And now he number'd, marching by my side,
The Savans, Princes, who with him had cross'd
The frozen tract, with him familiarly
Through the rough day and rougher night conversed
In many a chalêt round the Peak of Terror,'
Round Tacul, Tour, Well-horn and Rosenlau,
And Her, whose throne is inaccessible, 2
Who sits, withdrawn, in virgin-majesty,
Nor oft unveils. Anon an Avalanche
Roll'd its long thunder; and a sudden crash,
Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear
Told that far-down a continent of Ice
Had burst in twain. But he had now begun;
And with what transport he recall'd the hour
When to deserve, to win his blooming bride,
Madelame of Annecy, to his feet he bound
The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod
The Upper realms of Frost; then, by a cord
Let half-way down, enter'd a Grot star-bright,
And gather'd from above, below, around, (11)
The pointed crystals!
Once, nor long before (12)
(Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet,
And with an eloquence that Nature gives
To all her children-breaking off by starts
Into the harsh and rude, oft as the Mule
Drew his displeasure) once, nor long before,
Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg,
He slipp'd, he fell; and, through a fearful cleft
Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper,
Went to the Under-world! Long-while he lay
Upon his rugged bed-then waked like one
Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever!
For, looking round, he saw or thought he saw
Innumerable branches of a Cavern,
Winding beneath a solid crust of ice;
With here and there a rent that show'd the stars!
What then, alas, was left him but to die?
What else in those immeasurable chambers,
Strewn with the bones of miserable men,
Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on,
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free!
And, rising, he began his dreary round;
When hark, the noise as of some mighty River
Working its way to light! Back he withdrew,
But soon return'd, and, fearless from despair,
Dash'd down the dismal Channel; and all day,
If day could be where utter darkness was,
Travell'd incessantly, the craggy roof
Just over-head, and the impetuous waves,
Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength
Lashing him on. At last the water slept
In a dead lake at the third step he took,
Unfathomable and the roof, that long
Had threaten'd, suddenly descending, lay
Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,
His journey ended; when a ray divine
Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her
Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin,
He plunged, he swam-and in an instant rose,
The barrier past, in light, in sunshine! Through
A smiling valley, full of cottages,
Glittering the river ran; and on the bank
The young were dancing ('t was a festival-day)
All in their best attire. There first he saw
His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,
Seen behind all, and, varying, as he spoke,
With hope, and fear, and generous sympathy,
Subdued him. From that very hour he loved.
The tale was long, but coming to a close, When his dark eyes flash'd fire, and, stopping short, He listen'd and look'd up. I look'd up too; And twice there came a hiss that through me thrill'd! 'T was heard no more. A Chamois on the cliff Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear, And all were gone.
But now the thread was broken;
Love and its joys had vanish'd from his mind;
And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes
When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay,
(His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung,
His axe to hew a stair-case in the ice)
He track'd their footsteps. By a cloud surprised,
Upon a crag among the precipices,
Where the next step had hurl'd them fifty fathoms,
Oft had they stood, lock'd in each other's arms,
All the long night under a freezing sky,
Each guarding each the while from sleeping, falling.
Oh, 't was a sport he loved dearer than life,
And only would with life itself relinquish!
"My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds.
As for myself," he cried, and he held forth
His wallet in his hand, "this do I call
My winding-sheet-for I shall have no other!"
And he spoke truth. Within a little month He lay among these awful solitudes, ('T was on a glacier-half-way up to Heaven) Taking his final rest. Long did his wife, Suckling her babe, her only one, look out The way he went at parting, but he came not! Long fear to close her eyes, lest in her sleep (Such their belief) he should appear before her, Frozen and ghastly pale, or crush'd and bleeding, To tell her where he lay, and supplicate For the last rite! At length the dismal news Came to her ears, and to her eyes his corse.
MARGUERITE DE TOURS.
Now the grey granite, starting through the snow, Discover'd many a variegated moss1 That to the pilgrim resting on his staff Shadows out capes and islands; and ere long Numberless flowers, such as disdain to live In lower regions, and delighted drink The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues, With their diminutive leaves cover'd the ground. 'T was then, that, turning by an ancient larch, Shiver'd in two, yet most majestical With its long level branches, we observed A human figure sitting on a stone
Far down by the way-side-just where the rock Is riven asunder, and the Evil One
Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument (13)
Built in one night, from which the flood beneath,
Raging along, all foam, is seen not heard,
And seen as motionless!
