The joyous woman is the mate
Of him in that forlorn estate!
He breathes a subterraneous damp;
But bright as vesper shines her lamp:
He is as mute as Jedburgh Tower;
She jocund as it was of yore,
With all its bravery on; in times,
When, all alive with merry chimes,
Upon a sun-bright morn of May,
It roused the vale to holiday.
I praise thee, Matron! and thy due
Is praise heroic praise, and true!
With admiration I behold
Thy gladness, unsubdued and bold :
Thy looks, thy gestures, all present
The picture of a life well spent:
This do I see, and something more;
A strength unthought of heretofore!
Delighted am I for thy sake,
And yet a higher joy partake.
Our human nature throws away
Its second twilight, and looks gay:
A land of promise and of pride
Unfolding, wide as life is wide.
Ah! see her helpless charge! inclosed
Within himself, as seems-composed;
To fear of loss, and hope of gain,
The strife of happiness and pain,
Utterly dead! yet, in the guise
Of little infants, when their eyes
Begin to follow to and fro
The persons that before them go,
He tracks her motions, quick or slow.
Her buoyant spirit can prevail
Where common cheerfulness would fail.
She strikes upon him with the heat
Of July suns; he feels it sweet:
An animal delight, though dim-
"Tis all that now remains for him!
I look'd, I scann'd her o'er and o'er :
The more I look'd, I wonder'd more;
When suddenly I seem'd t' espy
A trouble in her strong black eye;
A remnant of uneasy light,
A flash of something over bright!
And soon she made this matter plain,
And told me, in a thoughtful strain,
That she had borne a heavy yoke,
Been stricken by a twofold stroke;
Ill-health of body, and had pined
Beneath worse ailments of the mind.
So be it!-but let praise ascend
To Him who is our Lord and Friend!
Who from disease and suffering
Hath call'd for thee a second spring;
Repaid thee for that sore distress
By no untimely joyousness,
Which makes of thine a blissful state,
And cheers thy melancholy mate!
"gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
THOUGH narrow be that old man's
and near,
The poor old man is greater than he seems;
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;
An ample sov'reignty of eye and ear.
Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer;
The region of his inner spirit teems
With vital sounds, and monitory gleams
Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.
He the seven birds hath seen, that never part,-
Seen the "Seven Whistlers" in their nightly rounds,
And counted them; and oftentimes will start--
For overhead are sweeping "Gabriel's Hounds,"
Doom'd, with their impious lord, the flying hart
To chase for ever on aërial ground.
FOR THE SPOT WHERE THE HERMITAGE STOOD ON ST. HERBERT'S
ISLAND, DERWENTWATER.
THIS island, guarded from profane approach
By mountains high and waters widely spread,
Is that recess to which St. Herbert came
In life's decline: a self-secluded man,
After long exercise in social cares
And offices humane, intent t' adore
The Deity with undistracted mind,
And meditate on everlasting things.
-Stranger! this shapeless heap of stones and earth
(Long be its mossy covering undisturb'd!)
Is reverenced as a vestige of the abode
In which, through many seasons, from the world
Removed, and the affections of the world,
He dwelt in solitude. But he had left
A fellow-labourer, whom the good man loved
As his own soul; and when within his cave
Alone he knelt before the crucifix,
While o'er the lake the cataract of Lodore
Peal'd to his orisons, and when he paced
Along the beach of this small isle, and thought
Of his companion, he would pray that both
(Now that their earthly duties were fulfill'd) Might die in the same moment.
So pray'd he: as our chronicles report,
Though here the hermit number'd his last day,
Far from St. Cuthbert, his belovèd friend,
Those holy men both died in the same hour.
Epitaphs and Elegiac Poems.
TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA.
PERHAPS some needful service of the state
Drew Titus from the depth of studious bowers,
And doom'd him to contend in faithless courts,
Where gold determines between right and wrong.
