Thus did some moons of bliss go by— Of bliss to her who saw but love And knowledge throughout earth and sky; To whose enamored soul and eye I seemed—as is the sun on high— The light of all below, above, The spirit of sea and land and air, Whose influence, felt everywhere, Spread from its centre, her own heart, Even to the world's extremest part; While thro' that world her rainless mind Had now careered so fast and far, That earth itself seemed left behind And her proud fancy unconfined Already saw Heaven's gates ajar!

Happy enthusiast! still, oh! still Spite of my own heart's mortal chill, Spite of that double-fronted sorrow Which looks at once before and back, Beholds the yesterday, the morrow, And sees both comfortless, both black— Spite of all this, I could have still In her delight forgot all ill; Or if pain would not be forgot, At least have borne and murmured not. When thoughts of an offended heaven, Of sinfulness, which I—even I, While down its steep most headlong driven— Well knew could never be forgiven, Came o'er me with an agony Beyond all reach of mortal woe— A torture kept for those who know.

Know every thing, and—worst of all— Know and love Virtue while they fall! Even then her presence had the power To soothe, to warm—nay, even to bless— If ever bliss could graft its flower On stem so full of bitterness— Even then her glorious smile to me Brought warmth and radiance if not balm; Like moonlight o'er a troubled sea. Brightening the storm it cannot calm.

Oft too when that disheartening fear, Which all who love, beneath yon sky, Feel when they gaze on what is dear— The dreadful thought that it must die! That desolating thought which comes Into men's happiest hours and homes; Whose melancholy boding flings Death's shadow o'er the brightest things, Sicklies the infant's bloom and spreads The grave beneath young lovers' heads! This fear, so sad to all—to me Most full of sadness from the thought That I most still live on,[14] when she Would, like the snow that on the sea Fell yesterday, in vain be sought; That heaven to me this final seal Of all earth's sorrow would deny, And I eternally must feel The death-pang without power to die!

Even this, her fond endearments—fond As ever cherisht the sweet bond 'Twixt heart and heart—could charm away; Before her looks no clouds would stay, Or if they did their gloom was gone, Their darkness put a glory on! But 'tis not, 'tis not for the wrong, The guilty, to be happy long; And she too now had sunk within The shadow of her tempter's sin, Too deep for even Omnipotence To snatch the fated victim thence! Listen and if a tear there be Left in your hearts weep it for me.

'Twas on the evening of a day, Which we in love had dreamt away; In that same garden, where—the pride Of seraph splendor laid aside, And those wings furled, whose open light For mortal gaze were else too bright— I first had stood before her sight, And found myself—oh, ecstasy, Which even in pain I ne'er forget— Worshipt as only God should be, And loved as never man was yet! In that same garden where we now, Thoughtfully side by side reclining, Her eyes turned upward and her brow With its own silent fancies shining.

It was an evening bright and still As ever blusht on wave or bower, Smiling from heaven as if naught ill Could happen in so sweet an hour. Yet I remember both grew sad In looking at that light—even she, Of heart so fresh and brow so glad, Felt the still hour's solemnity, And thought she saw in that repose The death-hour not alone of light, But of this whole fair world—the close Of all things beautiful and bright— The last, grand sunset, in whose ray Nature herself died calm away!

At length, as tho' some livelier thought Had suddenly her fancy caught, She turned upon me her dark eyes, Dilated into that full shape They took in joy, reproach, surprise, As 'twere to let more soul escape, And, playfully as on my head Her white hand rested, smiled and said:—

"I had last night a dream of thee, "Resembling those divine ones, given, "Like preludes to sweet minstrelsy, "Before thou camest thyself from heaven.

"The same rich wreath was on thy brow, "Dazzling as if of starlight made; "And these wings, lying darkly now, "Like meteors round thee flasht and played.

"Thou stoodest, all bright, as in those dreams, "As if just wafted from above, "Mingling earth's warmth with heaven's beams, "And creature to adore and love.

"Sudden I felt thee draw me near "To thy pure heart, where, fondly placed, "I seemed within the atmosphere "Of that exhaling light embraced;

"And felt methought the ethereal flame "Pass from thy purer soul to mine; "Till—oh, too blissful—I became, "Like thee, all spirit, all divine!

"Say, why did dream so blest come o'er me, "If, now I wake, 'tis faded, gone? "When will my Cherub shine before me "Thus radiant, as in heaven he shone?

"When shall I, waking, be allowed "To gaze upon those perfect charms, "And clasp thee once without a cloud, "A chill of earth, within these arms?

"Oh what a pride to say, this, this "Is my own Angel—all divine, "And pure and dazzling as he is "And fresh from heaven—he's mine, he's mine!

"Thinkest thou, were LILIS in thy place, "A creature of yon lofty skies, "She would have hid one single grace, "One glory from her lover's eyes?

"No, no—then, if thou lovest like me, "Shine out, young Spirit in the blaze "Of thy most proud divinity, "Nor think thou'lt wound this mortal gaze.

"Too long and oft I've looked upon "Those ardent eyes, intense even thus— "Too near the stars themselves have gone, "To fear aught grand or luminous.

"Then doubt me not—oh! who can say "But that this dream may yet come true "And my blest spirit drink thy ray, "Till it becomes all heavenly too?

"Let me this once but feel the flame "Of those spread wings, the very pride "Will change my nature, and this frame "By the mere touch be deified!"

Thus spoke the maid, as one not used To be by earth or heaven refused— As one who knew her influence o'er All creatures, whatsoe'er they were, And tho' to heaven she could not soar, At least would bring down heaven to her.

Little did she, alas! or I— Even I, whose soul, but halfway yet Immerged in sin's obscurity Was as the earth whereon we lie, O'er half whose disk the sun is set— Little did we foresee the fate, The dreadful—how can it be told? Such pain, such anguish to relate Is o'er again to feel, behold! But, charged as 'tis, my heart must speak Its sorrow out or it will break! Some dark misgivings had, I own, Past for a moment thro' my breast— Fears of some danger, vague, unknown, To one, or both—something unblest To happen from this proud request.

But soon these boding fancies fled; Nor saw I aught that could forbid My full revealment save the dread Of that first dazzle, when, unhid, Such light should burst upon a lid Ne'er tried in heaven;—and even this glare She might, by love's own nursing care, Be, like young eagles, taught to bear. For well I knew, the lustre shed From cherub wings, when proudliest spread, Was in its nature lambent, pure, And innocent as is the light The glow-worm hangs out to allure Her mate to her green bower at night. Oft had I in the mid-air swept Thro' clouds in which the lightning slept, As in its lair, ready to spring, Yet waked it not—tho' from my wing A thousand sparks fell glittering! Oft too when round me from above The feathered snow in all its whiteness, Fell like the moultings of heaven's Dove,[15]— So harmless, tho' so full of brightness, Was my brow's wreath that it would shake From off its flowers each downy flake As delicate, unmelted, fair, And cool as they had lighted there.

Nay even with LILIS—had I not Around her sleep all radiant beamed, Hung o'er her slumbers nor forgot To kiss her eyelids as she dreamed? And yet at morn from that repose, Had she not waked, unscathed and bright, As doth the pure, unconscious rose Tho' by the fire-fly kist all night?

Thus having—as, alas! deceived By my sin's blindness, I believed— No cause for dread and those dark eyes Now fixt upon me eagerly As tho' the unlocking of the skies Then waited but a sign from me— How could I pause? how even let fall A word; a whisper that could stir In her proud heart a doubt that all I brought from heaven belonged to her? Slow from her side I rose, while she Arose too, mutely, tremblingly, But not with fear—all hope, and pride, She waited for the awful boon, Like priestesses at eventide Watching the rise of the full moon Whose light, when once its orb hath shone, 'Twill madden them to look upon!

Of all my glories, the bright crown Which when I last from heaven came down Was left behind me in yon star That shines from out those clouds afar— Where, relic sad, 'tis treasured yet, The downfallen angel's coronet!— Of all my glories, this alone Was wanting:—but the illumined brow, The sun-bright locks, the eyes that now Had love's spell added to their own, And poured a light till then unknown;— The unfolded wings that in their play Shed sparkles bright as ALLA'S throne; All I could bring of heaven's array, Of that rich panoply of charms A Cherub moves in, on the day Of his best pomp, I now put on; And, proud that in her eyes I shone Thus glorious, glided to her arms; Which still (tho', at a sight so splendid, Her dazzled brow had instantly Sunk on her breast), were wide extended To clasp the form she durst not see![16] Great Heaven! how could thy vengeance light So bitterly on one so bright? How could the hand that gave such charms, Blast them again in love's own arms? Scarce had I touched her shrinking frame, When—oh most horrible!—I felt That every spark of that pure flame— Pure, while among the stars I dwelt— Was now by my transgression turned Into gross, earthly fire, which burned, Burned all it touched as fast as eye Could follow the fierce, ravening flashes; Till there—oh God, I still ask why Such doom was hers?—I saw her lie Blackening within my arms to ashes! That brow, a glory but to see— Those lips whose touch was what the first Fresh cup of immortality Is to a new-made angel's thirst!

