Fessis vomere tauris

cenza flows, and is almost absorbed in a wide sandy that have in our times attained a temporary reputa bed before it reaches the Anio. Nothing can be tion, and is very seldom to be trusted even when he more fortunate for the lines of the poet, whether in speaks of objects which he must be presumed to a metaphorical or direct sense :

have seen. His errors, from the simple exaggera

tion to the downright misstatement, are so frequent “Me quotiens refeit gelidus Digentfa rivus, Quem Mandala bibit rugosus frigore pagua."

as to induce a suspicion that he had either never

visited the spots described, or had trusted to the The stream is clear high up the valley, but before fidelity of former writers. Indeed the Classical it reaches the hill of Bardela looks green and yel- Tour has every characteristic of a mere compilalow like a sulphur rivulet.

tion of former notices, strung together upon a very Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half slender thread of personal observation, and swelled an hour's walk from the vineyard where the pave- out by those decorations which are so easily supplied ment is shown, does seem to be the site of the by a systematic adoption of all the common places fane of Vacuna, and an inscription found there tells of praise, applied to everything, and therefore sig. that this temple of the Sabine Victory was repaired nifying nothing. by Vespasian.* With these helps, and a position The style which one person thinks cloggy and corresponding exactly to everything which the poet cumbrous, and unsuitable, may be to the taste of has told us of his retreat, we may feel tolerably se- others, and such may experience some salutary excure of our site.

citement in ploughing through the periods of the The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Classical Tour. It must be said, however, that Campanile, and by following up the rivulet to the polish and weight are apt to beget an expectation of pretended Bandusia, you come to the roots of the value. It is amongst the pains of the damned to higher mountain Gennaro. Singularly enough, the toil up a climax with a huge round stone. only spot of ploughed land in the whole valley is on The tourist had the choice of his words, but there the knoll where this Bandusia rises.

was no such latitude allowed to that of his senti

ments. The love of virtue and of liberty, which ".... tu frigus amabile

must have distinguished the character, certainly

adorns the pages of Mr. Eustace, and the gentlePræbes, et pecori vago."

manly spirit, so recommendatory either in an auThe peasants show another spring near the mo- thor or his productions, is very conspicuous throughsaic pavement, which they call “Oradina," and out the Classical Tour. But these generous qualiwhich flows down the hills into a tank, or mill-dam, tics are the foliage of such a performance, and

may and then it trickles over into the Digentia.

be spread about it so prominently and profusely as But we must not hope

to embarrass those who wish to see and find the fruit

at hand. The unction of the divine, and the exhor. " To trace the Muses upwards to their spring," tations of the moralist, may have made this work

something more or better than a book of travels, by exploring the windings of the romantic valley in but they have not made it a book of travels; and search of the Bandusian fountain. It seems strange this observatiou applies more especially to that enthat any one should have thought Bandusia a foun- ticing method of instruction conveyed by the pertain of the Digentia-Horace has not let drop a petual introduction of the same Gallic Helot to reel word of it; and this immortal spring has in fact and bluster before the rising generation, and terrify, been discovered in possession of the holders of it into decency by the display of all the excesses of many good things in Italy, the monks. It was at- the revolution. An animosity against atheists and tached to the church of St. Gervais and Protais regicides in general, and Frenchmen specifically, near Venusia, where it is most likely to be found.t may be honorable, and may be useful as a record; We shall not be so lucky as a late traveller in find- but that antidote should either be administered in ing the occasional pine still pendant on the poetic any work rather than a tour, or, at least should be villa. There is not a pine in the whole valley, but served up apart, and not so mixed with the whole there are two cypresses, which he evidently took, or mass of information and reflection as to give a bitmistook, for the tree in the ode. The truth is, that terness to every page: fui who would choose to have the pine is now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a the antipathies of any man, however just, for his garden tree, and it was not at all likely to be found travelling companions ? A tourist, unless he asin the craggy acclivities of the valley of Rustica, pires to the credit of prophecy, is not answerable Horace probably had one of them in the orchard for the changes which may take place in the country close above his farm, immediately overshadowing which he describes; but his reader may very fairly his villa, not on the rocky heights at some distance esteem all his political portraits and deductions as from his abode. The tourist may have easily sup- so much waste paper, the moment they cease to asposd himself to have seen this pine figured in the sist, and more particularly if they obstruct his ac above cypresses, for the orange and lemon trees tual survey. which throw such a bloom over his description of Neither encomium nor accusation of any govem the royal gardens at Naples, unless they have been ment or governors, is meant to be here offered ; but since displaced, were assuredly only acacias and it is stated as an incontrovertible fact, that the other common garden shrubs. The extreme dis, change operated, either by the address of the late appointment experienced by choosing the Classical imperial system, or by the disappointment of every Tourist as a guide in Italy must be allowed to find expectation by those who have succeeded to the vent in a few observations, which, it is asserted Italian thrones, has been so considerable, and is so without fear of contradiction, will be confirmed apparent, as not only to put Mr. Eustace's antigalby every one who has selected the same conductor lican philippics entirely out of date, but even to through the same country. This author is in fact throw some suspicion upon the competency and canone of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory writers dor of the author himself. A remarkable example

