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And hill and dale are lost, veil'd with his beams,
The fair Venetian' died-she and her lord,
Died of a posset drugg'd by him who sate
And saw them suffer, flinging back the charge,
The murderer on the murder'd.

Sobs of Grief,
Sounds inarticulate-suddenly stopt,
And follow'd by a struggle and a gasp,
A gasp in death, are heard yet in Cerreto,
Along the marble halls and staircases,
Nightly at twelve; and, at the self-same hour,
Shrieks, such as penetrate the inmost soul,
Such as awake the innocent babe to long,
Long wailing, echo through the emptiness
Of that old den far up among the hills, (121)
Frowning on him who comes from Pietra-Mala:
In them, in both, within five days and less,
Two unsuspecting victims, passing fair,
Welcomed with kisses, and slain cruelly,
One with the knife, one with the fatal noose.

But lo, the Sun is setting; (122) earth and sky One blaze of glory-What but now we saw As though it were not, though it had not been! He lingers yet, and, lessening to a point, Shines like the eye of Heaven-then withdraws; And from the zenith to the utmost skirts All is celestial red! The hour is come,

When they that sail along the distant seas

Languish for home; and they that in the morn

PART II.

I.

THE PILGRIM.

It was an hour of universal joy.
The lark was up and at the gate of heaven,
Singing, as sure to enter when he came;
The butterfly was basking in my path,
His radiant wings unfolded. From below
The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively;
And odors, such as welcome in the day,
Such as salute the early traveller,

And come and go, each sweeter than the last,
Were rising. Hill and valley breathed delight;
And not a living thing but bless'd the hour!
In every bush and brake there was a voice
Responsive!

From the Thrasymene, that now
Slept in the sun, a lake of molten gold,
And from the shore that once, when armies met, (123)
Rocked to and fro unfelt, so terrible

The rage, the slaughter, I had turn'd away;
The path, that led me, leading through a wood

A fairy-wilderness of fruits and flowers,
And by a brook (124) that, in the day of strife,
Ran blood, but now runs amber-when a glade,
Far, far within, sunn'd only at noon-day,
Suddenly open'd. Many a bench was there,
Each round its ancient elm; and many a track,
Well known to them that from the highway loved
Awhile to deviate. In the midst a cross

Of mouldering stone as in a temple stood,
Solemn, severe; coeval with the trees
That round it in majestic order rose;
And on the lowest step a Pilgrim knelt,
Clasping his hands in prayer. He was the first
Yet seen by me (save in a midnight-masque,
A revel, where none cares to play his part,
And they, that speak, at once dissolve the charm)
The first in sober truth, no counterfeit ;
And, when his orisons were duly paid,
He rose, and we exchanged, as all are wont,
A traveller's greeting.

Young, and of an age
When Youth is most attractive, when a light
Plays round and round, reflected, if I err not,
From some attendant Spirit, that ere-long
(His charge relinquish'd with a sigh, a tear)
Wings his flight upward-with a look he won
My favor; and, the spell of silence broke,
I could not but continue.

"Whence,” I ask'd,

Said to sweet friends "farewell," melt as at parting;" Whence art thou ?"-"From Mont' alto," he replied,

When, journeying on, the pilgrim, if he hears,
As now we hear it, echoing round the hill,
The bell that seems to mourn the dying day,
Slackens his pace and sighs, and those he loved
Loves more than ever. But who feels it not?
And well may we, for we are far away.
Let us retire, and hail it in our hearts.

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My native village in the Apennines." “And whither journeying?""To the holy shrine Of Saint Antonio, in the City of Padua. Perhaps, if thou hast ever gone so far, Thou wilt direct my course."-" Most willingly; But thou hast much to do, much to endure, Ere thou hast enter'd where the silver lamps Burn ever. Tell me-I would not transgress, Yet ask I must-what could have brought thee forth, Nothing in act or thought to be atoned for ?"

