugged rock
Opens and lets it in ; and on it runs,
Winning its easy way from clime to clime
Thro' glens locked up before. — Not such my path
The very path for them that dare defy
37
Danger, nor shrink, wear he what shape he will ;
That o'er the caldron, when the flood boils up.
Hang- as in air, gazing and shuddering on
Till fascination comes and the brain turns ! *
The very path for them, that list, to choose
Where best to plant a monumental cross,
And live in story like Empedocles ;
A track for heroes, such as he who came.
Ere long, to win, to wear the Iron Crown ;
And (if aright I judge from what I felt
Over the Drance, just where the Abbot fell,-]-
Rolled downward in an after-dinner's sleep)
The same as Hannibal's. But now 'tis passed.
That turbulent Chaos ; and the promised land
Lies at my feet in all its loveliness !
To him who starts up from a terrible dream.
And lo, the sun is shining, and the lark
Singing aloud for joy, to him is not
Such sudden ravishment as now I feel
At the first glimpses of fair Italy.
* ' J'aime beaucoup ce tournoiement, pourvu (jue je sois en
surete.' — J. J. Rousseau, Les Confessions, I. iv.
t ' Ou il y a environ dix ans, que I'Abb^ de St. Maurice, ]Mons.
C'-ocatrix, a et6 precipit6 avec sa voittire, ses chevaux, sa cuisi-
niere,. et sou coclier.' — Descript, du Valais.
COMO.
I LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake
Under the shore — though not, where'er he dwelt, *
To visit Pliny ; not, in loose attire,
When from the bath or from the tennis-court.
To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk,
Or angling from his window : -j- and, in truth.
Could I recall the ages past, and play
The fool ^\^th Time, I should perhaps reserve
* ' Hujus in littore plures villas mea.' — Epist, ix. 7.
t Epist. i. 3, ix. 7.
39
My leisure for Catullus on his Lake,
Though to fare worse,* or Virgil at his farm
A little further on the way to Mantua.
But such things cannot be. So I sit still,
And let the boatman shift his little sail,
His sail so forked and so swallow-like.
Well-pleased with all that comes. The morning-air
Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round
A silvery gleam : and now the purple mists
Rise like a curtain ; now the sun looks out,
Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious light
This noble amphitheatre of hills ;
And now appear as on a phosphor-sea
Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pa via ;
Some sailing up, some down, and some at rest,
Lading, unlading at that small port-town
Under the promontory — its tall tower
And long flat roofs, just such as Gas par drew,
* His Peninsula he calls ' the eye of Peninsulas;' and it is
beautiful. But, whatever it was, who could pass it by ? Napo-
leon, in the career of victory, turned aside to see it.
Of his villa there is now no more remaining than of his old
pinnace, which had weathered so many storms, and wliich he
consecrated at last as an ex-voto.
40
Caught by a sun-beam slanting through a cloud ;
A quay-like scene, glittering and full of life,
And doubled by reflection.
What delight,
After so long a sojourn in the wild,
To hear once more the peasant at his work !
— But in a clime like this where is he not ?
Along the shores, among the hills 'tis now
The hey-day of the Vintage ; all abroad,
But most the young and of the gentler sex,
Busy in gathering ; all among the vines,
Some on the ladder, and some underneath.
Filling their baskets of green wicker-work,
WTiile many a canzonet and frolic laugh
Come thro' the leaves ; the vines in light festoons
From tree to tree, the trees in avenues,
And every avenue a covered walk
Hung with black clusters. 'Tis enough to make
The sad man merry, the benevolent one
Melt into tears — so general is the joy !
While up and down the cliffs, over the lake,
Wains oxen-drawn and panniered mules are seen,
Laden with grapes and dropping rosy wine.
Here I received from thee, Basilico,
41
One of those courtesies so sweet, so rare !
When, as I rambled through thy vineyard-ground
On the hill-side, thou sent'st thy little son,
Charged with a bunch almost as big as he.
To press it on the stranger. May thy vats
O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer.
Live to become a giver ; and, at length.
When thou art full of honour and wouldst rest,
The staff of thine old age !
In a strange land
Such things, however trivial, reach the heart,
And thro' the heart the head, clearing away
The narrow notions that grow up at home.
And in their place grafting Good- Will to All.
At least I found it so, nor less at eve,
When, bidden as a lonely traveller,
('Twas by a little boat that gave me chase
With oar and sail, as homeward-bound I crossed
The bay of Tramezzine,) right readily
I turned my prow and followed, landing soon
Where steps of purest marble met the wave ;
Where, through the trellises and corridors,
Soft music came as from Armida's palace,
Breathing enchantment o'er the woods and waters ;
42
And thro' a bright pavilion, bright as day,
Forms such as hers were flitting, lost among
Such as of old in sober pomp swept by.
Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts
By Paolo painted ; where a Fairy-Queen,
That night her birth-night, from her throne received
(Young as she was, no floweret in her crown,
Hyacinth or rose, so fair and fresh as she)
Our willing vows, and by the fountain-side
Led in the dance, disporting as she pleased,
Under a starry sky — while I looked on,
As in a glade of Cashmere or Shiraz,
Reclining, quenching my sherbet in snow,
And reading in the eyes that sparkled round,
The thousand love-adventures written there.
Can I forget — no never, such a scene
So full of witchery. Night lingered still.
When, with a dying breeze, I left Bellaggio ;
But the strain followed me ; and still I saw
Thy smile, Angelica ; and still I heard
Thy voice — once and again bidding adieu.
43
BERGAMO.
The song was one that I had heard before,
But where I knew not. It inchned to sadness;
And, turning round from the dehcious fare
My landlord's little daughter Barbara
Had from her apron just rolled out before me,
Figs and rock-melons — at the door I saw
Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like
They were, and poorly clad, but not unskilled ;
With their small voices and an old guitar
Winning their way to my unguarded heart
In that, the only universal tongue.
Hut soon they changed the measure, entering on
A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour,
A war of words, with looks and gestures waged
Between Trappanti and his ancient dame,
MoNA LuciLiA. To and fro it went ;
While many a titter on the stairs was heard,
And Barbara's among them. When it ceased,
44
Their dark eyes flashed no longer, yet, methought,
In many a glance as from the soul, disclosed
JVIore than enough to serve them. Far or near,
Few looked not for their coming ere they came,
Few, when they went, but looked till they were gone ;
And not a matron, sitting at her wheel.
But could repeat their story. Twins they were,
And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world ;
Their parents lost in an old ferry-boat
That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down,
Crossing the rough Benacus.* — May they live
Blameless and happy — rich they cannot be.
Like him who, in the days of Minstrelsy,f
Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door,
* The lake of Catullus; and now called 11 lago di Garda.
Its waves, in the north, lash the mountains oi'tlie Tyrol ; and it
was there, at the little village of Limone, that Ilofer embarked,
when in the hands of the enemy and on his way to IMantua,
where, in the court-yard of the citadel, he was shot as a traitor.
Less fortunate than 'J'ell, yet not less illustrious, he was watched
by many a mournful eye as he came down the lake; and his
name will live long in the heroic songs of liis country.
He lies buried at Innspruck in the church of the Holy Cross;
and the statue on his tomb represents him in his habit as he
lived and as he died.
t Petrarch, Epist. Rer. Sen. 1. v. ep. 3.
45
Asking, beseeching for a lay to sing,
And soon in silk (such then the power of song)
Returned to thank him ; or like that old man.
Old, not in heart, who by the torrent-side
Descending from the Tyrol, as Night fell.
Knocked at a City-gate near the hill-foot.
The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone,
An eagle on a ladder, and at once
Found welcome — nightly in the bannered hall
Tuning his harp to tales of Chivalry
Before the great Mastino, and his guests,*
* iMastino de la Scala, the Lord of Verona. Cortusio, ilie
embassador and historian, saw him so surrounded.
This house had been always open to the unfortunate. la the
days of Can Grande all were welcome; Poets, Philosophers,
Artists, Warriors. Each had his apartment, each a separate
table ; and at the liour of dinner musicians and jesters w-ent
from room to room. Dante, as we learn from himself, found an
asylum there.
" Lo primo tuo rifugio, e'l primo ostello
Sara la corlesia del gran Lombardo,
Che'n su la scala porta il santo uccello."
Their tombs in the public street carry us back into the times
of barbarous virtue ; nor less so do those of the Carrara Princes
at Padua, though less singular and striking in themselves.
Francis Carrara, the Elder, used often to visit Petrarch in hi.-,
small house at Arqua, and followed him on foot to bis grave.
46
The three-and-twenty kings, by adverse fate,
By war or treason or domestic strife,
Reft of their kingdoms, friendless, shelterless,
And living on his bounty.
But who comes.
Brushing the floor with what was once, methinks,
A hat of ceremony ? On he glides,
Slip-shod, ungartered ; his long suit of black
Dingy, thread-bare, tho', patch by patch, renewed
Till it has almost ceased to be the same.
At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads
' 'Tis my necessity !' he stops and speaks.
Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face.
' Blame not a Poet, Signor, for his zeal —
When all are on the wing, who would be last ?
ITie splendour of thy name has gone before thee ;
And Italy from sea to sea exults,
As well indeed she may ! But I transgress.*
He, who has known the weight of Praise himself.
Should spare another.' Saying so, he laid
His sonnet, an impromptu, at my feet,
(If his, then Petrarch must have stolen it from him)
* See the Heraclides of Euripides, v. 203, <Sfc.
47
And bowed and left me ; in his hollow hand
Receiving my small tribute, a zecchine,
Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees.
My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine,
Pure as the virgin-spring, had happily
Fled from all eyes ; or, in a waking dream,
I might have sat as many a great man has,
And many a small, like him of Santillane,
Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise.*
* Hist, de Gil Bias, 1. i. c. 2.
48
ITALY.
Am I in Italy ? Is this the Mincius ?
Are those the distant turrets of Verona ?
And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque
Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him ?
Such questions hourly do I ask myself;
And not a stone, in a cross-way, inscribed
' To Mantua' — ' To Ferrara' — but excites
Surprise, and doubt, and self-cong-ratulation.
O Italy, how beautiful thou art !
Yet I could weep — for thou art lying, alas,
Low in the dust ; and we admire thee now /
As we admire the beautiful in death.
Thine was a dangerous gift, when thou wert born,
The gift of Beauty. Would thou hadst it not ;
Or wert as once, awing the caitiffs vile
That now beset thee, making thee their slave !
Would they had loved thee less, or feared thee more I
But why despair ? Twice hast thou lived already
49
Twice shone among the nations of the world,
As the sun shines among the lesser lights
Of heaven ; and shalt again. The hour shall come,
When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit,
VVho, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey,
Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again
If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess
Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame
Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously,
And, dying, left a splendour like the day,
That like the day diffused itself, and still
Blesses the earth — the light of genius, virtue.
Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death,
God-Hke example. Echoes that have slept
Since Athens, Laced^emon, were Themselves,
Since men invoked ' By those in Marathon !'
Awake along the ^Egean ; and the dead,
They of that sacred shore, have heard the call.
And thro' the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen
Moving as once they were — instead of rage
Breathing deliberate valour.
50
, COLL'ALTO.
" In this neglected mirror (the broad frame
Of massy silver serves to testify
That many a noble matron of the house
Has sat before it) once, alas, was seen
What led to many sorrows. From that time
The bat came hither for a sleeping place ;
And he, that cursed another in his heart,
Said, ' Be thy dwelling, thro' the day and night,
Shunned like Coll'alto.'"' — 'Twas in that old Pil<
Which flanks the cliff with its grey battlements
Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest.
Hangs in the Trevisan, that thus the Steward,
Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left.
Addressed me, as we entered what was called
* My Lady's Chamber.' On the walls, the chairs.
Much yet remained of the rich tapestry ;
Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot
In the green glades of some enchanted wood.
51
The toilet-table was of silver wrought,
Florentine Art, when Florence was renowned ;
A gay confusion of the elements,
Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers :
And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage,
Hung a small bird of curious workmanship,
That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold
(So says the babbling Dame, Tradition, there)
His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again
The song that pleased her. While I stood and looked,
A gleam of day yet lingering in the West,
The Steward went on. " She had ('tis now long since)
A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristine,
Fair as a lily, and as spotless too ;
None so admired, beloved. They had grown up
As play-fellows ; and some there were, that said.
Some that knew much, discoursing of Cristine,
' She is not what she seems.' When unrequired.
She would steal forth ; her custom, her delight.
To wander thro' and thro' an ancient grove
Self-planted half-way down, losing herself
Like one in love with sadness ; and her veil
And vesture white, seen ever in that place,
Ever as surely as the hours came round,
52
Among those reverend trees, gave her below
The name of The White Lady. But the day
Is gone, and I delay thee.
In that chair
The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting,
Her gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristine,
Combing her golden hair ; and thro' this door
The Count, her lord, was hastening, called away
By letters of great urgency to Venice ;
When in the glass she saw, as she believed,
('Twas an illusion of the Evil One —
Some say he came and crossed it at the time)
A smile, a glance at parting, given and answered.
That turned her blood to gall. That very night
The deed was done. That night, ere yet the Moon
Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf
Baying as still he does (oft is he heard,
An hour and more, by the old turret-clock)
They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristine,
Helping her down in her distress — to die.
" No blood was spilt ; no instrument of death
Lurked — or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose;
Nor was a hair of her unblemished head
Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower just blown,
53
And warm with life, her youthful pulses playing,
She was walled up within the Castle-wall.*
The wall itself was hollowed secretly ;
Then closed again, and done to line and rule.
Would'st thou descend ? 'Tis in a darksome vault
Under the Chapel : and there nightly now,
As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair,
And as if nothing had been done or thought.
The stone-work rose before her, till the light
Glimmered and went — there, nightly at that hour,
(Thou smil'st, and would it were an idle tale !)
In her white veil and vesture white she stands
Shuddering — her eyes uplifted, and her hands
Joined as in prayer ; then, like a Blessed Soul
Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away
Flies o'er the woods and mountains. Issuing forth,-]-
The hunter meets her in his hunting-track ;
The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims
(For still she bears the name she bore of old)
' 'Tis the White Lady !' "
* Murato was a technical word for tliis puDishment.
t Aa old huntsman of the family met her in the haze of tlie
morning, and never went out again.
She is still known by the name of Madonna liianca.
VENICE.
There is a glorious City in the Sea.
The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing ; and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Lead to her gates. The path Hes o'er the Sea,
Invisible ; and from the land we went,
55
As to a floating City — steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently — by many a dome,
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico.
The statues ranged along an azure sky ;
By many a pile in more than Eastern pride,
Of old the residence of merchant-kiiigs ;
The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art.
As though the wealth within them had run o'er.
Thither I came, and in a wondrous Ark,
(That, long before we slipt our cable, rang
As with the voices of all living things)
From Padua, where the stars are, night by night,
Watched from the top of an old dungeon-tower.
Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelin* —
Not as he watched them, when he read his fate
And shuddered. But of him I thought not then,
Him or his horoscope ; f far, far from me
» Now an Observatory. On the wall there is a long inscrip-
tion : ' Piis carcerem adspergite lacryniis,' &;c.
Ezzelino is seen by Dante in the river of blood.
t Bonatti was the great astrologer of that day ; and all the
little Princes of Italy contended for him. It was from the top
56
The forms of Guilt and Fear ; tho' some were there,
Sitting among- us round the cabin-board,
Some who, hke him, had cried, ' Spill blood enough !'
And could shake long at shadows. They had played
Their parts at Padua, and wex-e floating home,
Careless and full of mirth ; to-morrow a day
Not in their Calendar.* Who in a strain
To make the hearer fold his arms and sigh.
Sings ' Caro, Caro !' — 'Tis the Prima Donna,
And to her monkey, smiling in his face.
Who, as transported, cries, ' Brava ! Ancora !'
'Tis a grave personage, an old macaw,
Perched on her shoulder. — But who leaps ashore,
And with a shout urges the lagging mules ; -j-
of tlie tower of Forli that he gave his signals to Guide Norello.
At the first touch of a bell the Count put on his armour; at the
second he mounted his horse, and at the third marched out to
battle. His victories were ascribed to Bouatti ; and not perhaps
without reason. How many triumphs were due to the Sooth-
sayers of old Rome !
* " Douze personnes, tant acteurs qu' actiices, un souffieur,
un machiniste, un garde du magasin, des enfans de tout age, de's
chiens, des chats, des singes, des perroquets; c' etoit 1' arche
de Noe. — Ma predilection pour les soubrettes m'arreta sur
Madame Baccherini." Goldosi.
t The passage-boats are drawn up and down the Brenta.
57
Then climbs a tree that overhangs the stream,
And, like an acorn, drops on deck again ?
'Tis he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh;
That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino.
And mark their Poet — with what emphasis
He prompts the young Soubrette, conning her part I
Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box.
And prompts again ; for ever looking round
As if in search of subjects for his wit,
His satire ; and as often whispering
Things, though unheard, not unimaginable.
Had I thy pencil, Crabbe (when thou hast done,
Late may it be . . it will, hke Pkospero's staff.
Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth)
I would portray the Italian — Now I cannot.
Subtle, discerning, eloquent, the slave
Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes ;
Gentle when unprovoked, easily won,
But quick in quarrel — through a thousand shades
His spirit flits, cameleon-like ; and mocks
The eye of the observer.
Gliding on,
At length we leave the river for the sea.
At length a voice aloft proclaims ' Venezia I'
58
And, as called forth, she comes.
A few in fear,
Flying away from him whose hoast it was,*
That the grass grew not where his horse had trod,
Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl,
They built their nests among the ocean-waves ;
And where the sands were shifting, as the wind
Blew from the north or south — where they that came.
Had to make sure the ground they stood upon,
Rose, like an exhalation from the deep,
A vast Metropolisjf with glistering spires,
* Attila.
t " I love," says a traveller, " to contemplate, as I float along,
that multitude of palaces and churches, which are congregated
and pressed as on a vast raft." — " And who can forget his walk
through the Merceria, where the nightingales give you their
melody from shop to shop, so that, shutting your eyes, you would
think yourself in some forest-glade, when indeed you are all the
while in the middle of the sea? Who can forget his prospect
from the great tower, which once, when gilt, and when the sun
struck upon it, was to be descried by ships afar ofTj or his visit
to St. Mark's church, where you see nothing, tread on nothing,
but what is precious; the floor all agate, jasper; the roof
mosaic ; the aisle hung with the banners of the subject cities ;
the front and its five domes affecting you as the work of some
unknown people? Yet all this will presently pass away; the
waters will close over it ; and they, that come, row about in vriin
to determine exactly where it stood."
59
With theatres, basilicas adorned ;
A scene of light and glory, a dominion,
That has endured the longest among men.
And whence the talisman, whereby she rose.
Towering? 'Twas found there in the barren sea.
Want led to Enterprise ; * and, far or near.
Who met not the Venetian ? — now among
The i^GEAN Isles, steering from port to port,
Landing and bartering ; now, no stranger there.
In Cairo, or without the eastern gate,
Ere yet the Cafilaf came, listening to hear
Its bells approaching from the Red- Sea coast ;
Then on the Euxine, and that smaller Sea
Of Azoph, in close converse with the Russ,
And Tartar ; on his lowly deck receiving
Pearls from the Persian Gulf, gems from Golcond ;
Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love,
From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round,
When in the rich bazaar he saw, displayed,
Treasures from climes unknown, he asked and leanit,
And, travelling slowly upward, drew ere long
* "II fallut subsister; ils tirereut leur subsist aiice de tout
runivers." Montksquii-U.
t A Caravan.
60
From the well-head, supplying all below ;
Making the Imperial City of the East,
Herself, his tributary. — If we turn
To those black forests, where, through many an age,
Night without day, no axe the silence broke,
Or seldom, save where Rhine or Danube rolled ;
Where o'er the narrow glen a castle hangs,
And, like the wolf that himgered at his door,
ITie baron lived by rapine — there we meet.
In warlike guise, the Caravan from Venice;
When on its march, now lost and now beheld,
A glittering file (the trumpet heard, the scout
Sent and recalled) but at a city-gate
All gaiety, and looked for ere it comes ;
Winning regard with all that can attract,
Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert.
Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlemain,
And his brave peers, each with his visor up,
On their long lances lean and gaze awhile.
When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed
The wonders of the East ! Well might they then
Sigh for new Conquests !
Thus did Venice rise,
Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came,
61
That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet
From India, from the region of the Sun,
Fragrant with spices — that a way was found,
A channel opened, and the golden stream
Turned to enrich another. Then she felt
Her strength departing, yet awhile maintained
Her state, her splendour ; till a tempest shook
All things most held in honour among men,
All that the giant with the scythe had spared,
To their foundations, and at once she fell ;
She who had stood yet longer than the last
Of the Four Kingdoms — who, as in an Ark,
Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks,
Uninjured, from the Old World to the New,
From the last glimpse of civilized life — to where
Light shone again, and with the blaze of noon.
Through many an age in the mid-sea she dwelt,
From her retreat calmly contemplating
The changes of the Earth, herself unchanged.
Before her passed, as in an awful dream,
The mightiest of the mighty. What are these.
Clothed in their purple ? O'er the globe they fling
Their monstrous shadows ; and, while yet we speak,
Phantom-like, vanish with a dreadful scream I
6:2
What — but the last that styled themselves the Caesars ?
And who in long array (look where they come ;
Their gestures menacing so far and wide)
Wear the green turban and the heron's plume ?
WTio — but the Caliphs ? followed fast by shapes
As new and strange — Emperor, and King, and Czar,
And Soldan, each, with a gigantic stride,
Trampling on all the flourishing works of peace
To make his greatness greater, and inscribe
His name in blood — some, men of steel, steel-clad ;
Others, nor long, alas, the interval,
In light and gay attire, with brow serene
Wielding Jove's thunder, scattering sulphurous fire
Mingled with darkness ; and, among the rest,
Lo, one by one, passing continually,
Those who assume a sway beyond them all ;
Men grey \vith age, each in a triple crown.
And in his tremulous hands grasping the keys
That can alone, as he would signify.
Unlock Heaven's gate.
63
LUIGI.
Happy is he who loves companionship,
And lights on thee, LuiGi. Thee I found,
Playing at Mora* on the cabin-roof
With Punchinello. — 'Tis a game to strike
Fire from the coldest heart. What then from thine ?
And, ere the twentieth throw, I had resolved,
Won by thy looks. Thou wert an honest lad ;
Wert generous, grateful, not without ambition.
Had it depended on thy will alone,
Thou wouldst have numbered in thy family
At least six Doges and the first in fame.
But that was not to be. In thee I saw
The last, if not the least, of a long line,
W^ho in their forest, for three hundred years.
Had lived and laboured, cutting, charring wood ;
Discovering where they were, to those astray,
* A national game of great antiquity, and most [)robal)ly t!ie
' micare digitis ' of the Romans.
64
By the re-echoing stroke, the crash, the fall,
Or the blue wreath that travelled slowly up
Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies
Led thee away to justle in the crowd ;
And there I found thee — trying once again,
What for thyself thou hadst prescribed so oft,
A change of air and diet — once again
Crossing the sea, and springing to the shore
As though thou knewest where to dine and sleep.
First in Bologna didst thou plant thyself,
Serving behind a Cardinal's gouty chair,
Listening and oft replying, jest for jest ;
Then in Ferrara, every thing by turns,
So great thy genius and so Proteus-like !
Now serenading in a lover's train,
And measuring swords with his antagonist ;
Now carving, cup -bearing in halls of state ;
And now a guide to the lorn traveller,
A very Cicerone — yet, alas.
How unlike him who fulmined in old Rome !
Dealing out largely in exchange for pence
Thy scraps of Knowledge — thro' the grassy street
Leading, explaining — pointing to the bars
Of Tasso's dungeon, and the latin verse,
65
Graven in the stone, that yet denotes the dooi-
Of Ariosto.
Many a year is gone
Since on the Rhine we parted ; yet, methinks,
I can recall thee to the life, LuiGi,
In our long journey ever by my side ;
Thy locks jet-black, and clustering round a face
Open as day and full of manly daring.
Thou hadst a hand, a heart for all that came.
Herdsman or pedlar, monk or muleteer ;
And few there were, that met thee not with smiles.
Mishap passed o'er thee like a summer-cloud.
Cares thou hadst none; and they, that stood to hear thee,
Caught the infection and forgot their own.
Nature conceived thee in her mcnnest mood,
Her happiest — not a speck was in the sky ;
And at thy birth the cricket chirped, LuiGi,
Thine a perpetual voice — at every turn
A larum to the echo. In a clime,
Where all were gay, none were so gay as thou ;
Thou, like a babe, hushed only by thy slund)ers ;
Up hill and down, morning and noon and night.
Singing or talking ; singing to thyself
When none gave ear, but to the listener talking.
F
66
ST. MARK'S PLACE.
Over how many tracts, vast, measureless.
Ages on ages roll, and none appear
Save the wild hunter ranging for his prey ;
While on this spot of earth, the work of man,
How much has been transacted ! Emperors, Popes,
Warriors, from far and wide, laden with spoil.
Landing, have here perfomied their several parts,
Then left the stage to others. Not a stone
In the broad pavement, but to him who has
An eye, an ear for the Inanimate World,
Tells of Past Ages.
In that temple-porch
(The brass is gone, the porphyry remains,*)
* They were placed in the floor as memorials. The brass
was engraven with the words addressed by the Pope to the
Emperor, ' Super aspidem et basiliscum ambulabis,' &;c. Thou
shalt tread upon the asp and the basilisk: the lion and the
dragon shalt thou trample under foot.
67
Did Barbarossa fling his mantle off,
And, kneeling, on his neck receive the foot
Of the proud Pontiff* — thus at last consoled
For flight, disguise, and many an aguish shake
On his stone pillow. In that temple-porch,
Old as he was, so near his hundredth year,
And blind — his eyes put out — did Dandolo
Stand forth, displaying on his crown the cross.
There did he stand, erect, invincible,
Though wan his cheeks, and wet with many tears.
For in his prayers he had been weeping much ;
And now the pilgrims and the people wept
With admiration, saying in their hearts,
' Surely those aged limbs have need of rest Vj-
There did he stand, with his old armour on,
Ere, gonfalon in hand, that streamed aloft,
As conscious of its glorious destiny,
So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret.
* Alexander III. He fled in disguise to Venice, and is said
to have passed the first night on the steps of San Salvatore.
The entrance is from the Merceria, near the foot of the Rialto;
and it is tlius recorded, under his escutcheon, in a small tablet
at the door. ' Alexandro III. Pont. Max. pernoctanti.'
t See Geoffrey de Villehardouin.in Script. liipaiU. t. xx.
68
He sailed away, five hundred gallant ships,
Their lofty sides hung with emblazoned shields,
Following his track to fame. He went to die ;
But of his trophies four arrived ere long,
Snatched from destruction — the four steeds divine,
That strike the ground, resounding with their feet,*
And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame
Over that very portal — in the place
WTiere in an after-time, beside the Doge,
Sat one yet greater, -j- one whose verse shall live,
When the wave rolls o'er Venice. High he sat,
High over all, close by the ducal chair.
At the right hand of his illustrious Host,
Amid the noblest daughters of the realm.
Their beauty shaded from the western ray
By many-coloured hangings ; while, beneath,
Knights of all nations,:j; some of fair renown
* See Petrarch's description of them and of the tournament.
Rer, Senil. 1. iv. ep. 'i.
t Petrabcii
I Not less splendid were the tournaments of Florence in the
Place of Santa Croce. To tliose which were held there in
February and June, 1468, we are indebted for two of the most
celebrated poems of that age, the Giostra of Lorenzo de' Medici,
by Luca Pulci, and the Giostra of Giuliaiio de' Medici, by
Politian.
69
From England,* from victorious Edward's court,
Their lances in the rest, charged for the prize.
Here, among other pageants, and how oft
It met the eye, borne through the gazing crowd.
As if returning to console the least.
Instruct the greatest, did the Doge go round ;
Now in a chair of state, now on his bier.
They were his first appearance, and his last.
The sea, that emblem of uncertainty,
Changed not so fast for many and many an age,
As this small spot. To-day 'twas full of masks ;
And lo, the madness of the Carnival, -(-
The monk, the nun, the holy legate masked !
To-morrow came the scaffold and the wheel ;
* " Kecenti victoria exultantes," says Petritrcli : alluding,
no doubt, to the favourable issue of the war in France. This
festival began on the 4th of August, 1,')(34.
) Among those the most followed, there was always a mask
in a magnificent habit, relating marvellous adventures, and call-
ing himself Messer Marco Millioni. Millioni was the name
given by his fellow-ciiizens in his life-time to the groat traveller,
IMarco Polo. ' I have seen him so described,' says Ramusio,
' in the Records of the Republic ; and his house has, from that
time to this, been called T.a Corte del Millioni,' the palace of
the rich man, the millionnaire. It is on the canal of S. Giovanni
Chrisostomo ; and, as long as he lived, was much resorted lo by
the curious and the learned.
70
And he died there, by torch-Hght, bound and gagged,
Whose name and crime they knew not. Underneath
Where the Archangel,* as ahghted there,
Blesses the City from the topmost-tower,
His arms extended — there, in monstrous league,
Two phantom-shapes were sitting, side by side.
Or up, and, as in sport, chasing each other;
Horror and Mirth. Both vanished in one hour !
But Ocean only, when again he claims
His ancient rule, shall wash away their footsteps.
Enter the Palace by the marble stairs f
Down which the grizzly head of old Falier,
Rolled from the block. Pass onward thro' the hall,
Where, among those drawn in their ducal robes,
But one is wanting — where, thrown off in heat,
A brief inscription on the Doge's chair
Led to another on the wall as brief ;|
* " In atto di dar la benedittione," says Sansovino; and
performing the same oflBce as the Triton on the tower of tlie
winds at Athens.
t Now called La Scala de' Giganti. The colossal statues
were placed there in 1566.
i ' Marin Faliero dalla bella raoglie : altri la gode ed egli la
mantiene.'
' Locus Marini Faletri decapitati pro criminibus.'
71
And thou wilt ti-ack them — wiU from rooms of state,
^^'here kings have feasted, and the festal song-
Rung through the fretted roof, cedar and gold,
Step into darkness ; and be told, ' 'Twas here,
Trusting, deceived, assembled but to die.
To take a long embrace and part again,
Carrara and his valiant sons were slain ;
He first — then they, whose only crime had been
Struggling to save their Father. Thro' that door,
So soon to cry, smiting his brow, ' I am lost !'
Was with all courtesv, all honour, shewn
The great and noble captain, Carmagnola.*
That deep descent (thou canst not yet discern
Aught as it is) leads to the dripping vaults
Under the flood, where light and warmth were never !
Leads to a covered Bridge, the Bridge of Sighs ;
And to that fatal closet at the foot.
Lurking for prey, which, when a victim came,
Grew less and less, contracting to a span ;
An iron-door, urged onward by a screw,
Forcing out life. But let us to the roof,
And, when thou hast surveyed the sea, the land,
* " II Conte, enlrando in prigione, disse: Vudo bene ch' io
son roorto, e trasse un grande sospiio." IM. Sanuto.
72
Visit the narrow cells that cluster there,
As in a place of tombs, lliere burning suns,
Day after day, beat unrelentingly ;
Turning all things to dust, and scorching up
The brain, till Reason fled, and the wild yell
And wilder laugh burst out on every side.
Answering each other as in mockery !
Few Houses of the size were better filled ;
Though many came and left it in an hour.
' Most nights,' so said the good old Nicolo,
(For three-and-thirty years his uncle kept
The water-gate below, but seldom spoke.
Though much was on his mind,) ' most nights arrived
The prison-boat, that boat with many oars,
And bore away as to the Lower World,
Disburdening in the Canal Orfaxo,*
That drowning-place, where never net was thrown.
Summer or Winter, death the penalty ; ,
And where a secret, once deposited.
Lay till the waters should give up their dead.'
Yet what so gay as Venice?! Every gale
* A deep channel behind the island of S. Giorgio Maggiore.
t ' How fares it with j'our world V says his Highness the
Devil to QuEVEDO, on their first interview in the lower regions.
Breathedmusic ! and who flocked not, while she reigned,
To celehrate her Nuptials with the Sea ;
To wear the mask, and mingle in the crowd
With Greek, Armenian, Persian — night and day
(There, and there only, did the hour stand still)
Pursuing thro' her thousand labyrinths
The Enchantress Pleasure ; realizing dreams
The earliest, happiest — for a tale to catch
Credulous ears, and hold young hearts in chains.
Had only to begin, ' There lived in Venice'
' Who were the Six we supped with Yesternight ?'*
' Kings, one and all ! Thou couldst not but remark
The style and manner of the Six that served them.'
' Who answered me just now ? -f- Who, when 1 said,
" 'Tis nine,' turned round and said so solemnly,
" Signor, he died at nine !" — ' 'Twas the Armenian ;
The mask that follows thee, go where thou wilt.'
' But who moves there, alone among them all ?'
