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As one, in fairy tale, to whom the key

While they who court the world, like MILTON Of some enchanter's secret halls is g'ven,

cloud, Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly, "Turn forth hesalver lining on the crond,

If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven- This gifted Being wraps ha mseli 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 Psapron'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 antong the Together in some wondrous amulet,

Wahabees.Parasols and Pyramids.-Mrs. HopWould 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,
Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour;

Popping up near, to break the vision !
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-Ditch
Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in Heaven,

And scarce a pin's head difference which And born, not only to surprise, but cheer

Mixes, though even to Greece we run, 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, Nought but the wide cold shadow which it casts !

If Cockneys, of all sects and castes,

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 WababeesHis 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 Pyramidsm?
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, fying to the Eastward, see ardentes qu'on avait distribuées en petites cellules sous les terrasses qui couvrent le palais."

1 i Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world,

-“Did a sable cloud taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let

Turn forth her silver lioing 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.

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 eyeWhich Heaven for the pure and the tranquil hath Where nought of those innocent doubts can exist, made

That ignorance, even than knowledge more bright, Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant,

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 is kind,

taught With 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 1347.-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 Andhathere 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 unsheathed Such 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 "T was 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

From his rude hands, a broken, silent shellA more head-long descent, without chance of recal; The sound of the church clock,' near Adrian's Tomb, But which Modesty, even to the last edge attends,

Summond 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

trompe, que chacun eût à se trouver, sans armes, la nuit du As it keeps, even then, a bright trace of the heaven, lendemain, dixneuvième, dans l'église du château de Saint

The heaven of Virtue, from which it has stray'd-Ange au son de la cloche, afin de pourvoir au Bon Elat"

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men

To meet unarm’d, with nought to watch them there And we'-oh shame!-we, who have ponder'd o'er
But God's own Eye, and pass the night in prayer. The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay;
Holy beginning of a holy cause,

Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore,
When heroes, girt for Freedom's combat, pause Tracking our country's glories all the way-
Before high Heaven, and, humble in their might, Even we have tamely, basely kiss'd the ground
Call down its blessing on that awful fight.

Before that Papal Power, that Ghost of Her,

The World's Imperial Mistress-sitting, crown'd At dawn, in arms, went forth the patriot band, And ghastly, on her mouldering sepulchre !? And, as the breeze, fresh from the Tiber, fann'd But this is past—too long have lordly priests Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see

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

Dragg'd to the shrine, with faded garlands tied. Types of the justice, peace, and liberty,

"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 riven.

The Genius of the Old Republic, free
On to the Capitol the pageant moved,

As first he stood, in chainless majesty,
While many a Shade of other times, that still And sends his voice through ages yet to come,
Around that grave of grandeur sighing roved, Proclaiming RomE, ROME, Kome, Eternal ROME !"

Hung o'er their footsteps up the Sacred Hill,
And heard its mournful echoes, as the last
High-minded heirs of the Republic pass’d.

EXTRACT VII. 'Twas then that thou, their Tribune (name which

Rome.
brought
Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,) Mary Magdalen.--Her Story.-Numerous Pictures
Didst, from a spirit Rome in vain shall seek

of her.-Correggio.-Guido.-- Raphael, etc.CaTo call up in her sons again, thus speak :

nova's two exquisite Statues.- The Somariva

Magdalen-Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's "Romans! look round you—on this sacred place

Works.
There once stood shrines, and gods, and godlike No wonder, Mary, that thy story

Touches all hearts—for there we see
What see you now? what solitary trace

The soul's corruption and its glory, Is left of all that made RoME's glory then?

Its death and life, combined in thee. The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft From the first moment, when we find Even of its name—and nothing now remains

Thy spirit, haunted by a swarm
But the deep memory of that glory, left

Of dark desires, which had inshrined
To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains ! Themselves, like demons, in thy form,
But shall this be ?-our sun and sky the same,

Till when, by touch of Heaven set free,
Treading the very soil our fathers trode,

Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold,
What withering curse hath fallen on soul and frame, (So oft the gaze of Bethany,)
What visitation hath there come from Gov,

And, covering in their precious fold
To blast our strength and rot us into slaves,

Thy Saviour's feet, didst shed such tears
Here, on our great forefathers' glorious graves ? As paid, each drop, the sins of years ! -
It cannot be-rise up, ye Mighty Dead,

Thence on, through all thy course of love
If we, the living, are too weak to crush

To him, thy Heavenly Master, Him
These tyrant priests, that o'er your empire tread, Whose bitter death-cup from above,
Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush !" Had yet this sweetening round the brim,

That woman's faith and love stood fast "Happy PALMYRA! in thy desert domes,

And fearless by him to the last ! Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss;

Till-bless'd reward for truth like thine! And thou, whose pillars are but silent homes

Thou wert, of all, the chosen one, For the stork's brood, superb PERSEPOLIS!

