ΧΙΧ. PESTUM. They stand between the mountains and the sea; Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust. How many centuries did the sun go round From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea, While, by some spell render'd invisible, Or, if approach'd, approach'd by him alone Who saw as though he saw not, they remain'd As in the darkness of a sepulchre, Waiting the appointed time! All, all within Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right, And taken to herself what man renounced; No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus, But with thick ivy hung or branching fern; Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure! From my youth upward have I longed to tread This classic ground-And am I here at last? Wandering at will through the long porticoes, And catching, as through some majestic grove, Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like, Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up, Towns like the living rock from which they grew? A cloudy region, black and desolate, Where once a slave withstood a world in arms. 2 The air is sweet with violets, running wild (171) 'Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals; Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts, Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost (172) (Turning to thee, divine Philosophy, Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul) Sail'd slowly by, two thousand years ago, For Athens; when a ship, if north-east winds Blew from the Pæstan gardens, slack'd her course. On as he moved along the level shore, The temples of PESTUM are three in number; and have survived, nearly nine centuries, the total destruction of the city. Tradition is silent concerning them; but they must have existed now between. two and three thousand years. * Spartacus. See Plutarch in the Life of Crassus, Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk Seen at his setting, and a flood of light Filling the courts of these old sanctuaries, (Gigantic shadows, broken and confused, Across the innumerable columns flung) In such an hour he came, who saw and told, Led by the mighty Genius of the Place. 1 Walls of some capital city first appear'd, Half razed, half sunk, or scatter'd as in scorn; -And what within them? what but in the midst These Three in more than their original grandeur, And, round about, no stone upon another? As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear, And, turning, left them to the elements. "T is said a stranger in the days of old A Homer's language murmuring in her streets,. XX. MONTE CASSINO. XXI. THE HARPER. What hangs behind that curtain?» (174) — Wouldst Ir was a Harper, wandering with his harp, thou learn? If thou art wise, thou wouldst not. 'T is by some As though the day were come, were come and past, Once-on a Christmas-eve-ere yet the roof For here, 't is said, he linger'd while he lived, Most devout he was; Most unremitting in the Services; At length he sunk to rest, and in his cell With what he could not fly from, none can say, I Michael Angelo. His only treasure; a majestic man, By time and grief ennobled, not subdued; But the child They were bound, he said, To a great fair at Reggio; and the boy, Believing all the world were to be there, And I among the rest, let loose his tongue, And promised me much pleasure. His short trance, Short as it was, had, like a charm'd cup, Restored his spirit, and, as on we crawl'd, Slow as the snail (my muleteer dismounting, And now his mules addressing, now his pipe, And now Luigi) he pour'd out his heart, Largely repaying me. At length the sun Departed, setting in a sea of gold; And, as we gazed, he bade me rest assured That like the setting would the rising be. Their harp-it had a voice oracular, And in the desert, in the crowded street, Spoke when consulted. If the treble chord Twanged shrill and clear, o'er hill and dale they went, The grandsire, step by step, led by the child; And not a rain-drop from a passing cloud Fell on their garments. Thus it spoke to-day; Inspiring joy, and, in the young one's mind, Brightening a path already full of sunshine. XXII THE FELUCA. DAY glimmer'd; and beyond the precipice (Which my mule follow'd as in love with fear, Or as in scorn, yet more and more inclining 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, Ruffling with many an oar the crystalline sea, (179) On from the rising to the setting sun, In silence-underneath a mountain-ridge, Untamed, untameable, 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 merchandize To many a curious, many a 'cruel eye Exposes. Ah, how oft where now the sun Slept on the shore, have ruthless scimitars Flash'd through the lattice, and a swarthy crew Dragg'd forth, erelong to number them for sale, Erelong to part them in their agony, Parent and child! How oft where now we rode (180) Or yet more wretched sire, grown grey in chains, 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, 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 A consciousness how soon we shall be gone, At length the day departed, and the moon As if she thought her hearers would be gone Thy pharos, Genoa, first display'd itself, Among its golden groves and fruits of gold, The windows blazing. But we now approach'd XXIII. GENOA. THIS house was Andrea Doria's. Here he lived; (181) Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse (182) 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, I Genoa. 'T is still the noblest dwelling-even in Genoa! "T is in the heart of Genoa (he who comes, Thy children, for they hail'd thee as their sire; Thine was a glorious course; but couldst thou there, Clad in thy cere-cloth-in that silent vault, Where thou art gather'd to thy ancestorsOpen thy secret heart and tell us all, Then should we hear thee with a sigh confess, A sigh how heavy, that thy happiest hours Were pass'd before these sacred walls were left, Before the ocean-wave thy wealth reflected, (184) And pomp and power drew stirring up envy, The ambitious man,' that in a perilous hour Fell from the plank. (185) XXIV. A FAREWELL. 2 AND now farewell to Italy-perhaps Many a courtesy, Gentle or rude, Where, when the south-wind blows, and clouds on clouds Gather and fall, the peasant freights his bark, Where the wild-boar retreats, when hunters chafe, 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! The temples of Pæstum. 'The Po. narrow limits of our language allow us no other distinction of epic and tragic measures. -JOHNSON. 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 were, a string to the instrument; and, by enabling the Poet to relax at pleasure, to rise and fall with his subject, contribute what is most wanted, compass, variety. 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: 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. Note 3, page 41, col. 1. -like bim of old. The Abbot of Clairvaux. To admire or despise St Bernard as he ought,» says Gibbon, the reader, like myself, should have before the windows of his library that incomparable landskip. Note 4, page 41, col. 1. 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 Note 5, page 41, col. 2. Two dogs of grave demeanour welcomed me. Berri, so remarkable for his sagacity, was dead. His skin is stuffed, and is preserved in the Museum of Berne. Note 6, page 42, col. 1. But the Bise blew cold. 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. But false are the . In this year the canon died, and, as all believed, in the odour of sanctity: for who in his life had been so holy, in his death so happy? judgments of men; as the event showeth. For when the hour of his funeral had arrived, when the mourners had entered the church, the bearers set down the bicr, 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!» M. Ebel mentions an escape almost as miraculous. L'an 1790, le nommé Christian Boren, propriétaire 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 has The north-east wind. This description was written such a bridge. The most celebrated in this country is in June, 1816. on the Swiss side of St Gothard. |