' Do I prosper ibere?' — ' Much as usual, I believe.' — ' But tell
me truly. How is my good city of Venice? Flourishing.'' —
' More than ever.' — 'Then I am under no apprehension. All
must go well.'
* An allusion to the Supper in Candide: c. x.wi.
t See Schiller's Gliost-seer, c. i.
74
' The Cypriot. Ministers from distant Courts
Beset his doors, long ere his rising-hour ;
His the Great Secret ! Not the golden house
Of Nero, nor those fabled in the East,
Rich though they were, so wondrous rich as his !
Two dogs, coal-black, in collars of pure gold,
Walk in his footsteps — Who but his familiars ?
They walk, and cast no shadow in the sun !
And mark Him speaking. They, that listen, stand
As if his tongue dropped honey ; yet his glance
None can endure ! He looks nor young nor old ;
And at a tourney, where I sat and saw,
A very child (full threescore years are gone)
Borne on my father's shoulder thro' the crowd,
He looked not otherwise. Where'er he stops,
Tho' short the sojourn, on his chamber-wall,
Mid many a treasure gleaned from many a clime.
His portrait hangs — but none must notice it ;
For Titian glows in every lineament,
(Where is it not inscribed. The work is his !)
And Titian died two hundred years ago.'
— Such their discourse. AssembUng in St. Mark's,
All nations met as on enchanted ground !
What tho' a strange mysterious Power was there,
75
Moving throughout, subtle, invisible,
And universal as the air they breathed ;
A Power that never slumbered, nor forgave,
All eye, all ear, no where and every where,
Entering the closet and the sanctuary.
No place of refuge for the Doge himself ;
Most present when least thought of — nothing dropt
In secret, when the heart was on the lips.
Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly
Observed and judged — a Power, that if but named
In casual converse, be it where it might.
The speaker lowered at once his eyes, his voice,
And pointed upward as to God in Heaven
What tho' that Power was there, he who hved thus,
Pursuing Pleasure, lived as if it were not.
But let him in the midnight-air indulge
A word, a thought against the laws of Venice,
And in that hour he vanished from the earth !
76'
THE GONDOLA.
Boy, call the Gondola; the sun is set.-
It came, and we embarked ; but instantly,
As at the waving of a magic wand,
Though she had stept on boai'd so light of foot.
So light of heart, laughing she knew not why,
.Sleep overcame her ; on my arm she slept.
From time to time I waked her ; but the boat
Rocked her to sleep again. The moon was now
Rising full-orbed, but broken by a cloud.
The wind was hushed, and the sea mirror-like.
A single zephyr, as enamoured, played
With her loose tresses, and drew more and more
Her veil across her bosom. Long I lay
Contemplating that face so beautiful,
That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled with smiles,
That neck but half-concealed, whiter than snow.
'Twas the sweet slumber of her early age.
77
I looked and looked, and felt a flush of joy
I would express but cannot. Oft I wished
Gently - - by stealth - - to drop asleep myself,
And to incline yet lower that sleep might come ;
Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness.
'Twas all in vain. Love would not let me rest.
But how delightful when at length she waked I
When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil
So rudely scattered, she resumed her place
Beside me ; and, as gaily as before,
Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer,
Poured out her innocent mind !
So, nor long since,
Sung a Venetian ; and his lay of love,*
Dangerous and sweet, charmed Venice. For myself,
(Less fortunate, if Love be Happiness)
No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm,
I went alone beneath the silent moon ;
Thy square, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces,
Glittering and frost-like, and, as day drew on.
Melting away, an emblem of themselves.
Those Porches passed, thro' which the water-breeze
* La Biondina in Gondoletia.
78
Plays, though no longer on the noble forms *
That moved there, sable-vested — and the Quay,
Silent, grass-grown — adventurer-like I launched
Into the deep, ere long discovering
Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas,
All verdure. Every where, from bush and brake,
The musky odour of the serpents came ;
Their slimy track across the woodman's path
Bright in the moonshine ; and, as round I went.
Dreaming of Greece, whither the waves were gliding,
I listened to the venerable pines
Then in close converse,f and, if right I guessed,
Delivering many a message to the Winds,
In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida.
Nor when again in Venice, when again
In that strange place, so stirring and so still,
WTiere nothing comes to drown the human voice
But music, or the dashing of the tide,
Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica
* ' C'etait sous les portiques de Saint-Marc que les patriciens
se reunissaient tous les jours. Le nom de cette promenade
indiquait sa destination; on I'appellait il Broglio.' — Daru.
t I am indebted for this thought to some unpublished travels
by the Author of Vatbek.
79
Sung to her lute, her signal as she sat
At her half-open window. Then, methought,
A serenade broke silence, breathing hope
Thro' walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart
Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err,
(It was before an old Palladian house,
As between night and day we floated by)
A Gondolier lay singing ; and he sung,
As in the time when Venice was herself,*
Of Tancred and Ermixia. On our oars
We rested ; and the verse was verse divine !
We could not err — Perhaps he was the last —
For none took up the strain, none answered him ;
And, when he ceased, he left upon my ear
A something like the dying voice of Venice !
* Goldoni, describing his excursion with the Passalacqua, lias
left us a lively picture of this class of men.
" We were no sooner in the middle of that great lagoon which
encircles the City, than our discreet Gondolier drew the curtain
behind us, and let us float at the will of the waves, — At length
night came on, and we could not tell where we were. ' What
is the hour?' said I to the Gondolier. — ' I cannot guess. Sir;
but, if I am not mistaken, it is the lover's hour.' — ' Let us go
home,' I replied; and he turned the prow homeward, singing,
as lie rowed, the twenty-sixth strophe of the sixteenth canto of
the Jerusalem Delivered."
80
The moon went dov.n ; and nothing now was seen
Save where the lamp of a ]\'^" donna shone
Faintly — or heard, but when he spoke, who stood
Over the lantern at the prow and cried,
Turning the corner of some reverend pile.
Some school or hospital of old renown,
The' haply none were coming, none were near,
' Hasten or slacken.' * But at length Night fled ;
And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Pleasure.
Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like,
Crossed me and vanished — lost at once among
Those hundred Isles that tower majestically,
That rise abruptly from the water-mark,
Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work
Of noblest architects. I lingered still ;
Nor sought my threshold, -j- till the hour was come
And past, when, flitting home in the grey light.
The young Bianca found her father's door,j.
* Premi o stali.
t At Venice, if you have la riva in casa, you step from your
boat into the hall. See Rose's Letters from the North of
Italy.
X Bianca Capello. It had been shut, if we may believe the
Novelist Malespini, by a baker's boy, as he passed by at day-
81
That door so often with a trembUng hand,
So often — then so lately left ajar,
Shut ; and, all terror, all perjslexity,
Now by her lover urged, now by her love,
Fled o'er the waters to return no more.
break ; and in her despair sbe fled witli her lover to Florence,
where he fell by assassination. Her beauty, and her love-
adventure as here related, her marriage afterwards with the
Grand Duke, and that fatal banquet at which they were both
poisoned by the Cardinal, his brother, have rendered her
history a romance. ,
THE BRIDES OF VENICE.*
It was St. Mary's Eve, and all poured forth
For some great festival. Tlie fisher came
From his green islet, bringing o'er the waves
His wife and little one ; the husbandman
From the Firm Land, -svith many a friar and nun.
And village-maiden, her first flight from home,
Crowding the common ferry. All arrived ;
And in his straw the prisoner turned and hstened,
So great the stir in Venice. Old and young
Thronged her three hundred bridges ; the grave Turk,
Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew,
In yellow hat and thread-bare gaberdine.
Hurrying along. For, as the custom was,
The noblest sons and daughters of the State,
* This circumstance took place at Venice on the first of
February, the eve of the feast of the Purification of the Virgin,
.4. D. 994, Pietro Candiano, Doge.
83
Whose names are written in the Book of Gold,
Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials.
At noon a distant murmur through the crowd
Rising and rolling on, proclaimed them near ;
And never from their earliest hour was seen
Such splendour or such beaut3^* Two and two,
(The richest tapestry unrolled before them)
First came the Brides ; each in her virgin-veil,
Nor unattended by her bridal maids,
The two that, step by step, behind her bore
The small but precious caskets that contained
The dowry and the presents. On she moved.
Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand
A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich-plumes.
Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, -j-
Fell from beneath a starry diadem ;
And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone,
* ' E '1 costume era, che tutte le novizze con tutta la dote
lore venissero alia detta chiesa, dov' era il vescovo con tutta la
chieresia.' — A. Navagiero.
t Among the Habiti Anlichi, in that admirable book of wood-
cuts ascribed to Titian (a. d. 1590), there is one entitled,
' Sposa Venetiana ii Castello.' It was taken from an old paint-
ing in the Scuola di S. Giovanni Evangelista, and by the Writer
is believed to represent one of the Brides here described.
84
Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst ;
A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath,
Wreathing her gold brocade.
Before the Church,
That venerable structure now no more*
On the sea-brink, another train they met.
No strangers, nor unlooked for ere they came,
Brothers to some, still dearer to the rest ;
Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume.
And, as he walked, with modest dignity
Folding his scarlet mantle. At the gate
They join ; and slowly up the bannered aisle
Led by the choir, with due solemnity
Range round the altar. In his vestments there
The Patriarch stands ; and, while the anthem flows.
Who can look on unmoved — the dream of years
Just now fulfilling ! Here a mother weeps.
Rejoicing in her daughtei*. There a son
Blesses the day that is to make her his ;
While she shines forth through all her ornament,
Her beauty heightened by her hopes and fears.
At length the rite is ending. All fall down,
* San Pietro di Castello, the Patriarchal Church of \ enice.
85
All of all ranks ; and, stretching out his hands,
Apostle-like, the holy man proceeds
To give the blessing — not a stir, a breath ;
WTien hark, a din of voices from without.
And shrieks and groans and outcries as in battle I
And lo, the door is burst, the curtain rent.
And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep,
Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbaro,
And his six brothers in their coats of steel.
Are standing on the threshold ! Statue-like
Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude.
Each with his sabre up, in act to strike ;
Then, as at once recovering from the spell,
Rush forward to the altar, and as soon
Are gone again — amid no clash of arms
Bearing away the maidens and the treasures.
Where are they now ? — ploughing the distant waves.
Their sails out-spread and given to the wind,
They on their decks triumphant. On they speed,
Steering for Istria ; their accursed barks
(Well are they known,* the galliot and the galley)
Freighted, alas, with all that life endears !
* ' Una galera e una galeotta.' — M. Sanuto.
86
The richest argosies were poor to them !
Now hadst thou seen along that crowded shore
The matrons running wild, their festal dress
A strange and moving contrast to their grief;
And through the city, wander where thou wouldst,
The men half armed and arming — every where
As roused from slumber by the stirring trump ;
One with a shield, one with a casque and spear ;
One with an axe severing in two the chain
Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank.
But on that day was drifting. In an hour
Half Venice was afloat. But long before,
Frantic with grief and scorning all controul,
The Youths were gone in a light brigantine,
Lying at anchor near the Arsenal ;
Each having sworn, and by the holy rood,
To slay or to be slain.
And from the tower
The watchman gives the signal. In the East
A ship is seen, and making for the Port ;
Her flag St. Mark's. And now she turns the point,
Over the waters like a sea-bird flying !
Ha, 'tis the same, 'tis theirs ! from stern to prow
Green with victorious wreaths, she comes to bring-
87
All that was lost.
Coasting, with narrow search,
Friuli — like a tiger in his spring,
They had surprised the Corsairs where they lay *
Sharing the spoil in blind security
And casting lots — had slain them, one and all.
All to the last, and flung them far and wide
Into the sea, their proper element ;
Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long
Had hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet,-
Breathing a little, in his look retained
The fierceness of his soul.f
Thus were the Brides
Lost and recovered ; and what now remained
But to give Thanks ? Twelve breast-plates and twelve
crowns.
By the young Victors to their Patron-Saint
\'owed in the field, inestimable gifts
Flaming with gems and gold, were in due time
Laid at his feet ; :j; and ever to preserve
* In tlie lagoons of Caorlo. The creek is still called II Porln
delle Donzelle.
+ ' Paululum etiam spirans,' (?)C.— Sai.i.ust. Bell. Calul. 59.
t They are described by Evelyn and La Lande ; and were to
be seen in the Treasury of St. Mark very lately.
88
The memory of a day so full of change,
From joy to grief, from grief to joy again,
Through many an age, as oft as it came round,
'Twas held religiously. The Doge resigned
His crimson for pure ermine, visiting
At earliest dawn St. Mary's silver shrine ;
And through the city, in a stately barge *
Of gold, were borne with songs and symphonies
Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were
In bridal white with bridal ornaments,
Each in her glittering veil ; and on the deck.
As on a burnished throne, they ghded by ;
No window or balcony but adorned
With hangings of rich texture, not a roof
But covered with beholders, and the air
Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars
Moving in concert with the harmony,
Through the Rialtof to the Ducal Palace,
* ' Le quali con trionfo si conducessero sopra una piatta pe'
canali di Venezia con suoni e canti.' — M. Sanuto.
t An English abbreviation. Rialto is the name, not of the
bridge, but of the island from which it is called ; and the Vene-
tians say Il-ponte di Rialto, as we say Westminster-bridge.
In that island is the Exchange; and I have often walked
there as on classic ground. In the days of Antonio and Bassa-
89
And at a banquet, served with honour there,
Sat representing, in the eyes of all,
Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears.
Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice.
nio it was second to none. " I sottoportici," says Sansovino,
writing in 1580, " sono ogni giorno frequentati da i mercatanti
Fiorentini, Genovesi, Milanesi, Spagnuoli, Turchi, e d' altie
nationi diverse del mondo, i quali vi concorrono in tanta copia,
che questa piazza e anuoverata fra le prime dell' universe." It
was there that the Christian held discourse with the Jew ; and
Shylock refers to it, when he says,
" Signer Antonio, many a time and oft,
In the Rialto you have rated me — "
' Andiamo a Rialto ' — ' L'ora di Rialto ' — were on every tongue ;
and continue so to the present day, as we learn from the come-
dies of Goldoni, and particularly from his Mercanti.
There is a place adjoining, called Rialto Nuovo ; and so
called, according to Sansovino, " perche fu fabbricato dope il
vecchio."
90
FOSCARI.
Let us lift up the curtain, and observe
What passes in that chamber. Now a sigh,
And now a groan is heard. Then all is still.
Twenty are sitting as in judgment there ;*
Men who have served their country, and grown grey
In governments and distant embassies,
Men eminent alike in war and peace ;
Such as in effigy shall long adorn
The walls of Venice — to shew what she was !
Their garb is black, and black the arras is,
And sad the general aspect. Yet their looks
Are calm, are cheerful ; nothing there like grief,
Nothing or harsh or cruel. Still that noise,
* 'Che Council of Ten and the Giunta, " nel quale," says
Sanuto, " iu messer lo doge." The Giunta at the first exami-
nation consisted of ten Patricians, at the last of twenty.
This story and the Tragedy of the Two Foscari were pub-
lished, within a few days of each other, in jNovember 18'21.
91
That low and dismal moaning.
Half withdrawn,
A little to the left, sits one in crimson,
A venerable man, fourscore and five.
Cold drops of sweat stand on his furrowed brow.
His hands are clenched ; his eyes half-shut and glazed ;
His shrunk and withered limbs rigid as marble.
'Tis FoscARi, the Doge. And there is one,
A young man, lying at his feet, stretched out
In torture. 'Tis his son. 'Tis Giacomo,
His only joy (and has he lived for this ?)
Accused of murder. Yesternight the proofs,
If proofs they be, were in the lion's mouth
Dropt by some hand unseen ; and he, himself,
Must sit and look on a beloved son
Suffering the Question.
Twice to die in peace,
To save, while yet he could, a falling house,
And turn the hearts of his fell Adversaries,
Those who had now, like hell-hounds in full cry,
Chased down his last of four, twice did he ask
To lay aside the Crown, and they refused,
An oath exacting, never more to ask ;
And there he sits, a spectacle of woe.
92
Condemned in bitter mockery to wear
The bauble he had sighed for.
Once again
The screw is turned ; and, as it turns, the Son
Looks up, and, in a faint and broken tone.
Murmurs ' My Father I' The old man shrinks back,
And in his mantle muffles up his face.
' Art thou not guilty ?' says a voice, that once
Would greet the Sufferer long before they met,
' Art thou not guilty ?' — ' No ! Indeed I am not !'
But all is unavailing. In that Court
Groans are confessions ; Patience, Fortitude,
The work of Magic ; and, released, revived.
For Condemnation, from his Father's lips
He hears the sentence, ' Banishment to Candia.
Death, if he leaves it.' And the bark sets sail ;
And he is gone from all he loves in life !
Gone in the dead of night — vmseen of any —
Without a word, a look of tenderness,
To be called up, when, in his lonely hours.
He would indulge in weeping. Like a ghost,
Day after day, year after year, he haxmts
An ancient rampart that o'erhangs the sea ;
Gazing on vacancy, and hourly there
93
Starting as from some wild and micouth dream,
To answer to the watch. Alas, how changed
From him the miiTor of the Youth of Venice ;
Whom in the slightest thing, or whim or chance.
Did he but wear his doublet so and so,
All followed ; at whose nuptials, when he won
That maid at once the noblest, fairest, best,*
A daughter of the House that now among
Its ancestors in monumental brass
Numbers eight Doges — to convey her home,
The Bucentaur went forth ; and thrice the Sun
Shone on the Chivalry, that, front to front.
And blaze on blaze reflecting, met and ranged
To tourney at St. Mark's. — But lo, at last,
Messengers come. He is recalled : his heart
Leaps at the tidings. He embarks : the boat
* She was a Contarini ; a name coeval with the Republic,
and illustrated by eight Doges. On the occasion of their
marriage the Bucentaur came out in its splendour; and a
bridge of boats was thrown across the Canal Grande for the
Bridegroom and his retinue of three hundred horse. Sauuto
dwells with pleasure on the costliness of the dresses and the
magnificence of the processions by land and water. The tour-
naments in the place of St. Mark lasted three days, and wme
attended by thirty thousand people.
94
Springs to the oar, and back again he goes —
Into that very Chamber ! there to lie
In his old resting-place, the bed of steel ;
And thence look up (Five long, long years of Grief
Have not killed either) on his wretched Sire,
Still in that seat — as though he had not stirred ;
Immovable, and muffled in his cloak.
But now he comes, convicted of a crime
Great by the laws of Venice. Night and day,
Brooding on what he had been, what he was,
'Twas more than he could bear. His longing-fits
Thickened upon him. His desire for home
Became a madness ; and, resolved to go.
If but to die, in his despair he writes
A letter to the sovereign-prince of Milan,
(To him whose name, among the greatest now,*
* Francesco Sforza. His father, when at work in the field,
was accosted by some soldiers and asked if he would enlist.
' Let me throw my mattock on that oak,' he replied, ' and, if it
remains there, I will.' It remained there ; and the peasant,
regarding it as a sign, enlisted. He became soldier, general,
prince ; and his grandson, in the palace at INlilan, said to Paulus
Jovius, ' You behold these guards and this grandeur. I owe
every thing to the branch of an oak, the branch that held my
grandfather's mattock.'
95
Had perished, blotted out at once and rased,
But for the rugged Hmb of an old oak)
Soliciting his influence with the State,
And drops it to be found. ' Would ye know all ?
I have transgressed, offended wilfully ; *
And am prepared to suffer as I ought.
But let me, let me, if but for an hour,
(Ye must consent — for all of you are sons.
Most of you husbands, fathers) let me first
Indulge the natural feelings of a man.
And, ere I die, if such my sentence be,
Press to my heart ('tis all I ask of you)
My wife, my children — and my aged mother —
Say, is she yet alive ?' He is condemned
To go ere set of sun, go whence he came,
A banished man ; and for a year to breathe
The vapour of a dungeon. But his prayer
(What could they less ?) is granted.
In a hall
Open and crowded by the common herd,
'Twas there a Wife and her four sons yet young,
A Mother borne along, life ebbing fast,
' It was a high crime to solicit the intercession of any Foreign
Prince.
96
And an old Doge, mustering his strength m vain,
Assembled now, sad privilege, to meet
One so long lost, one who for them had braved,
For them had sought — death and yet worse than death !
To meet him, and to part with him for ever ! —
Time and their wrongs had changed them all, him most !
Yet when the Wife, the Mother looked again,
'Twas he — 'twas he himself — 'twas Giacomo !
And all clung round him, weeping bitterly ;
Weeping the more, because they wept in vain.
Unnerved, and now unsettled in his mind
From long and exquisite pain, he sobs and cries.
Kissing the old Man's cheek, ' Help me, my Father !
Let me, I pray thee, live once more among ye :
Let me go home.' ' My Son,' returns the Doge,
Mastering his grief, ' if thou art indeed my Son,
Obey. Thy Country wills it.'*
Giacomo
That night embarked ; sent to an early grave
For one whose dying words, ' The deed was mine !
He is most innocent ! 'Twas I who did it I'
Came when he slept in peace. The ship, that sailed
* ' Va e ubbidisci a quello clie vuole la terra, e noii terrar
piu oltre.'
97
Swift as the winds with his dehverance,
Bore back a hfeless corse. Generous as brave,
Affection, kindness, the sweet offices
Of duty and love were from his tenderest years
To him as needful as his daily bread ;
And to become a by-word in the streets,
Bringing a stain on those who gave him life,
And those, alas, now worse than fatherless —
To be proclaimed a ruffian, a night-stabber.
He on whom none before had breathed reproach —
He lived but to disprove it. That hope lost,
Death followed. Oh, if Justice be in Heaven,
A day must come of ample Retribution !
Then was thy cup, old Man, full to the brim.
But thou wert yet alive ; and there was one.
The soul and spring of all that Enmity,
Who would not leave thee ; fastening on thy flank.
Hungering and thirsting, still unsatisfied ;
One of a name illustrious as thine own !
One of the Ten ! one of the Invisible Three ! *
'Twas LoREDANO. When the whelps were gone,
He would dislodge the Lion from his den ;
• The State-Inquisitors. For an account of their Autlioiit),
see page 75.
H
98
And, leading on the pack he long had led,
The miserable pack that ever howled
Against fallen Greatness, moved that Foscari
Be Doge no longer ; urging his great age ;
Calling the loneliness of grief neglect
Of duty, suUenness against the laws.
' I am most willing to retire,' said he :
' But I have sworn, and cannot of myself.
Do with me as ye please.' He was deposed,
He, who had reigned so long and gloriously ;
His ducal bonnet taken from his brow,
His robes stript off, his seal and signet-ring
Broken before him. But now nothing moved
The meekness of his soul. All things alike !
Among the six that came with the decree,
Foscari saw one he knew not, and inquired
His name. ' I am the son of Marco Memmo.'
' Ah,' he rephed, ' thy father was my friend.'
And now he goes. ' It is the hour and past.
I have no business here.' ' But wilt thou not
Avoid the gazing crowd ? That way is private.'
' No ! as I entered, so will I retire.'
And, leaning on his staff, he left the House,
His residence for five-and-thirty years,
99
By the same stairs up which he came in state ;
Those where the giants stand, guarding the ascent,
Monstrous, terrific. At tlie foot he stopt,
And, on his staff still leaning, turned and said,
' By mine own merits did I come. I go.
Driven by the malice of mine Enemies.'
Then to his boat withdrew, poor as he came,
Amid the sighs of them that dared not speak.
This journey was his last. When the bell rang
At dawn, announcing a new Doge to Venice,
It found him on his knees before the Cross,
Clasping his aged hands in earnest prayer ;
And there he died. Ere half its task was done,
It rang his knell.
But whence the deadly hate
That caused all this — the hate of Loredano?
It was a legacy his Father left,
^Vho, but for Foscari, had reigned in Venice,
And, like the venom in the serpent's bag.
Gathered and grew ! Nothing hut turned to hate !
In vain did Foscari supplicate for peace,
Offering in marriage his fair Isabel.
He changed not, with a dreadful piety
Studying revenge ; listening to those alone
100
Who talked of vengeance ; grasping by the hand
Those in their zeal (and none were wanting there)
Who came to tell him of another Wrong,
Done or imagined. When his father died,
They whispered, ' 'Twas by poison !' and the words
Struck him as uttered from his father's grave.
He wrote it on the tomb* ('tis there in marble)
And with a brow of care, most merchant-like.
Among the debtors in his leger-book f
Entered at full (nor month, nor day forgot)
' Francesco Foscari — for my Father's death.'
Leaving a blank — to be filled up hereafter.
When FoscARi's noble heart at length gave way.
He took the volume from the shelf again
Calmly, and with his pen filled up the blank,
Inscribing, ' He has paid me.'
Ye who sit
Brooding from day to day, from day to day
Chewing the bitter cud, and starting up
• " Veneno sublatus." The tomb is in the C'hurch of
St. Elena.
t A remarkable instance, among others in the annals of
Venice, that her princes were merchants; her merchants
princes,
101
As tho' the hour was come to whet your fangs,
And, like the Pisan,* gnaw the hairy scalp
Of him who had offended — if ye must,
Sit and brood on ; but oh forbear to teach
The lesson to your childi-en.
* Count Ugolino. — Inferno, 32.
102
MARCOLINI.
It was midnight ; the great clock had struck, and
was still echoing through every porch and gallery in
the quarter of St. Mark, when a young Citizen,
wrapped in his cloak, was hastening home under it
from an interview with his Mistress. His step was
light, for his heai't was so. Her parents had just
consented to their marriage ; and the very day was
named. ' Lovely Giulietta !' he ci'ied, ' And shall
I then call thee mine at last? Who was ever so
blest as thy Marcolini ?' But as he spoke, he
stopped ; for something glittered on the pavement
before him. It was a scabbard of rich workmanship ;
and the discovery, what was it but an earnest of good
fortune? ' Rest thou there!' he cried, thrusting it
gaily into his belt. ' If another claims thee not, thou
hast changed masters !' and on he went as before
humming the burden of a song which he and his
Giulietta had been singing together. But how
103
little we know what the next minute will bring forth !
He turned by the Church of St. Geminiano, and
in three steps he met the Watch. A murder had
just been committed. The Senator Renaldi had
been found dead at his door, the dagger left in his
heart; and the unfortunate Marcolini was dragged
away for examination. The place, the time, every
thing served to excite, to justify suspicion ; and no
sooner had he entered the guardhouse than a damning
witness appeared against him. The Bravo in his
flight had thrown away his scabbard ; and, smeared
with blood, with blood not yet dry, it was now in the
belt of Marcolini. Its Patrician ornaments struck
every eye ; and, when the fatal dagger was produced
and compared with it, not a doubt of his guilt remained.
Still there is in the innocent an energy and a com-
posure, an energy when they speak and a composure
when they are silent, to which none can be altogether
insensible ; and the Judge delayed for some time to
pronounce the sentence, though he was a iu>ar relation
of the dead. At length however it came; and Mar-
colini lost his life, Giulietta her reason.
Not many years afterwards the truth revealed itself,
the real criminal in his last moments confessing the
104
crime : and hence the custom in Venice, a custom
that long prevailed, for a cryer to cry out in the
Court before a sentence was passed, ' Ricordatevi del
povero Marcolini I' *
Great indeed was the lamentation throughout the
City ; and the Judge, dying, directed that thenceforth
and for ever a Mass should be sung every night in a
chapel of the Ducal Church for his own soul and the
soul of Marcolini and the souls of all who had
suffered by an unjust judgment. Some land on the
Brenta was left by him for the purpose : and still is
the Mass sung in the chapel ; still every night, when
the great square is illuminating and the casinos are
filling fast with the gay and the dissipated, a bell is
rung as for a service, and a ray of light seen to issue
from a small gothic window that looks towards the
place of execution, the place where on a scaffold
Marcolini breathed his last.
* Remember ihe poor IMarcolim !
105
ARQUA.
Three leagues from Padua stands, and long has stood
(The Paduan student knows it, honours it)
A lonely tomb beside a mountain-church ;
And I arrived there as the sun declined
Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe
Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds
Singing their farewell-song — the very song
They sung the night that tomb received a tenant ;
When, as alive, clothed in his Canon's stole,
And slowly winding down the narrow path.
He came to rest there. Nobles of the land,
Princes and prelates mingled in his train.
Anxious by any act, while yet they could.
To catch a ray of glory by reflection ;
And from that hour have kindred spirits flocked *
* ' I visited once more,' says Alfieri, ' tlie tomb of our
106
From distant countries, from the north, the south,
To see where he is laid.
Twelve years ago,
Wlien I descended the impetuous Rhone,
Its vineyards of such great and old renown,*
Its castles, each with some romantic tale,
Vanishing fast — the pilot at the stern,
He who had steered so long, standing aloft,
His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands
On what was now his rudder, now his oar,
A huge misshapen plank — the bark itself
Frail and uncouth, launched to return no more.
Such as a shipwrecked man might hope to build,
master in love, the divine Petrarch ; and there, as at Ravenna,
consecrated a day to meditation and verse.'
He visited also the house ; and in the Album there wrote a
sonnet worthy of Petrarch himself.
" O Cameretta, die gia in te chiudesti
Quel Grande alia cui fama e angusto il moudo," &c.
Alfieri took great pleasure in what he called his poetical
pilgrimages. At the birth-place and the grave of Tasso he was
often to be found ; and in the library at Ferrara he has left this
memorial of himself on a blank leaf of the Orlando Furioso :
' ViTTORio Alfieri vide e venero. 18 giugno, 178j.'
* The Cote Rotie, the Hermitage, S^c.
107
Urged by the love of home — Twelve years ago,
When like an arrow from the cord we flew,
Two long, long days, silence, suspense on board,
It was to offer at thy fount, Vaucluse,
Entering the arched Cave, to wander where
Petrarch had wandered, to explore and sit
Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit.
Musing, reciting — on some rock moss-grown,
Or the fantastic root of some old beech,
That drinks the living waters as they stream
Over their emerald-bed ; and could I now
Neglect the place where, in a graver mood,*
When he had done and settled with the world,
When all the illusions of his Youth were fled,
Indulged perhaps too much, cherished too long,
He came for the conclusion ? Half-way up
He built his house, f whence as by stealth he caught,
* This village, says Boccaccio, hitlierto almost unknown even
at Padua, is soon to become famous through the World ; and
the sailor on the Adriatic will prostrate himself, when he
discovers the Euganean hills. ' Among them,' will he say,
' sleeps the Poet who is our glory. Ah, unhappy Florence !
You neglected him — You deserved him not.'
t ' I have built, among the Euganeqii hills, a small house,
108
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life
That soothed, not stirred. — But knock, and enter in.
This was his chamber. 'Tis as when he went ;
As if. he now were in his orchard-grove.
And this his closet. Here he sat and read.
This was his chair ; and in it, unobserved,
Reading, or thinking of his absent friends.
He passed away as in a quiet slumber.
Peace to this region ! Peace to each, to all !
They know his value — every coming step,
That draws the gazing children from their play,
Would tell them if they knew not. — But could aught.
decent and proper ; in which I hope to pass the rest of my days,
thinking always of my dead or absent friends.' Among those
still living;, was Boccaccio ; who is thus mentioned by him in his
Will. ' To Don Giovanni of Certaldo, for a winter-gown at his
evening-studies, I leave fifty golden florins; truly little enough
for so great a man.'
When the Venetians over-ran the country, Petrarch prepared
for flight. ' Write your name over your door,' said one of his
friends, ' and you will be safe.' — ' I am not so sure of that,'
replied Petrarch, and fled with his books to Padua. His books
he left to the Republic of Venice, laying, as it were, a founda-
tion for the library of St. Mark ; but they exist no longer. His
legacy to Francis Carrara, a Madonna painted by Giotto, is still
preserved in the cathedral of Padua.
109
Ungentle or ungenerous, spring up
Where he is sleeping ; where, and in an age
Of savage warfare and blind bigotry,
He cultured all that could refine, exalt ;
Leading to better things ?
GINEVRA.
If thou sliouldst ever come by choice or chance
To Mod EN A, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs*
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine)
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
* Affirming itself to be the very bucket which Tassom in
his mock heroics has celebrated as the cause of war between
Bologna and Modena five hundred years ago.
Ill
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses.
Will long detain thee ; thro' their arched walks.
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song.
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love.
Read only part that day.* A summer-sun
Sets ere one half is seen ; but, ere thou go.
Enter the house — prythee, forget it not —
And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race.
Done by ZAMPiEiiif — but by whom I care not.
He, who observes it — ere he passes on.
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again.
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up.
As though she said ' Beware !' her vest of gold
Broiderod with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
* Inferno, V. t Commonly called Domenichino,
112
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of nairth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart —
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled.
Like some wild melody !
Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heir -loom, its companion.
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor.
That by the way — it may be true or false —
But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child ; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire.
Her Mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to him ?
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight ;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
113
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour ;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundi'edth time.
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy ; but at the Bridal feast.
When all sat down, the Bride was wanting there.
Nor was she to be found ! Her Father cried,
' 'Tis but to make a trial of our love !'
And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook.
