THEY-who have seen the noble Roman's scorn Break forth at thought of laying down his head, When the blank day is over, garreted
In his ancestral palace, where, from morn To night, the desecrated floors are worn
NEAR Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove Perched on an olive branch, and heard her cooing 'Mid new-born blossoms that soft airs were wooing, While all things present told of joy and love. But restless Fancy left that olive grove To hail the exploratory Bird renewing
By feet of purse-proud strangers; they-who have Hope for the few, who, at the world's undoing, read
In one meek smile, beneath a peasant's shed, How patiently the weight of wrong is borne; They—who have heard some learned Patriot treat Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole theme From ancient Rome, downwards through that bright dream
Of Commonwealths, each city a starlike seat Of rival glory; they-fallen Italy— Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of Thee!
NEAR ROME, IN SIGHT OF ST. PETER'S. LONG has the dew been dried on tree and lawn; O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon Is shed, the languor of approaching noon; To shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn Mute are all creatures, as this couchant fawn, Save insect-swarms that hum in air afloat, Save that the Cock is crowing, a shrill note, Startling and shrill as that which roused the dawn. -Heard in that hour, or when, as now, the nerve Shrinks from the note as from a mis-timed thing, Oft for a holy warning may it serve, Charged with remembrance of his sudden sting, His bitter tears, whose name the Papal Chair And yon resplendent Church are proud to bear.
On the great flood were spared to live and move. O bounteous Heaven! signs true as dove and bough Brought to the ark are coming evermore, Given though we seek them not, but, while we plough This sea of life without a visible shore, Do neither promise ask nor grace implore In what alone is ours, the living Now.
FROM THE ALBAN HILLS, LOOKING TOWARDS ROME. FORGIVE, illustrious Country! these deep sighs, Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills bestrown With monuments decayed or overthrown, For all that tottering stands or prostrate lies, Than for like scenes in moral vision shown, Ruin perceived for keener sympathies; Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her gaudy crown; Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies. Yet why prolong this mournful strain?-Fallen Power,
Thy fortunes, twice exalted, might provoke Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour When thou, uprisen, shalt break thy double yoke, And enter, with prompt aid from the Most High, On the third stage of thy great destiny.
DAYS passed-and Monte Calvo would not clear His head from mist; and, as the wind sobbed through
Albano's dripping Ilex avenue,
My dull forebodings in a Peasant's ear
Found casual vent. She said, "Be of good cheer; Our yesterday's procession did not sue In vain; the sky will change to sunny blue, Thanks to our Lady's grace." I smiled to hear, But not in scorn:-the Matron's Faith may lack The heavenly sanction needed to ensure Fulfilment; but, we trust, her upward track Stops not at this low point, nor wants the lure of flowers the Virgin without fear may own, For by her Son's blest hand the seed was sown.
NEAR THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE.
WHEN here with Carthage Rome to conflict came, An earthquake, mingling with the battle's shock, Checked not its rage; unfelt the ground did rock, Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly aim.— Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's shame, Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure, Save in this Rill that took from blood the name Which yet it bears, sweet Stream! as crystal pure. So may all trace and sign of deeds aloof From the true guidance of humanity, Thro' Time and Nature's influence, purify Their spirit; or, unless they for reproof Or warning serve, thus let them all, on ground That gave them being, vanish to a sound.
NEAR THE SAME LAKE.
FOR action born, existing to be tried, Powers manifold we have that intervene
To stir the heart that would too closely screen Her peace from images to pain allied. What wonder if at midnight, by the side Of Sanguinetto or broad Thrasymene, The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms glide, Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen; And singly thine, O vanquished Chief! whose corse, Unburied, lay hid under heaps of slain :
But who is He?-the Conqueror. Would he force His way to Rome? Ah, no,-round hill and plain Wandering, he haunts, at fancy's strong command, This spot-his shadowy death-cup in his hand.
LIST-'twas the Cuckoo.-O with what delight Heard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint, Far off and faint, and melting into air, Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again! Those louder cries give notice that the Bird, Although invisible as Echo's self,
For see, Laverna! mark the far-famed Pile, High on the brink of that precipitous rock, Implanted like a Fortress, as in truth It is, a Christian Fortress, garrisoned In faith and hope, and dutiful obedience,
By a few Monks, a stern society,
Dead to the world and scorning earth-born joys. Nay-though the hopes that drew, the fears that drove,
St. Francis, far from Man's resort, to abide Among these sterile heights of Apennine, Bound him, nor, since he raised yon House, have ceased
To bind his spiritual Progeny, with rules Stringent as flesh can tolerate and live; His milder Genius (thanks to the good God That made us) over those severe restraints Of mind, that dread heart-freezing discipline, Doth sometimes here predominate, and works By unsought means for gracious purposes; For earth through heaven, for heaven, by changeful earth,
Illustrated, and mutually endeared.
