Let us contemplate; and, where dreams from Jove And reaping-hook, among their household-things Descended on the sleeper, where perhaps The changes from that hour, when He from Troy Stream'd far and wide, and dashing oars were heard Then, and hence to be discern'd, How many realms, pastoral and warlike, lay (144) 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;' Or in Greek vesture, Greek their origin, Some embassy, ascending to Præneste;2 How oft descried, without thy gates, Aricia,' 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 unemploy'd; the noblest of them all Binding their sheaves or on their threshing-floors, As though they had not conquer'd. Everywhere Some trace of valor or heroic virtue! Here is the sacred field of the Horatii, (145) There are the Quintian meadows. (146) Here the hill How holy, where a generous people, twice, Twice going forth, in terrible anger sate Arm'd; and, their wrongs redress'd, at once gave way, Helmet and shield, and sword and spear thrown down, And every hand uplifted, every heart Pour'd out in thanks to Heaven. Once again We look; and, lo, the sea is white with sails The Decii, the Fabricii? Where the spade 1 Tivoli. 2 Palestrina. 3 La Riccia. 4 Mons Sacer. Duly transmitted? In the hands of men But their days, Once more we look, and all is still as night, And on the road, where once we might have met VII. 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 (147) And architectural pomp, such as none else; And dazzling light, and darkness visible ! (148) 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, (149) Their shadows, stretching far and wide, were known And Two, that look'd beyond the visible sphere, Gave notice of their coming-he who saw The Apocalypse; and he of elder time, Saw the Four Kingdoms. Distant as they were, VIII. 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, young 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. 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, Thus I renounce the world!" when all was changed And, as a nun, in homeliest guise she knelt, Veil'd in her veil, crown'd 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 ('T was in her utmost need; nor, while she lives, (151) 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; It is a quiet and sheltered nook, covered in the And they, that came in idleness to gaze winter with violets; and the Pyramid, that over- Upon the victim dress'd for sacrifice, shadows it, gives it a classical and singularly solemn Are mingling in the world; thou in thy cell air. You feel an interest there, a sympathy you Forgot, Teresa. Yet, among them all, were not prepared for. You are yourself in a foreign None were so form'd to love and to be loved, land; and they are for the most part your country- None to delight, adorn; and on thee now men. They call upon you in your mother-tongue-A curtain, blacker than the night, is dropp'd in English-in words unknown to a native, known For ever! In thy gentle bosom sleep only to yourselves: and the tomb of Cestius, that old Feelings, affections, destined now to die, majestic pile, has this also in common with them. It To wither like the blossom in the bud, is itself a stranger, among strangers. It has stood Those of a wife, a mother; leaving there there till the language spoken round about it has A cheerless void, a chill as of the grave, changed; and the shepherd, born at the foot, can read A languor and a lethargy of soul, its inscription no longer. 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! IX. THE NUN. "Tis over; and her lovely cheek is now "Tis over; and the rite, But thou canst not yet reflect All in turn Revisit thee, and round thy lowly bed X. THE FIRE-FLY. THERE is an Insect, that, when Evening comes, Small though he be and scarce distinguishable, Like Evening clad in soberest livery, When on her knees she fell, Unsheathes his wings, (153) and through the woods Entering the solemn place of consecration, and glades Scatters a marvellous splendor On he wheels, Soaring, descending. In the mother's lap Well may the child put forth his little hands, Oft have I met Reveals itself. Yet cannot I forget Him, who rejoiced me in those walks at eve, XI. FOREIGN TRAVEL. It was in a splenetic humor that I sate 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 befell Horace and Virgil, and Mæcenas, 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 which the heroes of the Odyssey and the Eneid had sailed, I sat down as to a splendid banquet. My thrushes had the flavor of ortolans; and I ate with an appetite I had not known before. earth. "It may serve me," said I, " as a remedy in some future fit of the spleen." Ours is a nation of travellers; and no wonder, when the elements, air, water, fire, attend at our bid ding, to transport us from shore to shore; when 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, whatever they may believe, they go for the most part on the same errand; nor will those who refiect, 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 progress they have made in the pursuit of wealth or honor; and on they go as their fathers went before them, till, weary and sick at heart, they look back 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 slightest circumstance amuses and interests. All is new and strange. We surrender ourselves, and feel once again as children. 