It was a vow I made in my distress.
We were so blest, none were so blest as we,
Till Sickness came. First, as death-struck, I fell;
Then my beloved sister; and ere-long,
Worn with continual watchings, night and day,
Our saint-like mother. Worse and worse she grew;
And in my anguish, my despair, I vow'd,
That if she lived, if Heaven restored her to us,
I would forthwith, and in a Pilgrim's weeds,
Visit that holy shrine. My vow was heard;
And therefore am I come."-"Thou hast done well;
And may those weeds, so reverenced of old,
Guard thee in danger!"—

“They are nothing worth.
But they are worn in humble confidence;
Nor would I for the richest robe resign them,
Wrought, as they were, by those I love so well,
Lauretta and my sister; theirs the task,
But none to them, a pleasure, a delight,
To ply their utmost skill, and send me forth
As best became this service. Their last words,
Fare thee well, Carlo. We shall count the hours!
Will not go from me.”—

"Health and strength be thine
In thy long travel! May no sun-beam strike;
No vapor eling and wither! Mayest thou be,
Sleeping or waking, sacred and secure!
And, when again thou comest, thy labor done,
Joy be among ye! In that happy hour

All will pour forth to bid thee welcome, Carlo;
And there is one, or I am much deceived,

One thou hast named, who will not be the last."—
-Oh, she is true as Truth itself can be!

With ashes, and the sides, where roughest, hung
Loosely with locks of hair-I look'd and saw
What, seen in such an hour by Sancho Panza,
Had given his honest countenance a breadth,
His cheeks a flush of pleasure and surprise,
Unknown before, had chain'd him to the spot,
And thou, Sir Knight, hadst traversed hill and dale,
Squire-less.
Below and winding far away,

A narrow glade unfolded, such as Spring (127)
Broiders with flowers, and, when the moon is high,
The hare delights to race in, scattering round
The silvery dews. Cedar and cypress threw
Singly their length of shadow, chequering
The greensward, and, what grew in frequent tufts,
An underwood of myrtle, that by fits
Sent up a gale of fragrance. Through the midst,
Reflecting, as it ran, purple and gold,

A rainbow's splendor (somewhere in the east
Rain-drops were falling fast) a rivulet
Sported as loth to go; and on the bank
Stood (in the eyes of one, if not of both,
Worth all the rest and more) a sumpter-mule (128)
Well-laden, while two menials as in haste
Drew from his ample panniers, ranging round
Viands and fruits on many a shining salver,
And plunging in the cool translucent wave
Flasks of delicious wine.

Anon a horn
Blew, through the champaign bidding to the feast,
Its jocund note to other ears address'd,
Not ours; and, slowly coming by a path,
That, ere it issued from an ilex-grove,

But ah, thou knowest her not. Would that thou Was seen far inward, though along the glade

couldst!

My steps I quicken when I think of her;

For, though they take me further from her door,
I shall return the sooner."

II.

AN INTERVIEW.

Distinguish'd only by a fresher verdure,
Peasants approach'd, one leading in a leash
Beagles yet panting, one with various game,
In rich confusion slung, before, behind,

Leveret and quail and pheasant. All announced
The chase as over; and ere-long appear'd
Their horses full of fire, champing the curb,
For the white foam was dry upon the flank,

PLEASURE, that comes unlook'd-for, is thrice wel-Two in close converse, each in each delighting,

come;

And, if it stir the heart, if aught be there,
That may hereafter in a thoughtful hour
Wake but a sigh, 't is treasured up among
The things most precious; and the day it came,
Is noted as a white day in our lives.