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be foimd ;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed,
But that she was not ! — Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
I
114
Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find — he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the Gallery,
That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
' Why not remove it from its lurking place ?'
'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way
It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton.
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished — save a nuptial ring.
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
' Ginevra.' There then had she found a grave !
Within that chest had she concealed herself.
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there.
Fastened her down for ever !
BOLOGNA.
'TwAS night ; the noise and bustle of the day
Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought
Miraculous cures- — he and his stage were gone ;
And he who, when the crisis of his tale
Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear.
Sent round his cap ; and he who thrummed his wire
And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain
116
Melting the passenger. Thy thousand Cries,*
So well pourtrayed, and by a son of thine,
Whose voice had swelled the hubbub in his youth,
Were hushed, Bologna, silence in the streets,
The squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs ;
And soon a Courier, posting as from far,
Housing and holster, boot and belted coat
And doublet, stained with many a various soil,
Stopt and alighted. 'Twas where hangs aloft
That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming
All who arrive there, all perhaps save those
Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell.
Those on a pilgrimage. And now approached
Wheels, through the lofty porticoes resounding,
Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade
As the sky changes. To the gate they came ;
And, ere the man had half his story done.
Mine host received the Master — one long used
To sojourn among strangers, every where
(Go where he would, along the wildest track)
* See the Cries of Bologna, as drawn by Annibal Carracci.
He was of very humble origin ; and, to correct his brother's
vanity, once sent him. a portrait of their father, the tailor,
threading his needle.
117
Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost,
And leaving footsteps to be traced by those
Who love the haunts of Genius ; one who saw,
Observed, nor shunned the busy scenes of life,
But mingled not, and mid the din, the stir.
Lived as a separate Spirit.
Much had passed
Since last we parted ; and those five short years —
Much had they told ! His clustering locks were turned
Grey ; nor did aught recall the Youth that swam
From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice.
Still it was sweet ; still from his eye the thought
Flashed lightning-like, nor lingered on the way,
Waiting for words. Far, far into the night
We sat, conversing — no unwelcome hour,
The hour we met ; and, when Aurora rose,
Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine.
Well I remember how the golden sun
Filled with its beams the unfathomable gulfs.
As on we travelled, and along the ridge,
Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild-fig,
His motley household came — Not last nor least,
Battista, who, upon the moonlight-sea
Of Venice, had so ably, zealously,
118
Served, and, at parting, thrown his oar away
To follow through the world ; who without stain
Had worn so long that honourable badge,*
The gondolier's, in a Patrician House
Arguing unlimited trust. — Not last nor least.
Thou, tho' declining in thy beauty and strength,
Faithful MoRETTo, to the latest hour
Guarding his chamber-door, and now along
The silent, sullen strand of Missolonghi
Howling in grief. — He had just left that Place
Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea,+
Ravenna ! where, from Dante's sacred tomb
He had so oft, as many a verse declares, '^
Drawn inspiration ; where, at twilight-time.
Thro' the pine-forest wandering with loose rein,
Wandei'ing and lost, he had so oft beheld
(What is not visible to a Poet's eye ?)
The spectre -knight, the hell-hounds and their prey,
The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth
* The principal gondolier, il fante di poppa, was almost
always in the confidence of his master, and employed on occa-
sions that required judgment and address.
t ' Adrianum mare.' — Cic. t See the Prophecy of Danie.
119
Suddenly blasted.* 'Twas a theme he loved,
But others claimed their turn ; and many a tower,
Shattered, uprooted from its native rock,
Its strength the pride of some heroic age.
Appeared and vanished (many a sturdy steer f
Yoked and unyoked) while as in happier days
He poured his spirit forth. The past forgot,
All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured
Present or future.
He is now at rest ;
And praise and blame fall on his ear alike,
Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone.
Gone like a star that through the firmament
Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course
Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks.
Was generous, noble — noble in its scorn
Of all things low or little ; nothing there
Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do
Things long regretted, oft, as many know,
None more than I, thy gratitude would build
* See the tale as told by Boccaccio and Diyd'-n.
t They wait for the traveller's carriage at the foot of every
hill.
120
On slight foundations : and, if in thy hfe
Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert,
Thy wish accomplished ; dying in the land
Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire,
Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious !
They in thy train — ah, little did they think,
As round we went, that they so soon should sit
Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourned,
Changing her festal for her funeral song ;
That they so soon should hear the minute-gun.
As morning gleamed on what remained of thee,
Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering
Thy years of joy and sorrow.
Thou art gone ;
And he who would assail thee in thy grave,
Oh, let him pause I For who among us all.
Tried as thou wert — even from thine earliest years.
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland-boy —
Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame ;
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek.
Uplifting, pressing, and to lips Hke thine,
Her charmed cup — ah, who among us all
Could say he had not erred as much, and more ?
121
FLORENCE.
Of all the fairest Cities of the Earth
None is so fair as Florence. 'Tis a gem
Of purest ray ; and what a light broke forth,*
When it emerged from darkness ! Search within,
Without ; all is enchantment ! 'Tis the Past
Contending with the Present ; and in turn
Each has the mastery.
In this chapel wrought f
One of the Few, Nature's Interpreters,
The Few, whom Genius gives as Lights to shine.
* Among other instances of her ascendancy at the close of
the thirteenth century, it is related tliat Florence saw twelve
of her citizens assembled at the Court of Boniface the Eighth,
as Embassadors from different parts of J'^urope and Asia. Their
names are mentioned in Toscaiui Illuslrata.
A chapel of tiie Holy Virgin in the church of the Car-
melites. It is adorned with his paintings, and all the great
122
Massaccio ; and he slumbers underneath.
Wouldst thou behold his monument ? Look round !
And know that where we stand, stood oft and long,
Oft till the day was gone, Raphael himself,
He and his haughty Rival * — patiently.
Humbly, to learn of those who came before,
To steal a spark from their authentic fire.
Theirs who first broke the universal gloom.
Sons of the Morning. On that ancient seat,-|-
The seat of stone that runs along the wall,];
artists of Florence studied there; Lionardo da Yinci, Fra
BartoloQieo, Andrea del Sarto, Michael Angelo, Raphael, ?<c.
He had no stone, no inscription, says one of his biographers,
for he was thought little of in his life-time.
" Se alcun cercasse il marmo, o il nome mio.
La chiesa e il marmo, una cappella e il nome."
It was there that Michael Angelo received the blow in his
face. — See Vasari, and Cellini.
* Michael Angelo. t A tradition.
I II sasso di Dante. It exists, I believe, no longer, the wall
having been taken down ; but enough of him remains else-
where. — Boccaccio delivered his lectures on the Divina Corn-
media in the church of S. Stefano ; and whoever happens to
eater it, when the light is favourable, may still, methinks, catch
a glimpse of him and his hearers.
123
South of the Church, east of the helfry-tower, *
(Thou canst not miss it) in the sultry time
Would Dante sit conversing, and with those
Who little thought that in his hand he held
The balance, and assigned at his good pleasure
To each his place in the invisible world,
To some an upper region, some a lower ;
Many a transgressor sent to his account,f
Long ere in Florence numbered with the dead;
The body still as full of life and stir
At home, abroad ; still and as oft inclined
To eat, drink, sleep ; still clad as others were.
And at noon-day, where men were wont to meet,
Met as continually ; when the soul went.
Relinquished to a demon, and by him
* It was designed by Giotto; as we learn from his epitaph
in the cathedral.
t Inferno, 33. A more dreadful vehicle for satire cannot
well be conceived. Dante, according to Boccaccio, was passing
by a door in Verona, at which some women were sitting, when
he overheard one of them say in a low voice to the rest, Do you
see that man^ He it is, who visits Hell, wlienever he pleases ;
and who returns to give an account of those he finds there. — I
can believe it, replied another. Don't you observe his brown
skin, and his frizled beard?
124
(So says the Bard, and who can read and doubt ?)
Dwelt in and governed. Sit thee down awhile ;
Then, by the gates so marvellously wrought,
That they might serve to be the gates of Heaven,*
Enter the Baptistery. That place he loved,
Loved as his own ; f and in his visits there
Well might he take delight ! For when a child,
Playing, as many are wont, with venturous feet
Near and yet nearer to the sacred font,
Slipped and fell in, he flew and rescued him,
Flew with an energy, a violence.
That broke the marble — a mishap ascribed
To evil motives ; his, alas, to lead
A life of trouble, and ere long to leave
All things most dear to him, ere long to know
How salt another's bread is, and the toil
Of going up and down another's stairs. J
Nor then forget that Chamber of the Dead, §
Where the gigantic shapes of Night and Day,
* A saving of Michael Angelo. They are tbe work of
Lorenzo GLiberti.
t ' Mia bel Giovanni.' — Inferno, 19. t Puradiso, 17.
§ The Chapel de' Deposit! ; in which are the tombs of tlie
Medici, by Michael Angelo.
125
Turned into stone, rest everlastingly ;
Yet still are breathing, and shed round at noon
A two-fold influence — only to be felt —
A light, a darkness, mingling each with each ;
Both and yet neither. There, from age to age,
Two Ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres.
That is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well.*
He meditates, his head upon his hand.
What from beneath his helm-like bonnet scowls ?
Is it a face, or but an eyeless skull ?
'Tis lost in shade ; yet, like the basilisk,
It fascinates, and is intolerable.
His mien is noble, most majestical !
Then most so, when the distant choir is heard
At morn or eve — nor fail thou to attend
On that thrice-hallowed day, when all are there ; f
When all, propitiating with solemn songs.
Visit the Dead. Then wilt thou feel his Power !
* He died early ; living ouly to become the father of Cathe-
rine de Wedicis. Had an Evil Spirit assumed the human shape
to propagate mischief, he could not have done better.
The statue is larger than the life, but not so large as to shock
belief. It is the most real and unreal thing that ever came from
the chisel.
t The day of All Souls : II di de' Morti.
126
But let not Sculpture, Painting, Poesy,
Or They, the Masters of these mighty Spells,
Detain us. Our first homage is to Virtue.
Where, in what dungeon of the Citadel,
(It must be known — the writing on the wall*
Cannot be gone — 'twas with the blade cut in.
Ere, on his knees to God, he slew himself,)
Did he, the last, the noblest Citizen, -f
Breathe out his soul, lest in the torturing hour
He might accuse the Guiltless ? That debt paid,
But with a sigh, a tear for human frailty,
We may return, and once more give a loose
To the delighted spirit — worshipping.
In her small temple of rich workmanship, j:
Venus herself, who, when she left the skies,
Came hither.
* " Exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor !"
Perhaps there is nothing in language more affecting than his
last testament. It is addressed ' To God, the Deliverer,' and
was found steeped in his blood.
t FiLippo Stuozzi. t The Tribune.
DON GARZIA.
Among those awful forms, in elder time
Assembled, and through many an after-age
Destined to stand as Genii of the Place
Where men most meet in Florence, may be seen
His who first played the Tyrant. Clad in mail,
But with his helmet off — in kingly state,
Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass ; *
And they, that read the legend underneath,
Cosmo, the first Grand Duke.
128
Go and pronounce him happy. Yet, methinks,
There is a Chamber that, if walls could speak,
Would turn their admiration into pity.
Half of what passed, died with him ; but the rest.
All he discovered when the fit was on.
All that, by those who listened, could be gleaned
From broken sentences and starts in sleep,
Is told, and by an honest Chronicler.*
Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia,
(The eldest had not seen his nineteenth summer)
Went to the chase ; but only one returned.
Giovanni, when the huntsman blew his horn
O'er the last stag that started from the brake.
And in the heather turned to stand at bay.
Appeared not ; and at close of day was found
Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas,
The trembling Cosmo guessed the deed, the doer ;
And, having caused the body to be borne
In secret to that Chamber — at an hour
When all slept sound, save ^e who bore them both,f
* De Thou.
t Eleonora di Toledo. Of the Children that survived her,
one fell by a brother, one by a husband, and a third murdered
his wife. But that family was soon to become extinct. It is
]29
Who little thoug-ht of what was yet to come,
And lived but to be told— he bade Garzia
Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand
A winking lamp, and in the other a key
Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led ;
And, having entered in and locked the door,
The father fixed his eyes upon the son.
And closely questioned him. No change beti'ayed
Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up
The bloody sheet. 'Look there! Look there!' he cried.
' Blood calls for blood — and from a father's hand !
— Unless thyself wilt save him that sad office.
What !' he exclaimed, when, shuddering at the sight,
The boy breathed out, ' I stood but on my guard.'
' Dai''st thou then black(!n one who never wronged thee.
Who would not set his foot upon a worm ?
Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee.
And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all.'
Then from Garzia's belt he drew the blade,
That fatal one which spilt his brother's blood ;
some consolation to reflect that tlieir Country did not go unre-
venj,'ed for tlie calamities wliicli tliey had brought u[ion her.
How many of them died by the l)ands of eacli other!— See
p. 149.
K
130
And, kneeling on the ground, ' Gi'eat God !' he cried,
' Grant me the strength to do an act of Justice.
Thou knowest what it costs me ; but, alas,
How can I spare myself, sparing none else ?
Grant me the strength, the will — and oh forgive
The sinful soul of a most wretched son.
'Tis a most wretched father that implores it.'
Long on Garzia's neck he hung and wept,
Long pressed him to his bosom tenderly ;
And then, but while he held him by the arm,
Thrusting him backward, turned away his face,
And stabbed him to the heart.
Well might a Youth,*
Studious of men, anxious to learn and know.
When in the train of some great embassy
He came, a visitant, to Cosmo's court,
Think on the past ; and, as he wandered through
The ample spaces of an ancient house,f
Silent, deserted — stop awhile to dwell
Upon two porti'aits there, drawn on the wall ^
* De Thou.
t The Palazzo Veccbio. Cos:mo had left it several years before.
I By Vasari, who attended him on this occasion. — Thuanus,
de Vita sua, i.
131
Together, as of Two in bonds of love,
Those of the unhappy brothers, and conclude
From the sad looks of him who could have told,*
The terrible truth. Well might he heave a sio-h
For poor humanity, when he beheld
That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire,
Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate,
Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's mess.
In the last stage — death-struck and deadly pale ;
His wife, another, not his Eleanor,
At once his nurse and his interpreter.
* It was given out that they had died of a contagious fever :
and funeral orations were publicly pronounced in their honour.
Alfieri has written a tragedy on (he subject ; if it may be
said so, when he has altered so entirely the story and the
characters.
132
THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE.
'Tis morning. Let us wander through the fields,
Where Cimabue* found a shepherd-boy
Trachig his idle fancies on the ground ;
And let us from the top of Fiesole,
Whence Galileo's glass by night observed
The phases of the moon, look round below
* He was the father of modern painting, and the master of
Giotto, whose talent he discovered in the way here alluded to.
" Cimabue stood still, and, having considered the boy and
his work, he asked him, if he would go and live with him at
Florence 1 To which the boy answered that, if his father was
willing, he would go with all his heart." — Vasari,
Of Cimabue little now remains at Florence, except his cele-
brated Madonna, larger than the life, in Santa JMaria Novella.
It was painted, according to Vasari, in a garden near Porta
S. Piero, and, when finished, was carried to tlie church in folemn
procession with trumpets before it. The garden lay without the
walls; and such was the rejoicing there on the occasion, that
the suburb received the name of Borgo Allegri, a name it still
bears, though now a part of the city.
133
On Arno's vale, where the dove-coloured steer
Is ploughing up and down among the vmes,
While many a careless note is sung aloud,
Filling the air with sweetness — and on thee,
Beautiful Florence, all within thy walls.
Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers,
Drawn to our feet.
From that small spire, just caught
By the bright ray, that church among the rest
By One of Old distinguished as The Bride, *
Let us in thought pursue (what can we better ?)
Those who assembled there at matin-time ; f
Who, when Vice revelled and along the street
Tables were set, what time the bearer's bell
Hang to demand the dead at every door.
Came out into the meadows ; J and, awhile
Wandering in idleness, but not in folly,
* Santa Maria Novella. For its grace and beauty it was
called by Micbael Anyolo ' La Sposa.'
t In the year of the Great Plague. See the Decameron.
I Once, on a bright November-morning, I set out and traced
them, as I conceived, step by step; beginning and ending in
the Church of Santa Maria Novella. It was a walk dclightlnl
in itself, and in its associations.
134
Sat down in the high grass and in the shade
Of many a tree sun -proof — day after day,
WTien all was still and nothing to be heard
But the cicala's voice among the olives,
Relating in a ring, to banish care.
Their hundred tales.
Round the green hill they went,
Round underneath — first to a splendid house,
Gherardi, as an old tradition runs,
That on the left, just rising from the vale ;
A place for Luxury — the painted rooms,
The open galleries and middle court
Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers.
Then westward to another, nobler yet ;
That on the right, now known as the Palmieri,
^Vhere Art with Nature vied — a Paradise
With verdurous walls, and many a trellissed walk
All rose and jasmine, many a twilight -glade
Crossed by the deer. Then to the Ladies' Vale ;
And the clear lake, that as by magic seemed
To lift up to the surface every stone
Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish
Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold,
Now motionless, now glancing to the sun.
135
Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day ?
The morning-banquet by the fountain-side,*
While the small birds rejoiced on every bough ;
The dance that followed, and the noon-tide slumber;
Then the tales told in tm*n, as round they lay
On carpets, the fresh waters murmuring ;
And the short interval of pleasant talk
Till supper-time, when many a siren-voice
Sung down the stars ; and, as they left the sky.
The torches, planted in the sparkling grass,
And every where among the glowing flowers.
Burnt bright and brighter. — He,f whose dream it was,
(It was no more) sleeps in a neighbouring vale ;
Sleeps in the church, where, in his ear, I ween,
The Friar poured out his wondrous catalogue ; :j:
A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone
To the Wise Men ; a vial-ful of soimds.
The musical chimes of the great bells that hung
In Solomon's Temple; and, though last not least,
A feather from the Angel Gabriel's wing,
Dropt in the Virgin's chamber. That dark ridge,
* At three o'clock. Three hours after suii-risi', according to
the old manner of reckoning.
t Boccaccio. ^ Decameron, vi. 10.
136
Stretching south-east, conceals it from our sight ;
Not so his lowly roof and scanty farm,
His copse and rill, if yet a trace be left,
Who lived in Val di Pesa, suffering long
Want and neglect and (far, far worse) reproach,
With calm, unclouded mind.* The glimmering tower
On the grey rock beneath, his land-mark once.
Now serves for ours, and points out where he ate
His bread with cheerfulness. W^io sees him not
('Tis his. own sketch — he drew it from himself-]-)
Laden witn cages from his shoulder slung.
And sallying forth, while yet the morn is grey.
To catch a thrush on everv lime-twig there ;
Or in the wood among his wood-cutters ;
Or in the tavern by the highway-side
At tric-trac with the miller ; or at night,
Doffing his rustic suit, and, duly clad,
Entering his closet, and, among his books,
Among the Great of every age and clime,
A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased,
Questioning each why he did this or that,
* Macchiavil.
t See a verv interesting letter from Maccbiavel to Francesco
Vettori, dated the 10th of December, 13lo.
137
And learning how to overcome the fear
Of poverty and death.
Nearer we hail
Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of Old
For its green wine ; * dearer to me, to most,
As dwelt on by that great Astronomer,
Seven years a prisoner at the city -gate.
Let in but in his grave-clothes. Sacred be
His villa (justly was it called The Gem ! f)
Sacred the lawn, where many a cypi'ess threw
Its length of shadow, while he watched the stars !
* La A'erdea.
// Giojelh
138
Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight
Ghmmered, at blush of morn he dressed his vines,
Chanting aloud in gaiety of heart
Some verse of Ariosto ! There, unseen, *
In manly beauty Milton stood before him,
Gazing with reverent awe — Milton, his guest,
Just then come forth, all life and enterprize ;
He in his old age and extremity.
Blind, at noon-day exploring with his staff;
His eyes upturned as to the golden sun,
His eye-balls idly rolling. Little then
Did Galileo think whom he received;
That in his hand he held the hand of one
Who could requite him — who would spread his name
O'er lauds and seas — great as himself, nay greater ;
Milton as little that in him he saw>
As in a glass, what he himself should be.
Destined so soon to fall on evil days
* Milton went to Italy in 16.'?8. " There it was," says he,
" that I found and visiied the famous Galileo grown old, a
prisoner to the Inquisition." ' Old and blind,' he might have
said. Galileo, by his own account, became blind in December,
1637. Milton, as we learn from the date of Sir Henry Wotton's
letter to him, had not left England on the 18th of April follow-
ing. — See Tiraboschi, and Woiimii Remains.
139
And evil tongues — so soon, alas, to live
In darkness, and with dangers compassed round,
And solitude.
Well-pleased, could we pursue
The Arno, from his birth-place in the clouds,
So near the yellow Tiber's — springing up*
From his four fountains on the Apennine,
That mountain-ridge a sea-mark to the ships
Sailing on either sea. Downward he runs,
Scattering fresh verdure through the desolate wild,
Down by the City of Hermits, f and the woods
That only echo to the choral hymn ;
Then through these gardens to the Tuscan sea.
Reflecting castles, convents, villages.
And those great Rivals in an elder day,
Florence and Pisa — who have given him fame.
Fame everlasting, but who stained so oft
His troubled waters. Oft, alas, were seen.
When flight, pursuit, and hideous rout were there,
Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring ; ^
* riiey rise witliia thirteen miles of eiich other.
t 11 Sagro Kreino.
i It was in this manner that the lirst St'orza went clown when
he perished in the Pescara.
140
The man, the hero, on his foaming steed
Borne underneath, ah'eady in the realms
Of Darkness. — Nor did night or burning noon
Bring respite. Oft, as that great Artist saw, *
Whose pencil had a voice, the cry ' To arms V
And the shrill trumpet, hurried up the bank
Those who had stolen an hour to breast the tide,
And wash from their unharnessed limbs the blood
And sweat of battle. Sudden was the rush, f
Molent the tumult ; for, already in sight,
Nearer and nearer yet the danger drew ;
Each every sinew straining, every nerve,
Each snatching up, and girding, buckling on
Morion and greave and shirt of twisted mail,
As for his life — no more perchance to taste,
Arno, the grateful freshness of thy glades,
Thy waters — where, exulting, he had felt
A swimmer's transport, there, alas, to float
And welter. — Nor between the gusts of War,
When flocks were feeding, and the shepherd's pipe
Gladdened the valley, when, but not unarmed,
* Michael Ancelo.
t A descripiioa of the Cartoon of Pisa.
141
The sower came forth, and following him that ploughed,
Threw in the seed — did thy indignant waves
Escape pollution. Sullen was the splash,
Heavy and swift the plunge, when they received
The key that just had grated on the ear
Of Ugolino, evei'-closing up
That dismal dungeon thenceforth to be named
The Tower of Famine. — Once indeed 'twas thine.
When many a winter-flood, thy tributary.
Was through its rocky glen rushing, resounding,
And thou wert in thy might, to save, restore
A charge most precious. To the nearest ford,
Hastening, a horseman from Arczzo came,
Careless, impatient of delay, a babe
Slung in a basket to the knotty staff
That lay athwart his saddle-bow. He spurs.
He enters ; and his horse, alarmed, perplexed,
Halts in the midst. Great is the stir, the strife ;
And lo, an atom on that dangerous sea.
The babe is floating ! Fast and far he flies ;
Now tempest-rocked, now whirling round and round,
But not to perish. By thy willing waves
Borne to the shore, among the bulrushes
The ark has rested; ai;d uiiburt, secure.
142
As on his mother's breast he sleeps within,
All peace ! or never had the nations heard
That voice so sweet, which still enchants, inspires ;
That voice, which sung of love, of liberty.
Petrarch lay there ! — And such the images
That here spring up for ever, in the Young
Kindling poetic fire ! Such they that came
And clustered round our Milton, when at eve,
Reclined beside thee, Arno ; * when at eve,
Led on by thee, he wandered with delight.
Framing Ovidian verse, and through thy groves
Gathering wild myrtle. Such the Poet's dreams :
Yet not such only. For look round and say.
Where is the ground that did not drink warm blood.
The echo that had learnt not to articulate
The cry of murder? — Fatal was the day
To Florence, when ('twas in a narrow street
North of that temple, where the truly great
Sleep, not unhonoured, not unvisited ;
That temple sacred to the Holy Cross —
There is the house — that house of the Donati,
' O ego quantus eram, gelidi cum stratus ad Arni
Murmura,' i^c. Ejiituphium Damonis.
143
Towerless,* and left long since, but to the last
Braving assault — all rugged, all embossed
Below, and still distinguished by the rings
Of brass, that held in war and festival-time
Their family-standards) fatal was the day
To Florence, when, at morn, at the ninth hour,
A noble Dame in weeds of widowhood,
Weeds by so many to be worn so soon.
Stood at her door ; and, like a sorceress, flung
Her dazzling spell. Subtle she was, and rich.
Rich in a hidden pearl of heavenly light,
Her daughter's beauty ; and too well she knew
Its virtue ! Patiently she stood and watched;
Nor stood alone — ])ut spoke not — In her breast
Her purpose lay ; and, as a Youth passed by,
Clad for the nuptial rite, she smiled and said,
Lifting a corner of the maiden's veil,
' This had I treasured up in secret for thee.
This hast thou lost !' He gazed and was undone !
Forgetting — not forgot — he broke the bond.
And paid the penalty, losing his life
* There were the ' Noliili di Tone ' and the ' Xobili di
Loggia.'
144
At the bridge-foot ; * and hence a world of woe !
Vengeance for vengeance crying, blood for blood ;
No intermission ! Law, that slumbers not,
And, like the Angel with the flaming sword.
Sits over all, at once chastising, healing.
Himself the Avenger, went ; and every street
Ran red with mutual slaughter — though sometimes
The young forgot the lesson they had learnt.
And loved when they should hate — like thee, Lmelda,
Thee and thy Paolo. When last ye met
In that still hour (the heat, the glare was gone.
Not so the splendour — through the cedar-grove
A radiance streamed like a consuming fire,
As though the glorious orb, in its descent,
Had come and rested there) when last ye met,
And thy relentless brothers dragged him forth,
* Giovanni Buondelraonte was on tlie point of marrying an
Aniidei, when a widow of the Donati family made him break
his engagement iu the manner here described.
The Amidei washed away the aftront with his blood, attack-
ing him, says G. Villani, at the foot of the Ponte \'ecchio, as he
was coming leisurely along in his white mantle on his white
palfrey ; and hence many years of slaughter.
" O Buondelmonte, quanto mal fuggisti
Le nozze sue, per gli altrui conforti." — Dante.
145
It had been well, hadst thou slept on, Imelda,*
Nor from thy trance of fear awaked, as night
Fell on that fatal spot, to wish thee dead,
To track him by his blood, to search, to find,
Then fling thee down to catch a word, a look,
A sigh, if yet thou couldst (alas, thou couldst not)
And die, unseen, unthought of — from the wound
Sucking the poison, f
Yet, when Slavery came.
Worse followed. Genius, Valour left the land.
Indignant — all that had from age to age
Adorned, ennobled ; and head-long they fell
* The story is Bolognese, and is told by Clierubino Gliira-
dacci in his history of Bologna. Her lover was of the Guelphic-
party, her brothers of tiie Ghibelline ; and no sooner was tliis
act of violence made known than an enmity, hitherto but half-
suppressed, broke out into open war. The Great Place was a
scene of battle and blood->hed for forty successive days ; nor
was a reconciliation accompli>hed till six years afterwards, when
the families and their adherents met there once again, and
exchanged the kiss of peace before the Cardinal Legate; as the
rival families of Florence had already done in the J'lace ol'
S. Maria Xovella. Every house on the occasion was hung with
tapestry and garlands of flowers.
t The Saracens had introduced among them the practice oi
poisoning their daggers.
L
146
Tyrant and slave. For deeds of violence,
Done in broad day and more than half redeemed
By many a great and generous sacrifice
Of self to others, came the unpledged bowl,
The stab of the stiletto. Gliding by
Unnoticed, in slouched hat and muffling cloak,
That just discovered, Caravaggio-like,
A swarthy cheek, black brow, and eye of tlame,
The Bravo stole, and o'er the shoulder plunged
To the heart's core, or from beneath the ribs
Slanting (a surer path, as some averred)
Struck upward — 'then slunk oiF, or, if pursued,
Made for the Sanctuary, and there along
The glimmering aisle among the worshippers
Wandered with restless step and jealous look,
Dropping thick blood. Misnamed to lull alarm,
In every Palace was The Laboratory,*
Where he within brewed poisons swift and slow.
That scattered terror 'till all things seemed poisonous,
And brave men trembled if a hand held out
A nosegay or a letter ; while the Great
Drank only from the Venice-glass, that broke,
* As in those of Cosmo 1. and his son, Francis. — Sismondi,
xvi. 205.
147
That shivered, scattering round it as in scorn,
If aught malignant, aught of thine was there,
Cruel ToPHANA ; * and pawned provinces
For that miraculous gem, the gem that gave
A sign infallible of coming ill,f
That clouded though the vehicle of death
Were an invisible perfume. Happy then
The guest to whom at sleeping-time 'twas said,
But in an under-voice (a lady's page
Speaks in no louder) ' Pass not on. That door
Leads to another which awaits thy coming.
One in the floor — now left, alas, unlocked.^;
No eye detects it — lying under-foot,
Just as thou enterest, at the threshold-stone ;
Ready to fall and plunge thee into night
And lonjT oblivion I' — In that Evil Hour
* A Sicilian, the inventress of many poisons ; the most
celebrated of which, from its transparency, was called Accjueita,
or Acqua Tophana.
t The Cardinal, Ferdinand de' Medici, is said to have been
preserved in this manner by a ring wliich he wore on his finger ;
as also Andrea, the husband of Giovanna, Queen of Naples.
I II Trabocchetto. — See Vocah, degli Acniciem. della Cnnra.
See also Did. de I' Acadtmie Franfoise: art. Uiildieltea.
148
Where lurked not danger ? Through the fairy-land
No seat of pleasure glittering half-way down,
No hunting-place — but with some damning spot
That mil not be washed out ! There, at Ca'iano,*
Where, when the hawks were mewed and Evening came,
PuLCi would set the table in a roar
With his wild layf — there, where the Sun descends,
And hill and dale are lost, veiled with his beams,
The fair Venetian J died, she and her lord —
Died of a posset drugged by him who sat
And saw them suffer, flinging back the charge;
The murderer on the murdered. — Sobs of Grief,
Sounds inarticulate - - suddenly stopt,
And followed by a struggle and a gasp,
A gasp in death, are heard yet in Cerreto,
Along the marble halls and staircases.
Nightly at twelve ; and, at the self-same hour,
* Poggio-CaVano, the favourite villa of Lorenzo ; where he
often took the diversion of hawking. Pulci sometimes went
out with him ; though, it seems, with little ardour. See Lu
Caccia col Falcone, where he is described as missing; and as
gone into a wood, to rhyme there.
t The Morgante Maggiore. He used to recite at the table of
Lorenzo in the manner of the ancient Rliapsodists.
I BiANCA Capello.
149
Shrieks, such as penetrate the inmost soul,
Such as awake the innocent babe to long,
Long wailing, echo through the emptiness
Of that old den far up among the hills,*
Frowning on him who comes from Pietra-Mala :
In them, alas, within five days and less,
* CafFaggiolo, the favourite retreat of Cosmo, ' the father of
his country.' Eleonora di Toledo was stabbed there on tlie
11th of July, lo7ti, by her husband, Pietro de' Medici; and
only five days afterwards, on the 16th of the same month,
Isabella de' Medici was strangled by hers, Paolo Giordano
Orsini, at his villa of Cerreto. They were at Florence, when
they were sent for, each in her turn, Isabella under the pretext
of a hunting-party ; and each in her turn went to die.
Isabella was one of the most beautiful and accomplished
women of the Age. In the Latin, French, and Spanish lan-
guages she spoke not only with fluency, but elegance ; and in
her own she excelled as an Improvisatrice, accompanying her-
self on the lute. On her arrival at dusk, Paolo presented her
with two beautiful greyhounds, that she might make a trial of
their speed in the morning ; and at supper he was gay beyond
measure. When he retired, he sent for her into his apartment ;
and, pressing her tenderly to his bosom, slipped a cord round
her neck. She was buried in Florence with great pomp ; but at
her burial, says Varchi, the crime divulged itself. Iler face
was black on the bier.
Eleonora appears to have had a presentiment of lier fate.
She went when required ; but, before she set out, took leave of
her son, then a child ; weeping long and bitterly over him.
]50
Two unsuspecting victims, passing fair,
Welcomed with kisses, and slain cruelly,
One with the knife, one with the fatal noose.
But lo, the Sun is setting ; * earth and sky
One blaze of glory — What we saw but now.
As though it were not, though it had not been !
He lingers yet ; and, lessening to a point.
Shines like the eye of Heaven — then withdraws ;
And from the zenith to the utmost skirts
All is celestial red ! The hour is come,
When they that sail along the distant seas,
Languish for home ; and they that in the morn
Said to sweet friends ' farewell,' melt as at parting ;
WTien, just gone forth, the pilgrim, if he hears.
