Or as in scorn, yet more and more inclining
To tempt the danger where it menaced most),
A sea of vapor roll'd. Methought we went
Along the utmost edge of this, our world;
But soon the surges fled, and we descried
Nor dimly, though the lark was silent yet,
Thy gulf, La Spezzia. Ere the morning-gun,
Ere the first day-streak, we alighted there;
And not a breath, a murmur! Every sail
Slept in the offing. Yet along the shore
Great was the stir; as at the noontide hour,
None unemploy'd. Where from its native rock
A streamlet, clear and full, ran to the sea,
The maidens knelt and sung as they were wont,
Washing their garments. Where it met the tide,
Sparkling and lost, an ancient pinnace lay
Keel-upward, and the fagot blazed, the tar
Fumed from the caldron; while, beyond the fort
Whither I wander'd, step by step led on,
The fishers dragg'd their net, the fish within
At every heave fluttering and full of life,
At every heave striking their silver fins
'Gainst the dark meshes.

Soon a boatman's shout
Re-echoed; and red bonnets on the beach,
Waving, recall'd me. We embark'd and left
That noble haven, where, when Genoa reign'd,
A hundred galleys shelter'd-in the day,
When lofty spirits met, and, deck to deck,
Doria, Pisani (178) fought; that narrow field
Ample enough for glory. On we went,

Should have the power, the will to make this world
A dismal prison-house, and life itself,

Life in its prime, a burden and a curse

To him who never wrong'd them! Who that breathes
Would not, when first he heard it, turn away
As from a tale monstrous, incredible?
Surely a sense of our mortality,

A consciousness how soon we shall be gone,
Or, if we linger-but a few short years-
How sure to look upon our brother's grave,
Should of itself incline to pity and love,
And prompt us rather to assist, relieve,
Than aggravate the evils each is heir to.

At length the day departed, and the moon
Rose like another sun, illumining
Waters and woods and cloud-capt promontories,
Glades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bower,
Scenes of Elysium, such as Night alone
Reveals below, nor often-scenes that fled
As at the waving of a wizard's wand,
And left behind them, as their parting gift,
A thousand nameless odors. All was still;
And now the nightingale her song pour'd forth
In such a torrent of heart-felt delight,

So fast it flow'd, her tongue so voluble,
As if she thought her hearers would be gone
Ere half was told. "Twas where in the north-west,
Still unassail'd and unassailable,

Thy pharos, Genoa, first display'd itself,
Burning in stillness on its craggy seat;

Ruffling with many an oar the crystalline sea, (179) That guiding star, so oft the only one,

On from the rising to the setting sun,
In silence-underneath a mountain-ridge,
Untamed, untamable, reflecting round
The saddest purple; nothing to be seen
Of life or culture, save where, at the foot,
Some village and its church, a scanty line,
Athwart the wave gleam'd faintly. Fear of ill
Narrow'd our course, fear of the hurricane,
And that yet greater scourge, the crafty Moor,
Who, like a tiger prowling for his prey,
Springs and is gone, and on the adverse coast
(Where Tripoli and Tunis and Algiers
Forge fetters, and white turbans on the mole
Gather, whene'er the Crescent comes display'd
Over the Cross) his human merchandise
To many a curious, many a cruel eye
Exposes. Ah, how oft where now the sun
Slept on the shore, have ruthless cimeters
Flash'd through the lattice, and a swarthy crew
Dragg'd forth, ere-long to number them for sale,
Ere-long to part them in their agony,

When those now glowing in the azure vault,
Are dark and silent. 'Twas where o'er the sea,
For we were now within a cable's length,
Delicious gardens hung; green galleries,
And marble terraces in many a flight,
And fairy-arches flung from cliff to cliff,
Wildering, enchanting; and, above them all,
A Palace, such as somewhere in the East,
In Zenastan or Araby the blest,

Among its golden groves and fruits of gold,
And fountains scattering rainbows in the sun,
Rose, when Aladdin rubb'd the wondrous lamp;
Such, if not fairer; and, when we shot by,
A scene of revelry, in long array

The windows blazing. But we now approach'd
A City far-renown'd;' and wonder ceased.

XXIII.
GENOA.

THIS house was Andrea Doria's. Here he lived ; (181)

Parent and child! How oft where now we rode (180) And here at eve relaxing, when ashore,
Over the billow, has a wretched son,

Or yet more wretched sire, grown grey in chains,
Labor'd, his hands upon the oar, his eyes
Upon the land-the land, that gave him birth;
And, as he gazed, his homestall through his tears
Fondly imagined; when a Christian ship
Of war appearing in her bravery,

A voice in anger cried, "Use all your strength!"