The sun was wheeling westward, and the cliffs
And nodding woods, that everlastingly
(Such the dominion of thy mighty voice, (125)
Thy voice, Velino, utter'd in the mist)
Hear thee and answer thee, were left at length
For others still as noon; and on we stray'd
From wild to wilder, nothing hospitable
Seen up or down, no bush or green or dry, (126)
That ancient symbol at the cottage-door,
Offering refreshment-when Luigi cried,
•Well, of a thousand tracts we chose the best!"
And, turning round an oak, oracular once,
Now lightning-struck, a cave, a thoroughfare
For all that came, each entrance a broad arch,
Whence many a deer, rustling his velvet coat,
Had issued, many a gipsy and her brood

Their plumage waving as instinct with life;
A Lady young and graceful, and a Youth,
Yet younger, bearing on a falconer's glove,
As in the golden, the romantic time,
His falcon hooded. Like some spirit of air,
Or fairy-vision, such as feign'd of old,
The Lady, while her courser paw'd the ground,
Alighted; and her beauty, as she trod
The enamell'd bank, bruising nor herb nor flower,
That place illumined.

Ah, who should she be,
And with her brother, as when last we met,
(When the first lark had sung ere half was said,
And as she stood, bidding adieu, her voice,
So sweet it was, recall'd me like a spell)
Who but Angelica ?

That day we gave
To Pleasure, and, unconscious of their flight,
Another and another; hers a home
Dropt from the sky amid the wild and rude,
Loretto-like. The rising moon we hail'd,
Duly, devoutly, from a vestibule

Of many an arch, o'erwrought and lavishly

Peer'd forth, then housed again—the floor yet grey With many a wildering dream of sylphs and flowers,

When Raphael and his school from Florence came,
Filling the land with splendor (129)-nor less oft
Watch'd her, declining, from a silent dell,
Not silent once, what time in rivalry
Tasso, Guarini, waved their wizard-wands,
Peopling the groves from Arcady, and lo,

Their doors seal'd up and silent as the night,
The dwellings of the illustrious dead-to turn
Toward Tiber, and, beyond the City-gate,
Pour out my unpremeditated verse,
Where on his mule I might have met so oft
Horace himself (132)—or climb the Palatine,

Fair forms appear'd, murmuring melodious verse, (130) Dreaming of old Evander and his guest,
-Then, in their day, a sylvan theatre,
Mossy the seats, the stage a verdurous floor,
The scenery rock and shrub-wood, Nature's own;
Nature the Architect.

III. ROME.

I AM in Rome! Oft as the morning-ray Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry, Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me? And from within a thrilling voice replies, Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts Rush on my mind, a thousand images; And I spring up as girt to run a race!

Thou art in Rome! the City that so long
Reign'd absolute, the mistress of the world;
The mighty vision that the prophets saw,

And trembled; that from nothing, from the least,
The lowliest village (what but here and there

A reed-roof'd cabin by a river-side?)
Grew into everything; and, year by year,
Patiently, fearlessly working her way
O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea,
Not like the merchant with his merchandise,
Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring,
But hand to hand and foot to foot, through hosts,
Through nations numberless in battle-array,
Each behind each, each, when the other fell,
Up and in arms, at length subdued them all.

Thou art in Rome! the City, where the Gauls,
Entering at sun-rise through her open gates,
And, through her streets silent and desolate,
Marching to slay, thought they saw Gods, not men;
The City that, by temperance, fortitude,
And love of glory, tower'd above the clouds,
Then fell-but, falling, kept the highest scat,
And in her loneliness, her pomp of woe,
Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild,
Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age,
Her empire undiminish'd.

There, as though
Grandeur attracted Grandeur, are beheld
All things that strike, ennoble-from the depths
Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece,
Her groves, her temples-all things that inspire
Wonder, delight! Who would not say the Forms
Most perfect, most divine, had by consent
Flock'd thither to abide eternally,
Within those silent chambers where they dwell,
In happy intercourse?

And I am there!

Ah, little thought I, when in school I sate, A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn Glowing with Roman story, I should live To tread the Appian, (131) once an avenue Of monuments most glorious, palaces,

Dreaming and lost on that proud eminence,
Longwhile the seat of Rome, hereafter found
Less than enough (so monstrous was the brood
Engender'd there, so Titan-like) to lodge
One in his madness; and, the summit gain'd,
Inscribe my name on some broad aloe-leaf,
That shoots and spreads within those very walls
Where Virgil read aloud his tale divine,
Where his voice falter'd, (133) and a mother wept
Tears of delight!