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 journey 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. 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 follies, how many crimes are committed! Men rush 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 innocently. 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 "Who," I cried, as I poured out my last glass of moment the very name calls up a picture. How deFalernian, (for Falernian it was said to be, and in my lightfully too does the knowledge flow in upon us, eyes it ran bright and clear as a topaz-stone)" who and how fast! Would he who sat in a corner of 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 into my ink-horn, I determined, as far as I could, to justify myself and my countrymen in wandering over the face of the 1 The glow-worm. 2 We were now within a few hours of the Campania Felix. On the color and flavor of Falernian, consult Galen and Dioscorides, 1 As indeed it always was, contributing those of every degree, from a milors with his suite to him whose only attendant is his shadow. Coryate 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. 2 To judge at once of a nation, we have only to throw our eyes on the markets and the fields. If the markets are wellsupplied, the fields well-cultivated, all is right. If otherwise, we may say, and say truly, these people are barbarous or oppressed. his library, poring over books and maps, learn more or so much in the time, as he who, with his eyes 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 colors 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. Seas 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 become acquainted with the institutions of other countries, the more highly must we value 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 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 irresistible. 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 will 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-morrow,' I cried. Fool that I was, to think of leaving a world, where such pleasure was to be had and so cheaply!" " XII. THE FOUNTAIN. IT was a well O whitest marble, white as from the quarry; And richly wrought with many a high relief, Greek sculpture-in some earlier day perhaps The sun was down, a distant convent-bell Ringing the Angelus; and now approach'd The hour for stir and village-gossip there, The hour Rebekah came, when from the well 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 appear'd, Appear'd and vanish'd, bearing on her head Her earthen pitcher. It call'd up the day Ulysses landed there; and long I gazed, Like one awaking in a distant time. (159) 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 join'd her rosy hands, and, filling them With the pure element, gave him to drink; And, while he quench'd his thirst, standing on tiptoe, Look'd down upon him with a sister's smile, Nor stirr'd till he had done, fix'd as a statue. Then hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova, Thou hadst endow'd them with immortal youth; And they had evermore lived undivided, Winning all hearts-of all thy works the fairest. XIII. BANDITTI. 'Tis a wild life, fearful and full of change, Time was, the trade was nobler, if not honest; When along the shore, (161) 1 Assuredly not, if the last has laid a proper foundation. And by the path that, wandering on its way, Knowledge makes knowledge as money makes money, nor ever perhaps so fast as on a journey. Leads through the fatal grove where Tully fell (Grey and o'ergrown, an ancient tomb is there), Cross the brown heath, ere-long to wag their beards Things only known to the devout and pure In the confessional. He moves his lips As with a curse-then paces up and down, But hark, the nimble tread of numerous feet! -"Tis but a dappled herd, come down to slake Their thirst in the cool wave. He turns and aimsThen checks himself, unwilling to disturb The sleeping echoes. Once again he earths; Slipping away to house with them beneath, That, ere they rise to this bad eminence, He clank'd his chain, among a hundred more And channels here and there worn to the bone He comes slowly forth, His cure, when all things fail. No noise is heard, Two Monks, Who wants A sequel, may read on. The unvarnish'd tale, XIV. AN ADVENTURE. THREE days they lay in ambush at my gate, (163) That in a golden chain hung from his neck, Then all advanced, and, ranging in a square, Stretch'd forth their arms as on the holy cross From each to each their sable cloaks extending, That, like the solemn hangings of a tent, Cover'd 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; 77 |