But when, ah when, do they that can, forbear To crush the unresisting? Strange, that men, Creatures so frail, so soon, alas' to die,

Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse (182)
With them that sought him, walking to and fro
As on his deck. "T is less in length and breadth
Than many a cabin in a ship of war;
But 'tis of marble, and at once inspires
The reverence due to ancient dignity.

He left it for a better; and 't is now

A house of trade, (183) the meanest merchandise
Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is,

1 Genoa.

"Tis still the noblest dwelling-even in Genoa !
And hadst thou, Andrea, lived there to the last,
Thou hadst done well; for there is that without,
That in the wall, which monarchs could not give,
Nor thou take with thee, that which says aloud,
It was thy Country's gift to her Deliverer.

"Tis in the heart of Genoa (he who comes,
Must come on foot) and in a place of stir;
Men on their daily business, early and late,
Thronging thy very threshold. But when there,
Thou wert among thy fellow-citizens,

Thy children, for they hail'd thee as their sire;
And on a spot thou must have loved, for there,
Calling them round, thou gavest them more than life,
Giving what, lost, makes life not worth the keeping.
There thou didst do indeed an act divine;
Nor couldst thou leave thy door or enter in,
Without a blessing on thee.

Thou art now
Again among them. Thy brave mariners,
They who had fought so often by thy side,
Staining the mountain-billows, bore thee back;
And thou art sleeping in thy funeral-chamber.

Where, when the south-wind blows, and clouds on
clouds

Gather and fall, the peasant freights his bark,
Mindful to migrate when the king of floods
Visits his humble dwelling, and the keel,
Slowly uplifted over field and fence,
Floats on a world of waters-from that low,
That level region, where no Echo dwells,
Or, if she comes, comes in her saddest plight,
Hoarse, inarticulate-on to where the path
Is lost in rank luxuriance, and to breathe
Is to inhale distemper, if not death;
Where the wild-boar retreats, when hunters chafe
And, when the day-star flames, the buffalo-herd,
Afflicted, plunge into the stagnant pool,
Nothing discern'd amid the water-leaves,
Save here and there the likeness of a head,
Savage, uncouth; where none in human shape
Come, save the herdsman, levelling his length
Of lance with many a cry, or, Tartar-like,
Urging his steed along the distant hill
As from a danger. There, but not to rest,
I travell'd many a dreary league, nor turn'd
(Ah then least willing, as who had not been?)
When in the South, against the azure sky,

Thine was a glorious course; but couldst thou Three temples rose in soberest majesty,

there,

That sought no recompense, and met with none
But in the swell of heart with which it came,
Have I experienced; not a cabin-door,

Go where I would, but open'd with a smile;
From the first hour, when, in my long descent,
Strange perfumes rose, as if to welcome me,
From flowers that minister'd like unseen spirits;
From the first hour, when vintage-songs broke forth,
A grateful earnest, and the Southern lakes,
Dazzlingly bright, unfolded at my feet;
They that receive the cataracts, and ere-long
Dismiss them, but how changed-onward to roll
From age to age in silent majesty,

Blessing the nations, and reflecting round
The gladness they inspire.

Gentle or rude,
No scene of life but has contributed
Much to remember-from the Polesine,

The wondrous work of some heroic race.*

But now a long farewell! Oft, while I live,
If once again in England, once again
In my own chimney-nook, as Night steals on,
With half-shut eyes reclining, oft, methinks,
While the wind blusters and the pelting rain
Clatters without, shall I recall to mind
The scenes, occurrences, I met with here,
And wander in Elysium; many a note
Of wildest melody, magician-like,
Awakening, such as the Calabrian horn,
Along the mountain-side, when all is still,
Pours forth at folding-time; and many a chant,
Solemn, sublime, such as at midnight flows
From the full choir, when richest harmonies
Break the deep silence of thy glens, La Cava;
To him who lingers there with listening ear,
Now lost and now descending as from Heaven!

NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS.

Note 1, page 40, col. 2.

As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived. "J'arrive essoufflé, tout en nage; le cœur me bat, je vois de loin les soldats à leur poste ; j'accours, je crie d'une voix étouffee. Il étoit trop tard."-See Les Confessions, L. 1. The street, in which he was born, is called Rue Rousseau.

Note 2, page 40, col. 2.