But what a narrow space
Just underneath! In many a heap the ground
Heaves, as though Ruin in a frantic mood
Had done his utmost. Here and there appears,
As left to show his handy-work not ours,
An idle column, a half-buried arch,
A wall of some great temple.

It was once,

And long, the centre of their Universe, (134)
The Forum-whence a mandate, eagle-wing'd,
Went to the ends of the earth. Let us descend
Slowly. At every step much may be lost.
The very dust we tread, stirs as with life;
And not the lightest breath that sends not up
Something of human grandeur.

We are come,
Are now where once the mightiest spirits met
In terrible conflict; this, while Rome was free,
The noblest theatre on this side Heaven!

Here the first Brutus stood, when o'er the corse
Of her so chaste all mourn'd, and from his cloud
Burst like a God. Here, holding up the knife
That ran with blood, the blood of his own child,
Virginius call'd down vengeance.-But whence spoke
They who harangued the people; turning now
To the twelve tables, (135) now with lifted hands
To the Capitoline Jove, whose fulgent shape
In the unclouded azure shone far off,
And to the shepherd on the Alban mount (136)
Seem'd like a star new-risen? Where were ranged
In rough array as on their element,

The beaks of those old galleys, destined still 2
To brave the brunt of war-at last to know
A calm far worse, a silence as in death?
All spiritless; from that disastrous hour
When he, the bravest, gentlest of them all,"
Scorning the chains he could not hope to break,
Fell on his sword!

Along the Sacred Way
Hither the Triumph came, and, winding round
With acclamation, and the martial clang
Of instruments, and cars laden with spoil,
Stopt at the sacred stair that then appear'd,
Then through the darkness broke, ample, star-bright,
As though it led to heaven. "Twas night; but now
A thousand torches, turning night to day, (137)
Blazed, and the victor, springing from his seat,

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Went up, and, kneeling as in fervent prayer,
Enter'd the Capitol. But what are they,
Who at the foot withdraw, a mournful train
In fetters? And who, yet incredulous,
Now gazing wildly round, now on his sons,
On those so young, well-pleased with all they see, (138)
Staggers along, the last-They are the fallen,
Those who were spared to grace the chariot-wheels;
And there they parted, where the road divides,
The victor and the vanquish'd-there withdrew;
He to the festal-board, and they to die.

Well might the great, the mighty of the world, They who were wont to fare deliciously, And war but for a kingdom more or less, Shrink back, nor from their thrones endure to look, To think that way! Well might they in their state Humble themselves, and kneel and supplicate To be delivered from a dream like this!

Here Cincinnatus pass'd, his plow the while Left in the furrow, and how many more, Whose laurels fade not, who still walk the earth, Consuls, Dictators, still in Curule pomp Sit and decide; and, as of old in Rome, Name but their names, set every heart on fire!

Here, in his bonds, he whom the phalanx saved not,'
The last on Philip's throne; and the Numidian,2
So soon to say, stript of his cumbrous robe,
Stript to the skin, and in his nakedness
Thrust under-ground," How cold this bath of yours!"
And thy proud queen, Palmyra, through the sands
Pursued, o'ertaken on her dromedary;
Whose temples, palaces, a wondrous dream
That passes not away, for many a league
Iliumine yet the desert. Some invoked

Death, and escaped; the Egyptian, when her asp
Came from his covert under the green leaf;"
And Hannibal himself; and she who said,
Taking the fatal cup between her hands,' (139)
Tell him I would it had come yesterday;
For then it had not been his nuptial gift.”

Now all is changed; and here, as in the wild, The day is silent, dreary as the night; None stirring, save the herdsman and his herd, Savage alike; or they that would explore, Discuss and learnedly; or they that come, (And there are many who have cross'd the earth) That they may give the hours to meditation, And wander, often saying to themselves, "This was the Roman Forum!"

IV.

A FUNERAL.