Those clasping arms, within whose round— My heart's horizon—the whole bound Of its hope, prospect, heaven was found! Which, even in this dread moment, fond As when they first were round me cast, Loosed not in death the fatal bond, But, burning, held me to the last! All, all, that, but that morn, had seemed As if Love's self there breathed and beamed, Now parched and black before me lay, Withering in agony away; And mine, oh misery! mine the flame From which this desolation came;— I, the curst spirit whose caress Had blasted all that loveliness!

'Twas maddening!—but now hear even worse— Had death, death only, been the curse I brought upon her—had the doom But ended here, when her young bloom Lay in the dust—and did the spirit No part of that fell curse inherit, 'Twere not so dreadful—but, come near— Too shocking 'tis for earth to hear— Just when her eyes in fading took Their last, keen, agonized farewell, And looked in mine with—oh, that look! Great vengeful Power, whate'er the hell Thou mayst to human souls assign, The memory of that look is mine!—

In her last struggle, on my brow Her ashy lips a kiss imprest, So withering!—I feel it now— 'Twas fire—but fire, even more unblest Than was my own, and like that flame, The angels shudder but to name, Hell's everlasting element! Deep, deep it pierced into my brain, Maddening and torturing as it went; And here, mark here, the brand, the stain It left upon my front—burnt in By that last kiss of love and sin— A brand which all the pomp and pride Of a fallen Spirit cannot hide!

But is it thus, dread Providence— Can it indeed be thus, that she Who, (but for one proud, fond offence,) Had honored heaven itself, should be Now doomed—I cannot speak it—no, Merciful ALLA! 'tis not so— Never could lips divine have said The fiat of a fate so dread. And yet, that look—so deeply fraught With more than anguish, with despair— That new, fierce fire, resembling naught In heaven or earth—this scorch I bear!— Oh—for the first time that these knees Have bent before thee since my fall, Great Power, if ever thy decrees Thou couldst for prayer like mine recall, Pardon that spirit, and on me, On me, who taught her pride to err, Shed out each drop of agony Thy burning phial keeps for her! See too where low beside me kneel Two other outcasts who, tho' gone And lost themselves, yet dare to feel And pray for that poor mortal one. Alas, too well, too well they know The pain, the penitence, the woe That Passion brings upon the best, The wisest, and the loveliest.— Oh! who is to be saved, if such Bright, erring souls are not forgiven; So loath they wander, and so much Their very wanderings lean towards heaven! Again I cry. Just Power, transfer That creature's sufferings all to me— Mine, mine the guilt, the torment be, To save one minute's pain to her, Let mine last all eternity!

He paused and to the earth bent down His throbbing head; while they who felt That agony as 'twere their own, Those angel youths, beside him knelt, And in the night's still silence there, While mournfully each wandering air Played in those plumes that never more To their lost home in heaven must soar, Breathed inwardly the voiceless prayer, Unheard by all but Mercy's ear— And which if Mercy did not hear, Oh, God would not be what this bright And glorious universe of His, This world of beauty, goodness, light And endless love proclaims He is!

Not long they knelt, when from a wood That crowned that airy solitude, They heard a low, uncertain sound, As from a lute, that just had found Some happy theme and murmured round The new-born fancy, with fond tone, Scarce thinking aught so sweet its own! Till soon a voice, that matched as well That gentle instrument, as suits The sea-air to an ocean-shell, (So kin its spirit to the lute's), Tremblingly followed the soft strain, Interpreting its joy, its pain, And lending the light wings of words To many a thought that else had lain Unfledged and mute among the chords.

All started at the sound—but chief The third young Angel in whose face, Tho' faded like the others, grief Had left a gentler, holier trace; As if, even yet, thro' pain and ill, Hope had not fled him—as if still Her precious pearl in sorrow's cup Unmelted at the bottom lay, To shine again, when, all drunk up, The bitterness should pass away. Chiefly did he, tho' in his eyes There shone more pleasure than surprise, Turn to the wood from whence that sound Of solitary sweetness broke; Then, listening, look delighted round To his bright peers, while thus it spoke:— "Come, pray with me, my seraph love, "My angel-lord, come pray with me: "In vain to-night my lips hath strove "To send one holy prayer above— "The knee may bend, the lip may move, "But pray I cannot, without thee! "I've fed the altar in my bower "With droppings from the incense tree; "I've sheltered it from wind and shower, "But dim it burns the livelong hour, "As if, like me, it had no power "Of life or lustre without thee!

"A boat at midnight sent alone "To drift upon the moonless sea, "A lute, whose leading chord is gone, "A wounded bird that hath but one "Imperfect wing to soar upon, "Are like what I am without thee!

"Then ne'er, my spirit-love, divide, "In life or death, thyself from me; "But when again in sunny pride "Thou walk'st thro' Eden, let me glide, "A prostrate shadow, by thy side— "Oh happier thus than without thee!"

The song had ceased when from the wood Which sweeping down that airy height, Reached the lone spot whereon they stood— There suddenly shone out a light From a clear lamp, which, as it blazed Across the brow of one, who raised Its flame aloft (as if to throw The light upon that group below), Displayed two eyes sparkling between The dusky leaves, such as are seen By fancy only, in those faces, That haunt a poet's walk at even, Looking from out their leafy places Upon his dreams of love and heaven. 'Twas but a moment—the blush brought O'er all her features at the thought Of being seen thus, late, alone, By any but the eyes she sought, Had scarcely for an instant shore Thro' the dark leaves when she was gone— Gone, like a meteor that o'erhead Suddenly shines, and, ere we've said, "Behold, how beautiful!"—'tis fled, Yet ere she went the words, "I come, "I come, my NAMA," reached her ear, In that kind voice, familiar, dear, Which tells of confidence, of home,— Of habit, that hath drawn hearts near, Till they grow one,—of faith sincere, And all that Love most loves to hear; A music breathing of the past, The present and the time to be, Where Hope and Memory to the last Lengthen out life's true harmony!

Nor long did he whom call so kind Summoned away remain behind: Nor did there need much time to tell What they—alas! more fallen than he From happiness and heaven—knew well, His gentler love's short history!

Thus did it run—not as he told The tale himself, but as 'tis graved Upon the tablets that, of old, By SETH[17] were from the deluge saved, All written over with sublime And saddening legends of the unblest But glorious Spirits of that time, And this young Angel's 'mong the rest.

THIRD ANGEL'S STORY.

Among the Spirits, of pure flame, That in the eternal heavens abide— Circles of light that from the same Unclouded centre sweeping wide, Carry its beams on every side— Like spheres of air that waft around The undulations of rich sound—

Till the far-circling radiance be Diffused into infinity! First and immediate near the Throne Of ALLA, as if most his own, The Seraphs stand[18] this burning sign Traced on their banner, "Love Divine!" Their rank, their honors, far above Even those to high-browed Cherubs given, Tho' knowing all;—so much doth Love Transcend all Knowledge, even in heaven!

'Mong these was ZARAPH once—and none E'er felt affection's holy fire, Or yearned towards the Eternal One, With half such longing, deep desire. Love was to his impassioned soul Not as with others a mere part Of its existence, but the whole— The very life-breath of his heart!

Oft, when from ALLA'S lifted brow A lustre came, too bright to bear, And all the seraph ranks would bow, To shade their dazzled sight nor dare To look upon the effulgence there— This Spirit's eyes would court the blaze (Such pride he in adoring took),

And rather lose in that one gaze The power of looking than not look! Then too when angel voices sung The mercy of their God and strung Their harps to hail with welcome sweet That moment, watched for by all eyes, When some repentant sinner's feet First touched the threshold of the skies, Oh! then how clearly did the voice Of ZARAPH above all rejoice! Love was in every buoyant tone— Such love as only could belong To the blest angels and alone Could, even from angels, bring such song! Alas! that it should e'er have been In heaven as 'tis too often here, Where nothing fond or bright is seen, But it hath pain and peril near;— Where right and wrong so close resemble, That what we take for virtue's thrill Is often the first downward tremble Of the heart's balance unto ill; Where Love hath not a shrine so pure, So holy, but the serpent, Sin, In moments, even the most secure, Beneath his altar may glide in!

So was it with that Angel—such The charm, that sloped his fall along, From good to ill, from loving much, Too easy lapse, to loving wrong.— Even so that amorous Spirit, bound By beauty's spell where'er 'twas found, From the bright things above the moon Down to earth's beaming eyes descended, Till love for the Creator soon In passion for the creature ended.

'Twas first at twilight, on the shore Of the smooth sea, he heard the lute And voice of her he loved steal o'er The silver waters that lay mute, As loath, by even a breath, to stay The pilgrimage of that sweet lay; Whose echoes still went on and on, Till lost among the light that shone Far off beyond the ocean's brim— There where the rich cascade of day Had o'er the horizon's golden rim, Into Elysium rolled away! Of God she sung and of the mild Attendant Mercy that beside His awful throne for ever smiled, Ready with her white hand to guide His bolts of vengeance to their prey— That she might quench them on the way! Of Peace—of that Atoning Love, Upon whose star, shining above This twilight world of hope and fear, The weeping eyes of Faith are fixt So fond that with her every tear The light of that love-star is mixt!— All this she sung, and such a soul Of piety was in that song That the charmed Angel as it stole Tenderly to his ear, along Those lulling waters where he lay, Watching the daylight's dying ray, Thought 'twas a voice from out the wave, An echo, that some sea-nymph gave To Eden's distant harmony, Heard faint and sweet beneath the sea!

