3

5

And should my spirit's hope grow weak

Thy ruthless power, obeyed but curs’d, Should I, O GOD! e'er doubt thy power,

The stern machinery of thy State, This mighty scene again I'll seek,

Which hatred would, like steam, have burst, At the same calm and glowing hour;

Had stronger fear not chill'd even hate; And here, at the sublimest shrine

Thy perfidy, still worse than aught That Nature ever rear'd to Thee,

Thy own unblushing SARPI' taught,Rekindle all that hope divine,

Thy friendship, which, o'er all beneath
And feel my immortality!

Its shadow, rain'd down dews of death,—2
Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold,

Shut against humble Virtue's name,

But open'd wide for slaves who sold
EXTRACT II.

Their native land to thee and shame,-4
Venice. Thy all-pervading host of spies,

Watching o'er every glance and breath,
The Fall of Venice not to be lamented.- Former Glory.

Till men look'd in each other's eyes, -Expedition against Constantinople.-Giustinia

To read their chance of life or death, nis.- Republic.-Characteristics of the old Govern

Thy laws, that made a mart of blood, ment.—Golden Book.–Brazen Mouths.-Spies.

And legalized the assassin's knife,– 5 Dungeons.-Present Desolation,

Thy sunless cells beneath the flood, MOURN not for VENICE-let her rest

And racks, and leads that burn out life ;In ruin, 'mong those States unbless'd,

When I review all this, and see Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride,

What thou art sunk and crush'd to now; Where'er they trampled, Freedom died.

Each harpy maxim, hatch'd by thee,
No-let us keep our tears for them,

Return'd to roost on thy own brow,-
Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been Thy nobles towering once aloft,
Not from a blood-stain'd diadem,

Now sunk in chains-in chains, that have
Like that which deck'd this ocean-queen,

Not even that borrow'd grace, which oft But from high daring in the cause

The master's fame sheds o'er the slave, Of human Rights—the only good

But are as mean as e'er were given And blessed strife, in which man draws

To stiff-neck'd Pride, by angry HeavenHis powerful sword on land or flood.

I feel the moral vengeance sweet,

And, smiling o'er the wreck, repeatMourn not for VENICE—though her fall

“Thus perish every King and State, Be awful, as if Ocean's wave

That treads the steps which VENICE trod; Swept o'er her-she deserves it all,

Strong but in fear, and only great And Justice triumphs o'er her grave.

By outrage against man and God!" Thus perish every King and State

That run the guilty race she ran, Strong but in fear, and only great

EXTRACT III By outrage against God and man!

Venice.

1-dB's Memoirs, Written by himself.-ReTrue, her high spirit is at rest,

flections, when about to read them. And all those days of glory gone,

LET me, a moment—ere with fear and hope When the world's waters, east and west,

Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I opeBeneath her white-wing'd commerce shone ; When, with her countless barks she went

1 The celebrated Fra Paolo. The collection of maximg To meet the Orient Empire's might,'

which this bold monk drew up at the request of the Venetian And the GIUSTINIANIS sent

Government, for the guidance of the Secret Inquisition of

State, are so atrocious as to seem rather an over-charged Their hundred heroes to that fight.?

satire upon despotism, than a system of policy seriously in

culcated, and but too readily and constantly pursued. Vanish'd are all her pomps, 'tis true,

2 Conduct of Venice towards her allies and dependenBut mourn them not-for, vanish'd, too,

cies, particularly to unfortunate Padua.-Fate of Francesco

Carrara, for which see Daru, vol. ii. p. 141. (Thanks to that Power, who, soon or late,

3 “A l'exception des trente citadins admis au grand conHurls to the dust the guilty Great,)

seil pendant la guerre de Chiozzi, il n'est pas arrivé une

suele fois que les talens ou les services aient paru à cette Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud,

noblesse orgueilleuse des titres suffisans pour s'asseoir avec The chains, the rapine, and the blood,

elle."-Daru. That fill'd each spot, at home, abroad,

4 Among those admitted to the honour of being inscribed

in the Libro d'Oro were some families of Brescia, Treviso Where the Republic's standard stood !