Nearer we drew,
And 't was a woman young and delicate,
Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot,
Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand,
In deepest thought. Young as she was, she wore
The matron-cap; and from her shape we judged,
As well we might, that it would not be long
Ere she became a mother. Pale she look'd,
Yet cheerful; though, methought, once, if not twice,
She wiped away a tear that would be coming:
And in those moments her small hat of straw,
Worn on one side, and garnish'd with a riband
Glittering with gold, but ill conceal'd a face
Not soon to be forgotten. Rising up
On our approach, she journey'd slowly on;
And my companion, long before we met,
Knew, and ran down to greet her.
She was born (Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears) In Val d'Aosta; and an Alpine stream, Leaping from crag to crag in its short course To join the Dora, turn'd her father's mill. There did she blossom till a Valaisan, A townsman of Martigny, won her heart, Much to the old man's grief. Long he held out, Unwilling to resign her; and at length, When the third summer came, they stole a match And fled. The act was sudden; and when far Away, her spirit had misgivings. Then She pictured to herself that aged face Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in anger; And, when at last she heard his hour was near, Went forth unseen, and, burden'd as she was, Cross'd the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness, And hold him to her heart before he died. Her task was done. She had fulfill'd her wish, And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping. A frame like hers had suffer'd; but her love Was strong within her; and right on she went, Fearing no ill. May all good Angels guard her! And should I once again, as once I may, Visit Martigny, I will not forget Thy hospitable roof, Marguerite de Tours; Thy sign the silver swan.' Heaven prosper Thee!
WHO first beholds those everlasting clouds, Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night, Still where they were, stedfast, immovable; Who first beholds the Alps that mighty chain Of Mountains, stretching on from east to west, So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal, As to belong rather to Heaven than EarthBut instantly receives into his soul A sense, a feeling that he loses not,
A something that informs him 't is a moment Whence he may date henceforward and for ever?
To me they seem'd the barriers of a World, Saying, Thus far, no farther! and as o'er
The level plain I travell'd silently,
Nearing them more and more, day after day,
My wandering thoughts my only company,
And they before me still, oft as I look'd,
A strange delight, mingled with fear, came o'er me,
A wonder as at things I had not heard of!
Oft as I look'd, I felt as though it were
Great was the tumult there,
Deafening the din, when in barbaric pomp
The Carthaginian on his march to Rome
Entered their fastnesses. Trampling the snows,
The war-horse reared; and the tower'd elephant
Upturn'd his trunk into the murky sky,
Then tumbled headlong, swallow'd up and lost,
He and his rider.
Now the scene is changed;
And o'er Mont Cenis, o'er the Simplon winds
A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone
Flung about carelessly, it shines afar,
Catching the eye in many a broken link,
In many a turn and traverse as it glides;
And oft above and oft below appears,
Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up,
As though it were another, not the same,
Leading along he knows not whence or whither.
Yet through its fairy course, go where it will,
The torrent stops it not, the rugged rock
Opens and lets it in; and on it runs,
Winning its easy way from clime to clime
Through glens lock'd up before.
Not such my path!
Mine but for those, who, like Jean Jacques, delight (14)
In dizziness, gazing and shuddering on
Till fascination comes and the brain turns!
Mine, though I judge but from my ague-fits
Over the Drance, just where the Abbot fell, (15)
The same as Hannibal's.
But now 't is past,
That turbulent Chaos; and the promised land
Lies at my feet in all its loveliness!
To him who starts up from a terrible dream,
And lo the sun is shining, and the lark
Singing aloud for joy, to him is not
Such sudden ravishment as now I feel
At the first glimpses of fair Italy.
I LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake Under the shore-though not to visit Pliny, To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk, Or fishing, as he might be, from his window: And, to deal plainly, (may his Shade forgive me!) Could I recall the ages past, and play The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve My leisure for Catullus on his Lake, Though to fare worse, or Virgil at his farm A little further on the way to Mantua. But such things cannot be. So I sit still, And let the boatman shift his little sail, His sail so forked and so swallow-like, Well-pleased with all that comes. The morning air Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round A silvery gleam and now the purple mists
Rise like a curtain; now the sun looks out,
Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious light
This noble amphitheatre of mountains;
And now appear as on a phosphor-sea
Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pavia;
Some sailing up, some down, and some at anchor,
Lading, unlading at that small port-town
Under the promontory-its tall tower
And long flat roofs, just such as Poussin drew,
Caught by a sun-beam slanting through a cloud;
A quay-like scene, glittering and full of life,
And doubled by reflection.
And reading, in the eyes that sparkled round, The thousand love-adventures written there.
Can I forget-no, never, such a scene So full of witchery! Night linger'd still, When, with a dying breeze, I left Bellaggio; But the strain follow'd me; and still I saw Thy smile, Angelica; and still I heard Thy voice once and again bidding adieu.
After so long a sojourn in the wild,
To hear once more the sounds of cheerful labor!
-But in a clime like this where are they not?
Along the shores, among the hills 't is now
The heyday of the Vintage; all abroad,
But most the young and of the gentler sex,
Busy in gathering; all among the vines,
Some on the ladder, and some underneath,
Filling their baskets of green wicker-work,
While many a canzonet and frolic laugh
THE song was one that I had heard before, But where I knew not. It inclined to sadness; And, turning round from the delicious fare My landlord's little daughter, Barbara, Had from her apron just roll'd out before me,
Figs and rock-melons at the door I saw
Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like
They were, and poorly clad, but not unskill'd;
With their small voices and an old guitar
Winning their mazy progress to my heart
From tree to tree, the trees in avenues,
But soon they changed the measure, entering on A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour,
Come through the leaves; the vines in light festoons In that, the only universal language.
And every avenue a cover'd walk,
Hung with black clusters. '"T is enough to make
The sad man merry, the benevolent one
Melt into tears so general is the joy!
While up and down the cliffs, over the lake,
Wains oxen-drawn, and pannier'd mules are seen,
Laden with grapes, and dropping rosy wine.
Here I received from thee, Filippo Mori,
One of those courtesies so sweet, so rare!
When, as I rambled through thy vineyard-ground
On the hill-side, thou sent'st thy little son,
Charged with a bunch almost as big as he,
To press it on the stranger.
May thy vats
O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer,
Live to become ere-long himself a giver;
And in due time, when thou art full of honor,
The staff of thine old age!
In a strange land
Such things, however trifling, reach the heart,
And through the heart the head, clearing away
The narrow notions that grow up at home,
And in their place grafting Good-Will to All.
At least I found it so; nor less at eve,
When, bidden as an English traveller
(T was by a little boat that gave me chase
With oar and sail, as homeward-bound I cross'd
The bay of Tramezzine), right readily
I turn'd my prow and follow'd, landing soon
Where steps of purest marble met the wave;
Where, through the trellises and corridors,
Soft music came as from Armida's palace,
Breathing enchantment o'er the woods, the waters;
And through a bright pavilion, bright as day,
Forms such as hers were flitting, lost among
Such as of old in sober pomp swept by,
Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts
Painted by Cagliari; (16) where the world danced
Under the starry sky, while I look'd on,
Admiring, listening, quaffing gramolata, (17)
A war of words, and waged with looks and gestures,
Between Trappanti and his ancient dame,
Mona Lucilia. To and fro it went;
While many a titter on the stairs was heard,
And Barbara's among them.
When 't was done,
Their dark eyes flash'd no longer, yet, methought,
In many a glance as from the soul, express'd
More than enough to serve them. Far or near,
Few let them pass unnoticed; and there was not
A mother round about for many a league,
But could repeat their story. Twins they were,
And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world;
Their parents lost in the old ferry-boat
That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down
Crossing the rough Penacus.1
May they live
Blameless and happy-rich they cannot be,
Like him who, in the days of Minstrelsy, (18)
Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door,
Crying without, "Give me a lay to sing!"
And soon in silk (such then the power of song)
Return'd to thank him; or like him, wayworn
And lost, who, by the foaming Adigè
Descending from the Tyrol, as night fell,
Knock'd at a city-gate near the hill-foot,
The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone,
An eagle on a ladder, and at once
Found welcome-nightly in the banner'd hall
Tuning his harp to tales of Chivalry
Before the great Mastino, (19) and his guests,
The three-and-twenty, by some adverse fortune,
By war or treason or domestic malice,
Reft of their kingly crowns, reft of their all,
And living on his bounty.