may be found in the instance of Bolonga, over • IMP. CÆSAR VESPASIANVS

whose papal attachments, and consequent desolaPONTIFEX MAXIMVS, TRIB

tion, the tourist pours forth such strains of condoPOTEST, CENSOR, ÆDEM

lence and revenge, made louder by the borrowed VICTORIJE. VETVSTATE ILLAPSAM

trumpet of Mr. Burke. Now Bolonga is at this moSVA. IMPENSA, RESTITVIT.

ment, and has been for some years, notorious † See Historica! Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 13. 1 Bee Classical Tour, &c., chap. vii. p. 550, vol. II.

amongst the states of Italy for its attachment to "Under our wiudows, and bordering on the beach, is the royal garden, revolutionary principles, and was almost the only lald one in parterres, and walks shaded by rows of orange trees. Classical city which made any demonstrations in favor of the Tour, &exy chup. xi. Tul. l. oct. 365.

unfortunate Murat. This change may, however

have been made since Mr. Eustace visited this coun-| been suspended, no attempt would have seen made try; but the traveller whom he has thrilled with hor- to anticipate their decision. As it is, those who ror at the projected stripping of the copper from the stand in the relation of posterity to Mr. Eustace cupola of St. Peter's, must be much relieved to find may be permitted to appeal from cotemporary that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or praises, and are perhaps more likely to be just in any other plunderers, the cupola being covered with proportion as the causes of love and hatred are the lead.

farther removed. This appeal had, in some measure, If the conspiring, voice of otherwise rival critics been made before the above remarks were written; had not given considerable currency to the Classical for one of the most respectable of the Florentine Tour, it would have been unnecessary to warn the publishers, who had been persuaded by the repeated reader, that however it may adorn his library, it inquiries of those on their journey southwards to will be of little or no service to him in his carriage; reprint a cheap edition of the Classical Tour, was, and if the judgment of those critics had hitherto by the concurring advice of returning travellers, in

duced to abandon his design, although he had al

ready arranged his types and paper, and Lad struck • «Wluat, then, will be the astonishment, or rather the horror of my off one or two of the first sheets. reader, when I intor hiin burned is attention to Saint Peter's, and employed a company of Jews to Mr. Gibbon) on good terms with the Pope and the

The writer of these notes would wish to part (like the edifice, as well as the copper that covers the vaults and dome on the Cardinals, but he does not think it necessary to ex eurteile." Chap. iv. p. 130, vol. I. The story about the Jowo is positively tend the same discreet silence to their humble par

the French cornmittee


Linda Rome.




Ope fatal remembrance-one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes-
To which life nothing darker nor brighter can bring,
For which joy hath no balm, and affliction no sting.







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ADVERTISEMENT. The Tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspect than in the "olden time;" or because the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnaouts were beaten back from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful.