and other places, whose only claim to that distinction was

the zeal with which they prostrated themselves and their Desolate VENICE! when I track

country at the feet of the republic. Thy haughty course through centuries back,

5 By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition, not only was assassination recognized as a regular mode of

punishment, but this secret power over life was delegated to 1 Under the Doge Michaeli, in 1171.

their minions at a distance, with nearly as much facility as 2 "La famille entière des Justiniani, l'une des plus illus- a licence is given under the game laws of England. The tres de Venise, voulut marcher toute entière dans cette ex- only restriction seems to have been the necessity of applying pedition; elle fournit cent combattans; c'était renouveler for a new certificate, after every individual exercise of the l'exemple d'une illustre famille de Rome; le même malheur power. les attendait.”-Historie de Venise, par Daru.

6 "Les prisons des plombs; c'est-à-dire ces fournaises

1

As one, in fairy tale, to whom the key

While they who court the world, like MILTON'S of some enchanter's secret halls is given,

cloud,'
Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly, “ Turn forth their silver lining" on the crowd,

If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven- This gifted Being wraps himself in night,
Let me, a moment, think what thousands live And, keeping all that softens, and adorns,
O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give, And gilds his social nature, hid from sight,
Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.
Over these precious leaves, as I do now.
How all who know-and where is he unknown ?
To what far region have his songs not flown,
Like PBAPhon's birds,' speaking their master's name,

EXTRACT IV.
In every language syllabled by Fame ?-

Venice, How all, who've felt the various spells combined The English to be met with every where.--Alps and Within the circle of that splendid mind,

Threadneedle-street.— The Simplon and the Stocks. Like powers, derived from many a star, and met -Rage for travelling.–Blue Stockings among the Together in some wondrous amulet,

Wahabees.-Parasols and Pyramids.-Mrs. Hope Would burn to know when first the light awoke kins and the Wall of China. In his young soul,-and if the gleams that broke

And is there then no earthly place From that Aurora of his genius, raised

Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, More bliss or pain in those on whom they blazed

Without some cursed, round English face,
Would love to trace the unfolding of that power,

Popping up near, to break the vision!
Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour;
And feel, in watching o'er its first advance,

'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, As did the Egyptian traveller,” when he stood

Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet; By the young Nile, and fathom'd with his lance

Nor highest Alps nor Apennines The first small fountains of that mighty flood.

Are sacred from Threadneedle-street! "They, too, who 'mid the scornful thoughts that dwell If up the Simplon's path we wind, In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,

Fancying we leave this world behind, As if the Star of Bitterness which fell

Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear On earth of old, and touch'd them with its beams, As—“Baddish news from 'Change, my dearCan track a spirit, which, though driven to hate, From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate;

“The Funds—(phew, curse this ugly hill!)
And which, even now, struck as it is with blight, Are lowering fast-(what! higher still ?)—
Comes out, at times, in love's own native light- And—(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)
How gladly all, who've watch'd these struggling rays

Will soon be down to sixty-seven.”
Of a bright, ruin'd spirit through his lays,
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,

Go where we may-rest where we will,

Eternal London haunts us still. What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven 'That noble nature into cold eclipse

The trash of Almack's or Fleet-DitchLike some fair orb, that, once a sun in Heaven,

And scarce a pin's head difference which

Mixes, though even to Greece we run,
And born, not only to surprise, but cheer
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,

With every rill from Helicon!
Is now so quench'd, that, of its grandeur, lasts

And, if this rage for travelling lasts,

If Cockneys, of all sects and castes, Nought but the wide cold shadow which it casts !

Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change

Will leave their puddings and coal fires,
Of scene and clime--the adventures, bold and strange: To gape at things in foreign lands
The griefs—the frailties, but too frankly told- No soul among them understands
The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold;

If Blues desert their coteries,
If truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks

To show off 'mong the WahabeesHis virtues as his failings—we shall find

If neither sex nor age controls, "The record there of friendships, held like rocks, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids

And enmities, like sun-touch'd snow, resign'd- Young ladies, with pink parasols,
Of fealty, cherish'd without change or chill,

To glide among the Pyramids?
In those who served him young, and serve him still Why, then, farewell all hope to find
Of generous aid, given with that noiseless art A spot that 's free from London-kind!
Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart- Who knows, if to the West we roam,
Of acts—but, no—not from himself must aught But we may find some Blue “at home"
of the bright features of his life be sought.

Among the Blacks of Carolina

Or, flying to the Eastward, see ardentes qu'on avait distribuées en petites cellules sous les terrasses qui couvrent le palais."

“ Did a sable cloud 1 Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let

Turn forth her silver lining on the night." them fly away in various directions: whence the proverb,

Comus. “ Psaphonis aves."

2 It was pink spencers, I believe, that the imagination 2 Bruce,

of the French traveller conjured up.

1

that rove,

Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea

This entireness of love, which can only be found And toast upon the Wall of China !

Where Woman, like something that's holy, watch'd

over, And fenced, from her childhood, with purity round,

Comes, body and soul, fresh as Spring, to a lover! EXTRACT V.

Florence.

Where not an eye answers, where not a hand presses, No—'t is not the region where love's to be found

Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move; They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances And the Senses, asleep in their sacred recesses,

Can only be reach'd through the Temple of Love! They have language a Sappho's own lip might re- This perfection of Passion-how can it be found, sound,

Where the mysteries Nature hath hung round the When she warbled her best-but they've nothing

tie like Love.

By which souls are together attracted and bound, Nor is it that sentiment only they want,

Are laid open, for ever, to heart, ear, and eye Which Heaven for the pure and the tranquil hath

Where nought of those innocent doubts can exist, madeCalm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant,

That ignorance, even than knowledge more bright,

Which circles the young, like the morn's sunny mist, Which sweetens seclusion, and smiles in the shade;

And curtains them round in their own native lightThat feeling, which, after long years are gone by, Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth,

Where Experience leaves nothing for Love to reveal, Where, even though the flush of the colours may fly, But the truths which, alone, we would die to conceal

Or for Fancy, in visions, to gleam o'er the thought, The features still live in their first smiling truth;

From the maiden's young heart, are the only ones That union, where all that in Woman kind,

taughtWith all that in Man most ennoblingly towers,

Oh no—'tis not here, howsoever we're given, Grow wreathed into one-like the column, combined

Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray, of the strength of the shaft and the capital's flowers. Or adore, like Sabæans, each light of Love's heaven, Of this-bear ye witness, ye wives, every where,

Here is not the region to fix or to stray ; By the Arno, the Po, by all Italy's streams,

For, faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross, Of this heart-wedded love, so delicious to share,

Without honour to guard, or reserve to restrain, Not a husband hath even one glimpse in his dreams. What have they a husband can mourn as a loss ?— But it is not this, only—born, full of the light

What have they a lover can prize as a gain?
Of a sun, from whose fount the luxuriant festoons
Of these beautiful valleys drink lustre so bright,
That, beside him, our suns of the north are but

EXTRACT VI.
moons !

Rome. We might fancy, at least, like their climate they Reflections on reading De Cerceau's Account of the burn'd,

Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1317.--The Meeting of And that Love, though unused, in this region of the Conspirators on the night of the 19th of May.spring,

Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.To be thus to a tame Household Deity turn'd, Rienzi's Speech.

Would yet be all soul, when abroad on the wing. 'T was a proud moment—even to hear the words And there may be, there are those explosions of heart, Of Truth and Freedom 'mid these temples breathed, Which burst, when the senses have first caught the And see, once more, the Forum shine with swords, flame;

In the Republic's sacred name unsheathedSuch fits of the blood as those climates impart, That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day Where Love is a sun-stroke that maddens the frame. For his dear Rome, must to a Roman be

Short as it was-worth ages pass'd away But that Passion, which springs in the depth of the soul,

In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery. Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source Of some mountainous rivulet, destined to roll 'Twas on a night of May—beneath that moon As a torrent, ere long, losing peace in its course, which had, through many an age, seen Time untune