Rapt though He were above the power of sense, Familiarly, yet out of the cleansed heart Of that once sinful Being overflowed On sun, moon, stars, the nether elements, And every shape of creature they sustain, Divine affections; and with beast and bird (Stilled from afar—such marvel story tells—
Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy Creature, By casual outbreak of his passionate words,
For this unthought-of greeting!
From vale to hill, from hill to vale led on, We have pursued, through various lands, a long And pleasant course; flower after flower has blown, Embellishing the ground that gave them birth With aspects novel to my sight; but still Most fair, most welcome, when they drank the dew In a sweet fellowship with kinds beloved, For old remembrance sake. And oft-where Spring Display'd her richest blossoms among files Of orange-trees bedecked with glowing fruit Ripe for the hand, or under a thick shade Of Ilex, or, if better suited to the hour, The lightsome Olive's twinkling canopy-
Oft have I heard the Nightingale and Thrush Blending as in a common English grove
And from their own pursuits in field or grove Drawn to his side by look or act of love Humane, and virtue of his innocent life) He wont to hold companionship so free, So pure, so fraught with knowledge and delight, As to be likened in his Followers' minds To that which our first Parents, ere the fall From their high state darkened the Earth with fear, Held with all Kinds in Eden's blissful bowers.
Then question not that, 'mid the austere Band, Who breathe the air he breathed, tread where he trod, Some true Partakers of his loving spirit Do still survive, and, with those gentle hearts Consorted, Others, in the power, the faith, Of a baptized imagination, prompt To catch from Nature's humblest monitors
Their love-songs; but, where'er my feet might roam, Whate'er they bring of impulses sublime.
Whate'er assemblages of new and old, Strange and familiar, might beguile the way, A gratulation from that vagrant Voice Was wanting;-and most happily till now.
Thus sensitive must be the Monk, though pale With fasts, with vigils worn, depressed by years, Whom in a sunny glade I chanced to see,
Upon a pine-tree's storm-uprooted trunk, Seated alone, with forehead sky-ward raised, Hands clasped above the crucifix he wore Appended to his bosom, and lips closed By the joint pressure of his musing mood And habit of his vow. That ancient Man- Nor haply less the Brother whom I marked, As we approached the Convent gate, aloft Looking far forth from his aerial cell, A young Ascetic-Poet, Hero, Sage, He might have been, Lover belike he was— If they received into a conscious ear The notes whose first faint greeting startled me, Whose sedulous iteration thrilled with joy
My heart-may have been moved like me to think, Ah! not like me who walk in the world's ways, On the great Prophet, styled the Voice of One Crying amid the wilderness, and given,
To be; by Faith, not sight, his soul must live; Else will the enamoured Monk too surely find How wide a space can part from inward peace The most profound repose his cell can give.
THE world forsaken, all its busy cares And stirring interests shunned with desperate flight, All trust abandoned in the healing might of virtuous action; all that courage dares, Labour accomplishes, or patience bears- Those helps rejected, they, whose minds perceive How subtly works man's weakness, sighs may heave For such a One beset with cloistral snares. Father of Mercy! rectify his view,
If with his vows this object ill agree; Shed over it thy grace, and thus subdue
Now that their snows must melt, their herbs and Imperious passion in a heart set free:
Revive, their obstinate winter pass away,
That awful name to Thee, thee, simple Cuckoo, Wandering in solitude, and evermore Foretelling and proclaiming, ere thou leave This thy last haunt beneath Italian skies To carry thy glad tidings over heights
Still loftier, and to climes more near the Pole.
Voice of the Desert, fare-thee-well; sweet Bird! If that substantial title please thee more, Farewell!--but go thy way, no need hast thou Of a good wish sent after thee; from bower To bower as green, from sky to sky as clear, Thee gentle breezes waft-or airs that meet Thy course and sport around thee softly fanTill Night, descending upon hill and vale, Grants to thy mission a brief term of silence, And folds thy pinions up in blest repose.
That earthly love may to herself be true, Give him a soul that cleaveth unto thee *.
AT THE EREMITE OR UPPER CONVENT OF CAMALDOLI.
WHAT aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size Enormous, dragged, while side by side they sate, By panting steers up to this convent gate? How, with empurpled cheeks and pampered eyes, Dare they confront the lean austerities Of Brethren who, here fixed, on Jesu wait In sackcloth, and God's anger deprecate Through all that humbles flesh and mortifies? Strange contrast!-verily the world of dreams, Where mingle, as for mockery combined, Things in their very essences at strife, Shows not a sight incongruous as the extremes That everywhere, before the thoughtful mind, Meet on the solid ground of waking life +.
AT THE CONVENT OF CAMALDOLI.