Fair clime! where every season smiles
Benignant o'er those blessed isles,
Which, seen from far Collona's height,
Make glad the heart that hails the sight,
And lend to loneliness delight.
There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek
Reflects the tints of many a peak
Caught by the laughing tides that lave
These Edens of the Eastern wave;
And if, at times, a transient breeze
Break the blue crystal of the seas,
Or sweep one blossom from the trees,
How welcome is each gentle air
That wakes and wafts the odors there.
For there—the rose o'er crag or vale,
Sultana of the nightingale,"

The maid for whom his melody,

His thousand songs are heard on high Blooms blushing to her lover's tale: His queen, the garden queen, his rose, Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, Far from the winters of the west, By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by Nature given, In softest incense back to heaven ; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragant sigh. And many a summer flower is there, And many a shade that love might sharo, And many a grotto, meant for rest, That holds the pirate for a guest;

THE GIAOUR. No breath of air to break the wave That rolls below the Athenian's grave, That tomb' which, gleaming o'er the cliff, First greets the homeward-veering skiff, High o'er the land he saved in vain : When shall such hero live again?

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Whose bark in sheltering cove below

Clime of the unforgotten brave! Lurks for the passing peaceful prow

Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Till the gay mariner's guitar 3

Was freedom's home or glory's grave! Is heard, and seen the evening star

Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, Then stealing with the muffled oar,

That this is all remains of thee? Far shaded by the rocky shore,

Approach, thou craven crouching slave : Rush the night-prowlers on the prey,

Say, is not this Thermopylæ ? And turn to groans his roundelay.

These waters blue that round you lave, Strange-that where Nature lov'd to trace

Oh servile offspring of the freeAs if for gods, a dwelling place,

Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? And every charm and grace hath mix'd

The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! Within the paradise she fix'd,

These scenes, their story not unknown. There man, enamor'd of distress,

Arise, and make again your own; Should mar it into wilderness,

Snatch from the ashes of your sires And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower

The embers of their former fires ; That tasks not one laborious hour;

And he who in the strife expires Nor claims the culture of his hand

Will add to theirs a name of fear To bloom along the fairy land,

That tyranny shall quake to hear, But springs as to preclude his care,

And leave his sons a hope, a fame And sweetly woos him-bo pare!

They too will rather die than shame. Strange-that where all" beside

For freedom's battle once begun, There passion riots

Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son, And lust and ray


Though baffled oft, is ever won. To darken o'er ti domain.

Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, It is as though the fiends prevail'd

Attest it many a deathless age! Against the seraphs they assail'd,

While kings, in dusty darkness hid, And, fixed on heavenly thrones, should dwell, Have left a nameless pyramid, The freed inheritors of hell;

Thy heroes, though the general doom So soft the scene, so form'd for joy,

Hath swept the column from their tomb, So curst the tyrants that destroy!

A mightier monument command,
The mountains of their native land!

There points thy muse to stranger's eye He who hath bent him o'er the dead,

The graves of those that cannot die ! Ere the first day of death is filed,

"Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, The first dark day of nothingness,

Each step from splendor to disgrace; The last of danger and distress,

Enough-no foreign foe could quell (Before decay's effacing fingers

Thy soul, till from itself it fell; Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) Yes! self-abasement paved the way And mark'd the mild angelic air,

To villain-bonds and despot sway.
The rapture of repose that's there,
The fix'd, yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,

What can he tell who treads thy shore ? And-but for that sad shrouded eye,

No legend of thine olden time, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, No theme on which the muse might soas And but for that chill, changeless brow,

High, as thine own in days of yore, Where cold obstruction's apathy

When man was worthy of thy clime; Appals the gazing mourner's heart,

The hearts within thy vallies bred, As if to him it could impart

The fiery souls that might have led The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;

Thy sons to deeds sublime, Yes, but for these, and these alone,

Now crawl from cradle to the grave, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour

Slaves-nay, the bondsmen of a slave, He still might doubt the tyrant's power ;

And callous, save to crime; So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd,

Stain'd with each evil that pollutes The first, last look by death reveal'd !

Mankind, where least above the brutes; Such is the aspect of this shore;

Without even savage virtue blest, 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!

Without one free or valiant breast. So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,

Still to the neighboring ports they waft We start, for soul is wanting there.

Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft; Hers is the loveliness in death,

In this the subtle Greek is found, That parts not quite with parting breath ;

For this, and this alone, renown'd. But beauty with that fearful bloom,

In vain might liberty invoke That hue which haunts it to the tomb,

The spirit to its bondage broke, Expression's last receding ray,

Or raise the neck that courts the yoke: A gilded halo hovering round decay,

No more her sorrows I bewail, The farewell beam of feeling past away!