The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell A course, to which Modesty's struggle but lends A more head-long descent, without chance of recal; The sound of the church clock,' near Adrian's Tomb,

From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell But which Modesty, even to the last edge attends,

Summon'd the warriors, who had risen for ROME, And, at length, throws a halo of tears round its fall! This exquisite Passion—ay, exquisite, even

1 It is not easy to discover what church is meant by De In the ruin its madness too often hath made,

Cerceau here: "Il fit crier dans les rues de Rome, à son de As it keeps, even then, a bright trace of the heaven, lendemain, dixneuvième, dans l'église du château de Saint

trompe, que chacun eût à se trouver, sans armes, la nuit du The heaven of Virtue, from which it has stray'd-Ange au son de la cloché, afin de pourvoir au Bon Etat"

To meet unarm'd, with nought to watch them there
But God's own Eye, and pass the night in prayer.
Holy beginning of a holy cause,

When heroes, girt for Freedom's combat, pause
Before high Heaven, and, humble in their might,
Call down its blessing on that awful fight.

At dawn, in arms, went forth the patriot band,
And, as the breeze, fresh from the TIBER, fann'd
Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see

And we'-oh shame!-we, who have ponder'd o'er
The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay;
Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore,
Tracking our country's glories all the way-
Even we have tamely, basely kiss'd the ground
Before that Papal Power, that Ghost of Her,
The World's Imperial Mistress-sitting, crown'd
And ghastly, on her mouldering sepulchre !?
But this is past-too long have Fordly priests
And priestly lords led us, with all our pride

The palm-tree there, the sword, the keys of Hea- Withering about us-like devoted beasts,
ven-1

Types of the justice, peace, and liberty,

Dragg'd to the shrine, with faded garlands tied.
"T is o'er-the dawn of our deliverance breaks!

That were to bless them when their chains were Up from his sleep of centuries awakes

What see you now? what solitary trace

Is left of all that made ROME's glory then?
The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft
Even of its name-and nothing now remains
But the deep memory of that glory, left

To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains!
But shall this be?-our sun and sky the same,
Treading the very soil our fathers trode,
What withering curse hath fallen on soul and frame,
What visitation hath there come from GOD,
To blast our strength and rot us into slaves,
Here, on our great forefathers' glorious graves?
It cannot be-rise up, ye Mighty Dead,

The Genius of the Old Republic, free
As first he stood, in chainless majesty,
And sends his voice through ages yet to come,
Proclaiming ROME, ROME, ROME, Eternal ROME!"

EXTRACT VII.

Rome.

Mary Magdalen.-Her Story.-Numerous Pictures
of her.-Correggio.-Guido.-Raphael, etc.-Ca-
nova's two exquisite Statues.-The Somariva
Magdalen-Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's

Works.

No wonder, MARY, that thy story

Touches all hearts-for there we see
The soul's corruption and its glory,

Its death and life, combined in thee.
From the first moment, when we find
Thy spirit, haunted by a swarm
Of dark desires, which had inshrined

Themselves, like demons, in thy form,
Till when, by touch of Heaven set free,
Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold,
(So oft the gaze of BETHANY,)

And, covering in their precious fold
Thy Saviour's feet, didst shed such tears
As paid, each drop, the sins of years!-
Thence on, through all thy course of love
To him, thy Heavenly Master,-Him
Whose bitter death-cup from above,
Had yet this sweetening round the brim,
That woman's faith and love stood fast
And fearless by him to the last!
Till-bless'd reward for truth like thine!-
Thou wert, of all, the chosen one,
Before whose eyes that Face Divine,
When risen from the dead, first shone,
That thou mightst see how, like a cloud,
Had pass'd away its mortal shroud,

I
I

In

But
Of

A s
A
Thy

A Not

C

Hat

In

In th

With Tha Of c

The

In

And make that bright revealment known

Those features, even in fading worth To hearts less trusting than thy own

The freshest smiles to others given, All is affecting, cheering, grand;

And those sunk eyes, that see not earth, The kindliest record ever given,

But whose last looks are full of Heaven! Even under God's own kindly hand,

Wonderful artist! praise like mineOf what Repentance wins from Heaven!