As now we hear it — echoing round the hill.
The bell that seems to mourn the dying day.
Slackens his pace and sighs, and those he loved
Loves more than ever. But who feels it not ?
And well may we, for we are far away.
* I have here endeavoured to describe an Italian sun-set as I
have often seen it. The conclusion is borrowed from that cele-
brated passage in Dante, " Era gia I'ora," 6)C.
THE PILGRIM.
It was an hour of universal joy.
The lark was up and at the gate of heaven,
Singing, as sure to enter when he came ;
The butterfly was basking in my path,
His radiant wings unfolded. From IjcIow
The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively ;
And odours, such as welcome in the day.
Such as salute the early traveller,
152
And come and go, each sweeter than the last,
\Vere rising. Hill and valley breathed delight ;
And not a living thing but blessed the hour !
In every bush and brake there was a voice
Responsive !
From the Thrasymene, that now
Slept in the sun, a lake of molten gold,
And from the shore that once, when armies met,*
Rocked to and fro unfelt, so terrible
The rage, the slaughter, I had turned away ;
The path, that led me, leading through a wood,
A fairy-wilderness of fruits and flowers,
And by a brook that, in the day of strife, f
Ran blood, but now runs amber — when a glade,
Far, far within, sunned only at noon-day,
Suddenly opened. Many a bench was there,
Each round its ancient elm ; and many a track,
Well-known to them that from the high-way loved
* The Roman and the Carthaginian. Such was the ani-
mosity, says Livy, that an earthquake, which turned tlie course
of rivers and overthrew cities and mountains, was felt by none
of the combatants, xxii. 5.
t A tradition. It has been called from time immemorial, II
Sanguinetto.
153
Awhile to deviate. In the midst a cross
Of mouldering stone as in a temple stood,
Solemn, severe ; coeval with the trees
That round it in majestic order rose ;
And on the lowest step a Pilgrim knelt
In fervent prayer. He was the first I saw,
(Save in the tumult of a midnight-masque,
A revel, where none cares to play his part.
And they, that speak, at once dissolve the charm)
The first in sober truth, no counterfeit ;
And, when his orisons were duly paid,
He rose, and we exchanged, as all are wont,
A traveller's greeting.
Young, and of an age
When Youth is most attractive, when a light
Plays round and round, reflected, while it lasts.
From some attendant Spirit, that ere long
(His charge relinquished with a sigh, a tear) .
Wings his flight upward — with a look he won
My favour ; and, the spell of silence broke,
I could not but continue. ' Whence,' I asked,
' Whence art thou ?' — ' From Mont' alto,' he replied,
' My native village in the Apennines.' —
' And whither journeying?' — ' To the holy shrine
154
Of Saint Antonio in the City of Padua.
Perhaps, if thou hast ever gone so far,
Thou wilt direct my course.' — ' Most wilhngly ;
But thou hast much to do, much to endure,
Ere thou hast entered where the silver lamps
Burn ever. Tell me ... I would not transgress,
Yet ask I must . . . what could have brought thee forth.
Nothing in act or thought to be atoned for ?' —
' It was a vow I made in my distress.
We were so blest, none were so blest as we,
Till Sickness came. First, as death-struck, I fell ;
Then my beloved Sister ; and ere long.
Worn with continual watchings, night and day.
Our saint-like mother. Worse and worse she grew ;
And in mj^ anguish, my despair, I vowed.
That if she lived, if Heaven restored her to us,
I would forthwith, and in a Pilgrim's weeds.
Visit that holy shrine. Mv vow was heard ;
And therefore am I come.' — ' Blest be thy steps ;
And may those weeds, so reverenced of old.
Guard thee in danger !' — ' They are nothing worth.
But they are worn in humble confidence ;
Nor would I for the richest robe resign them.
Wrought, as they were, by those I love so well,
155
Lauretta and my sister ; theirs the task,
But none to them, a pleasure, a dehght,
To ply their utmost skill, and send me forth
As best became this service. Their last words,
" Fai'e thee well. Carlo. We shall count the hours I"
Will not go from me.' — ' Health and strength be thine
In thy long travel ! May no sun-beam strike ;
No vapour cling and wither ! May'st thou be,
Sleeping or waking, sacred and secure ;
And, when again thou com'st, thy labour done,
.Toy be among ye ! In that happy hour
All will pour forth to bid thee welcome. Carlo ;
And there is one, or I am much deceived,
One thou hast named, who will not be the last." —
' Oh, she is true as Truth itself can be I
But ah, thou know'st her not. Would that thou couldst I
My steps I quicken when I think of her ;
I'or, though they take me further from her door,
1 shall return the sooner.'
AN INTERVIEW.
Pleasure, that comes unlooked-for, is thrice welcome ;
And, if it stir the heart, if aught be there.
That may hereafter in a thoughtful hour
Wake but a sigh, 'tis treasured up among
The things most precious ! and the day it came
Is noted as a white day in our lives.
The sun was wheeling westward, and the cliffs
And nodding woods, that everlastingly
157
(Such the dominion of thy mighty voice,*
Thy voice, Velino, uttered in the mist)
Hear thee and answer thee, were left at length
For others still as noon ; and on we strayed
From wild to wilder, nothing hospitable
Seen up or down, no bush or green or dry,
That ancient symbol at the cottage-door,
OlFering refreshment — when LuiGi cried,
' Well, of a thousand tracks we chose the best!'
And, turning round an oak, oracular once,
Now lightning-struck, a cave, a thorough-fare
For all that came, each entrance a broad arch,
Whence many a deer, rustling his velvet coat,
Had issued, many a gipsy and her brood
Peered forth, then housed again — the floor yet gre}'
With ashes, and the sides, where roughest, hung
Loosely with locks of hair — I looked and saw
What, seen in such an hour by Sancho Panza,
Had given his honest countenance a breadth.
His cheeks a flush of pleasure and surprise
Unknown before, had chained him to the spot.
And thou, Sir Knight, hadst traversed hill and dale,
* An allusion to the Cascata mhu-: JMakmoiie, a celebrated
fall of the Velino near Tehm.
15S
Squire-less. Below and winding far away,
A narrow glade unfolded, such as Spring*
Broiders with flowers, and, when the moon is high.
The hare delights to race in, scattering round
The silvery dews. Cedar and cj-press threw
Singly their depth of shadow, chequering
The greensward, and, what grew in frequent tufts.
An underwood of myrtle, that by fits
Sent up a gale of fragrance. Through the midst,
Reflecting, as it ran, purple and gold,
A rain-bow's splendour (somewhere in the east
Rain-drops were falling fast) a I'ivulet
Sported as loth to go ; and on the bank
Stood (in the eyes of one, if not of both.
Worth all the rest and more) a sumpter-mule
Well-laden, while two menials as in haste
Drew from his ample panniers, ranging round
Viands and fruits on many a shining salver.
And plunging in the cool translucent wave
Flasks of delicious wine. — Anon a horn
* This upper region, a country of dews and dewy lights, as
described by \ iruil and Pliny, and still, 1 believe, called La
Rom, is full of beautiful scenery. \\ ho does not wish to follow
the footsteps of Cicero there, to visit the Reatiue Tempe and
the Seven Waters ?
159
Blew, through the champain bidding to the feast,
Its jocund note to other ears addressed,
Not ours ; and, slowly coming by a path,
That, ere it issued from an ilex-grove,
Was seen far inward, though along the glade
Distinguished only by a fresher verdure,
Peasants approached, one leading in a leash
Beagles yet panting, one with various game.
In rich confusion slung, before, behind.
Leveret and quail and pheasant. All announced
The chase as over ; and ere long appeared.
Their horses full of fire, champing the curb.
For the white foam was dry upon the flank.
Two in close converse, each in each delighting,
Their plumage waving as instinct with life ;
A Lady young and graceful, and a Youth,
Yet younger, bearing on a falconer's glove,
As in the golden, the romantic time.
His falcon hooded. Like some spirit of air,
Or fairy-vision, such as feigned of old.
The Lady, while her courser pawed the ground,
Alighted ; and her beauty, as she trod
The enamelled bank, bruising nor herb nor flower.
That place illumined. Ah, who should she be.
160
And with her brother, as when last we met,
(When the first lark had sung ere half was said,
And as she stood, bidding adieu, her voice,
So sweet it was, recalled me like a spell)
Who but Angelica? That day we gave
To pleasure, and, unconscious of their flight,
Another and another ! hers a home
Dropt from the sky amid the wild and rude,
Loretto-like ; where all was as a dream,
A dream spun out of some Arabian tale
Read or related in a roseate bower.
Some balmy eve. The rising moon we hailed.
Duly, devoutly, from a vestibule
Of many an arch, o'er-wrought and lavishly
With many a labyrinth of sylphs and flowers.
When Raphael and his school from Florence came,
Filling the land with splendour* — nor less oft
Watched her, declining, from a silent dell,
Not silent once, what time in rivalry
* Perhaps the most heautiful villa of that day was the Villa
Madama. It is now a ruin ; but enough remains of the plan and
the grotesque-work to justifj' Vasari's account of it.
The Pastor Fido, if not the Aminta, used to be often repre-
sented there ; and a theatre, such as is here described, was to
be seen in the gardens very lately.
161
Tasso, GuARiNi, waved their wizard-wands,
Peopling the groves from Arcady, and lo,
Fair forms appeared, murmuring melodious verse,*
— Then, in their day, a sylvan theatre,
Mossy the seats, the stage a verdurous floor,
The scenery rock and shrub-wood, Nature's own ;
Nature the Architect.
* A fashion for ever reviving in such a climate. In the year
1783, the Nina of Paesiello was performed in a small wood near
Caseria.
W^^:
jr^''^-^
162
MONTORIO.
Generous, and ardent, and as I'omantic as he could
be, MoNTORio was in his earUest youth, when, on a
summer-evening, not many years ago, he arrived at
the Baths of * * *, With a heavy heart, and with
many a blessing on his head, he had set out on his
travels at day-break. It was his first flight from
home ; but he was now to enter the world ; and the
moon was up and in the zenith, when he alighted at the
Three Moors,* a venerable house of vast dimensions,
and anciently a palace of the Albertini family, whose
arms were emblazoned on the walls.
Every window was full of light, and great was the
stir, above and below ; but his thoughts were on those
he had left so lately ; and retiring early to rest, and
to a couch, the very first for which he had ever
* I Tre Mauri.
163
exchanged his own, he was soon among them once
more ; und'sturbed in his sleep by the music that
came at intervals from a pavilion in the garden, where
some of the company had assembled to dance.
But, secluded as he was, he was not secure from
intrusion ; and Fortune resolved on that night to play
a frolic in his chamber, a frolic that was to determine
the colour of his life. Boccaccio himself has not
recorded a wilder ; nor would he, if he had known it,
have left the story untold.
At the first glimmering of day he awaked ; and,
looking round, he beheld — it could not be an illusion ;
yet any thing so lovely, so angelical, he had never
seen before — no, not even in his dreams — a Lady
still younger than himself, and in the profoundest, the
sweetest slumber by his side. But while he gazed,
she was gone, and through a door that had escaped
his notice. Like a Zephyr she trod the floor with
her dazzling and beautiful feet, and, while he gazed,'
she was gone. Yet still he gazed ; and, snatching up
a bracelet which she had dropt in her flight, ' Then
she is earthly !' he cried. ' But whence could she
come ? All innocence, all purity, she must have wan-
dered in her sleep.'
164
When he rose, his anxious eyes sought her every
where ; but in vain. Many of the young and the gay
were abroad, and moving as usual in the hght of the
morning; but, among them all, there was nothing
like Her. Within or without, she was nowhere to be
seen ; and, at length, in his despair he resolved to
address himself to his Hostess.
' Who were my nearest neighbours in that turret ?'
' The Marchioness de * * * * and her two daugh-
ters, the Ladies Clara and Violetta; the youngest
beautiful as the day !' •
' And where are they now ?'
' They are gone ; but we cannot say whither. They
set out soon after sun-rise.'
At a late hour they had left the pavilion, and had
retired to their toilet-chamber, a chamber of oak
richly carved, that had once been an oratory, and
afterwards, what was no less essential to a house of
that antiquity, a place of resort for two or three
ghosts of the family. But, having long lost its
sanctity, it had now lost its terrors ; and, gloomy as
its aspect was, Violetta was soon sitting there alone.
' Go,' said she to her sister, when her mother with-
drew for the night, and her sister was preparing to
165
follow, ' Go, Clara. I will not be long' — and down
she sat to a chapter of the Promessi Sposi.*
But she might well forget her promise, forgetting
where she was. She was now under the wand of an
enchanter ; and she read and read till the clock struck
three, and the taper flickered in the socket. She
started up as from a trance ; she threw off her wreath
of roses; she gathered her tresses into a net;f and
snatching a last look in the mirror, her eye-lids heavy
with sleep, and the light glimmering and dying, she
opened a wrong door, a door that had been left unlocked ;
and, stealing along on tip-toe, (how often may Inno-
cence wear the semblance of Guilt !) she lay down as
by her sleeping sister ; and instantly, almost before
the pillow on which she reclined her head had done
sinking, her sleep was as the sleep of childhood.
When morning came, a murmur strange to her ear
alai-med her. — What could it be ? — Where was she ? —
She looked not ; she listened not ; but like a fawn
from the covert, up she sprung and was gone.
It was she then that he sought; it was she who, so
* A Milanese story of the xviith century, by Alessaiidro
Manzoni.
t See the Hecuba of Euripides, v. 911, &c.
166
unconsciously, had taught him to love ; and, night and
day, he pursued her, till in the Cathedral of Perugia
he discovered her at a solemn service, as she knelt
between her mother and her sister among the rich
and the poor.
From that hour did he endeavour to win her regard
by every attention, every assiduity that Love could
dictate ; nor did he cease till he had won it and till
she had consented to be his; but never did the secret
escape from his lips ; nor was it till some years after-
wards that he said to her, on an anniversary of their
nuptials, ' Violetta, it was a joyftil day to me, a day
from which I date the happiness of my life ; but, if
marriages are written in heaven,' and, as he spoke, he
restored to her arm the bracelet which he had treasured
up so long, ' how strange are the circumstances by
which they are sometimes brought about ; for, if You
had not lost yourself, Violetta, I might never have
found you.'
167
ROME.
I AM in Rome ! Oft as the morning-ray
Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry,
Whence this excess of joy ? What has befallen me \
And from within a thrilling voice replies.
Thou art in Rome ! A thousand busy thoughts
Rush on my mind, a thousand images ;
And I spring up as girt to run a race !
Thou art in Rome ! the City that so long
Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world ; .
The mighty vision that the prophets saw,
And trembled ; that from nothing, from the least,
The lowliest village (What but here and there
A reed-roofed cabin by a river-side ?)
Grew into every thing ; and, year by year,
Patiently, fearlessly, working her way
O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea,
Not like the merchant with his merchandize.
Or traveller with statF and scrip exploring.
168
But ever hand to hand and foot to foot,
Through nations numberless in battle-array,
Each behind each, each, when the other fell.
Up and in arms, at length subdued them All.
Thou art in Rome ! the City, where the Gauls,
Entering at sun-rise through her open gates.
And, through her streets silent and desolate,
Marching to slay, thought they saw Gods, not men ;
The City, that, by temperance, fortitude,
And love of glory, towered above the clouds,
Then fell — ^but, falling, kept the highest seat.
And in her loneliness, her pomp of woe.
Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild,
Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age,
Her empire undiminished. There, as though
Grandeur attracted Grandeur, are beheld
All things that strike, ennoble — from the depths
Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece,
Her groves, her temples — all things that inspire
Wonder, delight ! Who would not say the Forms
Most perfect, most divine, had by consent
Flocked thither to abide eternally,
Within those silent chambers where they dwell.
In happy intercourse ? -And I am there !
169
Ah, little thought I, when m school I sate,
A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn
Glowing with Roman story, I should live
To tread the Appian,* once an avenue
Of monuments most glorious, palaces,
Their doors sealed up and silent as the night,
The dwellings of the illustrious dead — to turn
Toward Tibur, and, beyond the City-gate,
Pour out my unpremeditated verse,
Where on his mule I might have met so oft
Horace himselff — or climb the Palatine,
Dreaming of old Evander and his guest.
Dreaming and lost on that proud eminence,
Long while the seat of Rome, hereafter found
Less than enough (so monstrous was the brood
Engendered there, so Titan-like) to lodge
* The street of the tombs in Pompeii may serve to give us
some idea of the Via Appia, that Ilegina Viarum, in its
splendour. It is perhaps the most striking vestige of antiquity
that remains to us.
t And Augustus in his litter, coming at a still slower rate.
He was borne along by slaves; and the gentle motion allowed
him to read, write, and employ himself as in his cabinet.
'I'hough Tivoli is only sixteen miles from the City, he was
always two nights on the road. — Suetonius.
170
One in his madness ; * and inscribe my name,
My name and date, on some broad aloe-leaf,
That shoots and spreads within those very walls
Where Virgil read aloud his tale divine.
Where his voice faltered f and a mother wept
Tears of delight !
But what the narrow space
Just underneath ? In many a heap the ground
Heaves, as if Ruin in a frantic mood
Had done his utmost. Here and there appears.
As left to show his handy-work not ours,
An idle column, a half-buried arch,
A wall of some great temple. It was once,
And long, the centre of their Universe, ;{:
The Forum — whence a mandate, eagle-winged.
Went to the ends of the earth. Let us descend
Slowly. At every step much may be lost.
The very dust we tread, stirs as with life ;
And not a breath but from the ground sends up
* Nero.
t At the words ' 'J'u Marcellus eiis.' The story is so beauti-
ful, that every reader must wish it to be true,
i From the golden pillar in the Forum the ways ran to the
gates, and from the gates to the extremities of the Empire.
171
Something of human grandeur.
We are come,
Are now where once the mightiest spirits met
In terrible conflict; this, while Rome was free,
The noblest theatre on this side Heaven I
Here the first Brutus stood, when o'er the corse
Of her so chaste all mourned, and from his cloud
Burst like a God. Here, holding up the knife
That ran with blood, the blood of his own child,
ViRGiNius called down vengeance. — But whence spoke
They who harangued the people ; turning now
To the twelve tables,* now with lifted hands
To the Capitoline Jove, whose fulgent shape
In the unclouded azure shone far off".
And to the shepherd on the Alban mount
Seemed like a star new-risen ? -j- Where were ranged
In rough array as on their element.
The beaks of those old galleys, destined still :j;
* The laws of the twelve tables were inscribed on pillars of
brass, and placed in the most conspicuous jjart of the Forum. —
Dion. Hal.
t ' Ampliiudo tanta est, ut conspiciatur a Latiario Jove.' —
C. Plin.
i I'he Rostra.
172
To brave the brunt of war — at last to know
A calm far worse, a silence as in death ?
All spiritless ; from that disastrous hour
When he, the bravest, gentlest of them all,*
Scorning the chains he could not hope to break,
Fell on his sword !
Along the Sacred Way f
Hither the triumph came, and, winding round
With acclamation, and the martial clang
Of instruments, and cars laden with spoil,
Stopped at the sacred stair that then appeared.
Then thro' the darkness broke, ample, star-bright.
As tho' it led to heaven. 'Twas night ; but now
A thousand torches, turning night to day;);,
Blazed, and the victor, springing from his seat.
Went up, and kneeling as in fervent prayer,
* Marcus Junius Brutus.
t It was in the Via Sacra that Horace, when musing along'as
usual, was so cruelly assailed ; and how well has he described
an animal that preys on its kind. — It was there also that Cicero
was assailed ; but he bore his sufferings with less composure,
as well indeed he might ; taking refuge in the vestibule of the
nearest house. Ad Att. iv. 3.
I An allusion to Caesar in his Gallic triumph. " Adscendit
Capitolium ad lumina," &;c. — Suetonius,
173
Entered the Capitol. But what are they
Who at the foot withdraw, a mournful train
In fetters ? And who, yet incredulous.
Now gazing wildly round, now on his sons.
On those so young, well-pleased with all they see,*
Staggers along, the last ? — They are the fallen,
Those who were spared to grace the chariot-wheels ;
And there they parted, where the road divides,
The victor and the vanquished — there withdrew ;
He to the festal board, and they to die.
Well might the great, the mighty of the world,
They who were wont to fare deliciously.
And war but for a kingdom more or less,
Shrink back, nor from their thrones endure to look,
To think that way ! Well might they in their state
Humble themselves, and kneel and supphcate
To be dehvered from a dream like this !
Here Cincinnatus passed, his plough the while
Left in the furrow ; and how many more,
Whose laurels fade not, who still walk the earth,
* In the triumph of /Emilius, nothing affoctod tlie Koman
people like the children of Perseus. Many wept ; nor could
any thing else attract notice, till they were gone by.
I'l-UTAIIGII.
174
Consuls, Dictators, still in Curule pomp
Sit and decide ; and, as of old in Rome,
Name but their names, set every heart on fire !
Here, in his bonds, he whom the phalanx saved not.*
The last on Philip's throne ; and the Numidian -f,
So soon to say, stript of his cumbrous robe,
Stript to the skin, and in his nakedness
Thrust under-ground, ' How cold this bath of yours !'
And thy proud queen. Palmyra, thro' the sands |.
Pursued, o'ertaken on her dromedary ;
Whose temples, palaces, a wondrous dream
That passes not away, for many a league
Illumine yet the desert. Some invoked
Death and escaped ; the Egyptian, when her asp
Came from his covert under the green leaf ; §
And Hannibal himself; and she who said,
Taking the fatal cup between her hands, ||
' Tell him I would it had come yesterday ;
For then it had not been his nuptial gift.'
Now all is changed ; and here, as in the wild,
* Perseus. t Jugurtha. t Zenobia.
j Cleopatra.
II Sophonisba. The story of the marriage and the poisou is
well-known to every reader.
175
The day is silent, dreary as the night ;
None stirring, save the herdsman and his herd,
Savage alike ; or they that would explore,
Discuss and learnedly ; or they that come,
(And there are many who have crossed the earth)
That they may give the hours to meditation,
And wander, often saying to themselves,
' This was the Roman Forum !'
176
A FUNERAL.
' Whence this delay?' — ' Along the crowded street
A Funeral comes, and with unusual pomp.'
So I withdrew a little and stood still,
While it went by. ' She died as she deserved,"
Said an Abate, gathering up his cloak,
And with a shrug retreating as the tide
Flowed more and more. — ' But she was beautiful !'
Replied a soldier of the Pontiff's guard.
' And innocent as beautiful !' exclaimed
A Matron sitting in her stall, hung round
With garlands, holy pictures, and what not ?
Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs displayed
In rich profusion. From her heart she spoke ;
And I accosted her to hear her story.
' The stab,' she cried, ' was given in jealousy ;
But never fled a purer spirit to heaven.
As thou wilt say, or much my mind misleads,
When thou hast seen her face. Last night at dusk,
177
When on her way from vespers — None were near,
None save her serving-boy, who knelt and wept.
But what could tears avail him, when she fell —
Last night at dusk, the clock then striking nine,
Just by the fountain — that before the church,
The church she always used, St. Isidore's —
Alas, I knew her from her earliest youth,
That excellent lady. Ever would she say.
Good even, as she passed, and with a voice
Gentle as theirs in heaven !' — But now by fits
A dull and dismal noise assailed the ear,
A wail, a chant, louder and louder yet ;
And now a strange fantastic troop appeared !
Thronging, they came — as from the shades below ;
All of a ghostly white ! ' O say,' I cried,
' Do not the living here bury the dead ?
Do Spirits come and fetch them ? What are these.
That seem not of this World, and mock the Day ;
Each with a burning taper in his hand ?' —
' It is an ancient Brotherhood thou seest.
Such their apparel. Through the long, long line,
Look where thou wilt, no likeness of a man ;
The living masked, the dead alone uncovered.
But mark' — And, lying on her funeral-couch,
N
178
Like one asleep, her eyelids closed, her hands
Folded together on her modest breast,
As 'twere her nightly posture, through the crowd
She came at last— and richly, gaily clad,
As for a birth-day feast ! But breathes she not ?
A glow is on her cheek — and her lips move !
And now a smile is there — how heavenly sweet !
' Oh no ! ' replied the Dame, wiping her tears,
But with an accent less of grief than anger,
' No, she will never, never wake again !'
Death, when we meet the Spectre in our walks,
As we did yesterday and shall to-morrow,
Soon grows familiar — like most other things.
Seen, not observed ; but in a foreign clime.
Changing his shape to something new and strange,
(And through the world he changes as in sport,
Affect he gi*eatness or humility)
Knocks at the heart. His form and fashion here
To me, I do confess, reflect a gloom,
A sadness round ; yet one I would not lose ;
Being in unison with all things else
In this, this land of shadows, where we live
More in past time than present, where the ground,
League beyond league, like one great cemetery.
179
Is covered o'er with mouldering monuments ;
And, let the living wander where they will,
They cannot leave the footsteps of the dead.
Oft, where the burial-rite follows so fast
The agony, oft coming, nor from far,
Must a fond father meet his darling child,
(Him who at parting climbed his knees and clung)
Clay-cold and wan, and to the bearers cry,
' Stand, I conjure ye !' — Seen thus destitute,
WTiat are the greatest ? They must speak beyond
A thousand homilies. When Raphael went.
His heavenly face the mirror of his mind.
His mind a temple for all lovely things
To flock to and inhabit — when He went.
Wrapt in his sable cloak, the cloak he wore,
To sleep beneath the venerable Dome,*
By those attended, who in life had loved,
Had worshipped, following in his steps to Fame,
('Twas on an April-day, when Nature smiles)
All Rome was there. But, ere the march began,
Ere to receive their charge the bearers came,
Who had not sought him ? And when all beheld
Him, where he lay, how changed from yesterday,
* The Pantheon.
180
Him in that hour cut off, and at his head
His last great work ; * when, entering in, the}' looked
Now on the dead, then on that master-piece,
Now on his face, lifeless and colourless,
Then on those forms divine that lived and breathed,
And would live on for ages — all were moved ;
And sighs burst forth, and loudest lamentations.
* The Transfiguration ; ' la quale opera, nel vedere il corpo
morto, e quella viva, faceva scoppiare I'aninia di dolore a ogni
uno che quivi guaidava.' — Vasari.
181
NATIONAL PREJUDICES.
' Another Assassination ! * This venerable City,'
I exclaimed, ' what is it, but as it began, a nest of
robbers and murderers ? We must away at sun-rise,
Luigi.' — But before sun-rise I had reflected a little,
and in the soberest prose. My indignation was gone ;
and, when Luigi undrew my curtain, crying, ' Up,
Signor, up ! The horses are at the gate.' ' Luigi,' I
replied, ' if thou lovest me, di-aw the curtain.' f
It would lessen very much the severity with which
men judge of each other, if they would but trace
effects to their causes, and observe the progress of
* How noble is tliat burst of eloquence in Hooker ! " Of Law
there can be no less acknowledged, than that her seat is the
bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world. All things
in heaven and earth do her homage ; the very least as feeling
her care, and the greatest as not exempted from her power."
t A dialogue, which is said to have passed many years ago at
Lyons (Mem. de Grammont. i. 3.) and which may still be heard
in almost every hotellerie at day-break.
182
things in the moral as accurately as in the physical
world. When we condemn millions in the mass as
vindictive and sanguinary, we should remember that,
wherever Justice is ill-administered, the injured will
redress themselves. Robbery provokes to robbery ;
murder to assassination. Resentments become here-
ditary ; and what began in disorder, ends as if all Hell
had broke loose.
Laws create a habit of self-restraint, not only by
the influence of fear, but by regulating in its exercise
the passion of revenge. If they overawe the bad by
the prospect of a punishment certain and well-defined,
they console the injured by the infliction of that
punishment ; and, as the infliction is a public act, it
excites and entails no enmity. The laws are off"ended ;
and the community for its own sake pursues and over-
takes the offender; often without the concurrence of
the sufferer, sometimes against his wishes.
Now those who were not born, like ourselves, to
such advantages, we should surely rather pity than
hate ; and, when at length they venture to turn against
their rulers,* we should lament, not wonder at their
** As the descendants of an illustrious people have lately
done. Can it be believed that there are many among us, who,
» 183
excesses ; remembering that nations are naturally
patient and long-suffering, and seldom rise in rebellion
till they are so degraded by a bad government as to
be almost incapable of a good one.
' Hate them, perhaps,' you may say, ' we should
not ; but despise them we must, if enslaved, like the
people of Rome, in mind as well as body ; if their
religion be a gross and barbarous superstition.' — I
respect knowledge ; but I do not despise ignorance.
They think only as their fathers thought, worship as
they worshipped. They do no more ; and, if ours
had not burst their bondage, braving imprisonment
and death, might not we at this very moment have
been exhibiting, in our streets and our churches, the
same processions, ceremonials, and mortifications ?
Nor should we require from those who are in an
earlier stage of society, what belongs to a later. They
are only where we once were ; and why hold them
from a desire to be thought superior to common-jilace sentiments
and vulgar feelings, affect an indifference to their cause? ' It
the Greeks,' they say, ' had the probity of other nations — but
they are false to a proverb !' And is not falsehood the charac-
teristic of slaves? Man is the creature of circumstances. Free,
he has the qualities of a freeman ; enslaved, those of a slave.
184
in derision ? It is their business to cultivate the
inferior arts before they think of the more refined ;
and in many of the last what are we as a nation,
when compared to others that have passed away ?
Unfortunately it is too much the practice of govern-
ments to nurse and keep alive in the governed their
national prejudices. It withdraws their attention from
what is passing at home, and makes them better tools
in the hands of Ambition. Hence next-door neigh-
bours are held up to us from our childhood as nahiral
enemies; and we are urged on hke curs to worry
each other.*
In like manner we should learn to be just to
individuals. Who can say, ' In such circumstances I
should have done otherwise?' Who, did he but
reflect by what slow gradations, often by how many
strange concurrences, we are led astray ; with how
* Candour, generosity, how rare are they in tlie world ; and
bow much is to be deplored the want of them ! When a
minister in our parliament consents at last to a measure, which,
for many reasons perhaps existing no longer, he had before
refused to adopt, there should be no exultation as over the fallen,
no taunt, no jeer. How often may the resistance be continued
lest an enemy should triumph, and the result of conviction be
received as a symptom of fear !
185
much reluctance, how much agony, how many efforts
to escape, how many self-accusations, how many sighs,
how many tears — Who, did he but reflect for a moment,
would have the heart to cast a stone ? Fortunately
these things are known to Him, from whom no secrets
are hidden ; and let us rest in the assurance that His
judgments are not as ours are.*
* Are we not also unjust to ourselves ; and are not the best
among us the most so ? Many a good deed is done by us and
forgotten. Our benevolent feelings are indulged, and we
think no more of it. But is it so when we err? And when
we wrong another and cannot redress the wrong, where are
we then ? — Yet so it is and so no doubt it should he, to urge
us on without ceasing, in this place of trial and discipline.
From good to better and to better still.
186
THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME.
Have none appeared as tillers of the ground,
None since They went — as though it still were theirs,
And they might come and claim their own again ?
Was the last plough a Roman's ?
From this Seat,*
Sacred for ages, whence, as Virgil sings,
The Queen of Heaven, alighting from the sky.
Looked down and saw the armies in array, f
Let us contemplate ; and, where dreams from Jove
Descended on the sleeper, where perhaps
Some inspirations may be lingering still,
Some glimmerings of the future or the past,
Let us await their influence ; silently
Revolving, as we rest on the green turf,
* Mons. Albanus, now called Monte Cavo. On the summit
stood for many centuries the temple of Jupiter Latiaris. " Tuque
ex tuo edito monte Latiaris, sancte Jupiter," &c. — Cicero.
t ^neid, xii. 134.
187
The changes from that hour, when He from Troy
Went up the Tiber ; when refulgent shields,
No strangers to the iron-hail of war.
Streamed far and wide, and dashing oars were heard
Among those woods where Silvia's stag was lying.
His antlers gay with flowers ; among those woods
Where, by the Moon, that saw and yet withdrew not,
Two were so soon to wander and be slain, *
Two lovely in their lives, nor in their death
Divided.
Then, and hence to be discerned,
How many realms, pastoral and warlike, lay-j-
Along this plain, each with its schemes of power,
Its little rivalships ! What various turns
Of fortune there ; what moving accidents
From ambuscade and open violence !
Mingling, the sounds came up ; and hence how oft
We might have caught among the trees below.
Glittering with helm and shield, the men of Tibur ; J;
Or in Greek vesture, Greek their origin,
* Nisus and Euryalus. " La scene des six derniers livresde
Virgile ne comprend qu'une lieue de terrain." — Bonstetten.
t Forty-seven, according to Dionys. Halicar. I. i.
t Tivoli.
188
Some embassy, ascending to Pr^neste;*
How oft descried, without thy gates, Aricia, -j-
Entering the solemn grove for sacrifice, ,
Senate and People ! — Each a busy hive.