Yet did at length his loyalty of heart,
And his pure native genius, lead him back
To wait upon the bright and gracious Muse,
Whom he had early loved. And not in vain
Such course he held ! Bologna's learned schools
Were gladden'd by the sage's voice, and hung
With fondness on these sweet Nestorian strains.
There pleasure crown'd his days, and all his thoughts
A roseate fragrance breathed. O human life,
That never art secure from dolorous change!
Behold a high injunction suddenly
To Arno's side conducts him, and he charm'd
A Tuscan audience, but full soon was call'd
To the perpetual silence of the grave.
Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood
A champion, steadfast and invincible,
To quell the rage of literary war!
O THOU who movest onward with a mind
Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste!
"Twill be no fruitless moment. I was born
Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood.
On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate
To sacred studies; and the Roman shepherd
Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous flock.
Much did I watch, much labour'd; nor had power
To escape from many strange indignities;
Was smitten by the great ones of the world,
But did not fall; for virtue braves all shocks,
Upon herself resting immovably.
Me did a kindlier fortune then invite
To serve the glorious Henry, king of France,
And in his hands I saw a high reward
Stretch'd out for my acceptance; but death came.
Now, reader, learn from this my fate, how false,
How treacherous to her promise is the world,
And trust in God, to whose eternal doom
Must bend the sceptred potentates of earth.
THERE never breathed a man who when his life
Was closing, might not of that life relate
Toils long and hard. The warrior will report
Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field,
And blast of trumpets. He, who hath been doom'd
To bow his forehead in the courts of kings,
Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate,
Envy, and heart-inquietude, derived
From intricate cabals of treacherous friends.
I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth,
Could represent the countenance horrible
Of the vex'd waters, and the indignant rage
Of Auster and Boötes. Forty years
Over the well-steer'd galleys did I rule :-
From huge Pelorus to th' Atlantic pillars,
Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown;
And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft:
Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir
I knew the force; and hence the rough sea's pride
Avail'd not to my vessel's overthrow.
What noble pomp and frequent have not I
On regal decks beheld! yet in the end
I learn that one poor moment can suffice
To equalize the lofty and the low.
We sail the sea of life-a calm one finds,
And one a tempest-and, the voyage o'er,
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
If more of my condition ye would know,
Savona was my birthplace, and I sprang
Of noble parents: sixty years and three
Lived I-then yielded to a slow disease.
DESTINED to war from very infancy
Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took
In Malta the white symbol of the cross;
Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun
Hazard or toil: among the sands was seen
Of Libya; and not seldom, on the banks
Of wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot
To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded.
So lived I, and repined not at such fate:
This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong,
That stripp'd of arms I to my end am brought
On the soft down of my paternal home.
Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause
To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt
In thy appointed way, and bear in mind
How fleeting and how frail is human life.
NOT without heavy grief of heart did he,
On whom the duty fell (for at that time
The father sojourn'd in a distant land),
Deposit in the hollow of this tomb
A brother's child, most tenderly beloved!
Francesco was the name the youth had borne,
Pozzobonnelli his illustrious house;
And, when beneath this stone the corse was laid,
The eyes of all Savona stream'd with tears.
Alas! the twentieth April of his life
Had scarcely flower'd; and at this early time,
By genuine virtue he inspired a hope
That greatly cheer'd his country: to his kin
He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts
His friends had in their fondness entertain'd,*
He suffer'd not to languish or decay.
Now is there not good reason to break forth
Into a passionate lament?-Oh soul !
Short while a pilgrim in our nether world,
Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air;
And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,
An everlasting spring! in memory
Of that delightful fragrance which was once,
From thy mild manners, quietly exhaled.
PAUSE, courteous spirit !-Balbi supplicates
That thou, with no reluctant voice, for him
Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer
A prayer to the Redeemer of the world.
This to the dead by sacred right belongs;
All else is nothing. Did occasion suit
In justice to the author, I subjoin the original :
Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri."
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