GRIEVE for the Man who hither came bereft, And seeking consolation from above; Nor grieve the less that skill to him was left To paint this picture of his lady-love: Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve? And O, good Brethren of the cowl, a thing So fair, to which with peril he must cling, Destroy in pity, or with care remove. That bloom-those eyes-can they assist to bind Thoughts that would stray from Heaven? The dream must cease
AT VALLOMBROSA.
Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks In Vallombrosa, where Etrurian shades High over-arch'd embower .
"VALLOMBROSA-I longed in thy shadiest wood To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor!" Fond wish that was granted at last, and the Flood, That lulled me asleep, bids me listen once more.
* See Note. ↑ See note. See for the two first lines, "Stanzas composed in the Simplon Pass,"
UNDER the shadow of a stately Pile, The dome of Florence, pensive and alone, Nor giving heed to aught that passed the while, I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone, The laurelled Dante's favourite seat. A throne,
In just esteem, it rivals; though no style
Be there of decoration to beguile
The mind, depressed by thought of greatness flown. As a true man, who long had served the lyre, I gazed with earnestness, and dared no more. But in his breast the mighty Poet bore
A Patriot's heart, warm with undying fire. Bold with the thought, in reverence I sate down, And, for a moment, filled that empty Throne.
BEFORE THE PICTURE OF THE BAPTIST, BY RAPHAEL, IN THE GALLERY AT FLORENCE.
THE Baptist might have been ordain'd to cry Forth from the towers of that huge Pile, wherein His Father served Jehovah; but how win Due audience, how for aught but scorn defy The obstinate pride and wanton revelry Of the Jerusalem below, her sin And folly, if they with united din
Drown not at once mandate and prophecy? Therefore the Voice spake from the Desert, thence To Her, as to her opposite in peace, Silence, and holiness, and innocence, To Her and to all Lands its warning sent, Crying with earnestness that might not cease, "Make straight a highway for the Lord—repent!”
AT FLORENCE.-FROM MICHAEL ANGELO.
RAPT above earth by power of one fair face, Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights, I mingle with the blest on those pure heights Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place. With Him who made the Work that Work accords So well, that by its help and through his grace I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words, Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace. Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn,
I feel how in their presence doth abide
Light which to God is both the way and guide; And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn, My noble fire emits the joyful ray
That through the realms of glory shines for aye.
AT FLORENCE. FROM M. ANGELO.
ETERNAL Lord! eased of a cumbrous load, And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee; Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee To thy protection for a safe abode.
The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree, The meek, benign, and lacerated face, To a sincere repentance promise grace, To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine, My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear; Neither put forth that way thy arm severe; Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto incline More readily the more my years require Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire.
AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE APENNINES. YE Trees! whose slender roots entwine
Altars that piety neglects;
Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine
Which no devotion now respects;
If not a straggler from the herd Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird, Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride In aught that ye would grace or hide- How sadly is your love misplaced, Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste!
Ye, too, wild Flowers! that no one heeds, And ye-full often spurned as weeds— In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness From fractured arch and mouldering wall— Do but more touchingly recal
Man's headstrong violence and Time's fleetness, Making the precincts ye adorn Appear to sight still more forlorn.
So fare they the Man serving as her Slave. Ere long their fates do each to each conform: Both pass into new being, but the Worm, Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave; His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend To bliss unbounded, glory without end.
FAIR Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few, Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, fame, Part from thee without pity dyed in shame : I could not-while from Venice we withdrew, Led on till an Alpine strait confined our view Within its depths, and to the shore we came Of Lago Morto, dreary sight and name, Which o'er sad thoughts a sadder colouring threw. Italia! on the surface of thy spirit,
(Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake) Shall a few partial breezes only creep?—
Be its depths quickened; what thou dost inherit Of the world's hopes, dare to fulfil; awake, Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like sleep!
As indignation mastered grief, my tongue Spake bitter words; words that did ill agree With those rich stores of Nature's imagery, And divine Art, that fast to memory clung- Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young In the sun's eye, and in his sister's sight How beautiful! how worthy to be sung In strains of rapture, or subdued delight! I feign not; witness that unwelcome shock That followed the first sound of German speech, Caught the far-winding barrier Alps among. In that announcement, greeting seemed to mock Parting; the casual word had power to reach My heart, and filled that heart with conflict strong.
SEE, where his difficult way that Old Man wins Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves !—most hard Appears his lot, to the small Worm's compared, For whom his toil with early day begins. Acknowledging no task-master, at will (As if her labour and her ease were twins) She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still ;— And softly sleeps within the thread she spins.
COMPOSED AT RYDAL ON MAY MORNING, 1838. IF with old love of you, dear Hills! I share New love of many a rival image brought From far, forgive the wanderings of my thought: Nor art thou wronged, sweet May! when I compare Thy present birth-morn with thy last, so fair, So rich to me in favours. For my lot Then was, within the famed Egerian Grot To sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air
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