Replied a soldier of the Pontiff's guard.
"And innocent as beautiful!" exclaim'd
A Matron sitting in her stall, hung round
With garlands, holy pictures, and what not?
Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs display'd
In rich profusion. From her heart she spoke;
And I accosted her to hear her story.
"The stab," she cried, " was given in jealousy;
But never fled a purer spirit to heaven,

As thou wilt say, or much my mind misleads,
When thou hast seen her face. Last night at dusk,
When on her way from vespers-None were near,
None save her serving-boy, who knelt and wept,
But what could tears avail him, when she fell-
Last night at dusk, the clock then striking nine,
Just by the fountain-that before the church,
The church she always used, St. Isidore's-
Alas, I knew her from her earliest youth,
That excellent lady. Ever would she say,
Good even, as she pass'd, and with a voice
Gentle as theirs in heaven!"-But now by fits
A dull and dismal noise assail'd the ear,
A wail, a chant, louder and louder yet;
And now a strange fantastic troop appear'd!
Thronging, they came-as from the shades below;
All of a ghostly white! "Oh say," I cried,
"Do not the living here bury the dead?
Do Spirits come and fetch them? What are these,
That seem not of this World, and mock the Day;
Each with a burning taper in his hand ?"—

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It is an ancient Brotherhood thou seest.
Such their apparel. Through the long, long line,
Look where thou wilt, no likeness of a man;
The living mask'd, the dead alone uncover'd.
But mark"-And, lying on her funeral-couch,
Like one asleep, her eye-lids closed, her hands
Folded together on her modest breast,

As 't were her nightly posture, through the crowd
She came at last-and richly, gaily clad,
As for a birth-day feast! But breathes she not?
A glow is on her cheek-and her lips move!
And now a smile is there-how heavenly sweet!
"Oh no!" replied the Dame, wiping her tears,
But with an accent less of grief than anger,

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Death, when we meet the spectre in our walks, As we did yesterday, and shall to-morrow, Soon grows familiar-like most other things, Seen, not observed; but in a foreign clime, Changing his shape to something new and strange, (And through the world he changes as in sport, Affect he greatness or humility)

Knocks at the heart. His form and fashion here
To me, I do confess, reflect a gloom,

A sadness round; yet one I would not lose;
Being in unison with all things else

"WHENCE this delay?" "Along the crowded street In this, this land of shadows, where we live

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More in past time than present, where the ground,
League beyond league, like one great cemetery.
Is cover'd o'er with mouldering monuments;
And, let the living wander where they will,
They cannot leave the footsteps of the dead.
Oft, where the burial-rite follows so fast
The agony, oft coming, nor from far,
Must a fond father meet his darling child,

(Him who at parting climb'd his knees and clung)
Clay-cold and wan, and to the bearers cry,
"Stand, I conjure ye!"

Seen thus destitute,
What are the greatest? They must speak beyond
A thousand homilies. When Raphael went,
His heavenly face the mirror of his mind,
His mind a temple for all lovely things
To flock to and inhabit-when He went,
Wrapt in his sable cloak, the cloak he wore,
To sleep beneath the venerable Dome,'
By those attended, who in life had loved,
Had worshipp'd, following in his steps to Fame,
("T was on an April-day, when Nature smiles)
All Rome was there. But, ere the march began,
Ere to receive their charge the bearers came,
Who had not sought him? And when all beheld
Him, where he lay, how changed from yesterday,
Him in that hour cut off, and at his head

His last great work; (140) when, entering in, they
look'd

Now on the dead, then on that master-piece,
Now on his face, lifeless and colorless,
Then on those forms divine that lived and breathed,
And would live on for ages-all were moved;
And sighs burst forth, and loudest lamentations.

V.

at their excesses; remembering that nations are nat urally patient and long-suffering, and seldom rise in rebellion till they are so degraded by a bad government as to be almost incapable of a good one.

