As one, in fairy tale, to whom the key
Of some enchanter's secret halls is given, Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly,
While they who court the world, like MILTON S
"Turn forth their s Iver Ling" on the crowd,
If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven-This gifted Being wraps h mself in night,
Let me, a moment, think what thousands live
O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give, Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow 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 PSAPHON's birds,' speaking their master's name, In every language syllabled by Fame ?— How all, who 've felt the various spells combined Within the circle of that splendid mind,
Like powers, derived from many a star, and met Together in some wondrous amulet,
Would burn to know when first the light awoke In his young soul,-and if the gleams that broke From that Aurora of his genius, raised
More bliss or pain in those on whom they blazed- Would love to trace the unfolding of that power, Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour; And feel, in watching o'er its first advance,
As did the Egyptian traveller, when he stood By the young Nile, and fathom'd with his lance The first small fountains of that mighty flood.
They, too, who 'mid the scornful thoughts that dwell In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,
As if the Star of Bitterness which fell
On earth of old, and touch'd them with its beams, Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate, From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate; And which, even now, struck as it is with blight, Comes out, at times, in love's own native light- How gladly all, who've watch'd these struggling rays Of a bright, ruin'd spirit through his lays, Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips, What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven That noble nature into cold eclipse-
Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in Heaven, And born, not only to surprise, but cheer With warmth and lustre all within its sphere, Is now so quench'd, that, of its grandeur, lasts Nought but the wide cold shadow which it casts!
Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change
Of scene and clime-the adventures, bold and strange: The griefs-the frailties, but too frankly told- The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold; If truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks His virtues as his failings-we shall find The record there of friendships, held like rocks, And enmities, like sun-touch'd snow, resign'd- Of fealty, cherish'd without change or chill, In those who served him young, and serve him still- Of generous aid, given with that noiseless art Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart- Of acts-but, no-not from himself must aught Of the bright features of his life be sought.
ardentes qu'on avait distribuées en petites cellules sous les terrasses qui couvrent le palais."
1 Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let them fly away in various directions: whence the proverb, "Psaphonis aves."
And, keeping all that softens, and adorns, And gilds his social nature, hid from sight, Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.
The English to be met with every where.-Alps and Threadneedle-street.-The Simplon and the Stocks. -Rage for travelling.-Blue Stockings among the Wahabees.-Parasols and Pyramids.-Mrs. Hop- kins and the Wall of China.
AND is there then no earthly place
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some cursed, round English face, Popping up near, to break the vision!
'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Apennines
Are sacred from Threadneedle-street!
If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As-"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear-
"The Funds-(phew, curse this ugly hill!) Are lowering fast-(what! higher still?)— And-(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)— Will soon be down to sixty-seven."
Go where we may-rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still.
The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch- And scarce a pin's head difference which Mixes, though even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon ! And, if this rage for travelling lasts, If Cockneys, of all sects and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, Will leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands- If Blues desert their coteries, To show off 'mong the Wahabees- If neither sex nor age controls,
Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies, with pink parasols,
To glide among the Pyramids-2 Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that's free from London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some Blue "at home" Among the Blacks of Carolina- Or, flying to the Eastward, see
That feeling, which, after long years are gone by,
Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth, Where, even though the flush of the colours may fly, The features still live in their first smiling truth;
That union, where all that in Woman is kind, With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers, Grow wreathed into one-like the column, combined Of the strength of the shaft and the capital's flowers.
Of this-bear ye witness, ye wives, every where, By the ARNO, the Po, by all ITALY's streams— Of this heart-wedded love, so delicious to share, Not a husband hath even one glimpse in his dreams.
But it is not this, only-born, full of the light
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 moons!