Quickly, however, to its source, Tracking that music's melting course, He saw upon the golden sands Of the sea-shore a maiden stand, Before whose feet the expiring waves Flung their last offering with a sigh— As, in the East, exhausted slaves Lay down the far-brought gift and die— And while her lute hung by her hushed As if unequal to the tide Of song that from her lips still gushed, She raised, like one beatified, Those eyes whose light seemed rather given To be adored than to adore— Such eyes as may have lookt from heaven But ne'er were raised to it before!

Oh Love, Religion, Music—all That's left of Eden upon earth— The only blessings, since the fall Of our weak souls, that still recall A trace of their high, glorious birth— How kindred are the dreams you bring! How Love tho' unto earth so prone, Delights to take Religion's wing, When time or grief hath stained his own! How near to Love's beguiling brink Too oft entranced Religion lies! While Music, Music is the link They both still hold by to the skies, The language of their native sphere Which they had else forgotten here.

How then could ZARAPH fail to feel That moment's witcheries?—one, so fair, Breathing out music, that might steal Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer That seraphs might be proud to share! Oh, he did feel it, all too well— With warmth, that far too dearly cost— Nor knew he, when at last he fell, To which attraction, to which spell, Love, Music, or Devotion, most His soul in that sweet hour was lost.

Sweet was the hour, tho' dearly won, And pure, as aught of earth could be, For then first did the glorious sun Before religion's altar see Two hearts in wedlock's golden tie Self-pledged, in love to live and die. Blest union! by that Angel wove, And worthy from such hands to come; Safe, sole, asylum, in which Love, When fallen or exiled from above, In this dark world can find a home.

And, tho' the Spirit had transgrest, Had, from his station 'mong the blest Won down by woman's smile, allow'd Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er The mirror of his heart, and cloud God's image there so bright before— Yet never did that Power look down On error with a brow so mild; Never did Justice wear a frown, Thro' which so gently Mercy smiled.

For humble was their love—with awe And trembling like some treasure kept, That was not theirs by holy law— Whose beauty with remorse they saw And o'er whose preciousness they wept. Humility, that low, sweet root, From which all heavenly virtues shoot, Was in the hearts of both—but most In NAMA'S heart, by whom alone Those charms, for which a heaven was lost. Seemed all unvalued and unknown; And when her Seraph's eyes she caught, And hid hers glowing on his breast, Even bliss was humbled by the thought— "What claim have I to be so blest"? Still less could maid, so meek, have nurst Desire of knowledge—that vain thirst, With which the sex hath all been curst From luckless EVE to her who near The Tabernacle stole to hear The secrets of the Angels: no— To love as her own Seraph loved, With Faith, the same thro' bliss and woe— Faith that were even its light removed, Could like the dial fixt remain And wait till it shone out again;— With Patience that tho' often bowed By the rude storm can rise anew; And Hope that even from Evil's cloud See sunny Good half breaking thro'! This deep, relying Love, worth more In heaven than all a Cherub's lore— This Faith more sure than aught beside Was the sole joy, ambition, pride Of her fond heart—the unreasoning scope Of all its views, above, below— So true she felt it that to hope, To trust, is happier than to know. And thus in humbleness they trod, Abasht but pure before their God; Nor e'er did earth behold a sight So meekly beautiful as they, When with the altar's holy light Full on their brows they knelt to pray, Hand within hand and side by side, Two links of love awhile untied From the great chain above, but fast Holding together to the last!— Two fallen Splendors from that tree[19] Which buds with such eternally, Shaken to earth yet keeping all Their light and freshness in the fall.

Their only punishment, (as wrong, However sweet, must bear its brand.) Their only doom was this—that, long As the green earth and ocean stand, They both shall wander here—the same, Throughout all time, in heart and frame— Still looking to that goal sublime, Whose light remote but sure they see; Pilgrims of Love whose way is Time, Whose home is in Eternity! Subject the while to all the strife True Love encounters in this life— The wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain; The chill that turns his warmest sighs To earthly vapor ere they rise; The doubt he feeds on and the pain That in his very sweetness lies:— Still worse, the illusions that betray His footsteps to their shining brink; That tempt him on his desert way Thro' the bleak world, to bend and drink, Where nothing meets his lips, alas!— But he again must sighing pass On to that far-off home of peace, In which alone his thirst will cease.

All this they bear but not the less Have moments rich in happiness— Blest meetings, after many a day Of widowhood past far away, When the loved face again is seen Close, close, with not a tear between— Confidings frank, without control, Poured mutually from soul to soul; As free from any fear or doubt As is that light from chill or strain The sun into the stars sheds out To be by them shed back again!— That happy minglement of hearts, Where, changed as chymic compounds are, Each with its own existence parts To find a new one, happier far! Such are their joys—and crowning all That blessed hope of the bright hour, When, happy and no more to fall, Their spirits shall with freshened power Rise up rewarded for their trust In Him from whom all goodness springs, And shaking off earth's soiling dust From their emancipated wings, Wander for ever thro' those skies Of radiance where Love never dies!

In what lone region of the earth, These Pilgrims now may roam or dwell, God and the Angels who look forth To watch their steps, alone can tell. But should we in our wanderings Meet a young pair whose beauty wants But the adornment of bright wings To look like heaven's inhabitants— Who shine where'er they tread and yet Are humble in their earthly lot, As is the way-side violet, That shines unseen, and were it not For its sweet breath would be forgot Whose hearts in every thought are one, Whose voices utter the same wills— Answering, as Echo doth some tone Of fairy music 'mong the hills, So like itself we seek in vain Which is the echo, which the strain— Whose piety is love, whose love Tho' close as 'twere their souls' embrace. Is not of earth but from above— Like two fair mirrors face to face, Whose light from one to the other thrown, Is heaven's reflection, not their own— Should we e'er meet with aught so pure, So perfect here, we may be sure 'Tis ZARAPH and his bride we see; And call young lovers round to view The pilgrim pair as they pursue Their pathway towards eternity.

[1] "To which will be joined the sound of the bells hanging on the trees, which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the Throne, so often as the Blessed wish for music."—See Sale's Koran, Prelim. Dissert.

[2] The ancient Persians supposed that this Throne was placed in the Sun, and that through the stars were distributed the various classes of Angels that encircled it. The Basilidians supposed that there were three hundred and sixty-five orders of angels.

[3] It appears that, in most languages, the term employed for an angel means also a messenger.

[4] The name given by the Mahometans to the infernal regions, over which, they say, the angel Tabliek presides.

[5] The Kerubilna, as the Mussulmans call them, are often joined indiscriminately with the Asrafil or Seraphim, under one common name of Azazil, by which all spirits who approach near the throne of Alla are designated.

[6] A belief that the stars are either spirits or the vehicles of spirits, was common to all the religions and heresies of the East. Kircher has given the names and stations of the seven archangels, who were by the Cabala of the Jews distributed through the planets.

[7] According to the cosmogony of the ancient Persians, there were four stars set as sentinels in the four quarters of the heavens, to watch over the other fixed stars, and superintend the planets in their course. The names of these four Sentinel stars are, according to the Boundesh, Taschter, for the east; Satevis, for the west; Venand, for the south; and Haftorang. for the north.

[8] Chavah, or, as it is Arabic, Havah (the name by which Adam called the woman after their transgression), means "Life".

[9] Called by the Mussulmans Al Araf—a sort of wall or partition which, according to the 7th chapter of the Koran, separates hell from paradise, and where they, who have not merits sufficient to gain them immediate admittance into heaven, are supposed to stand for a certain period, alternately tantalized and tormented by the sights that are on either side presented to them.

[10] I am aware that this happy saying of Lord Albemarle's loses much of its grace and playfulness, by being put into the mouth of any but a human lover.

[11] According to Whitehurst's theory, the mention of rainbows by an antediluvian angel is an anachronism; as he says, "There was no rain before the flood, and consequently no rainbow, which accounts for the novelty of this sight after the Deluge."

[12] In acknowledging the authority of the great Prophets who had preceded him, Mahomet represented his own mission as the final "Seal," or consummation of them all.

[13] The Zodiacal Light.

[14] Pococke, however, gives it as the opinion of the Mahometan doctors, that all souls, not only of men and of animals, living either on land or in the sea, but of angels also, must necessarily taste of death.

[15] The Dove, or pigeon which attended Mahomet as his Familiar, and was frequently seen to whisper into his ear, was, if I recollect right, one of that select number of animals [including also the ant of Solomon, the dog of the Seven Sleepers, etc.] which were thought by the Prophet worthy of admission into Paradise.

[16] "Mohammed [says Sale], though a prophet, was not able to bear the sight of Gabriel, when he appeared in his proper form, much less would others be able to support it."

[17] Seth is a favorite personage among the Orientals, and acts a conspicuous part in many of their most extravagant romances. The Syrians pretended to have a Testament of this Patriarch in their possession, in which was explained the whole theology of angels, their different orders, etc. The Curds, too (as Hyde mentions in his Appendix), have a book, which contains all the rites of their religion, and which they call Sohuph Sheit, or the Book of Seth.