Yet this will be a mournful tale, Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, And they who listen may believe, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished Who heard it first had cause to grieve.


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Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing

He stood-some dread was on his face, The shadows of the rocks advancing,

Soon hatred settled in its place; Start on the fisher's eye like boat

It rose not with the reddening flush Of island-pirate or Mainote;

Of transient anger's darkening blush, And, fearful for his light caique,

But pale as marble o'er the tomb, He shuns the near, but doubtful creek •

Whose ghastly whitqness aids its gloom. Though worn and weary with his toil,

His brow was bent, his eye was glazed, And cumber'd with his scaly spoil,

He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar,

And sternly shook his hand on high, Till Port Leone's safer shore

As doubting to return or fly: Receives him by the lovely light

Impatient of his flight delay'd,
That best becomes an eastern night.

Here loud his raven charger neighd-
Down glanced that hand, and grasped his blede

That sound had burst his waking dream,
Who thundering comes on blackest steed, As slumber starts at owlet's scream.
With slacken'd bit, and hoof of speed?

The spur hath lanced his courser's sider ; Beneath the clattering iron's sound

Away, away, for life he rides; The cavern'd echoes wake around

Swift as the hurlid on high jerreed, In lash for lash, and bound for bound;

Springs to the touch his startled steed; The foam that streaks the courser's side

The rock is day and the shore Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide;

Shakes with ring tramp no more: Though weary waves are sunk to rest,

The crag is wa are is seen There's none within his rider's breast;

His Christian crew

ty mien And though to-morrow's tempest lower,

'Twas but an instant

i an'd 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour !? That fiery barb so sternly rein'd: I know thee not, I loathe thy race,

'Twas but a moment that he stood, But in thy lineaments I trace

Then sped as if by death pursued; What time shall strengthen, not efface:

But in that instant o'er his soul Though young and pale, that sallow front Winters of memory seem'd to roll, Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt;

And gather in that drop of time Though bent on earth thine evil eye,

A life of pain, an age of crime. As meteor-like thou glidest by,

O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, Right well I view and deem the one

Such moment pours the grief of years. Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun What felt he then, at once opprest

By all that most distracts the breast? On-on he hastened, and he drew

That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, My gaze of wonder as he flew :

Oh, who its dreary length shall date? Though like a demon of the night

Though in time's record nearly nought, He pass'd and vanish'd from my sight,

It was eternity to thought ! His aspect and his air impress'a

Eor infinite as boundless space A troubled memory on my breast,

The thought that conscience must embrace, And long upon my startled ear

Which in itself can comprehend
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear.

Wo without name, or hope, or end.
He spurs the steed; he nears the steep,
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep;

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone! !
He winds around; he hurries by;

And did he fly or fall alone? The rock relieves him from mine eye;

Wo to that hour he came or went ! For well I ween unwelcome he

The curse for Hassan's sin was sent, Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee;

To turn a palace to a tomb: And not a star but shines too bright

He came, he went, like the simoom, 10 On him who takes such timeless flight.

That harbinger of fate and gloom, He wound along, but, ere he pass'd,

Beneath whose widely-wasting breath One glance he snatch'd, as if his last,

The very cypress droops to deathA moment check'd his wheeling steed,

Dark tree, still sad when other's grief is filed,
A moment breathed him from his speed,

The only constant mourner o'er the dead!
A moment on his stirrup stood-
Why looks he o'er the olive-wood ?

The steed is vanish'd from the stall;
The cresent glimmers on the hill,

No serf is seen in Hassan's hall; /
The mosque's high lamps are quivering stil: The lonely spider's thin gray pall
Though too remote for sound to wake

Waves slowly widening o'er the wall;
In echoes of the far tophaike, S

The bat builds in his haram bower; The flashes of each joyous peal

And in the fortress of his power Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal

The owl usurps the beacon-tower; Co-night, set Rhamazani's sun ;

The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, To-night the Bairam feast's begun ;

With baffled thirst, and famine grim; To-night--but who and what art thou,

For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, Of foreign garb and fearful brow?

Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread: And what are these to thine or thee,

'Twas sweet of yore to see it play, That thou shouldst either pause or flee?

And chase the sultriness of day,


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