But who now
Enters the chamber, flourishing a scroll
In his right hand, his left at every step
Brushing the floor with what was once a hat
Of ceremony. Gliding on, he comes,
Slipshod, ungarter'd; his long suit of black
Dingy and threadbare, though renew'd in patches
Till it has almost ceased to be the old one.
At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads
""T is my necessity!" he stops and speaks,
Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face.
"I am a Poet, Signor:--give me leave To bid you welcome. Though you shrink from notice, The splendor of your name has gone before you; And Italy from sea to sea rejoices,
As well indeed she may! But I transgress :
And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen Moving as once they were-instead of rage Breathing deliberate valor.
In this neglected mirror (23) (the broad frame Of massive silver serves to testify That many a noble matron of the house Has sate before it) once, alas, was seen What led to many sorrows. From that time The bat came hither for a sleeping-place; And he, who cursed another in his heart,
I too have known the weight of praise, and ought Said, "Be thy dwelling through the day, the night,
Saying so, he laid
His sonnet, an impromptu, on my table,
And bow'd and left me; in his hollow hand
Receiving my small tribute, a zecchino,
Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees.
My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine,
"The very best in Bergamo!" had long
Fled from all eyes; or, like the young Gil Blas
De Santillane, I had perhaps been seen
Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise.
AM I in Italy? Is this the Mincius?
Are those the distant turrets of Verona?
And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque (20)
Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him?
Such questions hourly do I ask myself; (21)
And not a finger-post by the road-side
"To Mantua"-" To Ferrara"-but excites
Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation.
O Italy, how beautiful thou art!
Yet I could weep-for thou art lying, alas!
Low in the dust; and they who come, admire thee
As we admire the beautiful in death.
Thine was a dangerous gift, the gift of Beauty.
Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast,
Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee!
-But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already,
Twice shone among the nations of the world, (22)
As the sun shines among the lesser lights
Of heaven; and shalt again. The hour shall come,
When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit,
Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey,
Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again
If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess
Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame
Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously,
And, dying, left a splendor like the day,
That like the day diffused itself, and still
Blesses the earth-the light of genius, virtue,
Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death,
Godlike example. Echoes that have slept
Since Athens, Lacedæmon, were themselves,
Since men invoked "By Those in Marathon!"
Awake along the Ægean; and the dead,
They of that sacred shore, have heard the call,
Shunn'd like Coil'alto." "T was in that old Castle,
Which flanks the cliff with its grey battlements
Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest,
Hangs in the Trevisan, that thus the Steward,
Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left him,
Address'd me, as we enter'd what was cali'd
"My Lady's Chamber." On the walls, the chairs,
Much yet remain'd of the rich tapestry;
Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot
In the green glades of some enchanted forest.
The toilet-table was of massive silver,
Florentine Art, when Florence was renown'd;
A gay confusion of the elements,
Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers
And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage,
Hung a small bird of curious workmanship,
That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold
(So said at least the babbling Dame, Tradition)
His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again
The song that pleased her. While I stood and look'd,
A gleam of day yet lingering in the West,
"She had ('t is now long since)
A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina.
Fair as a lily, and as spotless too;
None so admired, beloved. They had grown up
As play-fellows; and some there were, who said,
Some who knew much, discoursing of Cristina,
She is not what she seems.' When unrequired,
She would steal forth; her custom, her delight,
To wander through and through an ancient grove
Self-planted half-way down, losing herself
Like one in love with sadness; and her veil
And vesture white, seen ever in that place,
Ever as surely as the hours came round,
Among those reverend trees, gave her below
The name of The White Lady. But the day
Is gone, and I delay you.
The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting,
Her gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina,
Combing her golden hair; and, through this door
The Count, her lord, was hastening, call'd away
By letters of great urgency to Venice;
When in the glass she saw, as she believed,
('T was an illusion of the Evil Spirit-
Some say he came and cross'd it at the instant)
A smile, a glance at parting, given and answer'd,
That turn'd her blood to gall. That very night
The deed was done. That night, ere yet the Moon
Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf
Baying as still he does (oft do I hear him, An hour and more by the old turret-clock), They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristina, Helping her down in her distress to die.