Glowing with life !
But all ere long are lost
In one. We look, and where the river rolls
Southward its shining labyrinth, in her strength
A City, girt with battlements and towers,
On seven small hills is rising. Round about.
At rural work, the Citizens are seen.
None unemployed ; the noblest of them all
Binding their sheaves or on their threshing-floors.
As though they had not conquered. Every where
Some trace of valour or heroic toil !
Here is the sacred field of the Horatii. j
There are the Quintian meadows. § Here the hill j]
How holy, where a generous people, twice.
Twice going forth, in terrible anger sate
Armed ; and, their wrongs re(h-essed, at once gave way,
* Palestrina. t La Riccia.
t " Horatiorum qua viret sacer campus." — Mart.
§ " Quae prata Quintia vocantur." — Lu-w
il Mons Sacer.
189
Helmet and shield, and sword and spear thrown down,
And every hand uplifted, every heart
Pouted out in thanks to heaven.
Once again
We look ; and lo, the sea is white with sails
Innumerable, wafting to the shore
Treasures untold ; the vale, the promontories,
A dream of glory ; temples, palaces.
Called up as by enchantment ; aqueducts
Among the groves and glades rolling along
Rivers, on many an arch high over-head ;
And in the centre, like a burning sun,
The Imperial City ! They have now subdued
All nations. But where they who led them forth ;
Who, when at length released by victory,
(Buckler and spear hung uj) — but not to rust)
Held poverty no evil, no reproach.
Living on little with a cheerful mind.
The Decii, the Fabricii ? Where the spade.
And reaping-hook, among their household-things
Duly transmitted ? In the hands of men
Made captive ; while the master and his guests,
Reclining, qualF in gold, and roses swim,
Summer and winter, through the circling year.
190
On their Falernian — in the hands of men
Dragged into slavery, with how many more
Spared but to die, a pubUc spectacle,
In combat with each other, and required
To fall with grace, with dignity — to sink
While life is gushing, and the plaudits ring
Faint and yet fainter on their failing ear,
As models for the sculptor.
But their days,
Their hours are numbered. Hark, a yell, a shriek,
A barbarous out-cry, loud and louder yet,
That echoes from the mountains to the sea !
And mark, beneath us, like a bursting cloud.
The battle moving onward ! Had they slain
All, that the Earth should from her womb bring forth
New nations to destroy them ? From the depth
Of forests, from what none had dared explore,
Regions of thrilling ice, as though in ice
Engendered, multiplied, they pour along,
Shaggy and huge ! Host after host, they come ;
The Goth, the Vandal ; and again the Goth !
Once more we look, and all is still as night,
All desolate ! Groves, temples, palaces,
Swept from the sight ; and nothing visible,
191
Amid the sulphurous vapours that exhale
As from a land accurst, save here and there
An empty tomb, a fragment like the limb
Of some dismembered giant. In the midst
A City stands, her domes and turrets crowned
With many a cross ; but they, that issue forth,
Wander like strangers who had built among
The mighty ruins, silent, spiritless ;
And on the road, where once we might have met
C^SAR and Cato, and men more than kings,
We meet, none else, the pilgrim and the beggar.
192
THE ROMAN PONTIFFS.
Those ancient men, what were they, who achieved
A sway beyond the greatest conquerors ;
Setting their feet upon the necks of kings,
And, through the world, subduing, chaining down
The free, immortal spirit ? Were they not
Mighty magicians ? Theirs a wondrous spell, ,
Where true and false were with infernal art.
Close-interwoven ; where together met
Blessings and curses, threats and promises ;
And with the terrors of Futurity
Mingled whate'er enchants and fascinates.
Music and painting, sculpture, rhetoric,
And dazzling light and darkness visible, *
And architectui'al pomp, such as none else !
* Whoever has entered the church of St. Peter's or the
Pauliue chapel, during the Exposition of the Holy Sacrament
there, will not soon forget the blaze of the altar, or the dark
circle of worshippers kneeling- in silence before it.
193
What in his day the Syracusan sought, *
Another world to plant his engines on,
They had ; and, having it, like gods not men
Moved this world at their pleasure. Ere they came,f
Their shadows, stretching far and wide, were known ;
And Two, that looked beyond the visible sphere,
Gave notice of their coming — he who saw
The Apocalypse ; and he of elder time,
Who in an awful vision of the night
Saw the Four Kingdoms. Distant as they were,
Those holy men, well might they faint with fear !
* An allusion to the saying of Archimedes, ' Give me a ))lace
to stand upon, and I will move the earth.'
t An allusion to the Prophecies concerning Antichrist. See
the interpretations of Mede, Newton, Clarke, 6)C, ; not to mention
those of Dante and Petrarch.
194
CAIUS CESTIUS.
When I am inclined to be serious, I love to wander
up and down before the tomb of Caius Cestius.
The Protestant burial-ground is there ; and most of
the little monuments are erected to the young ; young
men of promise, cut off when on their travels, full of
enthusiasm, full of enjoyment ; brides, in the bloom
of their beauty, on their first journey ; or children
borne from home in search of health. This stone
was placed by his fellow-travellers, youn^ as himself,
who will return to the house of his parents without
him ! that, by a husband or a father, now in his native
country. His heart is buried in that grave.
It is a quiet and sheltered nook, covered in the
winter with violets ; and the Pyramid, that over-
shadows it, gives it a classical and singularly solemn
air. You feel an interest there, a sympathy you were
not prepared for. You are yourself in a foreign
land ; and they are for the most part your country-
195
men. They call upon you in your mother-tongue —
in English — in words unknown to a native, known
only to yourselves : and the tomb of Cestius, that
old majestic pile, has this also in common with them.
It is itself a stranger, among strangers. It has stood
there till the language spoken round about it has
changed ; and the shepherd, born at the foot, can
read its inscription no longer.
196
THE NUN.
'Tis over ; and her lovely cheek is now
On her hard pillow — there, alas, to be
Nightly, through many and many a dreary hour,
Wan, often wet with tears, and (ere at length
Her place is empty, and another comes)
In anguish, in the ghastliness of death ;
Hers never more to leave those mournful walls.
Even on her bier.
'Tis over ; and the rite.
With all its pomp and harmony, is now
Floating before her. She arose at home,
To be the show, the idol of the day ;
Her vesture gorgeous, and her starry head —
No rocket, bursting in the midnight-sky,
So dazzling. When to-morrow she awakes,
She will awake as though she still was there.
Still in her father's house ; and lo, a cell
Narrow and dark, nought thro' the gloom discerned.
197
Nought save the crucifix, the rosary,
And the grey habit lying by to shroud
Her beauty and grace.
When on her knees she fell.
Entering the solemn place of consecration.
And from the latticed gallery came a chant
Of psalms, most saint-like, most angelical.
Verse after verse sung out how holily,
The strain returning, and still, still returning,
Methought it acted like a spell upon her,
And she was casting off her earthly dross ;
Yet was it sad as sweet, and, ere it closed.
Came like a dirge. When her fair head was shorn,
And the long tresses in her hands were laid,
That she might fling them from her, saying, ' Thus,
Thus I renounce the world and worldly things !'*
When, as she stood, her bridal ornaments
Were, one by one, removed, even to the last,
That she might say, flinging them from her, ' Thus,
* It was at such a moment, when contemplating the young
and the beautiful, that Tasso conceived his sonnets, beginning
' Vergine pia' and ' Vergine bella.' Those to wliom he ad-
dressed them, have long been forgotten ; though they were as
much, perhaps, to be loved, and as much also to be pitied.
198
Thus I renounce the world !' when all was changed,
And, as a nun, m homeliest guise she knelt.
Veiled in her veil, crowned with her silver crown,
Her crown of lilies as the spouse of Christ,
Well might her strength forsake her, and her knees
Fail in that hour ! Well might the holy man,
He, at whose feet she knelt, give as by stealth
('Twas in her utmost need ; nor, while she lives,*
Will it go from her, fleeting as it was)
That faint but fatherly smile, that smile of love
And pity !
Like a dream the whole is fled ;
And they, that came in idleness to gaze
Upon the victim di-essed for sacrifice,
Are mingling in the world ; thou in thy cell
Forgot, Teresa. Yet, among them all,
None were so formed to love and to be loved,
None to delight, adorn ; and on thee now
A curtain, blacker than the night, is dropped
For ever ! In thy gentle bosom sleep
Feelings, affections, destined now to die,
* Her back was at that time turned to the people; but in his
countenance might be read all that was passing. The Cardinal,
who officiated, was a venerable old man, evidently unused to
the service and much affected by it.
199
To wither like the blossom in the bud,
Those of a wife, a mother ; leaving there
A cheerless void, a chill as of the grave,
A languor and a lethargy of soul.
Death-like, and gathering more and more, till Death
Comes to release thee. Ah, what now to thee,
What now to thee the treasure of thy Youth ?
As nothing !
But thou canst not yet reflect
Calmly ; so many things, strange and perverse.
That meet, recoil, and go but to return,
The monstrous birth of one eventful day.
Troubling thy spirit — from the first at dawn,
The rich arraying for the nuptial feast.
To the black pall, the requiem. All in turn
Revisit thoo, and round thy lowly bed
IIov(>r, uncalled. Thy young and innocent heart,
How is it beating ? Has it no regrets ?
Discoverest thou no weakness lurking there ?
But thine exhausted frame has sunk to rest.
Peace to thy slumbers !
200
THE FIRE-FLY.
There is an Insect, that, when Evening- comes,
Small though he be, scarcely distinguishable.
Like Evening clad in soberest livery,
Unsheaths his wings * and thro' the woods and glades
Scatters a marvellous splendour. On he wheels.
Blazing by fits as from excess of joy, f
Each gush of light a gush of ecstasy ;
Nor unaccompanied ; thousands that fling
A radiance all their own, not of the day,
Thousands as bright as he, from dusk till dawn,
Soaring, descending.
In the mother's lap
Well may the child put forth his little hands,
* He is of the beetle-tribe.
t " For, in that upper clime, effulgence conies
Of gladness." — Gary's Dante.
201
Singing the nursery-song he learnt so soon ; *
And the young nymph, preparing for the dance
By brook or fountain-side, in many a braid
Wreathing her golden hair, well may she cry,
' Come hither ; and the shepherds, gathering round,
Shall say, Floretta emulates the Night,
Spangling her head with stars.'
Oft have I met
This shining race, when in the Tusculan groves
My path no longer glimmered ; oft among
Those trees, religious once and always green,
That yet dream out their stories of old Rome
Over the Alban lake ; oft met and hailed.
Where the precipitate Anio thunders down.
And through the surging mist a Poet's house
(So some aver, and who would not believe ?)f
* There is a song to the luccinla in every dialect of Italy ; as
for instance in the Genoese.
" Cabela, vegni a baso ;
Ti ilajo un cuge de lette."
The Roman is in a higher strain.
" Bella ret^ina," i^c.
t " I did not tell you that just below the first fall, on the side
ot the rock, and hanging over that torrent, are little ruius
202
Reveals itself. Yet cannot I forget
Him, who rejoiced me in those walks at eve,*
My earliest, pleasantest ; who dwells unseen,
And in our northern clime, when all is still.
Nightly keeps watch, nightly in bush or brake
His lonely lamp rekindling. Unlike theirs.
His, if less dazzling, through the darkness knows
No intermission ; sending forth its ray
Through the green leaves, a ray serene and clear
As Virtue's own.
which they show you for Horace's house, a curious situation to
observe the
' Prteceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda
Mobilibus pomaria rivis.'" Gkav's Letters,
* The glow womi.
203
FOREIGN TRAVEL.
It was in a splenetic humour that I sat me down to
my scanty fare at Terracina ; and how long I
should have contemplated the lean thrushes in array
before me, I cannot say, if a cloud of smoke, that
drew the tears into my eyes, had not burst from the
green and leafy boughs on the hearth-stone. ' Why,'
I exclaimed, starting up from the table, ' why did I
leave my own chimney-corner? — But am I not on
the road to Brundusium? And are not these the
very calamities that bcfcl Horace and Virgil, and
M^CENAs, and Plotius, and Varius? Horace
laughed at them — Then why should not I ? Horace
resolved to turn them to account; and Virgil —
cannot we hear him observing, that to remember
them will, by and by, be a pleasure ?' My soliloquy
reconciled me at once to my fate ; and when for the
twentieth time I had looked through the window on a
sea sparkling with innumerable brilliants, a sea on
204
which the heroes of the Odyssey and the i^neid had
sailed, I sat down as to a splendid banquet. My
thrushes had the flavour of ortolans ; and I ate with
an appetite I had not known before. ' Who,' I cried,
as I poured out my last glass of Falernian, * (for
Falernian it was said to be, and in my eyes it ran
bright and clear as a topaz-stone) ' Who would
remain at home, could he do otherwise ? Who would
submit to tread that dull, but daily round ; his hours
forgotten as soon as spent ?' and, opening my journal-
book and dipping my pen in my ink-horn, I deter-
mined, as far as I could to justify myself and my
countrymen in wandering over the face of the earth.
' It may serve me,' said I, ' as a remedy in some
future fit of the spleen.'
Ours is a nation of travellers ;f and no wonder,
when the elements, air, water, and fire, attend at our
bidding, to transport us from shore to shore ; when
* We were now within a few hours of the Campania Felix.
On the colour and flavour of Falernian consult Galen and
Dioscorides.
t As indeed it always was, contrihuting those of every
205
the ship rushes into the deep, her track the foam as
of some mighty torrent ; and, in three hours or less,
we stand gazing and gazed at among a foreign people.
None want an excuse. If rich, they go to enjoy ; if
poor, to retrench ; if sick, to recover ; if studious, to
learn ; if learned, to relax from their studies. But
whatever they may say and whatever they may
beUeve, they go for the most part on the same
errand ; nor will those who reflect, think that errand
an idle one.
Almost all men are over-anxious. No sooner do
they enter the world, than they lose that taste for
natural and simple pleasures, so remarkable in early
life. Every hour do they ask themselves what pro-
gress they have made in the pursuit of wealth or
honour ; and on they go as their fathers went before
them, till, weary and sick at heart, they look back
degree, from a milord with his suite to him whose only attendant
is his shadow. Cory ate in 1608 performed his journey on
foot ; and, returning, hung up his shoes in his village-church
as an ex-voto. Goldsmith, a century and a half afterwards,
followed in nearly the same path; playing a tune on his flute
to procure admittance, whenever he approached a cottage at
night-fall.
206
with a sigh of regret to the golden time of their
childhood.
Now travel, and foreign travel more particularly,
restores to us in a great degree what we have lost.
When the anchor is heaved, we double down the
leaf; and for a while at least all effort is over. The
old cares are left clustering round the old objects ;
and at every step, as we proceed, the shghtest circum-
stance amuses and interests. All is new and strange.*
We surrender ourselves, and feel once again as chil-
dren. Like them, we enjoy eagerly ; like them, when
we fret, we fret only for the moment ; and here
indeed the resemblance is very remarkable ; for, if a
jom-ney has its pains as well as its pleasures (and
there is nothing unmixed in this world) the pains are
no sooner over than they are forgotten, while the
pleasures live long in the memory.
* We cross a narrow sea ; we land on a shore which we
have contemplated from our own ; and we awake, as it were, in
another planet. The very child that lisps there, lisps in words
which we have yet to learn.
Nor is it less interesting, if less striking, to observe the
gradations in language, and feature, and character, as we travel
on from kingdom to kingdom. The French peasant becomes
more and more an Italian as we approach Italy, and a Spaniard
as we approach Spain.
207
Nor is it surely without another advantage. If life
be short, not so to many of us are its days and its
hours. When the blood slumbers in the veins, how
often do we wish that the earth would turn faster on
its axis, that the sun would rise and set before it does ;
and, to escape from the weight of time, how many
foUies, how many crimes are committed ! Men rusli
on danger, and even on death. Intrigue, play, foreign
and domestic broil, such are their resources ; and,
when these things fail, they destroy themselves.
Now in travelling we multiply events, and inno-
cently. We set out, as it were, on our adventures ;
and many are those that occur to us, morning, noon,
and night. The day we come to a place which we
have long heard and read of, and in Italy we do so
continually, it is an era in our lives ; and from that
moment the very name calls up a picture. How
delightfully too does the knowledge flow in upon us,
and how fast ! *. Would he who sat in a corner of his
library, poring over books and maps, learn more or so
* To judge at once of a nation, we have only lo throw our
eyes on the markets and the fields. If the markets are well-
supplied, the fields well-cultivated, all is right. If otherwise,
we may say, and say truly, these pcopU^ arc larharous or
oppressed.
20§
much in the time, as he who, with his ej'es and his
heart open, is receiving impressions all day long from
the things themselves ? * How accurately do they
arrange themselves in our memory, towns, rivers,
mountains ; and in what living colours do we recall
the dresses, manners, and customs of the people !
Our sight is the noblest of all our senses. ' It fills
the mind with most ideas, converses with its objects at
the greatest distance, and continues longest in action
without being tired.' Our sight is on the alert when
we travel ; and its exercise is then so delightful, that
we forget the profit in the pleasure.
Like a river, that gathers, that refines as it runs,
like a spring that takes its course through some rich
vein of mineral, we improve and imperceptibly — nor
in the head only, but in the heart. Our prejudices
leave us, one by one. Sefts and mountains are no
longer our boundaries. We learn to love, and esteem,
and admire beyond them. Our benevolence extends
itself with our knowledge. And must we not return
better citizens than we went? For the more we
* Assuredly not, if the last has laid a proper foundation
Knowledge makes knowledge as money makes money, nor ever
perhaps so fast as on a journey.
209
become acquainted with the institutions of other coun-
tries, the more highly must we vahie our own.
I threw down my pen in triumph. ' The question,'
said I, ' is set to rest for ever. And yet — '
' And yet — ' I must still say.* The Wisest of
MEN seldom went out of the walls of Athens ; and
for that worst of evils, that sickness of the soul, to
which we are most liable when most at our ease, is
there not after all a surer and yet pleasanter remedy,
a remedy for which we have only to cross the threshold ?
A PiEDMONTESE nobleman, into whose company I
fell at Turin, had not long before experienced its
efficacy ; and his story, which he told me without
reserve, was as follows.
' I was weary of life, and, after a day, such as few
have known and none would wish to remember, was
hurrying along the street to the river, when I felt a
* For that knowledge, indeed, which is tlie most precious,
we have not far to go; and how often is it to be found wliere
least it is looked for?
' I have learned more,' said a dying man on the scaflbld, ' in
one little dark corner of yonder tower, than by any travel in so
many places as I have seen.' — Holinshfd.
P
210
sudden check. I turned and beheld a little boy, who
had caught the skirt of my cloak in his anxiety to
solicit my notice. His look and manner were irre-
sistible. Not less so was the lesson he had learnt.
" There are six of us, and we are dying for want of
food." — " Why should I not," said I to myself, " relieve
this wretched family ? I have the means ; and it ^\'ill
not delay me many minutes. But what, if it does ?"
The scene of misery he conducted me to, I cannot
describe. I threw them my purse ; and their burst of
gratitude overcame me. It filled my eyes . . it went
as a cordial to my heart. " I will call again to-mor-
row," I cried. " Fool that I was, to think of leaving
a world, where such pleasure was to be had, and so
cheaply !"'
•211
THE FOUNTAIN.
It was a well
Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry ;
And richly wrought with many a high relief,
Greek sculpture — in some earlier day perhaps
A tomb, and honoured with a hero's ashes.
The water from the rock filled and o'erflowed ;
Then dashed away, playing the prodigal.
And soon was lost — stealing unseen, unheard.
Thro' the long grass, and round the twisted roots
Of aged trees ; discovering where it ran
By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat,
I threw me down ; admiring, as I lay,
'That shady nook, a singing-place for birds.
That grove so intricate, so full of flowers,
More than enough to please a child a-Maying.
The sun had set, a distant convent-bell
Ringing the Angelus ; and now approached
The hour for stir and village-gossip there.
The hour Uebekah came, when from the well
212
She drew with such alacrity to serve
The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard
Footsteps ; and lo, descending by a path
Trodden for ages, many a nymph appeared,
Appeared and vanished, bearing on her head
Her earthen pitcher. It called up the day
Ulysses landed there ; and long I gazed.
Like one awaking in a distant time.*
At length there came the loveliest of them all.
Her little brother dancing down before her ;
And ever as he spoke, which he did ever.
Turning and looking up in warmth of heart
And brotherly affection. Stopping there,
She joined her rosy hands, and, filling them
With the pure element, gave him to drink ;
And, while he quenched his thirst, standing on tiptoe,
Looked down upon him with a sister's smile,
Nor stirred till he had done, fixed as a statue.
Then hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova,
Thou hadst endowed them with immortal youth ;
And they had ever more lived undivided,
Winning all hearts — of all thy works the fairest.
* The place here described is near Mola di Gaeta in the
kingdom of Naples.
213
BANDITTI.
'Tis a wild life, fearful and full of change,
The mountain-robber's. On the watch he lies,
Levelling his carbine at the passenger ;
And, when his work is done, he dares not sleep.
Time was, the trade was nobler, if not honest ;
When they that robbed, were men of better faith *
Than kings or pontiifs ; when, such reverence
The Poet drew among the woods and wilds,
A voice was heard, that never bade to spare, f
Crying aloud, ' Hence to the distant hills !
* Alluding to Alfonso Piccolomini. " Stupiva ciascuno clie,
ineutre un bandito osservava rigorosaraente la sua parola, il
Papa non avesse ribrezzo di mancare alia propria." — Galluzzi,
ii. 364. He was hanged at Florence, March 16, 1 591.
t Tasso was returning from Naples to Rome, and had arrived
at Mola di Gaiita, when he received this tribute of respect.
The captain of the troop was Marco di Sciarra. See Manso,
Vita del Tasso. Ariosto had a similar adventure with Filippo
I'acchioue. See Gakoialo.
•214
Tasso approaches ; he, whose song beguiles
The day of half its hours ; whose sorcery
Dazzles the sense, turning our forest-glades
To lists that blaze with gorgeous armoury,
Our mountain-caves to regal palaces.
Hence, nor descend till he and his are gone.
Let him fear nothing.' — When along the shore,
And by the path that, wandering on its way.
Leads through the fatal grove where Tully fell,
(Grey and o'ergrown, an ancient tomb is there),
215
He came and they withdrew, they were a race
Careless of life in others and themselves,
For they had learnt their lesson in a camp ;
But not ungenerous. 'Tis no longer so.
Now crafty, cruel, torturing ere they slay
The unhappy captive, and with bitter jests
Mocking Misfortune ; vain, fantastical,
Wearing whatever glitters in the spoil ;
And most devout, though, when they kneel and pray,
With every bead they could recount a murder,
As by a spell they start up in array,*
As by a spell they vanish — theirs a band.
Not as elsewhere of outlaws, but of such
As sow and reap, and at the cottage-door
Sit to receive, return the traveller's greeting ;
Now in the garb of peace, now silently
Arming and issuing forth, led on by men
Whose names on innocent lips are words of fear.
Whose lives have long been forfeit. — Some there are
That, ere they rise to this bad eminence.
Lurk, night and day, the plague-spot visible,
* ' Cette race de bandits a ses racines dans la population
meme du pays. La police ne sail ou les trouver.' — Lettres de
Cliiiteunvieiix.
216
The guilt that says, Beware ; and mark we now
Him, where he Ues, who couches for his prey
At the bridge-foot in some dark cavity
Scooped by the waters, or some gaping tomb,
Nameless and tenantless, whence the red fox
Slunk as he entered.
There he broods, in spleen
Gnawing his beard ; his rough and sinewy frame
O'erwritten with the story of his life :
On his wan cheek a sabre-cut, well earned
In foreign warfare ; on his breast the brand
Indelible, burnt in when to the port
He clanked his chain, among a hundred more
Dragged ignominiously ; on every limb
Memorials of his gloi-y and his shame,
Stripes of the lash and honourable scars,
And channels here and there worn to the bone
By galling fetters.
He comes slowly forth,
Unkennelling, and up that savage dell
Anxiously looks ; his cruise, an ample gourd,
(Duly replenished from the vintner's cask)
Slung from his shoulder ; in his breadth of belt
Two pistols and a dagger yet uncleansed,
217
A parchment scrawled with uncouth characters,
And a small vial, his last remedy,
His cure, when all things fail.
No noise is heard.
Save when the rugged bear and the gaunt wolf
Howl in the upper region, or a fish
Leaps in the gulf beneath. But now he kneels ;
And (like a scout, when listening to the tramp
Of horse or foot) lays his experienced ear
Close to the ground, then rises and explores,
Then kneels again, and, his short rifle-gun
Against his cheek, waits patiently.
Two Monks,
Portly, grey-headed, on their gallant steeds,
Descend where yet a mouldering cross o'erhangs
The grave of one that from the precipice
Fell in an evil hour. Their bridle-bells
Ring merrily ; and many a loud, long laugh
Re-echoes ; but at once the sounds are lost.
Unconscious of the good in store below.
The holy fathers have turned off, and now
Cross the brown heath, ere long to wag tlieir beards
Before my lady-abbess, and discuss
Things only known to the devout and pure
218
O'er her spiced bowl — then shrive the sister-hood,
Sitting by turns with an inchning ear
In the confessional.
He moves his lips
As with a curse — then paces up and down,
Now fast, now slow, brooding and muttering on ;
Gloomy alike to him the past, the future.
But hark, the nimble tread of numerous feet I
'Tis but a dappled herd, come down to slake
Their thirst in the cool wave.
219
He turns and aims ;
Then checks himself, unwilling to disturb
The sleeping echoes. — Once again he earths ;
Slipping away to house with them beneath,
His old companions in that hiding-place.
The bat, the toad, the blind-worm, and the newt ;
And hark, a footstep, firm and confident.
As of a man in haste. Nearer it draws ;
And now is at the entrance of the den.
Ha ! 'tis a comrade, sent to gather in
The band for some great enterprize.
Who wants
A sequel, may read on. The unvarnished tale,
That follows, will supply the place of one.
'Twas told me by the Count St. Angelo,
When in a blustering night he sheltered me
In that brave castle of his ancestors
O'er Garigliano, and is such indeed
As every day brings with it — in a land
Where laws are trampled on, and lawless men
Walk in the sun ; but it should not be lost,
For it may serve to bind us to our Country.
•220
AN ADVENTURE.
Three days they lay in ambush at my gate,
Then sprmig and led me captive. Many a wild
We traversed ; but Rusconi, 'twas no less,
Marched by my side, and, when I thirsted, climbed
The cliifs for water ; though, whene'er he spoke,
'Twas briefly, sullenly ; and on he led.
Distinguished only by an amulet.
That in a golden chain hung from his neck,
A crystal of rare virtue. Night fell fast,
When on a heath, black and immeasurable,
He turned and bade them halt. 'Twas where the earth
Heaves o'er the dead — where erst some Alaric
Fought his last fight, and every warrior threw
A stone to tell for ages where he lay.
Then all advanced, and, ranging in a square,
Stretched forth their arms as on the holy cross.
From each to each their sable cloaks extending,
That, like the solemn hangings of a tent.
221
Covered us round ; and in the midst I stood,
Weary and faint, and face to face with one.
Whose voice, whose look dispenses life and death,
Whose heart knows no relentings. Instantly
A light was kindled, and the Bandit spoke.
' I know thee. Thou hast sought us, for the sport
Slipping thy blood-hounds with a hunter's cry ;
And thou hast found at last. Were I as thou,
I in thy grasp as thou art now in ours,
Soon should I make a midnight-spectacle,
Soon, limb by limb, be mangled on a wheel.
Then gibbetted to blacken for the vultures.
But I would teach thee better how to spare.
Write as I dictate. If thy ransom comes,
Thou liv'st. If not — but answer not, I pray,
Lest thou provoke me. I may strike thee dead ;
And know, young man, it is an easier thing
To do it than to say it. Write, and thus.' —
I wrote. ' 'Tis well,' he cried. ' A peasant-boy,
Trusty and swift of foot, shall bear it hence,
Meanwhile lie down and rest. This cloak of mine
Will serve thee ; it has weathered many a storm.'
The watch was set ; and twice it had been changed,
When morning broke, and a wild bird, a hawk,
222
Flew in a circle, screaming. I looked up,
And all were gone, save him who now kept guard,
And on his arms lay musing. Young he seemed,
And sad, as though he could indulge at will
Some secret sorrow. ' Thou shrink'st back,' he said.
* Well may'st thou, \ying, as thou dost, so near
A Ruffian — one for ever linked and bound
To guilt and infamy. There was a time
When he had not perhaps been deemed unworthy,
When he had watched that planet to its setting,
And dwelt with pleasure on the meanest thing
That Nature has given birth to. Now 'tis past.
Wouldst thou know more ? My story is an old one.
I loved, was scorned ; I trusted, was betrayed ;
And in my anguish, my necessity.
Met with the fiend, the tempter — in Ruscoxi.
" Why thus ?" he cried. " Thou wouldst be free and
dar'st not.
Come and assert thy birth-right while thou canst.
A robber's cave is better than a dungeon ;
And death itself, what is it at the worst.
What, but a harlequin's leap ?" Him I had known.
Had served with, suffered with ; and on the walls
Of Capua, while the moon went down, I swore
Allegiance on his dagger. Dost thou ask
223
How I have kept my oath ? — Thou shalt be told,
Cost what it may. But grant me, I implore.
Grant me a passport to some distant land.
That I may never, never more be named.
Thou wilt, I know thou wilt.
Two months ago,
\Vhen on a vineyard-hill we lay concealed
And scattered up and dowTi as we were wont,
I heard a damsel singing to herself,
And soon espied her, coming all alone,
In her first beauty. Up a path she came.
Leafy and intricate, singing her song,
A song of love, by snatches ; breaking off
If but a flower, an insect in the sun
Pleased for an instant ; then as carelessly
The strain resuming, and, where'er she stopt,
Rising on tiptoe underneath the boughs
To pluck a grape in very wantonness.
Her look, her mien and maiden-ornaments
Shewed gentle birth ; and, step by step, she came,
Nearer and nearer, to the dreadful snare.
None else were by ; and, as I gazed unseen,
Her youth, her innocence and gaiety
Went to my heart ! and, starting up, I brc^athed,
" Fly — for your life !" Alas, she shrieked, she fell ;
224
And, as I caught her falling, all rushed forth.
" A Wood-nymph !" cried Rusconi. " By the light,
Lovely as Hebe ! Lay her in the shade."
I heard him not. I stood as in a trance.
" What," he exclaimed with a malicious smile,
" Wouldst thou rebel ?" I did as he required.
" Now bear her hence to the well-head below ;
A few cold drops will animate this marble.
Go ! 'Tis an office all will envy thee ;
But thou hast earned it." As I staggered down.
Unwilling to surrender her sweet body ;
Her golden hair dishevelled on a neck
Of snow, and her fair eyes closed as in sleep.
Frantic with love, with hate, " Great God !" I cried,
(I had almost forgotten how to pray ;
But there are moments when the courage comes)
" Why may I not, while yet — while yet I can.
Release her from a thraldom worse than death ?"
'Twas done as soon as said. I kissed her brow.
And smote her with my dagger. A short cry
She uttered, but she stirred not ; and to heaven
Her gentle spirit fled. 'Twas where the path
In its descent turned suddenly. No eye
Observed me, tho' their steps were following fast.
But soon a yell broke forth, and all at once
225
Levelled their deadly aim. Then I had ceased
To trouble or be troubled, and had now
(Would I were there !) been slumbering in my grave,
Had not Rusconi with a terrible shout
Thrown himself in between us, and exclaimed,
Grasping my arm, " 'Tis bravely, nobly done !
Is it for deeds like these thou wear'st a sword ?
Was this the business that thou cam'st upon ?
— But 'tis his first offence, and let it pass.
Like the young tiger he has tasted blood.
And may do much hereafter. He can strike
Home to the hilt." Then in an under-tone,
" Thus would'st thou justify the pledge I gave,
When in the eyes of all I read distrust ?
For once," and on his cheek, methought, I saw
The blush of virtue, " I will save thee, Albert ;
Again I cannot." '
Ere his tale was told.
As on the heath we lay, my ransom came ;
And in six days, with no ungrateful mind,
Albert was sailing on a quiet sea.
— But the night wears, and thou art much in need
Of rest. The young Antonio, with his torch,
Is waiting to conduct thee to thy chamber.
Q
v^^
NAPLES.
This region, surely, is not of the earth.*
Was it not dropt from heaven ? Not a grove.
Citron or pine or cedar, not a grot
Sea- worn and mantled with the gadding vine,
But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings
On the clear wave some image of delight.
Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers.
Un pezzo di cielo caduto in terra.— Sannazaro.
227
Some ruined temple or fallen monument,
To muse on as the bark is gliding by.
And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide,
From day -break, when the mountain pales his fire
Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top,
Till then invisible, a smoke ascends,
Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat,
When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood,
Was with his house-hold sacrificing there —
From day-break to that hour, the last and best,
When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth,
Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow.