[18] The Seraphim, or Spirits of Divine Love.

[19] An allusion to the Sephiroths or Splendors of the Jewish Cabala, represented as a tree, of which God is the crown or summit.



RHYMES ON THE ROAD.

EXTRACTED FROM THE JOURNAL OF A TRAVELLING MEMBER OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY,

1819.

The greater part of the following Rhymes were written or composed in an old caleche for the purpose of beguiling the ennui of solitary travelling; and as verses made by a gentleman in his sleep, have been lately called "a psychological curiosity," it is to be hoped that verses, composed by a gentleman to keep himself awake, may be honored with some appellation equally Greek.



RHYMES ON THE ROAD



INTRODUCTORY RHYMES.

Different Attitudes in which Authors compose.—Bayes, Henry Stevens, Herodotus, etc.—Writing in Bed—in the Fields.—Plato and Sir Richard Blackmore.—Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs.—Madame de Stael.—Rhyming on the Road, in an old Caleche.

What various attitudes and ways And tricks we authors have in writing! While some write sitting, some like BAYES Usually stand while they're inditing, Poets there are who wear the floor out, Measuring a line at every stride; While some like HENRY STEPHENS pour out Rhymes by the dozen while they ride. HERODOTUS wrote most in bed; And RICHERAND, a French physician, Declares the clock-work of the head Goes best in that reclined position. If you consult MONTAIGNE and PLINY on The subject, 'tis their joint opinion That Thought its richest harvest yields Abroad among the woods and fields, That bards who deal in small retail At home may at their counters stop; But that the grove, the hill, the vale, Are Poesy's true wholesale shop. And verily I think they're right— For many a time on summer eves, Just at that closing hour of light, When, like an Eastern Prince, who leaves For distant war his Haram bowers, The Sun bids farewell to the flowers, Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing Mid all the glory of his going!— Even I have felt, beneath those beams, When wandering thro' the fields alone, Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams, Which, far too bright to be my own, Seemed lent me by the Sunny Power That was abroad at that still hour.

If thus I've felt, how must they feel, The few whom genuine Genius warms, Upon whose soul he stamps his seal, Graven with Beauty's countless forms;— The few upon this earth, who seem Born to give truth to PLATO'S dream, Since in their thoughts, as in a glass, Shadows of heavenly things appear. Reflections of bright shapes that pass Thro' other worlds, above our sphere! But this reminds me I digress;— For PLATO, too, produced, 'tis said, (As one indeed might almost guess), His glorious visions all in bed.[1] 'Twas in his carriage the sublime Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE used to rhyme; And (if the wits don't do him wrong) Twixt death and epics past his time,[2] Scribbling and killing all day long— Like Phoebus in his car, at ease, Now warbling forth a lofty song, Now murdering the young Niobes.

There was a hero 'mong the Danes, Who wrote, we're told, mid all the pains And horrors of exenteration, Nine charming odes, which, if you'll look, You'll find preserved with a translation By BARTHOLINOS in his book. In short 'twere endless to recite The various modes in which men write. Some wits are only in the mind. When beaus and belles are round them prating; Some when they dress for dinner find Their muse and valet both in waiting And manage at the self-same time To adjust a neckcloth and a rhyme.

Some bards there are who cannot scribble Without a glove to tear or nibble Or a small twig to whisk about— As if the hidden founts of Fancy, Like wells of old, were thus found out By mystic trick of rhabdomancy. Such was the little feathery wand,[3] That, held for ever in the hand Of her who won and wore the crown[4] Of female genius in this age, Seemed the conductor that drew down Those words of lightning to her page.

As for myself—to come, at last, To the odd way in which I write— Having employ'd these few months past Chiefly in travelling, day and night, I've got into the easy mode Of rhyming thus along the road— Making a way-bill of my pages, Counting my stanzas by my stages— 'Twixt lays and re-lays no time lost— In short, in two words, writing post.

[1] The only authority I know for imputing this practice to Plato and Herodotus, is a Latin poem by M. de Valois on his Bed, in which he says:—

Lucifer Herodotum vidit Vesperque cubantem, desedit totos heic Plato saepe dies.

[2] Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, as well as a bad poet.

[3] Made of paper, twisted up like a fan or feather.

[4] Madame de Stael.



EXTRACT I.

Geneva.

View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura.[1]—Anxious to reach it before the Sun went down.—Obliged to proceed on Foot.—Alps.—Mont Blanc.—Effect of the Scene.

'Twas late—the sun had almost shone His last and best when I ran on Anxious to reach that splendid view Before the daybeams quite withdrew And feeling as all feel on first Approaching scenes where, they are told, Such glories on their eyes will burst As youthful bards in dreams behold.

'Twas distant yet and as I ran Full often was my wistful gaze Turned to the sun who now began To call in all his out-posts rays, And form a denser march of light, Such as beseems a hero's flight. Oh, how I wisht for JOSHUA'S power, To stay the brightness of that hour? But no—the sun still less became, Diminisht to a speck as splendid And small as were those tongues of flame, That on the Apostles' heads descended!

'Twas at this instant—while there glowed This last, intensest gleam of light— Suddenly thro' the opening road The valley burst upon my sight! That glorious valley with its Lake And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling, Mighty and pure and fit to make The ramparts of a Godhead's dwelling.

I stood entranced—as Rabbins say This whole assembled, gazing world Will stand, upon that awful day, When the Ark's Light aloft unfurled Among the opening clouds shall shine, Divinity's own radiant sign!

Mighty MONT BLANC, thou wert to me That minute, with thy brow in heaven, As sure a sign of Deity As e'er to mortal gaze was given. Nor ever, were I destined yet To live my life twice o'er again, Can I the deep-felt awe forget, The dream, the trance that rapt me then!

'Twas all that consciousness of power And life, beyond this mortal hour;— Those mountings of the soul within At thoughts of Heaven—as birds begin By instinct in the cage to rise, When near their time for change of skies;— That proud assurance of our claim To rank among the Sons of Light, Mingled with shame—oh bitter shame!— At having riskt that splendid right, For aught that earth thro' all its range Of glories offers in exchange! 'Twas all this, at that instant brought Like breaking sunshine o'er my thought— 'Twas all this, kindled to a glow Of sacred zeal which could it shine Thus purely ever man might grow, Even upon earth a thing divine, And be once more the creature made To walk unstained the Elysian shade!

No, never shall I lose the trace Of what I've felt in this bright place. And should my spirit's hope grow weak, Should I, oh God! e'er doubt thy power, This mighty scene again I'll seek, At the same calm and glowing hour, And here at the sublimest shrine That Nature ever reared to Thee Rekindle all that hope divine And feel my immortality!

[1] Between Vattay and Gex.



EXTRACT II.

Geneva.

FATE OF GENEVA IN THE YEAR 1782.

A FRAGMENT.

Yes—if there yet live some of those, Who, when this small Republic rose, Quick as a startled hive of bees, Against her leaguering enemies—[1] When, as the Royal Satrap shook His well-known fetters at her gates, Even wives and mothers armed and took Their stations by their sons and mates; And on these walls there stood—yet, no, Shame to the traitors—would have stood As firm a band as e'er let flow At Freedom's base their sacred blood; If those yet live, who on that night When all were watching, girt for fight, Stole like the creeping of a pest From rank to rank, from breast to breast, Filling the weak, the old with fears, Turning the heroine's zeal to tears,— Betraying Honor to that brink, Where, one step more, and he must sink— And quenching hopes which tho' the last, Like meteors on a drowning mast, Would yet have led to death more bright, Than life e'er lookt, in all its light! Till soon, too soon, distrust, alarms Throughout the embattled thousands ran, And the high spirit, late in arms, The zeal that might have workt such charms, Fell like a broken talisman— Their gates, that they had sworn should be The gates of Death, that very dawn, Gave passage widely, bloodlessly, To the proud foe—nor sword was drawn, Nor even one martyred body cast To stain their footsteps, as they past; But of the many sworn at night To do or die, some fled the sight, Some stood to look with sullen frown, While some in impotent despair Broke their bright armor and lay down, Weeping, upon the fragments there!— If those, I say, who brought that shame, That blast upon GENEVA'S name Be living still—tho' crime so dark Shall hang up, fixt and unforgiven, In History's page, the eternal mark For Scorn to pierce—so help me, Heaven, I wish the traitorous slaves no worse, No deeper, deadlier disaster From all earth's ills no fouler curse Than to have *********** their master!

[1] In the year 1782, when the forces of Berne, Sardinia, and France laid siege to Geneva, and when, after a demonstration of heroism and self-devotion, which promised to rival the feats of their ancestors in 1602 against Savoy, the Genevans, either panic-struck or betrayed, to the surprise of all Europe, opened their gates to the besiegers, and submitted without a struggle to the extinction of their liberties—See an account of this Revolution in Coxe's Switzerland.



EXTRACT III.

Geneva.

Fancy and Truth—Hippomenes and Atalanta. Mont Blanc.—Clouds.

Even here in this region of wonders I find That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind; Or at least like Hippomenes turns her astray By the golden illusions he flings in her way.