"No blood was spilt; no instrument of death Lurk'd-or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose; Nor was a hair of her unblemish'd head
A vagrant crew, and careless of to-morrow, (28)
Careless and full of mirth. Who, in that quaver,
Sings "Caro, Caro?"-"T is the Prima Donna,
And to her monkey, smiling in his face,
Who, as transported, cries, "Brava! Ancora?"
'Tis a grave personage, an old macaw,
Perch'd on her shoulder. But mark him who leaps
Ashore, and with a shout urges along
Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower ungather'd,
And warm with life, her youthful pulses playing,
She was wall'd up within the Castle-wall. (24)
The wall itself was hollow'd to receive her;
Then closed again, and done to line and rule.
Would you descend and see it?"T is far down;
And many a stair is gone. "Tis in a vault
Under the Chapel: and there nightly now,
As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair,
The lagging mules; (29) then runs and climbs a tree
That with its branches overhangs the stream,
And, like an acorn, drops on deck again.
"T is he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh;
That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino. (30)
And mark their Poet-with what emphasis
He prompts the young Soubrette, conning her part!
Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box,
And prompts again; for ever looking round
And as though nothing had been done or thought of, As if in search of subjects for his wit, The stone-work rose before her, till the light
His satire; and as often whispering
Glimmer'd and went there, nightly, at that hour
Things, though unheard, not unimaginable.
(You smile, and would it were an idle tale!
Would we could say so!) at that hour she stands Shuddering-her eyes uplifted, and her hands Join'd as in prayer; then, like a Blessed Soul Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away
Had I thy pencil, Crabbe (when thou hast done,
Late may it be it will, like Prospero's staff,
Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth),
I would portray the Italian-Now I cannot.
Fhes o'er the woods, the mountains. Issuing forth, (25) Subtle, discerning, eloquent, the slave
THERE is a glorious City in the Sea.
The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro.
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sea,
Invisible; and from the land we went,
As to a floating City-steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently-by many a dome
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than Eastern splendor,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings;
The fronts of some, though Time had shatter'd them,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art, (26)
As though the wealth within them had run o'er.
Thither I came, and in a wondrous Ark,
(That, long before we slipt our cable, rang
As with the voices of all living things)
From Padua, where the stars are, night by night,
Watch'd from the top of an old dungeon-tower,
Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelin-(27)
Not as he watch'd them, when he read his fate
And shudder'd. But of him I thought not then,
Him or his horoscope; far, far from me
The forins of Guilt and Fear; though some were there,
Sitting among us round the cabin-board,
Some who, like him, had cried, "Spill blood enough!"
And could shake long at shadows. They had play'd
Their parts at Padua, and were now returning;
Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes;
Gentle when unprovoked, easily won,
But quick in quarrel-through a thousand shades
His spirit flits, chameleon-like; and mocks
The eye of the observer.
At length we leave the river for the sea.
At length a voice aloft proclaims "Venezia!"
And, as call'd forth, it comes.
A few in fear,
Flying away from him whose boast it was,
That the grass grew not where his horse had trod,
Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl,
They built their nests among the ocean-waves;
And, where the sands were shifting, as the wind
Blew from the north, the south; where they that
Had to make sure the ground they stood upon,
Rose, like an exhalation, from the deep,
A vast Metropolis, (31) with glittering spires,
With theatres, basilicas adorn'd;
A scene of light and glory, a dominion,
That has endured the longest among men.
And whence the talisman, by which she rose,
Towering? "T was found there in the barren sea.
Want led to Enterprise; and, far or near,
Who met not the Venetian?-now in Cairo;
Ere yet the Califa came, (32) listening to hear
Its bells approaching from the Red-Sea coast;
Now on the Euxine, on the Sea of Azoph,
In converse with the Persian, with the Russ,
The Tartar; on his lowly deck receiving
Pearls from the gulf of Ormus, gems from Bagdad;
Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love,
From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round,
When in the rich bazaar he saw, display'd,
Treasures from unknown climes, away he went,
And, travelling slowly upward, drew ere-long
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