And, when the nets are thrown, the evening-hymn
Steals o'er the trembling waters.
Every where
Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry,
Each her peculiar influence. Fable came,
And laughed and sung, arraying Truth in flowers.
Like a young child her grandam. Fable came ;
Earth, sea and sky reflecting, as she flew,
A thousand, thousand colours not their own ;
And at her bidding, lo ! a dark descent
To Tartarus, and those thrice happy fields,
Those fields with ether pure and purple light
228
Ever invested, scenes by Him pourtraj'ed, *
Who here was wont to wander, here invoke
The sacred Muses, -j- here receive, record
Whai they revealed, and on the western shore
Sleeps in a silent grove, o'erlooking thee,
Beloved Parthenope.
Yet here, methinks,
Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape
Filling the mind by turns with awe and love.
By turns inclining to wild ecstasy.
And soberest meditation. Here the vines
Wed, each her elm, and o'er the golden grain
Hang their luxuriant clusters, chequering
The sunshine ; where, when cooler shadows fall,
And the mild moon her fairy net-work weaves,
The lute, or mandoline, accompanied
By many a voice yet sweeter than their own,
Kindles, nor slowly ; and the dance X displays
The gentle arts and witcheries of love.
Its hopes and fears and feignings, till the youth
Drops on his knee as vanquished, and the maid,
* Virgil.
t Quarum sacra fero, ingenti percussus amore.
i The Tarantella.
229
Her tambourine uplifting with a grace,
Nature's and Nature's only, bids him rise.
But here the mighty Monarch underneath,
He in his palace of fire, diffuses round
A dazzling splendour. Here, unseen, unheard,
Opening another Eden in the wild,
His gifts he scatters ; save, when issuing forth
In thunder, he blots out the sun, the sky.
And, mingling all things earthly as in scorn.
Exalts the valley, lays the mountain low.
Pours many a torrent from his burning lake.
And in an hour of universal mirth.
What time the trump proclaims the festival.
Buries some capital city, there to sleoj)
The sleep of ages — till a plough, a spade
Disclose the secret, and the eye of day
Glares coldly on the streets, the skeletons ;
Each in his place, each in his gay attire.
And eager to enjoy.
Let us go round ;
And let the sail be slack, the course be slow,
That at our leisure, as we coast along.
We may contemplate, and from every scene
230
Receive its influence. The CuMiEAN towers,
There did they rise, sun-gilt ; and here thy groves,
Dehcious Bai^. Here (what would they not?)
The masters of the earth, unsatisfied.
Built in the sea ; and now the boatman steers
O'er many a crypt and vault yet glimmering.
O'er many a broad and indestructible arch.
The deep foundations of their palaces ;
Nothing now heard ashore, so great the change,
Save when the sea-mew clamours, or the owl
Hoots in the temple.
What the mountainous Isle,*
Seen in the South ? 'Tis where a Monster dwelt,f
Hurling his \'ictims from the topmost cliff;
Then and then only merciful, so slow.
So subtle were the tortures they endured.
Fearing and feared he lived, cursing and cursed
And still the dungeons in the rock breathe out
Darkness, distemper. Strange, that one so vile;}:
* Caprea^. t Tiberius.
i ' How often, to demonstrate his power, does He employ the
meanest of his instruments ; as in Egypt, when he called forth
— not the serpents and the monsters of Airica — but vermin
from the very dust !'
231
Should from his den strike terror thro' the world ;
Should, where withdrawn in his decrepitude,
Say to the noblest, be they where they might,
' Go from the earth !' and from the earth they went.
Yet such things were — and will be, when mankind.
Losing all virtue, lose all energy ;
And for the loss incur the penalty,
Trodden down and trampled.
Let us turn the prow,
And in the track of him who went to die, *
Traverse this valley of waters, landing where
A waking dream awaits us. At a step
Two thousand years roll backward, and we stand.
Like those so long within that awful Place, f
Immovable, nor asking. Can it be ?
* The Elder Pliny, See the letter in which his Nephew
relates to Tacitus the circumstances of his death. — In the morn-
ing of that day Vesuvius was covered with the most luxuriant
vegetation ; every elm had its vine, every vine (for it was in
the month of August) its clusters; nor in the cities below was
there a thought of danger, though their interment was so soon
to take place. In Pompeii, if we may believe Dion Cassius,
the people were sitting in the Theatre, when the work of
destruction began.
t Pompeii.
232
Once did I linger there alone, till day
Closed, and at length the calm of twilight came,
So grateful, yet so solemn ! At the fount.
Just where the three ways meet, I stood and looked,
('Twas near a noble house, the house of Pansa)
And all was still as in the long, long night
That followed, when the shower of ashes fell,
When they that sought Pompeii, sought in vain ;
It was not to be found. But now a ray,
Bright and yet brighter, on the pavement glanced,
And on the wheel-track worn for centuries,
And on the stepping-stones from side to side.
O'er which the maidens, with their water-urns,
Were wont to trip so lightly. Full and clear,
The moon was rising, and at once revealed
The name of every dweller, and his craft ;
Shining throughout with an unusual lustre,
And lighting up this City of the Dead.
Mark, where within, as though the embers lived.
The ample chimney-vault is dun with smoke.
There dwelt a miller ; silent and at rest
His mill-stones now. In old companionship
Still do they stand as on the day he went,
Each ready for its office — ^but he comes not.
233
And there, hard by (where one in idleness
Has stopt to scrawl a ship, an armed man ;
And in a tablet on the wall we read
Of shews ere long to be) a sculptor wrought,
Nor meanly ; blocks, half-chiselled into life,
Waiting his call. Here long, as yet attests
The trodden floor, an olive-merchant drew
From many an earthen jar, no more supplied ;
And here from his a vintner served his guests
Largely, the stain of his o'erflowing cups
Fresh on the marble. On the bench, beneath,
They sate and quaffed and looked on them that passed,
Gravely discussing the last news from Rome.
But lo, engraven on a threshold-stone,
That word of courtesy, so sacred once,
Hail ! At a master's greeting we may enter.
And lo, a fairy-palace ! every where,
As through the courts and chambers we advance,
Floors of mosaic, walls of arabesque.
And columns clustering in Patrician splendour.
But hark, a footstep ! May we not intrude ?
And now, methinks, I hear a gentle laugh,
And gentle voices mingling as in converse !
— And now a harp-string as struck carelessly,
234
And now — along the corridor it comes —
I cannot err, a filling as of baths !
— Ah, no, 'tis but a mockery of the sense,
Idle and vain ! We are but where we were ;
Still wandering in a City of the Dead I
v^r
THE BAG OF GOLD.
I DINE very often with the good old Cardinal * *
and, I should add, with his cats ; for they always sit
at his table, and are much the gravest of the company.
His V)eaming countenance makes us forget his age ; f
iior did I ever see it clouded till yesterday, when, as
t 111 a time of revolution lie could not escape unhurt ; hut to
the last he preserved his gaiety of ininj through every change
of fortune; living right hospitably when he had the means to do
so, and, when he could not entertain, dining as lie is here
represented — en famille.
236
we were contemplating the sun-set from his terrace, he
happened, in the course of our conversation, to alhide
to an affecting circumstance in his early life.
He had just left the University of Palermo and
was entering the army, when he became acquainted
with a young lady of great beauty and merit, a Sicilian
of a family as illustrious as his own. Living near
each other, they were often together; and, at an age
like theirs, friendship soon turns to love. But his
father, for what reason I forget, refused his consent to
their union ; till, alarmed at the declining health of
his son, he promised to oppose it no longer, if, after a
separation of three years, they continued as much in
love as ever.
Relying on that promise, he said, I set out on a
long journey ; but in my absence the usual arts were
resorted to. Our letters were intercepted ; and false
rumours were spread — first of my indifference, then of
my inconstancy, then of my marriage with a rich
heiress of Sienna ; and, when at length I returned
to make her my own, I found her in a convent of
Ursuline Nuns. She had taken the veil ; and I, said
he with a sigh — what else remained for me ? — I went
into the church.
237
Yet many, he continued, as if to turn the conver-
sation, very many have been happy though we were
not ; and, if I am not abusing an old man's privilege,
let me tell you a story with a better catastrophe. It
was told to me when a boy ; and you may not be
unwilling to hear it, for it bears some resemblance to
that of the Merchant of Venice.
We were now arrived at a pavilion that com-
manded one of the noblest prospects imaginable ; the
mountains, the sea, and the islands illuminated by the
last beams of day , and, sitting down there, he pro-
ceeded with his usual vivacity ; for the sadness, that
had come across him, was gone.
There lived, in the fourteenth century, near Bo-
logna, a Widow-lady of the Lambei'tini Family,
calle(i Madonna Lucrezia, who in a revolution of
the State had known the bitterness of poverty, and
had even begged her bread ; kneeling day after day
like a statue at the gate of the Cathedral ; her rosary
in her left hand and her right held out for charity ;
her long black veil concealing a face that had once
adorned a Court, and had received the homage of as
many sonnets as Petrakcii has written on Lauka.
But Fortune had at last relented ; a legacy from a
•238
distant relation had come to her rehef ; and she was
now the mistress of a small inn at the foot of the
Apennines ; where she entertained as well as she
could, and where those only stopped who were con-
tented with a little. The house was still standing,
when in my youth I passed that way ; though the
sign of the White Cross,* the Cross of the Hospital-
lers, was no longer to be seen over the door ; a sign
which she had taken, if we may believe the tradition
there, in honour of a maternal uncle, a grand-master
of that Order, whose achievements in Palestine
she would sometimes relate. A mountain-stream ran
through the garden ; and at no great distance, where
the road turned on its way to Bologna, stood a
little chapel, in which a lamp was always burning
before a picture of the Virgin, a picture of great
antiquity, the work of some Greek artist.
Here she was dwelling, respected by all who knew
her ; when an event took place, which threw her into
the deepest affliction. It was at noon-day in Septem-
ber that three foot-travellers arrived, and, seating
themselves on a bench under her vine-trellis, were
* La Croce Bianca.
239
supplied with a flagon of Aleatico by a lovely girl,
her only child, the image of her former self. The
eldest spoke like a Venetian, and his beard was short
and pointed after the fashion of Venice. In his
demeanour he affected great courtesy, but his look
inspired Uttle confidence ; for when he smiled, which
he did continually, it was with his lips only, not with
his eyes ; and they were always turned from yours.
His companions were bluff and frank in their manner,
and on their tongues had many a soldier's oath. In
their hats they wore a medal, such as in that age was
often distributed in war ; and they were evidently
subalterns in one of those Free Bands which were
always ready to serve in any quarrel, if a service it
could be called, where a battle was little more than a
mockery ; and the slain, as on an opera-stage, were
up and fighting to-morrow. Overcome with the heat,
they threw aside their cloaks ; and, with their gloves
tucked under their belts, continued for some time in
earnest conversation.
At length they rose to go ; and the Venetian thus
addressed their Hostess. ' Excellent Lady, may we
leave under your roof, for a day or two, this bag of
gold?' ' You may,' she replied gaily. ' But remem-.
240
ber, we fasten only with a latch. Bars and bolts we
have none in our village ; and, if we had, where would
be your security ?' ' In your word, Lady.'
' But what if I died to-night ? Where would it be
then ?' said she, laughing. ' The money would go to
the Church ; for none could claim it.'
' Perhaps you will favour us with an acknowledg-
ment.' ' If you will write it.'
An acknowledgment was written accordinglj-, and
she signed it before Master Bartolo the Village-
physician, who had just called on his mule to learn
the news of the day ; the gold to be delivered when
applied for, but to be delivered (these were the words)
not to one — nor to two — but to the three ; words wisely
introduced by those to whom it belonged, knowing
what they knew of each other. The gold they had
just released from a miser's chest in Perugia ; and
they were now on a scent that promised more.
They and their shadows were no sooner departed,
than the Venetian returned, saying, ' Give me leave
to set my seal on the bag, as the others have done ;'
and she placed it on a table before him. But in that
moment she was called away to receive a Cavalier,
.who had just dismounted from his horse ; and, when
241
she came back, it was gone. The temptation had
proved irresistible ; and the man and the money had
vanished together.
' Wretched woman that I am !' she cried, as in an
agony of grief she threw herself on her daughter's
neck, ' What will become of us ? Are we again to be
cast out into the wide world ? . . Unhappy child, would
that thou hadst never been born !' and all day long
she lamented ; but her tears availed her little. The
others were not slow in returning to claim their due ;
and there were no tidings of the thief ; he had fled far
away with his plunder. A Process against her was
instantly begun in Bologna ; and what defence could
she make ; how release herself from the obligation of
the bond ? Wilfully or in negligence she had parted
with the gold ; she had parted with it to one, when
she should have kept it for all ; and inevitable ruin
awaited her! 'Go, Gianetta,' said she to her
daughter, ' take this veil which your mother has worn
and wept under so often, and implore the Counsellor
Calderino to plead for us on the day of trial. He is
generous, and will listen to the Unfortunate. But, if
he will not, go from door to door ; Monaldi cannot
refuse us. Make haste, my child ; but remember the
R
242
chapel as you pass by it. Nothing prospers without
a prayer.'
Alas, she went, but in vain. These were retained
against them ; those demanded more than they had to
give ; and all bad them despair. What was to be done ?
No advocate ; and the Cause to come on to-morrow !
Now GiANETTA had a lover ; and he was a student
of the law, a young man of great promise, Lorenzo
Martelli. He had studied long and diligently under
that learned lawyer, Giovanni Andreas, who, though
Uttle of stature, was great in renown, and by his con-
temporaries was called the Arch-doctor, the Rabbi of
Doctors, the Light of the World. Under him he had
studied, sitting on the same bench with Petrarch ; and
also under his daughter Novella, who would often
lecture to the scholars, when her father was otherwise
engaged, placing herself behind a small curtain, lest
her beauty should divert their thoughts ; a precaution
in this instance at least unnecessary, Lorenzo having
lost his heart to another.*
* ' Ce pourroit etre,' savs Bavie, ' la matieie d'un joli pro-
bleme : on pourroit examiner si cette filie avan^oit, ou si elle
retardoit le profit de ses auditeurs, en leur cachant son beau
visage. II y auroit cent choses u dire pour et contre la-dessus.'
243
To him she flies in her necessity ; but of what assist-
ance can he be ? He has just taken his place at the
bar, but he has never spoken ; and how stand up
alone, unpractised and unprepared as he is, against an
array that would alarm the most experienced ? — ' Were
I as mighty as I am weak,' said he, ' my fears for you
would make me as nothing. But I will be there,
GiANETTA ; and may the Friend of the Friendless
give me strength in that hour ! Even now my heart
fails me ; but, come what will, while I have a loaf to
share, you and your Mother shall never want. I will
beg through the world for you.'
The day arrives, and the court assembles. The
claim is stated, and the evidence given. And now the
defence is called for — but none is made ; not a syllable
is uttered ; and, after a pause and a consultation of
some minutes, the Judges are proceeding to give
judgment, silence having been proclaimed in the court,
when Lorenzo rises and thus addresses them. ' Ile-
verend Signers. Young as I am, may I venture to
speak before you ? I would speak in behalf of one
who has none else to help her; and 1 will not keep
you long. Much has been said ; much on the sacred
nature of the obligation — and we acknowledge it in its
244
full force. Let it be fulfilled, and to the last letter.
It is what we solicit, what we require. But to whom
is the bag of gold to be delivered? What says the
bond? Not to one — not to two — but to the three.
Let the three stand forth and claim it.'
From that day, (for who can doubt the issue?)
none were sought, none employed, but the subtle, the
eloquent Lorenzo. Wealth followed Fame ; nor need
I say how soon he sat at his marriage-feast, or who
sat beside him.
245
A CHARACTER.
One of two things Montr ioli may have,
My envy or compassion. Both he cannot.
Yet on he goes, numbering as miseries.
What least of all he would consent to lose.
What most indeed he prides himself upon,
And, for not having, most despises me.
' At morn the minister exacts an hour ;
At noon the king. Then comes the council-board ;
And then the chase, the supper. When, ah when,
The leisure and the liberty I sigh for ?
Not when at home ; at home u niiscroant-crew,
'ITiat now no longer serve me, mine the service.
And then that old hereditary bore,
The steward, his stories longer than his rent-roll.
Who enters, quill in ear, and, one by one.
As though I lived to write, and wrote to live.
Unrolls his leases for my signature.'
He clanks his fetters to disturb my peace.
246
Yet who would wear them, and become the slave
Of wealth and power, I'enouncing- willingly
His freedom, and the hours that fly so fast,
A burden or a curse when misemployed,
But to the wise how precious — every day
A little life, a blank to be inscribed
With gentle deeds, such as in after-time
Console, rejoice, whene'er we turn the leaf
To read them ? All, wherever in the scale.
Have, be they high or low, or rich or poor.
Inherit they a sheep-hook or a sceptre,
Much to be grateful for ; but most has he.
Born in that middle sphere, that temperate zone,
WTiere Knowledge lights his lamp, there most secure,
And Wisdom comes, if ever, she who dwells
Above the clouds, above the firmament.
That Seraph sitting in the heaven of heavens.
What men most covet, wealth, distinction, power.
Are baubles nothing worth, that only serve
To rouse us up, as children in the schools
Are roused up to exertion. The reward
Is in the race we run, not in the prize ;
And they, the few, that have it ere they earn it.
Having, by favour or inheritance.
247
These dangerous gifts placed in their idle hands,
And all that should await on worth well-tried,
All in the glorious days of old reserved
For manhood most mature or reverend age,
Know not, nor ever can, the generous pride
That glows in him who on himself relies,
Entering the lists of life.
248
P.^STUM.
They stand between the mountains and the sea ; *
Awful memorials, but of whom we know not !
The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck.
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,
Points to the work of magic and moves on.
Time was they stood along the crowded street,
Temples of Gods I and on their ample steps
What various habits, various tongues beset
The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice I
Time was perhaps the third was sought for Justice ;
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.
Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust.
How many centuries did the sun go round
* The temples of PEestum are three in number; and have
survived, nearlv nine centuries, the total destruction of the
city. Tradition is silent concerning them ; but they must have
existed now between two and three thousand years.
249
From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea,
While, by some spell rendered invisible,
Or, if approached, approached by him alone
Who saw as though he saw not, they remained
As in the darkness of a sepulchre,
Waiting the appointed time ! All, all within
Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right.
And taken to herself what man renounced ;
No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus.
But with thick ivy hung or branching fern ;
Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure !
From my youth upward have I longed to tread
This classic ground — And am I here at last ?
Wandering at will through the long porticoes.
And catching, as through some majestic grove,
Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like.
Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up.
Towns like the living rock from which they grew ?
A cloudy region, black and desolate,
Where once a slave withstood a world in arms.*
The air is sweet with violets, running wildf
* Spartacus. See Plutarcli in the Life of C'rassus.
t 'I'he violets of PiEstum were as proverbial as the roses.
Martial mentions them with the honey of Hybla.
250
Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals ;
Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts,
Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost, *
(Turning to thee, divine Philosophy,
Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul)
Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago,
For Athens ; when a ship, if north-east winds
Blew from the P^stan gardens, slacked her course.
On as he moved along the level shore.
These temples, in their splendour eminent
Mid arcs and obeUsks, and domes and towers.
Reflecting back the radiance of the west,
Well might he dream of Glory ! — Now, coiled up.
The serpent sleeps within them ; the she-wolf
Suckles her young : and, as alone I stand
In this, the nobler pile, the elements
Of earth and air its only floor and covering,
How solemn is the stillness ? Nothing stirs
Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round
On the rough pediment to sit and sing ;
Or the green lizard rustling through the grass,
* The introJuctiou to liis treatise on Glory, Cic. ad Att.
xvi. 6. For aa account of the loss of that treatise, see Petrarch,
Epist. Rer. Senilium, xv. 1. and liayle, Diet,, in Alcyonius.
251
And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring,
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.
In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk
Seen at his setting, and a flood of Hght
Filhng the courts of these old sanctuaries,
(Gigantic shadows, broken and confused,
Athwart the innumerable columns flung)
In such an hour he came, who saw and told,
Led by the mighty Genius of the Place.*
Walls of some capital city first appeared,
Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn ;
— And what within them ? what but in the midst
These Three in more than their original grandeur,
And, round about, no stone upon another ?
As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear.
And, turning, left them to the elements.
'Tis said a stranger in the days of old
(Some say a Dorian, some a Sybarite ;
But distant things are ever lost in clouds)
'Tis said a stranger came, and, with his plough.
Traced out the site; and Po.sidonia rose, f
* They are said to have been discovered by accident about
the middle of the last century.
t Originally a Greek City under that name, and afterwards a
252
Severely great, Neptune the tutelar God;
A Homer's language murmuring in her streets,
And in her haven many a mast from Tyre.
Then came another, an unbidden guest.
He knocked and entered with a train in arms ;
And all was changed, her very name and language !
The Tyrian merchant, shipping at his door
Ivory and gold, and silk, and frankincense.
Sailed as before, but, sailing, cried ' For P^stum !'
And now a Virgil, now an Ovid sung
PjESTUm's twice-blowing roses ; while, within,
Parents and children mourned — and, every year,
(*Twas on the day of some old festival)
Met to give way to tears, and once again,
Talk in the ancient tongue of things gone by. *
At length an Arab climbed the battlements.
Slaying the sleepers in the dead of night ;
And from all eyes the glorious vision fled !
Leaving a place lonely and dangerous,
Where whom the robber spares, a deadlier foe f
Roman City under the name of Peestum. See Mitford's Hist,
of Greece, chap. x. sect. 2. It was surprised and destroyed by
the Saracens at the beginning of the tentli century.
* Athenaeus, xiv. t The Mararja.
253
Strikes at unseen — and at a time when joy
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
The thoughtless wretch drinks in a subtle poison
Lulling to sleep ; and, when he sleeps, he dies.
But what are These still standing in the midst ?
The Earth has rocked beneath ; the Thunder-stone
Passed thro' and thro', and left its traces there ;
Yet still they stand as by some Unknown Charter !
Oh, they are Nature's own ! and, as allied
To the vast Mountains and the eternal Sea,
They want no written history ; theirs a voice
For ever speaking to the heart of Man !
254
AMALFI.
He who sets sail from Naples, when the wind
Blows fragrance from PosiLiPO, may soon,
Crossing from side to side that beautiful lake,
Land underneath the cliif, where once among
The children gathering shells along the shore,
One laughed and played, unconscious of his fate ; *
His to drink deep of sorrow, and, through life.
To be the scorn of them that knew him not.
Trampling alike the giver and his gift.
The gift a pearl precious, inestimable,
A lay divine, a lay of love and war.
To charm, ennoble, and, from age to age.
Sweeten the labour, when the oar was plied
Or on the Adrian or the Tuscan sea.
There would I linger — then go forth again,
And hover round that region unexplored.
Where to Salvator (when, as some relate,
* Tasso. Sorrenlo, bis birth-place, is on the south side of the
gulf of Naples.
255
By chance or choice he led a bandit's Hfe,
Yet oft withdrew, alone and unobserved,
To wander through those awful solitudes)
Nature revealed herself. Unveiled she stood.
In all her wildness, all her majesty,
As in that elder time, ere Man was made.
There would I linger — then go forth again ;
And he who steers due east, doubling the cape,
Discovers, in a crevice of the rock.
The fishing-town, Amalfi. Hajjly there
A heaving bark, an anchor on the strand.
May tell him what it is ; but what it was,
Cannot be told so soon.*
The time has been.
When on the quays along the Syrian coast,
'Twas asked and eagerly, at break of dawn,
' What ships are from Amalfi ?' when her coins,
Silver and gold, circled from clime to clime ;
From Alexandria southward to Senna a r.
And eastward, through Damascus and Cabul
* ' Amalfi fell afler three hundred years of prosjierity; but
the poverty of one thousand fisiiermen is yet dignified t>y tlie
remains of an arsenal, a cathedral, and the palaces of royal
merchants.' — (Jiuuon.
256
And Samarcand, to thy great wall, Cathay.
Then were the nations by her wisdom swayed ;
And every crime on every sea was judged
According to her judgments. In her port
Prows, strange, uncouth, from Nile and Niger met,
People of various feature, various speech ;
And in their countries many a house of prayer.
And many a shelter, where no shelter was,
And many a well, like Jacob's in the wild,
Rose at her bidding. Then in Palestine,
By the way-side, in sober grandeur stood
A Hospital, that, night and day, received
The pilgrims of the west ; and, when 'twas asked,
' Who are the noble founders ?' every tongue
At once replied, ' The merchants of Amalfi.'
That Hospital, when Godfrey scaled the walls,
Sent forth its holy men in complete steel ;
And hence, the cowl relinquished for the helm.
That chosen band, valiant, invincible.
So long renowned as champions of the Cross,
In Rhodes, in Malta.
For three hundred years
There, unapproached but from the deep, they dwelt ;
Assailed for ever, yet from age to age
257
Acknowledging no master. From the deep
They gathered in their harvests ; bringing home,
In the same ship, relics of ancient Greece,
That land of glory where their fathers lay,
Grain from the golden vales of Sicily,*
And Indian spices. When at length they fell.
Losing their liberty, they left mankind
A legacy, compared with which the wealth
Of Eastern kings — what is it in the scale ?
The mariner's compass.
They are now forgot.
And with them all they did, all they endured,
Struggling with fortune. When Sicardi stood
On his high deck, his falchion in his hand.
And, with a shout like thunder, cried, ' Come forth.
And serve me in Salerno !' forth they came.
Covering the sea, a mournful spectacle ;
The women wailing, and the heavy oar
Falling unheard. Not thus did they return, f
The tyrant slain ; though then the grass of years
* There is at this day in Syracuse a street called La Strada
(iegli Amalfitani.
+ In the year 839. See MuuAToni : Art. Chronici Amalphi-
tani Fragmenta,
S
258
Grew in their streets.
There now to him who sails
Under the shore, a few white villages,
Scattered above, below, some in the clouds,
Some on the margin of the dark blue sea,
And glittering thro' their lemon-groves, announce
The region of Amalfi. Then, half-fallen,
A lonely watch-tower on the precipice,
Their ancient land-mark, comes. Long may it last ;
And to the seaman in a distant age.
Though now he little thinks how large his debt.
Serve for their monument ! *
* By degrees, says Giannone, they made themselves famous
through the world. The Tarini Amalfi tani were a coin familiar
to all nations ; and their maritime code regulated every where
the commerce of the sea. Many churches in the East were by
them built and endowed ; by them was founded in Palestine that
most renowned military Order of St. John of Jerusalem ; and
who does not know thai the mariner's compass was invented by
a citizen of Amalfi ?
259
MONTE CASSINO.*
* What hangs behind that curtain ?' — ' Wouldst thou
learn ?
If thou art wise, thou wouldst not. 'Tis by some
Believed to be His master-work, who looked
Beyond the grave, and on the chapel-wall,
As tho' the day were come, were come and past,
Drew the Last Judgment.-t" But the Wisest err.
He who in secret wrought, and gave it life,
For life is surely there and visible change, J
* The abbey of Monte Cassiao is the most ancient and venerable
iiouse of tlie Benedictine Order. It is situated witliin fifteen
leagues of Naples on the inland-road to Home; and no house is
more hospitable.
t Michael Angelo.
f There are many miraculous pictures in Italy; but none, 1
believe, were ever before described as malignant in their influ-
ence. — At Arezzo in the church of St. Angelo there is indeed over
the great altar a fresco-painting of the Fall of the Angels, which
has a singular story belonging to it. It was j)ainted in the four-
teenth century by Spinello Aretino, who has there represented
260
Life, such as none could of himself impart,
(They who behold it, go not as they came,
But meditate for many and many a day)
Sleeps in the vault beneath. We know not much ;
But what we know, we will communicate.
'Tis in an ancient record of the House ;
And may it make thee tremble, lest thou fall !
Once — on a Christmas-eve — ere yet the roof
Rung with the hymn of the Nativity,
There came a stranger to the convent-gate,
And asked admittance ; ever and anon,
As if he sought what most he feared to find,
Looking behind him. When within the walls,
These walls so sacred and inviolate,
Still did he look behind him ; oft and long,
With curling, quivering lip and haggard eye,
Catching at vacancy. Between the fits,
For here, 'tis said, he lingered while he lived,
Lucifer as changed into a shape so monstrous and terrible, that
it is said to have haunted the Artist in his dreams, and to have
hastened his death, deranging him in mind and body. In the
upper part St. Michael is seen in combat with the dragon :
the fatal transformation is in the lower part of the picture.—
— Vasari.
261
He would discourse and with a mastery,
A charm by none resisted, none explained,
Unfelt before ; but when his cheek grew pale,
(Nor was the respite longer, if so long,
Than while a shepherd in the vale below
Counts, as he folds, five hundred of his flock)
All was forgotten. Then, howe'er employed.
He would break oS", and start as if he caught
A glimpse of something that would not be gone ;
And turn and gaze and shrink into himself.
As though the Fiend was there, and, face to face,
Scowled o'er his shoulder.
Most devout he was ;
Most unremitting in the Services ;
Then, only then, untroubled, unassailed ;
And, to beguile a melancholy hour,
Would sometimes exercise that noble art
He learnt in Florence; with a master's hand,
As to this day the Sacristy attests.
Painting the wonders of the Apocalypse.
At length he sunk to rest, and in his cell
Left, when he went, a work in secret done,
The portrait, for a portrait it must be,
That hangs behind the curtain. Whence he drew.
262
None here can doubt ; for they that come to catch
The faintest glimpse — to catch it and be gone,
Gaze as he gazed, then shrink into themselves,
Acting the self-same part. But why "twas drawn,
Whether, in penance, to atone for Guilt,
Or to record the anguish Guilt inflicts,
Or haply to familiarize his mind
With what he could not fly from, none can say,
For none could learn the bui'den of his soul.'
263
THE HARPER.
It was a Harper, wandering with his harp,
His only treasure ; a majestic man.
By time and grief ennobled, not subdued ;
Though from his height descending, day by day,
And, as his upward look at once betrayed,
Blind as old Homer. At a fount he sate,
Well-known to many a weary traveller ;
His little guide, a boy not seven years old,
But grave, considerate beyond his years,
Sitting beside him. Each had ate his crust
In silence, drinking of the virgin-spring ;
And now in silence, as their custom was.
The sun's decline awaited.
But the child
Was worn with travel. Heavy sleep weighed down
His eye-lids ; and the grandsire, when we came,
Emboldened by his love and by his fear,
His fear lest night o'ertake them on the road,
264
Humbly besought me to convey them both
A Uttle onward. Such small services
Who can refuse — Not I ; and him who can,
Blest though he be with every earthly gift,
I cannot envy. He, if wealth be his,
Knows not its uses. So from noon till night.
Within a crazed and tattered vehicle, *
That yet displayed, in old emblazonry,
A shield as splendid as the Bardi wear,-|-
We lumbered on together ; the old man
Beguiling many a league of half its length,
When questioned the adventures of his life.
And ail the dangers he had undergone ;
His ship-wrecks on inhospitable coasts,
And his long warfare. — They were bound, he said,
To a great fair at Reggio ; and the boy.
Believing all the world were to be there,
^■' Then degraded, and belonging to a Vettuiino.
t A Florentine family of great antiquity. In the sixty-third
novel of Franco Saccbetti we read, tliat a stranger, suddenly
entering Giotto's study, threw down a shield, and departed,
saying, ' Paint me my arms in that shield ;' and that Giotto,
looking after him, exclaimed, ' Who is he? What is he? He
says. Paint me my arms, as if lie was one of the Bardi ! What
arms does he hear !'
265
And I among the rest, let loose his tongue,
And promised me much pleasure. His short trance,
Short as it was, had, like a charmed cup,
Restored his spirit, and, as on we crawled,
Slow as the snail (my muleteer dismounting.
And now his mules addressing, now his pipe,
And now Luigi) he poured out his heart,
Largely repaying me. At length the sun
Departed, setting in a sea of gold ;
And, as we gazed, he bade me rest assured
That like the setting would the rising be.
Their harp — it had a voice oracular,
And in the desert, in the crowded street.
Spoke when consulted. If the treble chord
Twanged shrill and clear, o'er hill and dale they went,
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.
266
THE FELUCA.*
Day glimmered ; and beyond the precipice
(Which my mule followed as in love with fear,
Or as in scorn, yet more and more inclining
To tempt the danger where it menaced most)
A sea of vapour rolled. Methought we went
Along the utmost edge of this, our world ;
But soon the surges fled, and we descried
Nor dimly, though the lark was silent yet.
Thy gulf, La Spezzia. Ere the morning-gun,
Ere the first day-streak, we alighted there ;
And not a breath, a murmur ! Every sail
Slept in the offing. Yet along the shore
Great was the stir ; as at the noontide hour,
None unemployed. Where from its native rock
A streamlet, clear and full, ran to the sea,
The maidens knelt and sung as they were wont,
* A large boat for rowing and sailing, much used in the
Mediterranean.