What a glory it seemed the first evening I gazed! MONT BLANC like a vision then suddenly raised On the wreck of the sunset—and all his array Of high-towering Alps, touched still with a light Far holier, purer than that of the Day, As if nearness to Heaven had made them so bright! Then the dying at last of these splendors away From peak after peak, till they left but a ray, One roseate ray, that, too precious to fly, O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung, Like the last sunny step of ASTRAEA, when high, From the summit of earth to Elysium she sprung! And those infinite Alps stretching out from the sight Till they mingled with Heaven, now shorn of their light, Stood lofty and lifeless and pale in the sky, Like the ghosts of a Giant Creation gone by!

That scene—I have viewed it this evening again, By the same brilliant light that hung over it then— The valley, the lake in their tenderest charms— MONT BLANC in his awfullest pomp—and the whole A bright picture of Beauty, reclined in the arms Of Sublimity, bridegroom elect of her soul! But where are the mountains that round me at first One dazzling horizon of miracles burst? Those Alps beyond Alps, without end swelling on Like the waves of eternity—where are they gone? Clouds—clouds—they were nothing but clouds, after all![1] That chain of MONT BLANC'S, which my fancy flew o'er, With a wonder that naught on this earth can recall, Were but clouds of the evening and now are no more.

What a picture of Life's young illusions! Oh, Night, Drop thy curtain at once and hide all from my sight.

[1] It is often very difficult to distinguish between clouds and Alps; and on the evening when I first saw this magnificent scene, the clouds were so disposed along the whole horizon, as to deceive me into an idea of the stupendous extent of these mountains, which my subsequent observation was very far, of course, from confirming.



EXTRACT IV.

Milan.

The Picture Gallery.—Albano's Rape of Proserpine.—Reflections.— Universal Salvation.—Abraham sending away Agar, by Guercino.—Genius.

Went to the Brera—saw a Dance of Loves By smooth ALBANO! him whose pencil teems With Cupids numerous as in summer groves The leaflets are or motes in summer beams.

'Tis for the theft of Enna's flower from earth, These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath— Those that are nearest linkt in order bright, Cheek after cheek, like rose-buds in a wreath; And those more distant showing from beneath The others' wings their little eyes of light. While see! among the clouds, their eldest brother But just flown up tells with a smile of bliss This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss!

Well might the Loves rejoice—and well did they Who wove these fables picture in their weaving That blessed truth, (which in a darker day ORIGEN lost his saintship for believing,[1])— That Love, eternal Love, whose fadeless ray Nor time nor death nor sin can overcast, Even to the depths of hell will find his way, And soothe and heal and triumph there at last! GUERCINO'S Agar—where the bondmaid hears From Abram's lips that he and she must part, And looks at him with eyes all full of tears That seem the very last drops from her heart. Exquisite picture!—let me not be told Of minor faults, of coloring tame and cold— If thus to conjure up a face so fair,[2] So full of sorrow; with the story there Of all that woman suffers when the stay Her trusting heart hath leaned on falls away— If thus to touch the bosom's tenderest spring, By calling into life such eyes as bring Back to our sad remembrance some of those We've smiled and wept with in their joys and woes, Thus filling them with tears, like tears we've known, Till all the pictured grief becomes our own— If this be deemed the victory of Art— If thus by pen or pencil to lay bare The deep, fresh, living fountains of the heart Before all eyes be Genius—it is there!

[1] The extension of the Divine Love ultimately even to the regions of the damned.

[2] It is probable that this fine head is a portrait, as we find it repeated in a picture by Guercino, which is in the possession of Signor Carnuccini, the brother of the celebrated painter at Rome.



EXTRACT V.

Padua.

Fancy and Reality.—Rain-drops and Lakes.—Plan of a Story.—Where to place the Scene of it.—In some unknown Region.—Psalmanazar's Imposture with respect to the Island of Formosa.

The more I've viewed this world the more I've found, That, filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare. Fancy commands within her own bright round A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. Nor is it that her power can call up there A single charm, that's not from Nature won, No more than rainbows in their pride can wear A single hue unborrowed from the sun— But 'tis the mental medium it shines thro' That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue; As the same light that o'er the level lake One dull monotony of lustre flings, Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make Colors as gay as those on Peris' wings!

And such, I deem, the difference between real, Existing Beauty and that form ideal Which she assumes when seen by poets' eyes, Like sunshine in the drop—with all those dyes Which Fancy's variegating prism supples.

I have a story of two lovers, filled With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness, And the sad, doubtful bliss that ever thrilled Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness. But where to choose the region of my vision In this wide, vulgar world—what real spot Can be found out sufficiently Elysian For two such perfect lovers I know not. Oh for some fair FORMOSA, such as he, The young Jew fabled of, in the Indian Sea, By nothing but its name of Beauty known, And which Queen Fancy might make all her own, Her fairy kingdom—take its people, lands, And tenements into her own bright hands, And make at least one earthly corner fit For Love to live in, pure and exquisite!



EXTRACT VI.

Venice.

The Fall of Venice not to be lamented—Former Glory.—Expedition against Constantinople.—Giustinianis.—Republic.—Characteristics of the old Government.—Golden Book.—Brazen Mouths.—Spies.—Dungeons.—Present Desolation.

Mourn not for VENICE—let her rest In ruin, 'mong those States unblest, Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride, Where'er they trampled, Freedom died. No—let us keep our tears for them, Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been Not from a blood-stained diadem, Like that which deckt this ocean-queen, But from high daring in the cause Of human Rights—the only good And blessed strife, in which man draws His mighty sword on land or flood.

Mourn not for VENICE; tho' her fall Be awful, as if Ocean's wave Swept o'er her, she deserves it all, And Justice triumphs o'er her grave. Thus perish every King and State That run the guilty race she ran, Strong but in ill and only great By outrage against God and man!

True, her high spirit is at rest, And all those days of glory gone, When the world's waters, east and west, Beneath her white-winged commerce shone; When with her countless barks she went To meet the Orient Empire's might.[1] And her Giustinianis sent Their hundred heroes to that fight.

Vanisht are all her pomps, 'tis true, But mourn them not—for vanisht too (Thanks to that Power, who soon or late, Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,) Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud, The chains, the rapine, and the blood, That filled each spot, at home, abroad, Where the Republic's standard stood. Desolate VENICE! when I track Thy haughty course thro' centuries back; Thy ruthless power, obeyed but curst— The stern machinery of thy State, Which hatred would, like steam, have burst, Had stronger fear not chilled even hate;— Thy perfidy, still worse than aught Thy own unblushing SARPI[2] taught;— Thy friendship which, o'er all beneath Its shadow, rained down dews of death;[3]— Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold, Closed against humble Virtue's name, But opened wide for slaves who sold Their native land to thee and shame;[4]— Thy all-pervading host of spies Watching o'er every glance and breath, Till men lookt in each others' eyes, To read their chance of life or death;— Thy laws that made a mart of blood, And legalized the assassin's knife;[5]— Thy sunless cells beneath the flood, And racks and Leads that burnt out life;—

When I review all this and see The doom that now hath fallen on thee; Thy nobles, towering once so proud, Themselves beneath the yoke now bowed,— A yoke by no one grace redeemed, Such as of old around thee beamed, But mean and base as e'er yet galled Earth's tyrants when themselves enthralled,— I feel the moral vengeance sweet. And smiling o'er the wreck repeat:— "Thus perish every King and State "That tread the steps which VENICE trod, "Strong but in ill and only great, "By outrage against man and God!"

[1] Under the Doge Michaeli, in 1171.

[2] The celebrated Fra Paolo. The collections of Maxims which this bold monk drew up at the request of the Venetian Government, for the guidance of the Secret Inquisition of State, are so atrocious as to seem rather an over-charged satire upon despotism, than a system of policy, seriously inculcated, and but too readily and constantly pursued.

[3] Conduct of Venice towards her allies and dependencies, particularly to unfortunate Padua.

[4] Among those admitted to the honor of being inscribed in the Libro d'oro were some families of Brescia, Treviso, and other places, whose only claim to that distinction was the zeal with which they prostrated themselves and their country at the feet of the republic.

[5] By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition, not only was assassination recognized as a regular mode of punishment, but this secret power over life was delegated to their minions at a distance, with nearly as much facility as a licence is given under the game laws of England. The only restriction seems to have been the necessity of applying for a new certificate, after every individual exercise of the power.



EXTRACT VII.

Venice.

Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.—Reflections, when about to read them.

Let me a moment—ere with fear and hope Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope— As one in fairy tale to whom the key Of some enchanter's secret halls is given, Doubts while he enters slowly, tremblingly, If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven— Let me a moment think what thousands live O'er the wide earth this instant who would give, Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow Over these precious leaves, as I do now.

How all who know—and where is he unknown? To what far region have his songs not flown, Like PSAPHON'S birds[1] speaking their master's name, In every language syllabled by Fame?— How all who've felt the various spells combined Within the circle of that mastermind,— Like spells derived from many a star and met Together in some wondrous amulet,— Would burn to know when first the Light awoke In his young soul,—and if the gleams that broke From that Aurora of his genius, raised Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blazed; Would love to trace the unfolding of that power, Which had grown ampler, grander, every hour; And feel in watching o'er his first advance As did the Egyptian traveller[2] when he stood By the young Nile and fathomed with his lance The first small fountains of that mighty flood.