"Hate them, perhaps," you may say, "we should not; but despise them we must, if enslaved, like the people of Rome, in mind as well as body; if their religion be a gross and barbarous superstition."-I respect knowledge; but I do not despise ignorance. They think only as their fathers thought, worship as they worshipped. They do no more; and, if ours had not burst their bondage, braving imprisonment and death, might not we at this very moment have been exhibiting, in our streets and our churches, the same processions, ceremonials, and mortifications!

Nor should we require from those who are in an earlier stage of society, what belongs to a later? They are only where we once were; and why hold them in derision? It is their business to cultivate the inferior arts before they think of the more refined; and in many of the last what are we as a nation, when compared to others that have passed away! Unfortunately, it is too much the practice of govern ments to nurse and keep alive in the governed their national prejudices. It withdraws their attention from what is passing at home, and makes them better tools in the hands of Ambition. Hence next-door neighhors are held up to us from our childhood as natural enemies; and we are urged on like curs to worry each other.'

NATIONAL PREJUDICES. "ANOTHER Assassination! This venerable City," I exclaimed, “what is it, but as it began, a nest of In like manner we should learn to be just to indirobbers and murderers? We must away at sun-rise, viduals. Who can say, "In such circumstances I Luigi." But before sun-rise I had reflected a little, should have done otherwise?" Who, did he but reand in the soberest prose. My indignation was gone;flect by what slow gradations, often by how many and, when Luigi undrew my curtain, crying, " Up, Signor, up! The horses are at the door."-"Luigi," I replied, "if thou lovest me, draw the curtain." a

It would lessen very much the severity with which men judge of each other, if they would but trace effects to their causes, and observe the progress of things in the moral as accurately as in the physical world. When we condemn millions in the mass as vindictive and sanguinary, we should remember that, wherever Justice is ill-administered, the injured will redress themselves. Robbery provokes to robbery ; murder to assassination. Resentments become hereditary; and what began in disorder, ends as if all Hell

had broke loose.

strange concurrences, we are led astray; with how much reluctance, how much agony, how many efforts to escape, how many self-accusations, how many sighs, how many tears-Who, did he but reflect for a moment, would have the heart to cast a stone? Fortunately, these things are known to Him, from whom no secrets are hidden; and let us rest in the assu rance that his judgments are not as ours are.

VI.

THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME.

HAVE none appear'd as tillers of the ground, (141) None since They went-as though it still were theirs, And they might come and claim their own again? Was the last plow a Roman's?

Laws create a habit of self-restraint, not only by the influence of fear, but by regulating in its exercise the From this Seat, (142) passion of revenge. If they overawe the bad by the Sacred for ages, whence, as Virgil sings, prospect of a punishment certain and well-defined, The Queen of Heaven, alighting from the sky, they console the injured by the infliction of that Look'd down and saw the armies in array, punishment; and, as the infliction is a public act, it excites and entails no enmity. The laws are offended; Can it be believed that there are many among us, who, from a deand the community, for its own sake, pursues and sire to be thought superior to commonplace sentiments and vulgar overtakes the offender; often without the concur-feelings, affect an indifference to their cause! "If the Greeks," rence of the sufferer, sometimes against his wishes. they say, "had the probity of other nations-but they are false Now those who were not born, like ourselves, to to a proverb!" And is not falsehood the characteristic of slaves? Man is the creature of circumstances. Free, he has the qualisuch advantages, we should surely rather pity than ties of a freeman; enslaved, those of a slave. hate; and, when at length they venture to turn against their rulers,' we should lament, not wonder

1 The Pantheon.

2 A dialogue, which is said to have passed many years ago at Lyons (Mem. de Grammont, 1, 3.) and which may still be heard in almost every hôtellerie at day-break.

3 As the descendants of an illustrious people have lately done.

1 Candor, generosity, how rare are they in the world; and how much is to be deplored the want of them! When a minister in our parliament consents at last to a measure, which, for many reasons perhaps existing no longer, he had before refused to adopt, there should be no exultation as over the fallen, no taunt, no jeer. How often may the resistance be continued lest an enemy should triumph, and the result of conviction be received as a symptom of fear!

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