267
Washing their garments. Where it met the tide,
Sparkhng and lost, an ancient pinnace lay
Keel upward, and the faggot blazed, the tar
Fumed from the cauldron ; while, beyond the fort,
Whither I wandered, step by step led on.
The fishers dragged their net, the fish within
At every heave fluttering and full of life,
At every heave striking their silver fins
'Gainst the dark meshes.
Soon a boatman's shout
Ke-echoed ; and red bonnets on the beach,
Waving, recalled me. We embarked and left
That noble haven, where, when Genoa reigned,
A hundred galleys sheltered — in the day.
When lofty spirits met, and, deck to deck,
DoRiA, PisANi* fought; that narrow field
Ample enough for glory. On we went
Ihiffling with many an oar the crystalline sea,
On from the rising to the setting sun
in silence — underneath a mountain-ridge,
I utaincd, untanieable, reflecting round
The saddest purple ; nothing to be seen
* Paganiuo Doria, Aicolo J'isani; those great seamen, wlio
balanced for so many years the fortunes of (Jeiioa and \'enice.
268
Of life or culture, save where, at the foot,
Some village and its church, a scanty line,
Athwart the w^ave gleamed faintly. Fear of 111
Narrowed oui- course, fear of the hurricane,
And that still greater scourge, the crafty Moor,
Who, like a tiger prowling for his prey,
Springs and is gone, and on the adverse coast,
(Where Tripoli and Tunis and Algiers
Forge fetters, and white turbans on the mole
Gather, whene'er the Crescent comes displayed
Over the Cross) his human merchandise
To many a curious, many a cruel eye
Exposes. Ah, how oft, where now the sun
Slept on the shore, have ruthless scimitars
Flashed through the lattice, and a swarthy crew
Dragged forth, ere long to number them for sale.
Ere long to part them in their agony.
Parent and child I How oft, where now we rode
Over the billow, has a wretched son,
Or yet more wretched sire, grown grey in chains.
Laboured, his hands upon the oar, his eyes
Upon the land — the land, that gave him birth ;
And, as he gazed, his homestall through his tears
Fondly imagined ; when a Christian ship
269
Of wax appearing in her bravery,
A voice in anger cried, ' Use all your strength I'
But when, ah when, do they that can, forbear
To crush the unresisting ? Strange, that men,
Creatures so frail, so soon, alas, to die.
Should have the power, the will to make this world
A dismal prison-house, and life itself.
Life in its prime, a burden and a curse
To him who never wronged them ? Who that breathes
Would not, when first he heard it, turn away
As from a tale monstrous, incredible ?
Surely a sense of our mortality,
A consciousness how soon we shall be gone,
Or, if we linger — but a few short years —
How sure to look upon our brother's grave.
Should of itself incline to pity and love.
And prompt us rather to assist, relieve.
Than aggravate the evils each is heir to.
At length the day departed, and the moon
Rose like another sun, illumining
Waters and woods and cloud-capt promontories,
Glades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bower.
Scenes of Elysium, such as Night alone
Reveals below, nor often — scenes that fled
270
\
As at the waving of a wizard's wand,
And left behind them, as their parting gift,
A thousand nameless odours. All was still ;
And now the nightingale her song poured forth
In such a torrent of heart-felt delight,
So fast it flowed, her tongue so voluble,
As if she thought her hearers would be gone
Ere half was told. 'Twas where in the north-west,
Still unassailed and unassailable.
Thy pharos, Genoa, first displayed itself,
Burning in stillness on its craggy seat ;
That guiding star so oft the only one.
When those now glowing in the azure vault.
Are dark and silent. 'Twas where o'er the sea.
For we were now within a cable's length,
Delicious gardens hung ; green galleries,
And marble terraces in many a flight.
And fairy -arches flung from cliff to clifl",
Wildering, enchanting ; and, above them all,
A Palace, such as somewhere in the East,
In Zenastan or Araby the blest,
Among its golden groves, and fruits of gold,
And fountains scattering rainbows in the sky.
Rose, when Aladdin rubbed the wondrous lamp ;
271
Such, if not fairer ; and, when we shot by,
A scene of revehy, in long array
As with the radiance of a setting sun,
The windows blazing. But we now approached
A City far-renowned ; * and wonder ceased.
* Genoa.
272
GENOA.
This house was Andrea Doria's. Here he lived ; *
And here at eve relaxing, when ashore,
Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse f
With them that sought him, walking to and fro
As on his deck. 'Tis less in length and breadth
Than many a cabin in a ship of war ;
But 'tis of marble, and at once inspires
The reverence due to ancient dignity.
He left it for a better ; and 'tis now
* The Piazza Doria, or, as it is now called, the PiazEa di
San Matteo, insignificant as it may be thought, is to me the
most interesting place in Genoa. It was there that Doria
assembled the people, when he gave them their liberty (Sigonii
Vita DoriiE) ; and on one side of it is the church he lies buried
in, on the other a house, originally of very small dimensions,
with this inscription : S. C. Andreee de Auria Patrise Liberatori
Munus Publicum.
The streets of old Genoa, like those of Venice, were constructed
only for foot-passengers.
t See his Life by Sigonio.
273
A house of trade, * the meanest merchandise
Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is,
'Tis still the noblest dwelling — even in Genoa !
And hadst thou, Andrea, Hved there to the last,
Thou hadst done well ; for there is that without,
That in the wall, which monarchs could not give.
Nor thou take with thee, that which says aloud.
It was thy Country's gift to her Deliverer.
'Tis in the heart of Genoa (he who comes,
Must come on foot) and in a place of stir ;
Men on their daily business, early and late,
Thronging thy very threshold. But, when there,
Thou wert among thy fellow-citizens.
Thy children, for they hailed thee as their sire ;
And on a spot thou must have loved, for there,
Calling them round, thou gav'st them more than life.
Giving what, lost, makes life not worth the keeping.
There thou didst do indeed an act divine ;
Nor couldst thou leave thy door or enter in.
Without a blessing on thee.
Thou art now
Again among them. Thy brave mariners,
" When I saw it in 1822, a basket-maker lived on tlie ground
floor, and over him a seller of chocolate.
274
They who had fought so often by thy side,
Staining the mountain-billows, bore thee back ;
And thou art sleeping in thy funeral-chamber.
Thine was a glorious course ; but couldst thou there,
Clad in thy cere-cloth — in that silent vault,
Where thou art gathered to thy ancestors —
Open thy secret heart and tell us all,
Then should we hear thee with a sigh confess,
A sigh how heavy, that thy happiest hours
Were passed before these sacred walls were left,
Before the ocean -wave thy wealth reflected,*
And pomp and power drew envy, stirring up
The ambitious man, f that in a perilous hour
Fell from the plank.
* Alluding to the Palace which be built afterwards, and in
which he twice entertained the Emperor Charles tlie Fifth. It
is the most magnificent edifice on the bay of Genoa.
t Fiesco. For an account of his Conspiracy, see Robertson's
History of Charles the Fifth.
275
MARCO GRIFFONI.
War is a game at which all are sure to lose, sooner
or later, play they how they will ; yet every nation
has delighted in war, and none more in their day than
the little republic of Genoa, whose galleys, while she
had any, were always burning and sinking those of
the Pisans, the Venetians, the Greeks, or the Turks ;
Christian and Infidel alike to her.
But experience, when dearly bought, is seldom
thrown away altogether. A moment of sober reflec-
tion came at last ; and after a victory the most
splendid and ruinous of any in her annals, she resolved
from that day and for ever to live at peace with all
mankind ; having in her long career acquired nothing
but glory, and a tax on every article of life.
Peace came, but with none of its blessings. No
stir in the harbour, no merchandize in the mart or on
the quay ; no song as the shuttle was thrown or the
ploughshare broke the furrow. The frenzy had left a
276
languor more alarming than itself. Yet the burden
must be borne, the taxes be gathered ; and, year after
year, they lay like a curse on the land, the prospect
on every side growing darker and darker, till an old
man entered the senate-house on his crutches and all
was changed.
Marco Griffoni was the last of an ancient
family, a family of royal merchants ; and the richest
citizen in Genoa, perhaps in Europe. His parents
dying while yet he lay in the cradle, his wealth had
accumulated from the year of his birth ; and so noble
a use did he make of it when he ari'ived at manhood,
that wherever he went, he was followed by the blessings
of the people. He would often say, ' I hold it only in
trust for others ;' but Genoa was then at her old
amusement, and the work grew on his hands. Strong
as he was, the evil he had to struggle with, was
stronger than he. His cheerfulness, his alacrity left
him ; and, having lifted up his voice for Peace, he
withdrew at once from the sphere of life he had
moved in — to become, as it were, another man.
From that time and for full fifty years he was to be
seen sitting, like one of the founders of his House, at
his desk among his money-bags, in a narrow street near
277
the Porto Franco ; and he, who in a famine had
filled the granaries of the State, sending to Sicily and
even to Egypt, now lived only as for his heirs, though
there were none to inherit ; giving no longer to any
— but lending to all — to the rich on their bonds and
the poor on their pledges ; lending at the highest
rate and exacting with the utmost rigour. No longer
relieving the miserable, he sought only to enrich
himself by their misery ; and there he sate in his
gown of frieze, till every finger was pointed at him
in passing and every tongue exclaimed, ' There sits
the Miser !'
But in that character and amidst all that obloquy
he was still the same as ever, still acting to the best
of his judgment for the good of his fellow-citizens ;
and when the measure of their calamities was full,
when Peace had come, but had come to no purpose,
and the lesson, as he flattered himself, was graven
deep in their minds, then, but not till then, though
his hair had long grown grey, he threw oif the mask
and gave up all he had, to annihilate at a blow his
great and cruel adversaries, * those taxes which, when
* Such as the Gabelles formerly in France; " ou le droit,"
says Montesquieu, " excedoit de dix-sept foi;> hi valcur de la
278
excessive, break the hearts of the people ; a glorious
achievement for an individual, though a bloodless one,
and such as only can be conceived possible in a small
community like theirs.
Alas, how little did he know of human nature I
How little had he reflected on the ruling passion of
his countrymen, so injurious to others and at length
so fatal to themselves ! Almost instantly they grew
arrogant and quarrelsome ; almost instantly they were
in arms again ; and, before the statue was up, that
had been voted to his memory, every tax, if we may
believe the historian,* was laid on as before, to awaken
vain regrets and wise resolutions.
raarchandise." Salt is an article, of which none know the
value, who have not known the want of it.
* Who he is, I have yet to learn. The story was told to me
many years ago by a great reader of the old annalists ; but 1
have searched every where for it in vain.
H-'r
'i.iD
A FAREWELL.*
Akd now farewell to Italy — perhaps
For ever ! Yet, methinks I could not go,
I coild not leave it, were it mine to say,
' Farewell for ever I' Many a courtesy.
That sought no recompense, and met with none
But in the swell of heart with which it came,
Written at Susa, .May 1, 1822.
280
Have I experienced ; not a cabin-door,
Go where I would, but opened with a smile ;
From the first hour, when, in my long descent,
Strange perfumes rose, rose as to welcome me,
From flowers that ministered like unseen spirits ;
From the first hour, when vintage-songs broke forth,
A grateful earnest, and the Southern lakes,
Dazzlingly bright, unfolded at my feet ; •
They that receive the cataracts, and ere long
Dismiss them, but how changed — onward to roll
From age to age in silent majesty.
Blessing the nations, and reflecting round
The gladness they inspire.
Gentle or rude,
No scene of life but has contributed
Much to remember — from the Folesine,
WTiere, when the south-wind blows, and clouds on
clouds
Gather and fall, the peasant freights his boat,
A sacred ark, slung in his orchard-grove ;
Mindful to migrate when the king of floods *
Visits his humble dwelling, and the keel,
" The Po. ' Cbaque maison est pourvue de bateaux, et
lorsqae I'inondation s'annonce,' ^c.— Lettres de Chateauvieux.
281
Slowly uplifted over field and fence,
Floats on a world of waters — from that low,
That level region, where no Echo dwells,
Or, if she comes, comes in her saddest plight,
Hoarse, inarticulate — on to where the path
Is lost in rank luxuriance, and to breathe
Is to inhale distemper, if not death ;*
Where the wild-boar retreats, when hunters chafe.
And, when the day-star flames, the buffalo-herd,
Afflicted, plunge into the stagnant pool,
'* It was somewhere in the Maremma, a region so fatal to so
many, that the unhappy Pia, a Siennese lady of the family of
Tolommei, fell a sacrifice to the jealousy of her husband.
Thither he conveyed her in the sultry time,
" tra'l Luglio e'l Settembre;"
having resolved in his heart that she should perish tliere, even
though he perished there with her. Not a word escaped from
him on the way, not a syllable in answer to her remonstrances
or her tears; and in sullen silence he watched patiently by her
till she died.
" Siena mi fe ; disfecemi Maremma.
Salsi colui, cbe'nnanellata pria,
Disposando, m'avea con la sua gemma."
The Maremma is continually in the mind of Uante; now as
swarming with serpents, and now as employed in its great work
of destruction.
282
Nothing discerned amid the water-leaves,
Save here and there the likeness of a head,
Savage, uncouth ; where none in human shape
Come, save the herdsman, levelling his length
Of lance with many a cry, or, Tartar-like,
Urging his steed along the distant hill
As from a danger. There, but not to rest,
I travelled many a dreary league, nor turned
(Ah then least v^^illing, as who had not been ?)
When in the South, against the azure sky.
Three temples rose in soberest majesty,
The wondrous work of some heroic race.*
But now a long farewell ! Oft, while I live.
If once again in England, once again -j-
In my own chimney-nook, as Night steals on,
With half-shut eyes reclining, oft, methinks,
While the wind blusters and the pelting rain
Clatters without, shall I recall to mind
* The temples of Pjestum.
t Who has travelled and cannot say with Catullus,
" quid solutis est beatius curis "!
Quum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino
Labore fessi venimus laiem ad nostrum,
Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto."
283
The scenes, occurrences, I met with here
And wander in Elysium; many a note
Of wildest melody, magician-like
Awakening, such as the Calarrian horn,
Along the mountain-side, when all is still.
Pours forth at folding-time ; and many a chant,
Solemn, sublime, such as at midnight flows
From the full choir, when richest harmonies
Break the deep silence of thy glens. La Cava ;
To him who lingers there with listening ear
Now lost and now descending- as from Heaven I
284
And now a parting word is due from him
Who, in the classic fields of Italy,
(If haply thou hast borne with him so long,)
Through many a grove by many a fount has led thee,
By many a temple half as old as Time ;
Where all was still awakening them that slept,
And conjuring up where all was desolate,
Where kings were mouldering in their funeral urns,
And oft and long the vulture flapped his wing —
Triumphs and masques.
Nature denied him much,
But gave him at his birth what most he values ;
A passionate love for music, sculpture, painting,
For poetry, the language of the gods,
For all things here, or grand or beautiful,
A setting sun, a lake among the mountains.
The light of an ingenuous countenance,
And what transcends them all, a noble action.
Nature denied him much, but gave him more ;
And ever, ever grateful should he be,
285
Though from his cheek, ere yet the down was there,
Health fled ; for in his heaviest hours would come
Gleams such as come not now ; nor failed he then,
(Then and through life his happiest privilege)
Full oft to wander where the Muses haunt,
Smit with the love of song.
'Tis now long since ;
And now, while yet 'tis day, would he withdraw.
Who, when in youth he strung his lyre, addressed
A former generation. Many an eye
Bright as the brightest now, is closed in night.
And many a voice how eloquent, is mute,
That, when he came, disdained not to receive
His lays with favour. * * * * *
ADDITIONAL NOTES.
Page 2, line 13.
'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it.
" Lines of eleven syllables occur almost in every page
of Milton ; but though they are not unpleasing, they
ought not to be admitted into heroic poetry ; since the
narrow limits of our language allow us no other distinc-
tion of epic and tragic measures." Johnson.
It is remarkable that he used them most at last. In
the Paradise Regained they occur oftener than in the
Paradise Lost in tlie proportion of ten to one ; and let it
be remembered that they supply us with another close,
another cadence ; that they add, as it were, a string to
the instrument; and, by enabling the Poet to relax at
pleasure, to rise and fall with his subject, contribute
what is most wanted, compass, variety.
Shakspeare seems to have delighted in them, and in
some of his soliloquies lias used them four and five times
in succession ; an example I have not followed in mine.
As in the following instance, where the subject is solemn
beyond all others.
To be, or not to be, ifc.
They come nearest to the flow of an unstudied
288
eloquence, and should therefore be used in the drama ;
but why exclusively ? Horace, as we learn from liim-
self, admitted the Musa Pedestris in his happiest hours,
in those when he was most at his ease ; and we cannot
regret her visits. To her we are indebted for more than
half he has left us ; nor was she ever at his elbow in
greater dishabille, than when he wrote the celebrated
Journey to Brundusium.
Page 4, line 10.
That winds beside the miiTor of all beauty,
There is no describing in words ; but the following
lines were written on the spot, and may serve perhaps to
recall to some of my readers what they have seen iji this
enchanting country.
I love to watch in silence till the Sun
Sets; and Mont Blanc, arrayed in crimson and gold.
Flings his broad shadow half across the Lake ;
That shadow, though it comes through pathless tracts
Of Ether, and o'er Alp and desert drear,
Only less bright, less glorious than himself.
But, while we gaze, 'tis gone ! And now he shines
Like burnished silver; all, below, the Night's.
Such moments are most precious. Yet there are
Others, that follow fast, more precious still ;
When once again he changes, once again
Clothing himself in grandeur all his own ;
When, like a Ghost, shadowless, colourless,
289
He melts away into the Heaven of Heavens ;
Himself alone revealed, all lesser things
As though they were not !
Page 5, line G.
7iever to be named,
See the Odyssey, lib. xix. v. 597, and lib. xxiii.
V. 19.
Page 17, line 14.
St. Bkuno's once —
The Grande Chartreuse. It was indebted for its
foundation to a miracle ; as every guest may learn there
from a little book that lies on the table in his cell, the
cell allotted to him by the fathers.
" In this year the Canon died, and, as all believed,
in tlie odour of sanctity : for wlio in liis life liad been so
holy, in his death so happy? But false are the judg-
ments of men, as the event shewetli. For when the
liour of his funeral had arrived, when the mourners had
entered the church, the bearers set down tlie bier, and
every voice was lifted up in the Miserere, suddenly and
as none knew how, the lights were extinguished, the
antliem stopt ! A darkness succeeded, a silence as of
the grave ; and these words came in sorrowful accents
from the li{)s of tlic dead. ' I am siimnioiied before a
Just God ! A .Just God jiidgetli me ! 1 am
condemned by a Just God !'"
" In the cliurch," says tlie legend, " there stood a
U
290
young man ^vith liis hands clasped in prayer, who from
that time resolved to withdraw into the desert. It wa
he whom we now invoke as St. Bruno."
Page 20, line 2.
He was nor dull nor contradictory.
Not that I felt the confidence of Erasmus, when, on
his way from Paris to Turin, he encountered the dangers
of Mont Cenis in 1507; when, regardless of torrent and
precipice, he versified as he went ; composing a poem
on horseback,* and writing it down at intervals as he
sat in the saddle ; f an example, I imagine, followed by
few.
Much indeed of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, as the
Author assured me, was conceived and executed in like
manner on his journey through Greece ; but the work
Avas performed in less imfavourable circumstances ; for,
if liis fits of inspiration were stronger, he travelled on
surer ground.
Page 23, line 14.
And gathered from above, below, aroimd.
The Author of Lalla Rookh, a Poet of siich singular
felicity as to give a lustre to all he touches, has written
I a song on this subject, called the Crystal-hunters.
* ' Carmen equestre, vel potius Alpestie.' — ERASMUS
t ' Notans in cliarta super sellam.' — Ibid.
291
Page 38, line 1.
/ love to sail along the Larian Lake
Originally thus :
I love to sail aloug the Larian Lake
Under the shore — though not, where'er he dwelt,
To visit Pliny — not, where'er he dwelt,
Whate'er his humour ; for from cliff to cliff,
From glade to glade, adorning as he went,
He moved at pleasure, many a marble porch,
Dorian, Corinthian, rising at his call.
Page 47, line 4.
My omelet, and ajlagon of hill-wine,
t
Originally thus :
My omelet, and a trout, that, as tlie sun
Shot his last ray througli Zaiiga's leafy grove.
Leaped at a golden fly, had happily
Fled from all eyes ;
Zanga is the name of a beautiful villa near Bergamo,
in which Tasso finished his tragedy of Torrismondo. It
still belongs to his family.
Page 47, line 9.
Bartering my bread and salt for ew]iti/ praise.
After line 9, in the MS.
That evening, tended on with verse and song,
I closed my eyes in heaven, but not to sleep ;
292
A. Columbine, my nearest neighbour there,
In her great bounty, at the midnight-hour
Bestowing on the world two Harlequins.
Chapelle and Bachaiimont fared no better at Salon,
" a cause d'une comedienne, qui s'avisa d'accoucher de
deux petits comediens."
Page 48, line 3.
And shall I sup where JuLlET at the Masque
Originally tlius :
And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque
First saw and loved, and now, by him who came
That night a stranger, sleeps from age to age ?
An old Palace of the Cappelletti, with its uncouth
balcony and irregular windows, is still standing in a
lane near the Market-place ; and what Englishman can
behold it with indifference ?
When we enter Verona, we forget ourselves, and are
almost inclined to say with Dante,
" Vieni a veder Montecchi, e Cappelletti."
Page 48, line 5.
Such questions hourly do I ask myself ;
It has been observed that in Italy the memory sees
more than the eye. Scarcely a stone is turned up that
has not some historical association, ancient or modern ;
that may not be said to have gold under it.
293
Page 48, line 7.
' To Ferrara' —
Fallen as she is, she is still, as in the days of Tassoni,
" La gran donna del Po."
Page 48, line 17.
Would they had loved thee less, or feared thee more!
From the sonnet of Filicaja, " Italia ! Italia!" <5"c.
Page 48, line 18.
Tivice hast thou lived already ;
Twice shone among the nations of the rvorld,
All our travellers, from Addison downward, have
diligently explored the monuments of her former exist-
ence ; while those of her latter have, comj)aratively
speaking, escaped observation. If I cannot supply the
deficiency, I will not follow their example ; and happy
should I be, if by an intermixture of verse and prose, of
prose illustrating the verse and verse embellishing the
prose, I could furnish my countrymen on their travels
with a pocket-companion.
Page 55, line 9.
Still glowing with the richest hues of art,
Several were painted by Giorgione and Titian ; as,
for instance, the Ca' Soranzo, the Ca' (irimani, and
the Fondaco de' Tedeschi. Great was their emulation.
294
great their rivalry, if we may judge from an anecdote
related by Vasari ; and with what interest must they
have been contemplated in their progress, as they stood
at work on their scaffolds, by those who were passing
under them by land and by water ! *
Page 57, line 4.
That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino.
A pleasant instance of his wit and agility was exhibited
some years ago on the stage at Venice.
" The stutterer was in an agony ; the word was inex-
orable. It was to no purpose that Harlequin suggested
another and another. At length, in a fit of despair, he
pitched his head full in the dying man's stomach, and
the word bolted out of his mouth to the most distant
part of the house." — See Moore's View of Societif in
Italy.
He is well described by Marmontelle in the Ency-
clopedic.
*' Personnage de la comedie italienne. Le caractere
distinctif de I'ancienne comedie italienne est de jouer
des ridicules, non pas personnels, mais nationaux. C'est
une imitation grotesque des moeurs des differentes villes
d'ltalie ; et chacune d'elles est representee par un per-
sonnage qui est toujours le meme. Pantalon est venitien,
* Frederic Zucchero, in a drawing which I have seen, has
introduced his brother Taddeo as so employed at Rome on the
Palace Mattel, and Raphael and Michael Angelo as standing
among the spectators below.
295
le Docteur est bolonois, Scapin est napolitain, et Arle-
quin est bergamasque. Celui-ci est d'une singularite
qui merite d'etre observee ; et il a fait longteraps les
plaisirs de Paris, joue par trois acteurs celebres, Domi-
nique, Thomassin, et Carlin. II est vraisemblable qu'un
esclave africain fut le premier module de ce personnage.
Son caractere est un melange d'ignorance, de naivete,
d'esprit, de betise et de grace : c'est une espece d'homme
ebauche, un grand enfant, qui a des lueurs de raison et
d 'intelligence, et dont toutes les meprises ou les mal-
adresses ont quelque cbose de piquant. Le vrai modele
de son jeu est la souplesse, I'agilite, la gentillesse d'un
jeune chat, avec un ecorce de grossierete qui rend son
action plus plaisante ; son role est celui d'un valet
patient, fidele, credule, gourmand, toujours amoureux,
toujours dans I'embarras, ou pour son maitre, ou pour
lui-meme, qui s'afflige, qui se console avec la facilite
d'un enfant, et dont la douleur est aussi amusante que
la joie."
Page 59, line 2.
A scene of lig/it and glori/, a domhdoii.
That has endured the longest among men.
A Poet of our own Country, Mr. Wordsworth, has
written a noble sonnet on the extinction of the Venetian
Republic.
" Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee," &c.
296
Page 61, line 10.
and at once she fell;
There was, in my time, another republic, a place of
refuge for the unfortunate, and, not only at its birth,
but to the last hour of its existence, which had established
itself in like manner among the waters and which shared
the same fate ; — a republic, the citizens of which, if not
moi"e enterprising, were far more virtuous,* and could
say also to the great nations of the world, ' Your coun-
tries were acquired by conquest or by inheritance ; but
ours is the work of our own hands. We renew it, day
by day ; and, but for us, it might cease to be to-morrow !'
— a republic, in its progress, for ever warred on by the
elements, and how often by men more cruel than they ;
yet constantly cultivating the arts of peace, and, short
as was the course allotted to it (only three times the life
of man, according to the Psalmist) producing, amidst
all its difficulties, not only the greatest sea-men, but
the greatest lawyers, the greatest physicians, the most
* It is related that Spinola and Richardot, when on their way
to negotiate a treaty at the Hague in 1608, saw eight or ten
persons land from a little boat and, sitting down on the grass,
make a meal of bread and cheese and beer. ' Who are these
travellers?' said the Ambassadors to a peasant. — ' They are the
deputies from the states,' he answered, ' our sovereign lords and
masters.' — ' We must make peace,' they cried. ' These are not
men to be conquered.' ^'OLTAIRE.
297
accomplished scholars, the most skilful painters, and
statesmen as wise as they were just.*
Page 65, line 12. ■
Mishap passed o'er tliee like a summer-cloud.
When we wisli to know if a man may be accounted
liapj)y, we should perliaps inquire, not whether he is
prosperous or unprosperous, but how much he is afl'ected
by little things — by such as hourly assail us in the
commerce of life, and are no more to be regarded than
tlie buzzings and stingings of a summer-fly.
Page 73, line 18.
' But who moves there, alone among them all?"
See the history of Bragadino, the Alchymist, as
related by Daru. Hist, de Venise, c. 28.
The person tliat follows, was yet more extraordinary,
and is said to have appeared there in 1687. See Her-
mippns Redivivus.
" Those, who have experienced the advantages which
* What names, for instance, are more illustrious tlian those of
|{>irnevei(lt and De Witt ? But when there were such mothers,
there rnijjlit well be sucli sons.
When Reinier Barneveldt was condemned to die for an
attempt to avenp;e his father's death hy assassination, his mother
threw herself at the feet of Prince Maurice. ' You did not
deign,' said he, ' to ask for your husband's life ; and why ask for
yourson'sl' — ' My husband,' she replied, ' was innocent; but
my son is guilty.'
298
all strangers enjoy in that City, will not be surprised that
one who went by the name of Signor Guakli was admitted
into the best company, though none knew who or what
he was. He remained there some months ; and three
things were remarked concerning him — that he had a
small but inestimable collection of pictures, which he
eadily showed to any body — that he spoke on every
subject with such a mastery as astonished all who heard
him — and that he never wrote or received any letter,
never required any credit or used any bills of exchange,
but paid for every thing in ready money, and lived
respectably, though not splendidly.
" This gentleman being one day at the coffee-house,
a Venetian nobleman, who was an excellent judge of
pictures, and who had heard of Signor Gualdi's collec-
tion, expressed a desire to see them ; and his request
was instantly granted. After contemplating and admiring
them for some time, he happened to cast his eyes over
the chamber-door, where hung a portrait of the Stranger.
The Venetian looked upon it, and then upon him. ' This
is your portrait, Sir,' said he to Signor Gualdi. The
other made no answer but by a low bow. ' Yet you
look,' he continued, ' like a man of fifty ; and I know
this picture to be of the hand of Titian, who has been
dead one hundred and thirty years. How is this possi-
ble ?' ' It is not easy,' said Signor Gualdi gravely, " to
know all things that are possible ; but there is certainly
no crime in my being like a picture of Titian's.' The
Venetian perceived that he had given offence, and took
his leave.
299
" In the evening- he could not forbear mentioning
what had passed to some of his friends, who resolved to
satisfy themselves the next day by seeing the picture.
For this purpose they went to the coflee-house about
tlie time that Signor Gualdi was accustomed to come
there ; and, not meeting with him, inquired at his lodg-
ings, where they learnt that he had set out an hour
before for Vienna. This atl'air made a great stir at the
time."
Page 75, line 4.
All eye, all ear, no where and every where,
A Frenchman of high rank, who had been robbed at
Venice and had complained in conversation of the
negligence of the Police, saying that they were vigilant
only as spies on the stranger, was on his way back to
the Terra Firma, when his gondola stopped suddenly in
tlie midst of the waves. He inquired tlie reason ; and
liis gondoliers pointed to a boat with a red flag, that had
just made them a signal. It arrived ; and he was called
on board. ' You are the Prince de Craon? Were you
not robbed on Friday-evening ? — I was. — Of what ? —
Of five hundred ducats. — And where were they? — In a
green purse. — Do you suspect any body? — I do, a
servant. — Would you know him again? — Certainly.'
The Interrogator witli his foot turned aside an old cloak
tliat lay tliere ; and tlie Prince beheld his purse in the
liand of a dead man. 'Take it; and remember tliat
none set their feet again in a country where tlicy have
presumed to doubt the wisdom of tlie government.'
300
-Page 78, line 3.
Sileiit, gTass-g7-ow7i —
When a Despot lays his hand on a Free City, how
soon must he make the discovery of the Eustic, who
bought Punch of the Puppet-show man, and complained
that he would not speak !
Page 99, line 11.
It found him on his knees before the Cross,
He was at mass. — M. Sanuto.
Page 109, line 4.
He cnltured all that could refine, exalt;
Thrice happy is he who acquires the habit of looking
every where for excellencies and not for faults — whether
iu art or in nature — whether in a picture, a poem, or a
character. Like the bee in its flight, he extracts the
sweet and not the bitter wherever he goes ; till his mind
becomes a dwelling-place for all that is beautiful, re-
ceiving as it were by instinct, what is congenial to itself,
and rejecting every thing else almost as. unconsciously
as if it was not there.
Page 111, line 14.
^Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth,
This story is, I believe, founded on fact ; though the
time and place are uncertain. Many old houses in
England lay claim to it.
Except in this instance and another (p. 259) I have
every where followed history or tradition ; and I would
301
here disburden my conscience in pointing out these
exceptions, lest the reader should be misled by them.
Page 119, line 2.
and many a toicer,
Such, perhaps, as suggested to Petrocchi the sonnet,
" lo chiesi al Tempo," S,-c.
I said to Time, ' This venerable pile,
Its floor the earth, its roof the firmament,
Whose was it once V He answered not, but fled
Fast as before. I turned to Fame, and asked.
' Names such as his, to thee they must be known.
Speak !' But she answered only with a sigh.
And, musing mournfully, looked on the ground.
Then to Oblivion I addressed myself,
A dismal pliantom, sitting at the gate ;
And, with a voice as from the grave, she cried,
' Whose it was once I care not ; now 'tis mine.' *
The same turn of thought is in an ancient inscription
which Sir Walter Scott repeated to me many years ago,
and which he had met with, I believe, in the cemetery
of Melrose Abbey, when wandering, like Old Mortality,
among the tomb-stones tliere.
The Earth walks on the Earth, glistering witli gold ;
The Earth goes to the Eartli, sooner than it wold.
The Earth builds on the Earth temi)Ies and towers ;
The Earth says to the Earth, ' AH will Ix; ours.'
* For tlie last line I am indebted to a translation ij^- the
Rev. Charles Strong;.
302
Page 124, line 2.
Sit thee down awhile ;
Then, by thy gates, ^t.
" Movemur enim nescio quo pacto locis ipsis, in
quibus eorum, quos diligimus, aut adrairamnr, adsunt
vestigia. Me quidem ipsae illae nostne Atlienas non tarn
operibus magnificis exquisitisque antiquorum artibus
delectant, quam recordatione summorum virorum, ubi
quisque habitare, ubi sedere, ubi dispntare sit solitus :
studioseque eorum etiam sepulcra contemplor." — Ci-
cero de Legibus, ii. 2.
Page 132, line 5.