He sate him down and wept-wept till the morning. "Lines of eleven syllables occur almost in every page of Milton; but though they are not unpleasing, they ought not to be admitted into heroic poetry; since the

!

narrow limits of our language allow us no other distinction of epic and tragic measures."-JOHNSON.

Note 7, page 42, col. 1.

St. Bruno's once

The Grande Chartreuse. It was indebted for its foundation to a miracle; as every guest may learn there from a little book that lies on the table in his cell, the cell allotted to him by the fathers.

It is remarkable that he used them most at last. In the Paradise Regained they occur oftener than in the Paradise Lost, in the proportion of ten to one; and let it be remembered that they supply us with another close, another cadence; that they add, as it In this year the canon died, and, as all believed, were, a string to the instrument; and, by enabling the in the odor of sanctity: for who in his life had been Poet to relax at pleasure, to rise and fall with his so holy, in his death so happy? But false are the subject, contribute what is most wanted, compass, judgments of men; as the event showeth. For when variety. the hour of his funeral had arrived, when the mourners had entered the church, the bearers set down the bier, and every voice was lifted up in the Miserere, suddenly, and as none knew how, the lights were extinguished, the anthem stopt! A darkness succeeded, a silence as of the grave; and these words came in sorrowful accents from the lips of the dead. "I am summoned before a Just God!A Just God judgeth me! I am condemned by a Just God!"

Shakspeare seems to have delighted in them, and in some of his soliloquies has used them four and five times in succession; an example I have not followed in mine. As in the following instance, where the subject is solemn beyond all others:

To be, or not to be, that is the question.
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them.

They come nearest to the flow of an unstudied eloquence, and should therefore be used in the drama; but why exclusively? Horace, as we learn from himself, admitted the Musa Pedestris in his happiest hours, in those when he was most at his ease; and we cannot regret her visits. To her we are indebted for more than half he has left us; nor was she ever at his elbow in greater dishabille, than when he wrote the celebrated Journey to Brundusium.

That winds beside the mirror of all beauty. There is no describing in words; but the following lines were written on the spot, and may serve perhaps to recall to some of my readers what they have seen in this enchanting country.

I love to watch in silence till the Sun

Bets; and Mont Blanc, array'd in crimson and gold,
Flings his broad shadow half across the Lake;
That shadow, though it comes through pathless tracts
Of ether, and o'er Alp and desert drear,
Only less bright, less glorious than himself.
But, while we gaze, 'tis gone! And now he shines
Like burnish'd silver; all, below, the Night's.-
Such moments are most precious. Yet there are
Others, that follow them, to me still more so;
When once again he changes, once again
Clothing himself in grandeur all his own:
When, like a Ghost, shadowless, colorless,
He melts away into the Heaven of Heavens;
Himself alone reveal'd, all lesser things
As though they were not!

Note 5, page 41, col. 2.

Two dogs of grave demeanor welcomed me.
Berri, so remarkable for his sagacity, was dead.
This skin is stuffed, and is preserved in the Museum
of Berne.

Note 6, page 42, col. 1.

But the Bise blew cold.

In the church, says the legend, "there stood a young man with his hands clasped in prayer, who from that time resolved to withdraw into the desert. It was he whom we now invoke as St. Bruno." Note 8, page 42, col. 1.

M. Ebel mentions an escape almost as miraculous. L'an 1790, le nommé Christian Boren, proprié taire de l'auberge du Grindelwald, eut le malheur de se jeter dans une fente du glacier, en le traversant avec un troupeau de moutons qu'il ramenoit des pâturages de Bâniseck. Heureusement qu'il tomba dans le voisinage du grand torrent qui coule dans l'intérieur, il en suivit le lit par-dessous les voûtes de glace, et arriva au pied du glacier avec un bras cassé. Cet homme est actuellement encore en vie."

Manuel du Voyageur. Art. Grindelwald.
Note 13, page 43, col. 2.

-a wondrous monument.

Almost every mountain of any rank or condition

The north-east wind. This description was writ- has such a bridge. The most celebrated in this counten in June, 1816.

try is on the Swiss side of St. Gothard.

This house had been always open to the unfortuStill glowing with the richest hues of art. nate. In the days of Can Grande, all were welcome; | Several were painted by Giorgione and Titian; as, Poets, Philosophers, Artists, Warriors. Each had his for instance, those of the Fondaco de Tedeschi and apartment, each a separate table; and at the hour of the Ca' Grimani.-See VASARI.