They too who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell In his rich fancy, tingeing all its streams,— As if the Star of Bitterness which fell On earth of old,[3] had touched them with its beams,— Can track a spirit which tho' driven to hate, From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate; And which even now, struck as it is with blight, Comes out at times in love's own native light;— How gladly all who've watched these struggling rays Of a bright, ruined spirit thro' his lays, Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips, What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven That noble nature into cold eclipse; Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven. And born not only to surprise but cheer With warmth and lustre all within its sphere, Is now so quenched that of its grandeur lasts Naught but the wide, cold shadow which it casts.

Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change Of scene and clime—the adventures bold and strange— The griefs—the frailties but too frankly told— The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold, If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks His virtues as his failings, we shall find The record there of friendships held like rocks, And enmities like sun-touched snow resigned; Of fealty, cherisht without change or chill, In those who served him, young, and serve him still; Of generous aid given, with that noiseless art Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart; Of acts—but, no—not from himself must aught Of the bright features of his life be sought.

While they who court the world, like Milton's cloud, "Turn forth their silver lining" on the crowd, This gifted Being wraps himself in night; And keeping all that softens and adorns And gilds his social nature hid from sight, Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.

[1] Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let them fly away in various directions; whence the proverb, "Psaphonis aves."

[2] Bruce.

[3] "And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third part of the waters became wormwood."—Rev. viii.



EXTRACT VIII.

Venice.

Female Beauty at Venice.—No longer what it was in the time of Titian.— His mistress.—Various Forms in which he has painted her.—Venus.—Divine and profane Love.—La Fragilita d'Amore—Paul Veronese.—His Women.— Marriage of Cana.—Character of Italian Beauty.—Raphael's Fornarina.— Modesty.

Thy brave, thy learned have passed away: Thy beautiful!—ah, where are they? The forms, the faces that once shone, Models of grace, in Titian's eye, Where are they now, while flowers live on In ruined places, why, oh! why Must Beauty thus with Glory die? That maid whose lips would still have moved, Could art have breathed a spirit through them; Whose varying charms her artist loved More fondly every time he drew them, (So oft beneath his touch they past, Each semblance fairer than the last); Wearing each shape that Fancy's range Offers to Love—yet still the one Fair idol seen thro' every change, Like facets of some orient stone,— In each the same bright image shown. Sometimes a Venus, unarrayed But in her beauty[1]—sometimes deckt In costly raiment, as a maid That kings might for a throne select.[2] Now high and proud, like one who thought The world should at her feet be brought; Now with a look reproachful sad,[3]— Unwonted look from brow so glad,— And telling of a pain too deep For tongue to speak or eyes to weep. Sometimes thro' allegory's veil, In double semblance seemed to shine, Telling a strange and mystic tale Of Love Profane and Love Divine[4]— Akin in features, but in heart As far as earth and heaven apart. Or else (by quaint device to prove The frailty of all worldly love) Holding a globe of glass as thin As air-blown bubbles in her hand, With a young Love confined therein, Whose wings seem waiting to expand— And telling by her anxious eyes That if that frail orb break he flies.[5]

Thou too with touch magnificent, PAUL of VERONA!—where are they? The oriental forms[6] that lent Thy canvas such a bright array? Noble and gorgeous dames whose dress Seems part of their own loveliness; Like the sun's drapery which at eve The floating clouds around him weave Of light they from himself receive! Where is there now the living face Like those that in thy nuptial throng[7] By their superb, voluptuous grace, Make us forget the time, the place, The holy guests they smile among,— Till in that feast of heaven-sent wine We see no miracles but thine.

If e'er, except in Painting's dream, There bloomed such beauty here, 'tis gone,— Gone like the face that in the stream Of Ocean for an instant shone, When Venus at that mirror gave A last look ere she left the wave. And tho', among the crowded ways, We oft are startled by the blaze Of eyes that pass with fitful light. Like fire-flies on the wing at night[8] 'Tis not that nobler beauty given To show how angels look in heaven. Even in its shape most pure and fair, 'Tis Beauty with but half her zone, All that can warm the sense is there, But the Soul's deeper charm has flown:— 'Tis RAPHAEL's Fornarina,—warm, Luxuriant, arch, but unrefined; A flower round which the noontide swarm Of young Desires may buzz and wind, But where true Love no treasure meets Worth hoarding in his hive of sweets.

Ah no,—for this and for the hue Upon the rounded cheek, which tells How fresh within the heart this dew Of love's unrifled sweetness dwells, We must go back to our own Isles, Where Modesty, which here but gives A rare and transient grace to smiles, In the heart's holy centre lives; And thence as from her throne diffuses O'er thoughts and looks so bland a reign, That not a thought or feeling loses Its freshness in that gentle chain.

[1] In the Tribune at Florence.

[2] In the Palazzo Pitti.

[3] Alludes particularly to the portrait of her in the Sciarra collection at Rome, where the look of mournful reproach in those full, shadowy eyes, as if she had been unjustly accused of something wrong, is exquisite.

[4] The fine picture in the Palazzo Borghese, called (it is not easy to say why) "Sacred and Profane Love," in which the two figures, sitting on the edge of the fountain, are evidently portraits of the same person.

[5] This fanciful allegory is the subject of a picture by Titian in the possession of the Marquis Cambian at Turin, whose collection, though small, contains some beautiful specimens of all the great masters.

[6] As Paul Veronese gave but little into the beau ideal, his women may be regarded as pretty close imitations of the living models which Venice afforded in his time.

[7] The Marriage of Cana.

[8] "Certain it is [as Arthur Young truly and feelingly says] one now and then meets with terrible eyes in Italy."



EXTRACT IX.

Venice.

The English to be met with everywhere.—Alps and Threadneedle Street.—The Simplon and the Stocks.—Rage for travelling.—Blue Stockings among the Wahabees.—Parasols and Pyramids.—Mrs. Hopkins and the Wall of China.

And is there then no earthly place, Where we can rest in dream Elysian, Without some curst, round English face, Popping up near to break the vision? Mid northern lakes, mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doomed to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Apennines Are sacred from Threadneedle Street!

If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As—"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear— "The funds—(phew I curse this ugly hill)— "Are lowering fast—(what, higher still?)— "And—(zooks, we're mounting up to heaven!)— "Will soon be down to sixty-seven."

Go where we may—rest where we will. Eternal London haunts us still. The trash of Almack's or Fleet Ditch— And scarce a pin's head difference which— Mixes, tho' even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon! And if this rage for travelling lasts, If Cockneys of all sects and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, Will leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands; If Blues desert their coteries, To show off 'mong the Wahabees; If neither sex nor age controls, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies with pink parasols To glide among the Pyramids—

Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that's free from London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some Blue "at home" Among the Blacks of Carolina— Or flying to the Eastward see Some Mrs. HOPKINS taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China!



EXTRACT X.

Mantua.

Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest Of every fair and brilliant throng; No wit like thine to wake the jest, No voice like thine to breathe the song. And none could guess, so gay thou art, That thou and I are far apart. Alas, alas! how different flows, With thee and me the time away! Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows— Still if thou canst, be light and gay; I only know that without thee The sun himself is dark for me.

Do I put on the jewels rare Thou'st always loved to see me wear? Do I perfume the locks that thou So oft hast braided o'er my brow, Thus deckt thro' festive crowds to run, And all the assembled world to see,— All but the one, the absent one, Worth more than present worlds to me! No, nothing cheers this widowed heart— My only joy from thee apart, From thee thyself, is sitting hours And days before thy pictured form— That dream of thee, which Raphael's powers Have made with all but life-breath warm! And as I smile to it, and say The words I speak to thee in play, I fancy from their silent frame, Those eyes and lips give back the same: And still I gaze, and still they keep Smiling thus on me—till I weep! Our little boy too knows it well, For there I lead him every day And teach his lisping lips to tell The name of one that's far away. Forgive me, love, but thus alone My time is cheered while thou art gone.



EXTRACT XI.

Florence.

No—'tis not the region where Love's to be found— They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove, They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound, When she warbled her best—but they've nothing like Love.

Nor is't that pure sentiment only they want, Which Heaven for the mild and the tranquil hath made— Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant Which sweetens seclusion and smiles in the shade;

That feeling which, after long years have gone by, Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth, Where, even tho' the flush of the colors may fly, The features still live in their first smiling truth;

That union where all that in Woman is kind, With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers, Grow wreathed into one—like the column, combined Of the strength of the shaft and the capital's flowers.

Of this—bear ye witness, ye wives, everywhere, By the ARNO, the PO, by all ITALY'S streams— Of this heart-wedded love, so delicious to share, Not a husband hath even one glimpse in his dreams.

But it is not this only;—born full of the light Of a sun from whose fount the luxuriant festoons Of these beautiful valleys drink lustre so bright That beside him our suns of the north are but moons,—

We might fancy at least, like their climate they burned; And that Love tho' unused in this region of spring To be thus to a tame Household Deity turned, Would yet be all soul when abroad on the wing.