Wlience Galileo's glass; Sfc.
His first instrument was presented by liim to the
Doge of Venice ; * his second, which discovered the
satellites of Jupiter, f and was endeared to Jiim, as he
* There is a tradition at Venice that he exhibited its wonders
to the nobles there, on the top of the tower of St. Mark.
t Kepler's letter to him on that event is very characteristic of
the writer. ' I was sitting idle at home, thinking of you and
your letters, most excellent Galileo, when Wachenfels stopped
his carriage at my door to tell me the news ; and such was my
wonder when I heard it, such my agitation (for at once it decided
an old controversy of ours) that, what with his joy and my
surprise, and the laughter of both, we were for some lime unable,
he to speak, and I to listen. — At last I began to consider how
they could be there, without overturning my Mysterium Cosmo-
graphicum, published thirteen years ago. Not that I doubt
303
says, by much fatigue and by many a midnight-watch,
remained entire, I believe, till very lately, in the
Museum at Florence.
Page 133, line 5.
Beautiful Florence,
It is somewhere mentioned that Michael Angelo, when
he set out from Florence to build the dome of St. Peter's,
turned his horse round in the road to contemplate once
more that of the cathedral, as it rose in the grey of the
morning from among the pines and cypresses of the city,
and that he said after a pause, ' Come te non voglio !
Meglio di te non posso !'* He never indeed spoke of it
but with admiration ; and, if we may believe tradition,
his tomb by his own desire was to be so placed in the
Santa Croce as that from it might be seen, when the
doors of tlie church stood open, that noble work of
Bruneleschi.
their existence. So far from it, I am longing for a glass, that I
may, if possible, get the start of )ou, and (ind two for Mars, six
or eight for Saturn,' Sfc.
In Jupiter and his satellites, seen as they now are, ' we behold,
at a single glance of the eye, a beautiful miniature of the planetary
system,' and perhaps of every system of worlds through the
regions of space.
* Like thee I will not build one. Better than thee I cannot.
504
Page 134, line 7.
Round the green hill they iveiit,
I have here followed Baklelli. It has been said that
Boccaccio drew from his imagination. But is it likely,
when he and his readers were living within a mile or
two of the spot ? Truth or fiction, it furnishes a pleasant
picture of the manners and amusements of the Floren-
tines in that day.
Page 137, line 4.
sung- of Old
For its green wine ;
La Verdea. It is celebrated by Rinuccini, Redi, and
most of the Tuscan Poets ; nor is it unnoticed by some
of ours.
" Say, he had been at Rome, and seen the relics.
Drunk your Verdea-wine," Vc.
Beaumont and Fletcher.
Page 137, line 6.
that great Astronomer,
It is difficult to conceive what Galileo must have felt,
when, having constructed his telescope, he turned it to
the heavens, and saw the mountains and valleys in the
moon. — Then the moon was another earth ; the earth
another planet ; and all were subject to the same laws.
What an evidence of the simplicity and the magnificence
of nature !
305
But at length lie turned it again, still directing it
upward, and again he was lost ; for he was now among
tlie fixed stars ; and, if not magnified as he expected
them to be, they were multiplied beyond measure.
What a moment of exultation for such a mind as his !
But as yet it was only the dawn of a day that was
coming ; nor was he destined to live till that day was in
its splendour. The great law of gravitation was not
yet to be made known ; and how little did he think, as
he held the instrument in his hand, that we should
travel by it so far as we have done ; that its revelations
would ere long be so glorious ! *
* Among the innumerable stars now discovered, and at every
improvement of the telescope vie discover more and more, there
are many at such a distance from this little planet of ours, that
' their light must have taken at least a thousand years to reach
us.' The intelligence, which they may be said to convey to us,
night after niglit, must therefore, when we receive it, be a
thousand years old; for every ray, that conies, must have set
out as long ago ; and, * when we observe their places and note
their changes,' they may have ceased to exist for a thousand
years.
Nor can their dimensions be less wonderful than their dis-
tances; if Sirius, as it is more than conjectured, be nearly
equal to fourteen suns, and there be others that surpass Sirius.
— Yet all of them must be as nothing in the immensity of space,
and amidst the ' numbers without number ' that may never become
visilde here, though they were created in the heijliining. —
lleischel. Wollaston.
306
Page 137, line 7.
Seven years a prisoner at the city-gate,
Galileo came to Arcetri at the close of the year 1633;
and remained there, while he lived, by an order of the
Inquisition.* It is without the walls, near the Porta
Romana.
Page 138, line 4.
Some verse o/'Ariosto !
Ariosto himself employed much of his time in garden-
ing ; and to his garden at Ferrara we owe many a
verse.
Page 139, line 16.
Florence and Pisa —
I cannot dismiss Pisa without a line or two ; for
much do I owe to her. If Time has levelled her ten
thousand towers (for, like Lucca, she was ' torreggiata
a guisa d'un boschetto') she has still her cathedral
and her baptistery, her belfry and her cemetery ; and
from Time they have acquired more thaa they have
lost.
If many a noble monument is gone,
That said how glorious in her day she was,
* For believing in the motion of the earth. ' They may
issue tlieir decrees,' says Pascal ; ' it is to no purpose. If the
earth is really turning round, all mankind together could not
keep it from turning, or keep themselves from turning with it.'
— Les Provinciales, xviii.
307
There is a sacred place within her walls,
Sacred and silent, save when they that die.
Come there to rest, and tliey that live, to pray.
For then are voices heard, crying to God,
Where yet remain, apart from all things else,
Four, such as no where on the earth are seen
Assembled ; and at even, when the sun
Sinks in the west, and in the east the moon
As slowly rises, her great round displaying
Over a City now so desolate —
Such is the grandeur, such the solitude,
Such their dominion in tliat solemn hour.
We stand and gaze and wonder wJiere we are
In this world or anotlier.
Page 141, line 19.
And lo, an atom on that dangerous sen,
Petrarch, as we learn from himself, was on his way
to Incisa ; whither his mother was retiring. He was
seven montlis old at the time.
A most extraordinary deluge, accompanied by signs
and prodigies, liajjpened a few years afterwards. " On
that night," says Giovanni Villani, " a hermit, being at
prayer in his liermitage above Vallombrosa, heard a
I'lirioiis trampling as of many horses; jind, crossing
liimself and liurrying to the wicket, saw a multitude of
infernal liorsemen, all black and terrible, riding by at
full speed. When in the name of God he conjured
some of them to reveal their purpose, they replied,
308
' We are going, if it be His pleasure, to drown the city
of Florence for its wickedness.' " — " This account," says
he, " was given me by the Abbot of Vallombrosa, who
had questioned the holy man himself." — xi. 2.
Page 144, line 1.
and hence a world of woe !
If War is a calamity, what a calamity must be Civil
War ; for how cruel are the circumstances which it
gives birth to !
' I had served long in foreign countries,' says an old
soldier, ' and had borne my part in the sack of many a
town ; but there I had only to deal with strangers ; and
T shall never, no never forget what I felt to-day, when
a voice in my own language cried out to me for quar-
ter.'
Page 145, line 9.
Yet, when Slavery came,
Worse followed.
It is remarkable that the noblest works of human
genius have been produced in times of tumult ; when
every man was his own master, and all tilings were
open to all. Homer, Dante, and Milton appeared in
such times ; and we may add Virgil.*
* The Angustan Age, as it is called, what was it but a dying
blaze of the Commonwealth ? When Augustus began to reign,
Cicero and Lucretius were dead, Catullus had written bis satires
against Caesar, and Horace and Virgil were no longer in their
309
Page 151, line 1.
It was an hour of universal joy.
Before line 1, in the MS.
The sun ascended, and the eastern sky
Flamed like a furnace, while the western glowed
As if another day was dawning there.
Page 157, line 6.
no hush, or green or dry,
A sign in our country as old as Shakspeare, and
still used in Italy. " Une branche d'arbre, attachee
k une maison rusticjue, nous annonce les moyens de
nous refraichir. Nous y trouvons du lait et des oeufs
frais ; nous voila contens." — Mkm, de Goldoni.
There is, or was very lately, in Florence a small
wine-house with this inscription over the door, ' Al buon
vino non bisogna frasca.' Good wine needs no bush.
It was much frequented by Salvator Rosa, who drew
a portrait of his hostess.
i
Page 1.58, line 15.
a sumpter-mule
Many of these circurtistances were suggested by a
landscape of Annibal Carracci, now in the F^ouvre.
first youth. Horace had served under Hiutiis; anil Virgil ha<l
been pronounced to be
" Magna' spes altera Uoiiiii'."
310
Page 168, line 17.
All things that strike, ennoble —
Such was the enthusiasm there at the revival of Art,
that the discovery of a precious marble was an event for
celebration; and, in the instance of the Laocoon, it was
recorded on the tomb of the discoverer. ' Felici de
Fredis, qui ob proprias virtutes, et repertum Laocoontis
divinum quod in Vaticano cemes fere respirans simula-
crum, immortalitatera meruit, a. d. 1528.'*
The Laocoon was found in the baths of Titus, and, as
we may conclude, in the very same chamber in which it
was seen by the Elder Pliny. It stood alone there in a
niche that is still pointed out to the traveller ; f and
well might it be hailed by the Poets of that day ! What
a moment for the imagination, when, on the entrance of
a torch, it emerged at once from the darkness of so long
a night ! %
* In the church of Ara Coeli.
t The walls and the niche are of a bright ve^jmilion. See
Observations on the colours of the Ancients, by Sir Humphry
Davy, with whom I visited this chamber in 1814.
X There is a letter on the subject, written by Francesco da
S. Gallo, in 1567.
' Some statues being discovered in a vineyard near S. Maria
Maggiore, the Pope said to a groom of the stables, " Tell
Giuliano da S. Gallo to go and see them ;" and my Father, when
he received the message, went directly to Michael Angelo
Buonarrotti, who was always to be found at home (being at thai
time employed on the Mausoleum), and they set out together on
311
Page 172, line 5.
Scondng the chains he could not hope to break.
We are told that Cfesar passed the Rubicon and
overthrew the Commonwealth ; but the seeds of destruc-
tion were already in the Seuate-house, the Forum, and
the Camp. When Ctesar fell, was liberty restored?
History, as well as Poetry, delights in a hero, and is
for ever ascribing to one what was the work of many ;
for, as men, we are flattered by such representations of
human greatness; forgetting how often leaders are led,
and overlooking the thousand tliousand springs of action
by which the events of tlie world are brought to pass.
Page 173, line 11.
Well might the great, the mighty of the world,
" Rien nc servit mieux Rome, que le respect qu'elle
imprima a la terre. Elle mit d'abord les rois dans le
silence, et les rendit comme stupides. II ne s'agissoit
pas du degr^ de leur puissance ; mais leur personne
propre Hoii attaqu6e. Risquer une guerre, c'etoit
s'exposer ;\ la captivite, ii la mort, jY I'infamie du tri-
omphe." Montesquieu.
liorsehack ; I, wlio was yet a child, riding on llie criippiT bi-liiiid
my Fatlier.
' Wlien tliey arrived tliere and went down, they exchiiriicd,
" This is the Laocooii of whidi I'liny makes mention !" and tlie
opening was enlarged that the marble might be taken out and
inspected ; and they returned to dinner, discoursing of ancient
llii;igs.'
312
Page 174, line 13.
Some invoked
Death, and escaped ;
' Spare me, I pray, this indignity,' said Perseus to
jEmilius. ' Make me not a public spectacle ; drag me
not through your streets.' — ' What you ask for,' replied
the Roman, ' is in your own power.' Plutarch.
Page 180, line 3.
then on that master-piece,
' You admire that picture,' said an old Dominican to
me at Padua, as I stood contemplating a Last Supper in
the Refectory of his Convent, the figures as large as the
life. ' I have sat at my meals before it for seven and
forty years ; and such are the changes that have taken
place among us — so many have come and gone in the
time — that, when I look upon the company there — upon
those who are sitting at that table, silent as they are — I
am sometimes inclined to think that we, and not they,
are the shadows.'*
* The celebrated fresco of Lionardo da ^'iIlci in the monastery
of Santa Maria delle Grazie at Milan must again and again have
suggested the same reflection. Opposite to it stood the Prior's
table, the monks sitting down the chamber on the right and left :
and the Artist, throughout his picture, has evidently endeavoured
to make it correspond with what he saw when they were assem-
bled there. The table-cloth, with the corners tied up, and with
its regular folds as from the press, must have been faithfully
313
Page 186, line 1.
Have none appeared as tillers of the ground.
The Author of the Letters to Julia has written
admirably on this subject.
" All sad, all silent ! O'er the ear
No sound of cheerful toil is swelling-.
Earth has no quickening spirit here,
Nature no charm, and Man no dwelling !"
Not less admirably has he described a Roman Beauty ;
such as ' weaves her spells beyond the Tiber.'
" Methinks the Furies with their snakes.
Or Venus with her zone miglit gird her ;
Of fiend and goddess she partakes,
And looks at once both Love and Murder."
Page 191, line 7.
Wander like strangers
It was not always so. There were once within her
walls ' more erected spirits.'
" Let me recall to your mind," says Petrarch, in ;i
letter to old Stephen Colonna, " the walk we took
together at a late lionr in the broad street tliat h-ads
copied ; and the dishes and drinking-cups are, no doubt, snch as
were used hy the fatliers in tliat day. .See (Joetlie, v. \x\i\.
p. 94.
314
from your palace to the Capitol. To me it seems as
yesterday, though it was ten years ago. When we
arrived where the four ways meet, we stopped ; and,
none interrupting us, discoursed long on the fallen
fortunes of your House. Fixing your eyes steadfastly
upon me and then turning them away full of tears, ' I
have nothing now,' you said, ' to leave my children.
But a still greater calamity awaits me — I shall inherit
from them all.' You remember the words, no doubt ;
words so fully accomplished. I certainly do ; and as
distinctly as the old sepulchre in the corner, on which
we were leaning with our elbows at the time." — Epist.
Famil. viii. 1.
The sepulchre here alluded to must have been that of
Bibulus ; and what an interest it derives from this
anecdote ! Stephen Colonna was a hero worthy of
antiquity ; and in his distress was an object, not of
pity, but of reverence. When overtaken by his pur-
suers and questioned by those who knew him not, ' I am
Stephen Colonna,' he replied, ' a citizen of Rome!'
and, when in the last extremity of battle a voice cried
out to him, ' Where is now your fortress, Colonna?'
' Here!' he answered gaily, laying his hand on his
heart.
Page 192, line 12.
3Tusic ami painting, sculpture, rhetoric.
Music ; and from the loftiest strain to the lowliest,
from a Miserere in the Holy Week to the Shepherd's
luimble offering in Advent ; the last, if we may judge
315
from its effects, not the least subduing, perhaps the
most so.
Once, as I was approaching Frescati in the sunshine
of a cloudless December-morning, I observed a rustic-
group by the road-side, before an image of the Virgin,
that claimed the devotions of the passenger from a niche
in a vineyard-wall. Two young men from the moun-
tains of the Abruzzi, in their long brown cloaks, were
playing a Cliristmas-carol. Their instruments were a
hautboy and a bagpipe ; and the air, wild and simple as
it was, was such as she might accept with pleasure.
The ingenuous and smiling coimtenances of these riule
minstrels, who seemed so sure that she heard them, and
the unaffected delight of their little audience, all younger
than themselves, all standing uncovered and moving
their lips in prayer, would have arrested the most care-
less traveller.
Page 197, line G.
And from the latticed (^allerij came a chant
Of psalms, most saint-Uhe, most angelical,
There was said to be in the choir, among others of
the Sisterhood, a dauglitcr of Cimarosa.
Page 201, line 2.
And the young mpnpli, jitijtarni'j; for llic dance
" lo piglio, (juando 11 di giungc al coiifiiu',
Le liicciole no' ])rati anipj ridottc,
E, come gemme, le comparto al criiie ;
316
Poi fra I'ombre da' rai vivi interrotte
Mi presento ai Pastori, e ognun mi dice ;
Clori ha le stelle al crin come ha la Notte."
Varano,
Page 201, line 11.
Those trees, religious once and always green,
Pliny mentions an extraordinary instance of longevity
in the ilex. ' There is one,' says he, ' in the Vatican,
older than the City itself. An Etruscan inscription in
letters of brass attests that even in those days the tree
was held sacred :' and it is remarkable that there is at
this time on the Vatican mount an ilex of great antiquity.
It is in a gTOve just above the palace-garden.
Page 220, line 1.
Three days they lay in ambnsh at my gate.
This story was written in the year 1820, and is
founded on the many narratives which at that time were
circulating in Rome and Naples.
Page 227, line 3.
And he it mine to muse there, mine to glide.
If the bay of Naples is still beautiful, if it still deserves
the epithet of pulcherrimns, what must it not once have
been ; * and who, as he sails round it, can imagine it to
* ' Antequam Vesuvius mons, ardescens, faciem loci verteret.'
— Tacit. Annal. iv. 67.
317
liiniself as it was — when not only the villas of the
Romans were in their splendour,* but the temples ;
when those of Herculaneum and Pompeii and Baiae and
Puteoli, and how many more, were standing, each on
its eminence or on the margin of the sea ; while, with
choral music and with a magnificence that had exhausted
the wealth of kingdoms, f the galleys of the Imperial
Court were anchoring in the shade or moving up and
down in the sunshine.
Page 232, line 5.
the house of Pansa,
Pansa, the .Edile ; according to some of the inter-
preters ; but tlie inscription at the entrance is very
obscure.
It is remarkable that Cicero, when on liis way to
Cilicia, was the bearer of a letter to Atticus ' ex Pansae
Pompeiano. I (Ad Att. v. 3.) That this was the house
in question ; and that in the street, as we passed along.
*
• With their groves and porticoes they were every where
along the shore, ' erat eniin freque ns anineuitas or;c ;' and what
a neigiihourhood must have been there in the last days of (he
Commonwealth, when such men as Caesar and Pompey and
Lucullus, and Cicero and Hortensius and JJrulus, were con-
tinually retiring thither from the cares of public life !
t ' Geramatis puppiiius, versioolr)ribus velis,' S;v. — .Sl'ETOS.
Caliy. 37.
i According to Grctvius. The manuscripts disagree.
318
we might have met him, coming or going, every pilgrim
to Pompeii must wish to believe.
But delighting in the coast and in his pwn Pompeia-
num, (Ad Att. ii. 1) he could be no stranger in that
City ; and often must he have received there such
homage as ours.
Page 259, line 1.
' What hangs behind that curtain ?'
This story, if a story it may be called, is fictitious ;
and I have done little more than give it as I received it.
Page 268, line 18.
How oft, where now we rode
Every reader of Spanish poetry is acquainted with
that atfecting romance of Gongora,
" Amarrado al duro banco," S^c.
Lord Holland has translated it in his excellent life of
Lope de Vega.
Page 272, line 1.
This house was Andrea Doria's.
There is a custom on the Continent well worthy of
notice. In Boulogne we read, as we ramble through it,
' Ici est mort I'Auteur de Gil Bias;' in Rouen, ' Ici est
ne Pierre Corneille ;' in Geneva, ' Ici est ne Jean
Jacques Rousseau :' and in Dijon there is the Maison
319
Bossuet ; in Paris, the Quai Voltaire. Very rare are
such memorials among ns ; and yet, wherever we met
with them, in wliatever country they were or of what-
ever age, we should surely say that they were evidences
of refinement and sensibility in the people. The house
of Pindar was spared
when temple and tower
Went to the ground ;
and its ruins were held sacred to the last. According
to Pausanias, they were still to be seen in the second
century. .
INDEX.
Abbot of St. Maurice, his
fall from a precipice, 37.
Actors on board a passage
boat, 55, 50.
Aqueducts in the Campagna
of Home, 189.
Alban lake, 201.
Albert the bandit, 222.
Alfieri, his visit to the tombs
of Petrarch and Tasso,
note, 105.
Alfonso Piccolomini the ban-
dit, note, 213.
Alps, the hunters of, 20.
Aniadeus, first Duke of Sa-
voy, note, 6.
Amalfi, now a fishing town,
lier ancient jjrosjjerity, her
commerce, her maritime
laws, her hospitals in the
East, one of her citizens
the discoverer of the com-
pass, 254.
Angelica, 42. 100.
Anio, falls of, 201.
Antony of Trent, 112.
Appian way, lO'J.
Arcetri, the residence of Ga-
lileo, 137.
Archimedes, his saying, note,
193.
Aricia, 188.
Ariosto, his house at Fer-
rara, 05 ; his garden, note,
300.
Arlecchino on board the pas-
sage boat, 57 ; anecdote of
one, 7i(ite, 294.
Arno, the vale of, 133.
Arno, its source, 139.
Arquii, 105.
Augustus, in his litter, note,
109.
Avalanche, fall of, 23.
liag of gold, story of, 235.
Baiir, 230.
Banditti, 213 ; their charac-
ter in former times and at
present, 215; a modern
bandit, 210 ; story of one,
220.
Barbara, the landlord's
daughter at Bergamo, 43'.
Y
322
Barbarossa in the porch of
Saint Mark's church, 67.
Battista, Lord Byron's gon-
dolier, 118.
Bellaggio, a birth-night fes-
tival there, 41.
Benacus, the lake of Catul-
lus, 44.
Bergamo, occurrences at, 43.
Bernard, Saint, Abbot of
Clairvaux, 4.
Bianca Capello, her story,
80, SI. 148.
Boccaccio, his burial place,
135.
Bologna, a night-scene in,
115 ; arrival of a traveller
there, 116.
Bonatti, the astrologer, note,
55.
Boren, Christian, adventure
of, note, 23.
Bravo, description of, 146.
Brides of Venice, 82.
Bridge of sighs, 71.
Brothers, the, 31.
Brundusium, 203. 288.
Bruneleschi, note, 303.
Brutus, Marcus Junius, 172.
Buondelmonte Giovanni, 143,
144.
Byron at Bologna, 117; his
journey over the Apen-
nines, 119, 120.
Caffaggiolo, villa of Cosmo
de' Medici, note, 149.
Caius Cestius, reflections at
Ihe tomb of, 194, 195.
Campagna of Rome, 186.
Cappelletti, palace of the,
note, 292.
Capreae, 230.
Carracci, Annibal, Cries of
Bologna by, 116.
Cardinal * *, and his cats,
235.
Carmagnola, F. B., 71.
Carnival in St. Mark's Place,
69.
Carrara, Francesco II., death
of, 71.
Catullus, his lake, 39. 44.
Cerreto, villa of, murder of
Isabella de' Medici there
by her husband, 148 ; and
note, 149.
Chatterton entering London,
2.
Chillon, Chateau de, 7.
Cicero assailed in the Via
Sacra, 172; his lost trea-
tise on Glory, 250.
Cimabue, 132.
Cincinnatus, 173.
City of Hermits, 139.
Civil war, note, 308.
Clarens, 8.
Cleopatra, 174.
Coll'alto, 50.
Columbine, accoucliement of
a, note, 292.
Como, Lake of, 38.
Composition on horseback,
note, 290.
Coppet, 7.
Cristine, her story, 51,
Crystal hunters, 290.
Cuma?, 230.
523
Dante, his seat at Florence,
123 ; his Inferno, 123, and
7iote ; his adventure in the
Baptistery, 124.
Decameron, scene of, 133.
Desaix, his tomb, 21.
De Thou, 130.
Do^s of St. Bernard, 13 ;
Barri, 17.
Dominican Monk, his reflec-
tion on a Last Supper at
Padua, 312.
Doria, Andrea, 272.
Doria, Paganino, note, 267.
Drance, 37.
Eagle and child, 33.
Eleanora di Toledo, wife of
Cosmo de' Medici, 128,
and 7iote, 131.
Erasmus, his journey over
Mont Cenis, note, 290.
Eremo, II Sagro, a city of
hermits, 139.
Evander, l(i9.
Ezzelino, Ills tower at Padua,
.55.
Falernian wine, 204.
l-'aliero, Marino, 70.
Farewell to Italy, 279; to
the reader, 284.
Feluca, 207.
Ferrara, 48 ; note, 293.
I'erney, 6.
Fiesco, 274.
Fiesole, 132.
Fire-fly, 200.
Florence, her splendour and
beauty, chapel of Massac-
cio, seat of Dante, baptis-
tery, chapel of the Medici,
citadel, &c. 121.
Florence, campagna of, Ci-
niabu^, Giotto, Boccaccio,
Macchiavel, Galileo, Pe-
trarch, &c. 132.
Foreign travel, 203.
Forum at Rome, 170.
Foscari, 90.
Fountain near Moladi Gaeta,
211.
Funeral in Rome, 176 ; Ra-
phael's, 179.
Galileo, 132; his villa at
Arcetri, his interview with
Milton, 138; his telescope,
note, 302 ; his discoveries,
304, 305 ; his imprison-
ment, 306.
Garda, il lago di, note, 44.
Garrick entering London,
3.
Geneva, departure from at
day-break, 1,
Genoa, 270.
Gibbon at Lausanne, 7, and
7iote,
Ginevra, 111 ; note, 300.
Giotto, a Madonna of iiis be-
longing to Petrarch, note,
lOH; found, when a siiep-
herd-boy, by Ciniabu^,
132.
Glow-worm, 202.
Gon(h)Ia, 70.
Gondolier, his song, 79.
Gongora, romance of, note,
318.
324
Grande Chartreuse, 17, 18 ;
its origin, note, 289.
Great St. Bernard, 13.
Guirlandina. 110.
Hannibal, crossing the Alps,
37.
Hofer, his embarkation on
the lago di Garda,his death
and tomb, note, 44.
Holland, history of the re-
public of, note, 296.
Horace, 109. 172. 201. 203.
Horatii, sacred field of, 188.
lies, its longevity, note, 316.
Imelda, her story, 144, 145.
Italian character, 57.
Johnson entering London, 3.
Jorasse, a chamois hunter,
22; his adventure, 24.
Joux, the castle of, in
Franche-Comt^, 5.
Jugurtha, 174.
Juliet at Verona, 48.
Jura, 5.
Kepler, his letter to Galileo,
note, 302.
La Riccia, 188.
Lake of the Four Cantons,
8.
Laocoon, group of, disco-
vered, note, 310.
Larian Lake, 38.
Lausanne, 7.
Leman Lake, 3. 11.
Lionardo da Vinci, his fresco
of the Last Supper, 7iote,
312.
Loredano, his hatred, 97.
Lorenzo de' Medici, Duke
of t' rbino, his statue called
II Pensiero, 125.
Lucrezia, Madonna, 237.
Ludlow, note, 7.
Luigi, a carbonajo, a valet,
a guide, &c. 63.
Macchiavel in Val di Pesa,
136.
Mal'aria, 252.
Malta, knights of, their ori-
gin, 256.
Mantua, 39.
Marco di Sciarra, the ban-
dit, his conduct to Tasso,
213.
Marco Griffoni, 275.
Marco Polo, 69.
IMarcolini, story of, 102.
Maremraa, 281 ; anecdote of
Pi&,note, 281.
Marguerite de Tours, story
of, 28.
Martigny, 30.
Massaccio, his chapel, 121 ;
Raphael and Michael An-
gelo studying there, 122.
Mastino de la Scala, his hos-
pitality, 45, and note.
jNIedici, Lorenzo de', his sta-
tue, 125 ; Cosmo and his
sons GarzM and Giovanni,
128.
Meillerie, 6.
Michael Angelo, studying
at Florence, 122 ; his
P.9/
sculptures in the chapel of
the Medici, 125 ; his Car-
toon of Pisa, 140 ; his
speech on his road to Rome,
S03 ; his visit to the Lao-
coou, 310.
jNIiltOD, his interview with
Galileo, 138 ; reclining by
the Arno, 142.
Modena, palace of the Or-
sini at, 110.
Mons Albanus, 186.
Mons Sacer, 188.
Mont-Blanc, in the morning,
4 ; in the evening, 288.
Monte Cassino, a Benedic-
tine Abbey, 259.
Monte Cavo, 186.
Montorio, story of, 102.
Mora, the game of, 63.
Morgante Maggiorc, sung by
Puici at the table of Lo-
renzo the Magnificent, 148.
Mount Alburnus, 249.
Naples, her bay sailed round,
the Elysian Fields, tomb
of Virgil, Vesuvius, Cu-
mae, Baiaj, Capreac, J'om-
peii, 226.
Napoleon, his conduct to
Toussaint, 5 ; his march
over the Alps, 21. 37 ;
turns aside to see the
peninsula of Catullus, 39.
Necker, tomb of, 7.
Nisus and Euryalus, 187.
Nun taking the veil, 196.
Orfano, Canal, 72.
Padua, 55. 154.
Paestura, her temples, their
long obscurity, the Greek
city, the Roman city, 248.
Palatine, 169.
Palazzo Vecchio, 130.
Paleslrina, 188.
Pansa, his house at Pompeii,
232; note, 317.
Parthenope, 228.
Pauline chapel, note, 192.
Perseus and his sons led in
triumpii, 173 ; his suppli-
cation to jEmilius, note,
312.
Petrarch, his verses sung by
the minstrels, 46 ; present
at a tournament, 68; his
funeral attended by F. Car-
rara, note, 45 ; his tomb,
105 ; his visits to Vau-
cluse and his seclusion at
Arqua, 107, 108; nearly
lost, wlien a child, in the
Arno, 141 ; in liis youth a
stud(,'nt of tiie law under
Andreas, 242; his walk
with Steplien Colonna,
note, 313.
Petrocchi, his sonnet, 301.
Piedinontese nobleman, his
story, 209, 210.
Pisa, 139; lines on, note,
306.
I'isani, Nicolo, note, 267.
Pliny the Younger, his villas
on the Larian Lake, 38.
Pliny the I'.lder, his deatii,
note, 23 1 .
Poggio Caiano, villa of Lo-
326
renzo de' Medici, murder
of Bianca Capello and the
Grand Duke there, 148.
Pompeii, 231.
Posidonia, 251.
Posilipo, 254.
Poussin, Gaspar, 39.
Preeneste, 188.
Pulci, singing his verses at
the table of Lorenzo, note,
148.
Quintian meadows, 188.
Raphael, his funeral, 179.
Rhone, the, its descent from
the Alps, 11 ; its rapiditj',
and its vineyards, castles,
&c. 106.
Rialto, 88.
Ripaille, G.
Rome, her solitude, her gran-
deur, the Palatine, Forum,
&c. 1G7 ; her origin and her
progress from the landing
of iEneas to the irruption
of the Goths, 186.
Rousseau, 2 ; note, 37.
Runnemede, 10.
Rusconi, the bandit, 220.
Sacred way, 172.
St. Bruno, note, 289.
St. Mark's Place, the church,
campanile, ducal palace,
the bridge of sighs, a scene
of revelry and masking, 66.
St. Peter's church, exposi-
tion of the holy sacrament
there, note, 192.
St. Preus, 8.
Salvator Rosa, his life as a
bandit, 255 ; his portrait
of his hostess, note, 309.
Scala de' Giganti, 70.
Scala, Mastino de la, his hos-
pitality, 45.
Sforza, Francesco, 94, and
note.
Sforza, G., his death de-
scribed, 139, and note.
Sicardi, 257.
Song of the sky-lark, 1. 151 ;
of the nightingale, 270.
Sophonisba, 174.
Sorrento, the birth-place of
Tasso, 254.
Spartacus, 249.
Spezzia, Gulf of, 266.
Strozzi, Filippo, his writing
on the wall, 126.
Sun-rise in Italy, note, 309.
Sun-set in Italy, 144. 150.
Tarantella, the dance de-
scribed, 228.
Tartarus, 227.
Tasso, his dungeon, 64; his
adventure with the ban-
ditti, 213; his birthplace,
254; his villa, 291.
Tassoni, 110.
Tell, William, 9. 34.
Terracina, 203.
Theatre, in the gardens of
the villa Madama, 161.
Thermopylae, 10.
Thrasymene, 152.
Tiber, its source, 139.
Tiberius at Capreae, 230.
327 "
Tibur, now Tivoli, 169. 187.
201.
Tophana, 147, and note.
Tournament in St. Mark's
Place, 68.
Toussaint, his dungeon, 5.
Trabocchetto, il, 147, and
note.
Tramezzina, Bay of, 41.
Ugolino, 101. 141.
Val d' Aosta, 29.
Val di Pesa, 136.
Vallombrosa, 18.
Varano, note, 315.
Velino, the falls of, 157.
Venice, her birth, her enter-
prize, her commerce in the
East, her caravans in Eu-
rope, her decline and fall,
54.
Verdea, La, 137; and note,
304.
Vevay, 4. 6, 7.
Villa Gherardi, villa Palmi-
eri, 134; villa Madama,
160.
Violets of Poestum, 249, and
note.
Virgil reading the jEneid,
170 ; travelling to Bruu-
dusium, 203.
Virgil's farm, 39.
Virginius, 171.
Wandering Jew, 73 ; and
note, 297.
Zanga, Tasso's villa near
Bergamo, note, 291.
Zenobia, 174.
THE END.
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