In the following Poem the idea of the essential contrast between the Northern and the Southern mind, between Beauty as the exponent of the one and Duty as the manifestation of the other (the germ of which is sufficiently distinct in the legendary foundation), is attempted to be developed. The facts, or rather images, of the story are very much the same as may be found in the graceful version of it by Heine in the third volume of the Salon :-they are but disposed and illustrated anew.

THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY.

THIS is the record, true as his own word,
Of the adventures of a Christian knight,

Who, when beneath the foul Karasmian sword *
God's rescued city sunk to hopeless night,
Desired, before he gain'd his northern home,
To soothe his wounded heart at holy Rome.

And having found, in that reflected heaven,
More than Cæsarean splendors and delights,
So that it seemed to his young sense was given
An unimagined world of sounds and sights;-
Yet, half regretful of the long delay,

He joined some comrades on their common way.

* At the conclusion of the last crusade.

The Spring was mantling that Italian land,
The Spring! the passion-season of our earth,
The joy, whose wings will never all expand,-
The gladsome travail of continuous birth,—
The force that leaves no creature unimbued
With amorous Nature's bland inquietude.

Though those hard sons of tumult and bold life,
Little as might be, own'd the tender power,
And only show'd their words and gestures rife
With the benign excitement of the hour,-
Yet one, the one of whom this tale is told,
In his deep soul was utterly controll❜d.

New thoughts sprung up within him,-new desires
Opened their panting bosoms to the sun;
Imagination scattered lights and fires

O'er realms before impenetrably dun;
His senses, energized with wondrous might,
Mingled in lusty contest of delight.

The once-inspiring talk of steel and steeds
And famous captains lost its ancient zest ;
The free recital of illustrious deeds

Came to him vapid as a thrice-told jest ;
His fancy was of angels penance-bound
To convoy sprites of ill through heavenly ground.

The first-love vision of those azure eyes,
Twin stars that blessed and kept his spirit cool,
Down-beaming from the brazen Syrian skies,
Now seem'd the spectral doting of a fool,-
Unwelcome visitants that stood between
Him and the livelier glories of the scene.

What wanted he with such cold monitors?
What business had he with the past at all?
Well, in the pauses of those clamorous wars,
Such dull endearment might his heart enthral,
But, in this universe of blissful calm,
He had no pain to need that homely balm.

Occasion, therefore, in itself though slight
He made of moment to demand his stay,
Where some rare houses, in the clear white light,
Like flakes of snow among the verdure lay ;
And bade the company give little heed,

He would o'ertake them by redoubled speed.

But now at length resolved to satisfy
The appetite of beauty, and repair

Those torpid years which he had let glide by,
Unconscious of the powers of earth and air,
He rested, roved, and rested while he quafft
The deepest richness of the sunny draught.

Eve after eve he told his trusty band

They should advance straight northward on the morrow,

Yet when he rose, and to that living land

Addressed his farewell benison of sorrow,

With loveliest aspect Nature answer'd so,
It seem'd almost impiety to go.

Thus days were gather'd into months, and there
He linger'd, sauntering without aim or end:
Not unaccompanied; for wheresoe'er

His steps, through wood, or glen, or field, might tend,-
A bird-like voice was ever in his ear,

Divinely sweet and rapturously clear *.

From the pinaster's solemn-tented crown,—
From the fine olive spray that cuts the sky,-
From bare or flowering summit, floated down
That music unembodied to the
eye :

Sometimes beside his feet it seemed to run,
Or fainted, lark-like, in the radiant sun.

* A bird is by no means an uncommon actor in a drama of this kind. It is recorded that, at the Council of Basle, three pious doctors were wont to walk out daily and discuss points of deep theology, but that, as soon as the song of a certain nightingale reached their ears, their argument was inevitably confused; they contradicted themselves, drew false conclusions, and were occasionally very near falling into heresy. The thought struck one of them to exorcise the nightingale, and the devil flew visibly out of a bush, and left the disputants at peace. See also the beautiful story of "The Monk and Bird," in Mr Trench's poems.

D

Soon as this mystic sound attained his ear,

Barriers arose, impermeable, between

Him and the two wide worlds of hope and fear ;

His life entire was in the present scene ;

The passage of each day he only knew

By the broad shadows and the deepening blue.

His senses by such ecstasy possest,

He chanced to climb a torrent's slippery side,
And, on the utmost ridge refusing rest,
Took the first path his eager look descried;
And paused, as one outstartled from a trance,
Within a place of strange significance.

A ruin'd temple of the Pagan world,—
Pillars and pedestals with rocks confused,-
Art back into the lap of nature hurl'd,
And still most beautiful, when most abused;
A Paradise of pity, that might move
Most careless hearts, unknowingly, to love!

A very garden of luxurious weeds,

Hemlock in trees, acanthine leaves outspread,

Flowers here and there, the growth of wind-cast seeds, With vine and ivy draperies overhead;

And by the access, two nigh-sapless shells,

Old trunks of myrtle, haggard sentinels !