remind us of this my attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one could experience, without thinking better of his species and of himself.

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various periods, the countries of chivalry, history, and fable - Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and Italy ; and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, Venice and Rome have been more recently. The poem also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me from first to last ; and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency on a composition which in some degree connects me with the spot where it was produced, and the objects it would fain describe ; and however unworthy it may be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate impressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, and of feeling for what is glorious, it has been to me a source of pleasure in the production, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I hardly suspected that events could have left me for imaginary objects.

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the preceding, and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author speaking in his own person.

The fact is, that I had become weary of drawing a line which

every one seemed determined not to perceive : like the Chinese in Goldsmith's “ Citizen of the World,” whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, and imagined that I had drawn, a distinction between the author and the pilgrim; and the very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disappointment at finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, that I determined to abandon it altogether and have done so. The opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that subject, are now a matter of indifference; the work is to depend on itself, and not on the writer; and the author, who has no resources in his own mind beyond the reputation, transient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary efforts, deserves the fate of authors.

In the course of the following canto it was my intention, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of external objects, and the consequent reflections; and for the whole of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these were necessarily limited to the elucidation of the text.

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert upon the literature and manners of a nation so dissimilar ; and requires

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an attentio. ind impartiality which would induce us — though perhaps no inuttentive observers, nor ignorant of the language or custoins of the people amongst whom we have recently abode to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, and more narrowly examine our information. The state of literary, as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run, so high, that for a stranger to steer impartially between them is next to impossible. It may be enough, then, at least for my purpose, to quote from their own beautiful language - “ Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la più nobile ed insieme la più dolce, tutte tutte la vie diverse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto l' antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima.” Italy has great names still — Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, Morelli Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, will secure to the present generation an honourable place in most of the departments of Art, Science, and Belles Lettres ; and in some the very highest; — Europe — the World has but one Canova.

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that “ La pianta uomo nasce più robusta in Italia che in qualunque altra terra – gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono ne sono una prova.” Without subscribing to the latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doctrine, the truth of which may be disputed on better grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than their neighbours, that man must be wilfully blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of beauty, and, amidst all the disadvantages of repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair of ages, their still unquenched " longing after immortality," — the immortality of independence. And when we ourselves, in riding round the walls of Rome, heard the simple lament of the labourers' chorus, “ Roma! Roma ! Roma! Roma non è più come era prima," it was difficult not to

ontrast this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the better days of our history. For me,

“ Non movero mai corda

Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to enquire, till it becomes ascertained


that England has acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; it is enough for them to look at home. For what they have done abroad, and especially in the South, Verily they will have their reward,” and at no very distant period.

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable retuin to that country whose real welfare can be dearer to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in its completed state ; and repeat once more how truly I am ever,

Your obliged
And affectionate friend,






I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of sighs ; (-)
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand :
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O’er the far times, when many a subject land
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles!


She looks a sea-Cybele, fresh from ocean, (*)
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers :
And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Pourd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.

In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased.


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In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, (*)
And silent rows the songless gondolier ;

taken from a
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,

mote Allenam And music meets not always now the ear : % Those days are gone

- but beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not die : Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,

The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! (1) See“ Historical Notes” at the end of this Canto, No. I.

(2) An old writer, describing the appearance of Venice, has made use of the above image, which would not be poetical were it not true.

"Quo fit ut qui superne urbem contempletur, turritam telluris imaginem medio Oceano figuratam se putet inspicere."*

(3) See“ Historical Notes” at the end of this Canto, No. II.
* Marci Antonii Sabolli de Venetæ Urbis situ narratio, edit. Taurin. 1527, lib. ifol. 202.


But unto us she hath a spell beyond
Her name in story, and her long array
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway;
Ours is a trophy which will not decay
With the Rialto; Shylock and the Moor,
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away -

The keystones of the arch! though all were o'er For us repeopled were the solitary shore.



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The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray
And more beloved existence; that which fate
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ;

Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.


Such is the refuge of our youth and age, The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; And this worn feeling peoples many a page, And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye: Yet there are things whose strong reality Outshines our fairy-land; in shape and hues More beautiful than our fantastic sky, And the strange constellations which the Muse O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse :


FI saw or dream'd of such,

but let them go -
They came like truth, and disappear'd like dreams
And whatsoe'er they were are now but so:
I could replace them if I would ; still teems;
My mind with many a form which aptly seems
Such as I sought for, and at moments found;
Let these too go

- for waking Reason deems
Such overwoening phantasies unsound,
And other voices speak, and other sighs surround.

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