Though springing from a soul that feels No wonder, Mary, that thy face,

Deep worship of those works divine, In all its touching light of tears,

Where Genius all his light revealsShould meet us in each holy place,

Is little to the words that came Where man before his God appears,

From him, thy peer in art and fame, Hopeless-were he not taught to see

Whom I have known, by day, by night, All hope in Him who pardon'd thee!

Hang o'er thy marble with delight, No wonder that the painter's skill

And, while his lingering hand would steal Should oft have triumph'd in the power

O'er every grace the taper's rays,'
Of keeping thee most lovely still

Give thee, with all the generous zeal
Throughout thy sorrow's bitterest hour- Such master-spirits only feel,
That soft CORREGGIO should diffuse

That best of fame-a rival's praise !
His melting shadows round thy form;
That Guido's pale unearthly hues

Should, in portraying thee, grow warm :
That all—from the ideal, grand,

EXTRACT VIII. Inimitable Roman hand,

Les Charmettes. Down to the small, enamelling touch

A Visit to the House where Rousseau lived with MaOf smooth CARLINO—should delight

dame de Warens.-Their Menage.--Its GrossIn picturing her who "loved so much,”

ness.-Claude Anet.-Reverence with which the And was, in spite of sin, so bright!

Spot is now visited.—Absurdity of this blind Devo

tion to Fame.-Feelings excited by the Beauty and But, Mary, 'mong the best essays

Seclusion of the Scene.-Disturbed by its AssociaOf Genius and of Art to raise

tions with Rousseau's History.Impostures of Men A semblance of those weeping eyes

of Genius.—Their Power of mimicking all the best A vision, worthy of the sphere

Feelings, Love, Independence, etc.
Thy faith hath given thee in the skies,
And in the hearts of all men here,

STRANGE power of Genius, that can throw

O'er all that 's vicious, weak, and low, Not one hath equall’d, hath come nigh

Such magic lights, such rainbow dyes,
Canova's fancy; oh, not one

As dazzle even the steadiest eyes!
Hath made thee feel, and live, and die
In tears away, as he hath done,

About a century since, or near,
In those bright images, more bright

A middle-aged Madame lived here, With true expression's breathing light

With character, even worse than most Than ever yet beneath the stroke

Such middle-aged Madames can boast. Of chisel into life awoke!

Her footman was—to gloss it over The one,' pourtraying what thou wert

With the most gentle term-her lover; In thy first grief, while yet the flower

Nor yet so jealous of the truth Of those young beauties was unhurt

And charms of this impartial fair, By sorrow's slow consuming power,

As to deny a pauper youth, And mingling earth's luxurious grace

Who join'd their snug ménage, his share. With Heaven's subliming thoughts so well, And there they lived, this precious three, and know not in which place

With just as little sense or notion Such beauty most was form'd to dwell !

Of what the world calls decency, The other, as thou look’dst when years

As hath the sea-calf in the ocean. Of fasting, penitence, and tears

And, doubtless, 'mong the grave, and good, Had worn thee down—and ne'er did Art

And gentle of their neighbourhood, With half such mental power express

If known at all, they were but known The ruin which a breaking heart

As strange, low people, low and badSpreads, by degrees, o'er loveliness!

Madame, herself, to footmen prone, Those wasted arms, that keep the trace,

And her young pauper, all but mad. Even now, of all their youthful grace

Who could have thought this very spot Those tresses, of thy charms the last

Would, one day, be a sort of shrine, Whose pride forsook thee, wildly cast,

Where—all its grosser taints forgot,

Or gilt by Fancy till they shine-1 This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was Pilgrims would meet, from many a shore, not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which To trace each mouldering chamber o'er; seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression, of the intensest kind, is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the 1 Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vinpossession of the Count Somariva, at Paris.

citrice, by the light of a small candle.

We gaze,