And there may be, there are those explosions of heart Which burst when the senses have first caught the flame; Such fits of the blood as those climates impart, Where Love is a sun-stroke that maddens the frame.

But that Passion which springs in the depth of the soul; Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source Of some small mountain rivulet destined to roll As a torrent ere long, losing peace in its course—

A course to which Modesty's struggle but lends A more headlong descent without chance of recall; But which Modesty even to the last edge attends, And then throws a halo of tears round its fall!

This exquisite Passion—ay, exquisite, even Mid the ruin its madness too often hath made, As it keeps even then a bright trace of the heaven, That heaven of Virtue from which it has strayed—

This entireness of love which can only be found, Where Woman like something that's holy, watched over, And fenced from her childhood with purity round, Comes body and soul fresh as Spring to a lover!

Where not an eye answers, where not a hand presses, Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move; And the Senses asleep in their sacred recesses Can only be reached thro' the temple of Love!—

This perfection of Passion-how can it be found, Where the mystery Nature hath hung round the tie By which souls are together attracted and bound, Is laid open for ever to heart, ear and eye;—

Where naught of that innocent doubt can exist, That ignorance even than knowledge more bright, Which circles the young like the morn's sunny mist, And curtains them round in their own native light;—

Where Experience leaves nothing for Love to reveal, Or for Fancy in visions to gleam o'er the thought: But the truths which alone we would die to conceal From the maiden's young heart are the only ones taught.

No, no, 'tis not here, howsoever we sigh, Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray, Or adore, like Sabaeans, each light of Love's sky, Here is not the region to fix or to stray.

For faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross, Without honor to guard, to reserve, to restrain, What have they a husband can mourn as a loss? What have they a lover can prize as a gain?



EXTRACT XII.

Florence.

Music in Italy.—Disappointed by it.—Recollections or other Times and Friends.—Dalton.—Sir John Stevenson.—His Daughter.—Musical Evenings together.

If it be true that Music reigns, Supreme, in ITALY'S soft shades, 'Tis like that Harmony so famous, Among the spheres, which He of SAMOS Declared had such transcendent merit That not a soul on earth could hear it; For, far as I have come—from Lakes, Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks, Thro' MILAN and that land which gave The Hero of the rainbow vest[1]— By MINCIO'S banks, and by that wave, Which made VERONA'S bard so blest— Places that (like the Attic shore, Which rung back music when the sea Struck on its marge) should be all o'er Thrilling alive with melody— I've heard no music—not a note Of such sweet native airs as float In my own land among the throng And speak our nation's soul for song.

Nay, even in higher walks, where Art Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part, And richer if not sweeter makes The flowers she from the wild-hedge takes— Even there, no voice hath charmed my ear, No taste hath won my perfect praise, Like thine, dear friend[2]—long, truly dear— Thine, and thy loved OLIVIA'S lays. She, always beautiful, and growing Still more so every note she sings— Like an inspired young Sibyl,[3] glowing With her own bright imaginings! And thou, most worthy to be tied In music to her, as in love, Breathing that language by her side, All other language far above, Eloquent Song—whose tones and words In every heart find answering chords!

How happy once the hours we past, Singing or listening all daylong, Till Time itself seemed changed at last To music, and we lived in song! Turning the leaves of HAYDN o'er, As quick beneath her master hand They opened all their brilliant store, Like chambers, touched by fairy wand; Or o'er the page of MOZART bending, Now by his airy warblings cheered, Now in his mournful Requiem blending Voices thro' which the heart was heard. And still, to lead our evening choir, Was He invoked, thy loved-one's Sire[4]— He who if aught of grace there be In the wild notes I write or sing, First smoothed their links of harmony, And lent them charms they did not bring;— He, of the gentlest, simplest heart, With whom, employed in his sweet art, (That art which gives this world of ours A notion how they speak in heaven.) I've past more bright and charmed hours Than all earth's wisdom could have given. Oh happy days, oh early friends, How Life since then hath lost its flowers! But yet—tho' Time some foliage rends, The stem, the Friendship, still is ours; And long may it endure, as green And fresh as it hath always been!

How I have wandered from my theme! But where is he, that could return To such cold subjects from a dream, Thro' which these best of feelings burn?— Not all the works of Science, Art, Or Genius in this world are worth One genuine sigh that from the heart Friendship or Love draws freshly forth.

[1] Bermago—the birthplace, it is said, of Harlequin.

[2] Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Stevenson's daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort.

[3] Such as those of Domenichino in the Palazza Borghese, at the Capitol, etc.

[4] Sir John Stevenson.



EXTRACT XIII.

Rome.

Reflections on reading Du Cerceau's Account of the Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1347.—The Meeting of the Conspirators on the Night of the 19th of May.—Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.—Rienzi's Speech.

'Twas a proud moment—even to hear the words Of Truth and Freedom mid these temples breathed, And see once more the Forum shine with swords In the Republic's sacred name unsheathed— That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day For his dear ROME, must to a Roman be, Short as it was, worth ages past away In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery.

'Twas on a night of May, beneath that moon Which had thro' many an age seen Time untune The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell— The sound of the church clock near ADRIAN'S Tomb Summoned the warriors who had risen for ROME, To meet unarmed,—with none to watch them there, But God's own eye,—and pass the night in prayer. Holy beginning of a holy cause, When heroes girt for Freedom's combat pause Before high Heaven, and humble in their might Call down its blessing on that coming fight.

At dawn, in arms went forth the patriot band; And as the breeze, fresh from the TIBER, fanned Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see The palm-tree there, the sword, the keys of Heaven— Types of the justice, peace and liberty, That were to bless them when their chains were riven. On to the Capitol the pageant moved, While many a Shade of other times, that still Around that grave of grandeur sighing roved, Hung o'er their footsteps up the Sacred Hill And heard its mournful echoes as the last High-minded heirs of the Republic past. 'Twas then that thou, their Tribune,[1] (name which brought Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,) Didst, with a spirit Rome in vain shall seek To wake up in her sons again, thus speak:— "ROMANS, look round you—on this sacred place "There once stood shrines and gods and godlike men. "What see you now? what solitary trace "Is left of all that made ROME'S glory then? "The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft "Even of its name—and nothing now remains "But the deep memory of that glory, left "To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains! "But shall this be?—our sun and sky the same,— "Treading the very soil our fathers trod,— "What withering curse hath fallen on soul and frame, "What visitation hath there come from God "To blast our strength and rot us into slaves, "Here on our great forefathers' glorious graves? "It cannot be—rise up, ye Mighty Dead,— "If we, the living, are too weak to crush "These tyrant priests that o'er your empire tread, "Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush!

"Happy, PALMYRA, in thy desert domes "Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss; "And thou whose pillars are but silent homes "For the stork's brood, superb PERSEPOLIS! "Thrice happy both, that your extinguisht race "Have left no embers—no half-living trace— "No slaves to crawl around the once proud spot, "Till past renown in present shame's forgot. "While ROME, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks, "If lone and lifeless thro' a desert hurled, "Would wear more true magnificence than decks "The assembled thrones of all the existing world— "ROME, ROME alone, is haunted, stained and curst, "Thro' every spot her princely TIBER laves, "By living human things—the deadliest, worst, "This earth engenders—tyrants and their slaves! "And we—oh shame!—we who have pondered o'er "The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay;[2] "Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore, "Tracking our country's glories all the way— "Even we have tamely, basely kist the ground "Before that Papal Power,—that Ghost of Her, "The World's Imperial Mistress—sitting crowned "And ghastly on her mouldering sepulchre![3] "But this is past:—too long have lordly priests "And priestly lords led us, with all our pride "Withering about us—like devoted beasts, "Dragged to the shrine, with faded garlands tied. "'Tis o'er—the dawn of our deliverance breaks! "Up from his sleep of centuries awakes "The Genius of the Old Republic, free "As first he stood, in chainless majesty, "And sends his voice thro' ages yet to come, "Proclaiming ROME, ROME, ROME, Eternal ROME!"

[1] Rienzi.

[2] The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning "Spirto gentil," is supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have been addressed to Rienzi; but there is much more evidence of its having been written, as Ginguene asserts, to the young Stephen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome.

[3] This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words are, as near as I can recollect:—"For what is the Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman Empire, sitting crowned on the grave thereof?"



EXTRACT XIV.

Rome.

Fragment of a Dream.—The great Painters supposed to be Magicians.—The Beginnings of the Art.—Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.— Improvements under Giotto, etc.—The first Dawn of the true Style in Masaccio.—Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.—Leonardo da Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.—His Knowledge of Mathematics and of Music.—His female heads all like each other.— Triangular Faces.—Portraits of Mona Lisa, etc.—Picture of Vanity and Modesty.—His chef-d'oeuvre, the Last Supper.—Faded and almost effaced.

Filled with the wonders I had seen In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls, I felt the veil of sleep serene Come o'er the memory of each scene, As twilight o'er the landscape falls. Nor was it slumber, sound and deep, But such as suits a poet's rest— That sort of thin, transparent sleep, Thro' which his day-dreams shine the best. Methought upon a plain I stood, Where certain wondrous men, 'twas said, With strange, miraculous power endued, Were coming each in turn to shed His art's illusions o'er the sight And call up miracles of light. The sky above this lonely place, Was of that cold, uncertain hue, The canvas wears ere, warmed apace, Its bright creation dawns to view.