Before whose eyes that Face Divine, Thrice happy both that your extinguish'd race

When risen from the dead, first shone,
Have left no embers--no half-living trace

That thou mightst see how, like a cloud,
No slaves, to crawl around the once-proud spot, Had pass'd away its mortal shroud,
Till past renown in present shame 's forgot;
While Rome, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks,

1 The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning "Spirto gen-
If lone and lifeless through a desert hurld, til," is supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have been ad-
Would wear more true magnificence than decks dressed to Rienzi; but there is much more evidence of its
The assembled thrones of all the existing world, having been written, as Ginguené asserts, to the young Ste-

phen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome. Rome, Rome alone, is haunted, stain'd, and cursed, That Petrarch, however, was filled with high and patriotic

Through every spot her princely TIBER laves, hopes by the first measures of this extraordinary man, ap. By living human things—the deadliest, worst,

pears from one of his letters, quoted by De Cercenu, where

he says: "Pour tout dire, en un mot, j'atteste, non comme That earth engenders—tyrants and their slaves ! lecteur, mais comme témoin oculaire, qu'il nous à ramene

la justice, la paix, la bonne foi, la sécurité, et toutes les

autres vestiges de l'âge d'or." 1 For a description of these banners, see Notes. 2 See Note.

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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 mine-
Of 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 reveals-
Should 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 Rousscau lived with Ma. Of 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 AssociaOr 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 equallid, hath come nigh
Canova's fancy; oh, not one

Such magic lights, such rainbow dyes,

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,
We
gaze,
and know not in which place

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

Or what the world calls decency,
The other, as thou look'dst when years

As bath 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 bad-
Spreads, by degrees, o'er loveliness!

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

And her young pauper, all but mad.
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 VinDossession of the Count Somariva, at Paris.

citrice, by the light of a small candle.

Even now,

Young bards to dream of virtuous fame,
Young maids to lisp DE WAREN's name,
And mellower spinsters-of an age
Licensed to read JEAN JACQUES's page
To picture all those blissful hours
He pass'd in these sequester'd bowers,
With his dear Maman and his flowers !
Spinsters, who--if, from glowing heart

Or erring head, some living maid
Had wander'd even the thousandth part

Of what this worthy Maman stray'd
Would bridle up their virtuous chins
In horror at her sin of sins,
And-could their chaste eyes kill with flashes-
Frown the fair culprit into ashes!
'Tis too absurd—'t is weakness, shame,
This low prostration before Fame-
This casting down, beneath the car
Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are,
Life's purest, holiest decencies,
To be career'd o'er as they please.
No--let triumphant Genius have
All that his loftiest wish can crave.
If he be worshipp'd, let it be

For attributes, his noblest, firstNot with that base idolatry,

Which sanctifies his last and worst.

I may be cold-may want that glow
Of high romance, which bards should know;
That holy homage, which is felt
In treading where the great have dwell
This reverence, whatsoe'er it be,

I fear, I feel, I have it not,
For here, at this still hour, to me

The charms of this delightful spot-
Its calm seclusion from the throng,

From all the heart would fain forgetThis narrow valley, and the song

Of its small murmuring rivuletThe fitting to and fro of birds,

Tranquil and tame as they were once
In Eden, ere the startling words

Of man disturb'd their orisons !
Those little, shadowy paths, that wind
Up the hill side, with fruit-trees lined,
And lighted only by the breaks
The gay wind in the foliage makes,
Or vistas here and there, that ope

Through weeping willows, like the snatches Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope,

Even through the shade of sadness, catches ! All this, which-could I once but lose

The memory of those vulgar ties,
Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues

Of Genius can no inore disguise,
Than the sun's beams can do away
The filth of fens o'er which they play-
This scene, which would have fill'd my heart

With thoughts of all that happiest is

Of Love, where self hath only part,

As echoing back another's bliss
Of solitude, secure and sweet,
Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet;
Which, while it shelters, never chills

Our sympathies with human woe,
But keeps them, like sequester'd rills,

Purer and fresher in their flow-
Of happy days, that share their beams

'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employOf tranquil nights, that give in dreams

The moonlight of the morning's joy ! -
All this my heart could dwell on here,
But for those hateful memories near,
Those sordid truths, that cross the track
Of each sweet thought, and drive them back
Full into all the mire, and strife,
And vanities of that man's life,
Who, more than all that e'er have glow'd

With Fancy's flame (and it was his
If ever given to mortal) showed

What an impostor Genius isHow with that strong, mimetic art

Which is its life, and soul, it takes All shapes of thought, all hues of heart,

Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes How like a gem its light may smile

O'er the dark path, by mortals trod, Itself as mean a worm, the while,

As crawls along the sullying sodWhat sensibility may fall

From its false lip, what plans to bless, While home, friends, kindred, country, all,

Lie waste beneath its selfishnessHow, with the pencil hardly dry

From colouring up such scenes of love And beauty, as make young hearts sigh,

And dream, and think through Heaven they rove, They, who can thus describe and move,

The very workers of these charms,
Nor seek, nor ask a Heaven above

Some Maman's or Theresa's arms !
How all, in short, that makes the boast
of their false tongues, they want the most ,
And while, with Freedom on their lips,

Sounding her timbrels, to set free
This bright world, labouring in the eclipse

Of priestcraft and of slavery,
They may, themselves, be slaves as low

As ever lord or patron made,
To blossom in his smile, or grow,

Like stunted brushwood, in his shade' Out on the craft-I'd rather be

One of those hinds that round me tread, With just enough of sense to see

The noon-day sun that's o'er my head, Than thus, with high-built genius cursed,

That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all, at once, that's brightest-worst

Sublimest-meanest in creation !

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