But soon a glimmer from the east Proclaimed the first enchantments nigh;[1] And as the feeble light increased, Strange figures moved across the sky, With golden glories deckt and streaks Of gold among their garments' dyes;[2] And life's resemblance tinged their cheeks, But naught of life was in their eyes;— Like the fresh-painted Dead one meets, Borne slow along Rome's mournful streets.

But soon these figures past away; And forms succeeded to their place With less of gold in their array, But shining with more natural grace, And all could see the charming wands Had past into more gifted hands. Among these visions there was one,[3] Surpassing fair, on which the sun, That instant risen, a beam let fall, Which thro' the dusky twilight trembled. And reached at length the spot where all Those great magicians stood assembled. And as they turned their heads to view The shining lustre, I could trace The bright varieties it threw On each uplifted studying face:[4] While many a voice with loud acclaim Called forth, "Masaccio" as the name Of him, the Enchanter, who had raised This miracle on which all gazed.

'Twas daylight now—the sun had risen From out the dungeon of old Night.— Like the Apostle from his prison Led by the Angel's hand of light; And—as the fetters, when that ray Of glory reached them, dropt away.[5] So fled the clouds at touch of day! Just then a bearded sage came forth,[6] Who oft in thoughtful dream would stand, To trace upon the dusky earth Strange learned figures with his wand; And oft he took the silver lute His little page behind him bore, And waked such music as, when mute, Left in the soul a thirst for more!

Meanwhile his potent spells went on, And forms and faces that from out A depth of shadow mildly shone Were in the soft air seen about. Tho' thick as midnight stars they beamed, Yet all like living sisters seemed, So close in every point resembling Each other's beauties—from the eyes Lucid as if thro' crystal trembling, Yet soft as if suffused with sighs, To the long, fawn-like mouth, and chin, Lovelily tapering, less and less, Till by this very charm's excess, Like virtue on the verge of sin, It touched the bounds of ugliness. Here lookt as when they lived the shades Of some of Arno's dark-eyed maids— Such maids as should alone live on In dreams thus when their charms are gone: Some Mona Lisa on whose eyes A painter for whole years might gaze,[7] Nor find in all his pallet's dyes One that could even approach their blaze! Here float two spirit shapes,[8] the one, With her white fingers to the sun Outspread as if to ask his ray Whether it e'er had chanced to play On lilies half so fair as they! This self-pleased nymph was Vanity— And by her side another smiled, In form as beautiful as she, But with that air subdued and mild, That still reserve of purity, Which is to beauty like the haze Of evening to some sunny view, Softening such charms as it displays And veiling others in that hue, Which fancy only can see thro'! This phantom nymph, who could she be, But the bright Spirit, Modesty?

Long did the learned enchanter stay To weave his spells and still there past, As in the lantern's shifting play Group after group in close array, Each fairer, grander, than the last. But the great triumph of his power Was yet to come:—gradual and slow, (As all that is ordained to tower Among the works of man must grow,) The sacred vision stole to view, In that half light, half shadow shown, Which gives to even the gayest hue A sobered, melancholy tone. It was a vision of that last,[9] Sorrowful night which Jesus past With his disciples when he said Mournfully to them—"I shall be "Betrayed by one who here hath fed "This night at the same board with me." And tho' the Saviour in the dream Spoke not these words, we saw them beam Legibly in his eyes (so well The great magician workt his spell), And read in every thoughtful line Imprinted on that brow divine.

The meek, the tender nature, grieved, Not angered to be thus deceived— Celestial love requited ill For all its care, yet loving still— Deep, deep regret that there should fall From man's deceit so foul a blight Upon that parting hour—and all His Spirit must have felt that night. Who, soon to die for human-kind, Thought only, mid his mortal pain, How many a soul was left behind For whom he died that death in vain!

Such was the heavenly scene—alas! That scene so bright so soon should pass But pictured on the humid air, Its tints, ere long, grew languid there;[10] And storms came on, that, cold and rough, Scattered its gentlest glories all— As when the baffling winds blow off The hues that hang o'er Terni's fall,— Till one by one the vision's beams Faded away and soon it fled. To join those other vanisht dreams That now flit palely 'mong the dead,— The shadows of those shades that go. Around Oblivion's lake below!

[1] The paintings of those artists who were introduced into Venice and Florence from Greece.

[2] Margaritone of Orezzo, who was a pupil and imitator of the Greeks, is said to have invented this art of gilding the ornaments of pictures, a practice which, though it gave way to a purer taste at the beginning of the 16th century, was still occasionally used by many of the great masters: as by Raphael in the ornaments of the Fornarina, and by Rubens not unfrequently in glories and flames.

[3] The works of Masaccio.—For the character of this powerful and original genius, see Sir Joshua Reynolds's twelfth discourse. His celebrated frescoes are in the church of St. Pietro del Carmine, at Florence.

[4] All the great artists studies, and many of them borrowed from Masaccio. Several figures in the Cartoons of Raphael are taken, with but little alteration, from his frescoes.

[5] "And a light shined in the prison ... and his chains fell off from his hands."—Acts.

[6] Leonardo da Vinci.

[7] He is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of this fair Florentine, without being able, after all, to come up to his idea of her beauty.

[8] Vanity and Modesty in the collection of Cardinal Fesch, at Rome. The composition of the four hands here is rather awkward, but the picture, altogether, is very delightful. There is a repetition of the subject in the possession of Lucien Bonaparte.

[9] The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, which is in the Refectory of the Convent delle Grazie at Milan.

[10] Leonardo appears to have used a mixture of oil and varnish for this picture, which alone, without the various other causes of its ruin, would have prevented any long duration of its beauties. It is now almost entirely effaced.



EXTRACT XV.

Rome.

Mary Magdalen.—Her Story.—Numerous Pictures of her.—Correggio—Guido —Raphael, etc.—Canova's two exquisite Statues.—The Somariva Magdalen. —Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works.

No wonder, MARY, that thy story Touches all hearts—for there we see thee. The soul's corruption and its glory, Its death and life combine in thee.

From the first moment when we find Thy spirit haunted by a swarm Of dark desires,—like demons shrined Unholily in that fair form,— Till when by touch of Heaven set free, Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold (So oft the gaze of BETHANY), And covering in their precious fold Thy Saviour's feet didst shed such tears As paid, each drop, the sins of years!— Thence on thro' all thy course of love To Him, thy Heavenly Master,—Him Whose bitter death-cup from above Had yet this cordial round the brim, That woman's faith and love stood fast And fearless by Him to the last:— Till, oh! blest boon for truth like thine! Thou wert of all the chosen one, Before whose eyes that Face Divine When risen from the dead first shone; That thou might'st see how, like a cloud, Had past away its mortal shroud, And make that bright revealment known To hearts less trusting than thy own. All is affecting, cheering, grand; The kindliest record ever given, Even under God's own kindly hand, Of what repentance wins from Heaven!

No wonder, MARY, that thy face, In all its touching light of tears, Should meet us in each holy place, Where Man before his God appears, Hopeless—were he not taught to see All hope in Him who pardoned thee! No wonder that the painter's skill Should oft have triumpht in the power Of keeping thee all lovely still Even in thy sorrow's bitterest hour; That soft CORREGGIO should diffuse His melting shadows round thy form; That GUIDO'S pale, unearthly hues Should in portraying thee grow warm; That all—from the ideal, grand, Inimitable Roman hand, Down to the small, enameling touch Of smooth CARLINO—should delight In picturing her, "who loved so much," And was, in spite of sin, so bright!

But MARY, 'mong these bold essays Of Genius and of Art to raise A semblance of those weeping eyes— A vision worthy of the sphere Thy faith has earned thee in the skies, And in the hearts of all men here,— None e'er hath matched, in grief or grace, CANOVA'S day-dream of thy face, In those bright sculptured forms, more bright With true expression's breathing light, Than ever yet beneath the stroke Of chisel into life awoke. The one,[1] portraying what thou wert In thy first grief,—while yet the flower Of those young beauties was unhurt By sorrow's slow, consuming power; And mingling earth's seductive grace With heaven's subliming thoughts so well, We doubt, while gazing, in which place Such beauty was most formed to dwell!— The other, as thou look'dst, when years Of fasting, penitence and tears Had worn thy frame;—and ne'er did Art With half such speaking power express The ruin which a breaking heart Spreads by degrees o'er loveliness. Those wasting arms, that keep the trace, Even still, of all their youthful grace, That loosened hair of which thy brow Was once so proud,—neglected now!— Those features even in fading worth The freshest bloom to others given, And those sunk eyes now lost to earth But to the last still full of heaven!

Wonderful artist! praise, like mine— Tho' springing from a soul that feels Deep worship of those works divine Where Genius all his light reveals— How weak 'tis to the words that came From him, thy peer in art and fame,[2] Whom I have known, by day, by night, Hang o'er thy marble with delight; And while his lingering hand would steal O'er every grace the taper's rays[3] Give thee with all the generous zeal Such master spirits only feel, That best of fame, a rival's prize!

[1] This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression of the intensest kind is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Somariva at Paris.