This entireness of love, which can only be found Where Woman, like something that's holy, watch'd
And fenced, from her childhood, with purity round, Comes, body and soul, fresh as Spring, to a lover! Where not an eye answers, where not a hand presses, Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move; And the Senses, asleep in their sacred recesses, Can only be reach'd through the Temple of Love! This perfection of Passion-how can it be found, Where the mysteries Nature hath hung round the tie
By which souls are together attracted and bound, Are laid open, for ever, to heart, ear, and eye-
Where hought of those innocent doubts can exist,
That ignorance, even than knowledge more bright, Which circles the young, like the morn's sunny mist, And curtains them round in their own native light- Where Experience leaves nothing for Love to reveal, Or for Fancy, in visions, to gleam o'er the thought, But the truths which, alone, we would die to conceal From the maiden's young heart, are the only ones taught-
Oh no-'tis not here, howsoever we're given, Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray, Or adore, like Sabæans, each light of Love's heaven, Here is not the region to fix or to stray;
For, faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross,
Without honour to guard, or reserve to restrain, What have they a husband can mourn as a loss?— What have they a lover can prize as a gain?
We might fancy, at least, like their climate they Reflections on reading De Cerceau's Account of the
And that Love, though unused, in this region of spring,
To be thus to a tame Household Deity turn'd,
Would yet be all soul, when abroad on the wing. And there may be, there are those explosions of heart, Which burst, when the senses have first caught the flame;
Such fits of the blood as those climates impart, Where Love is a sun-stroke that maddens the frame. But that Passion, which springs in the depth of the soul, Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source Of some mountainous rivulet, destined to roll
As a torrent, ere long, losing peace in its course A course, to which Modesty's struggle but lends A more head-long descent, without chance of recal; But which Modesty, even to the last edge attends, And, at length, throws a halo of tears round its fall!
This exquisite Passion-ay, exquisite, even
Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1347.-The Meeting of the Conspirators on the night of the 19th of May. Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.- Rienzi's Speech.
T was a proud moment-even to hear the words
Of Truth and Freedom 'mid these temples breathed, And see, once more, the Forum shine with swords, In the Republic's sacred name unsheathed— That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day
For his dear ROME, must to a Roman be- Short as it was-worth ages pass'd away In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery.
'Twas on a night of May-beneath that moon Which had, through many an age, seen Time untune The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell- The sound of the church clock,' near ADRIAN's Tomb, Summon'd the warriors, who had risen for ROME,
1 It is not easy to discover what church is meant by De Cerceau here:-"Il fit crier dans les rues de Rome, à son de In the ruin its madness too often hath made, 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 SaintThe heaven of Virtue, from which it has stray'd-Ange au son de la cloche, 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 we1-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 lordly 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
On to the Capitol the pageant moved,
While many a Shade of other times, that still Around that grave of grandeur sighing roved,
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.
'Twas then that thou, their Tribune (name which brought
Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,) Didst, from a spirit Rome in vain shall seek To call up in her sons again, thus speak:-
"ROMANS! look round you-on this sacred place There once stood shrines, and gods, and godlike
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 Gov, To blast our strength and rot us into slaves, Here, on our great forefathers' glorious graves? It cannot be-rise up, ye Mighty Dead,
If we, the living, are too weak to crush These tyrant priests, that o'er your empire tread, Till all but ROMANS at ROME's tameness blush!"
"Happy PALMYRA! in thy desert domes,
Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss; And thou, whose pillars are but silent homes
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!"
Mary Magdalen.-Her Story.-Numerous Pictures of her.-Correggio.-Guido.-Raphael, etc.-Canova's two exquisite Statues.-The Somariva Magdalen-Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's
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,
For the stork's brood, superb Persepolis! Thrice happy both that your extinguish'd race Have left no embers-no half-living traceNo slaves, to crawl around the once-proud spot, Till past renown in present shame's forgot; While ROME, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks, If lone and lifeless through a desert hurl'd, Would wear more true magnificence than decks The assembled thrones of all the existing world-having been written, as Ginguené asserts, to the young SteROME, ROME alone, is haunted, stain'd, and cursed, Through every spot her princely TIBER laves, By living human things-the deadliest, worst, That earth engenders-tyrants and their slaves!
1 For a description of these banners, see Notes.
1 The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning "Spirto gentil," is supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have been addressed to Rienzi; but there is much more evidence of its
phen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome. That Petrarch, however, was filled with high and patriotic hopes by the first measures of this extraordinary man, ap pears from one of his letters, quoted by De Cercenu, where he says: "Pour tout dire, en un mot, j'atteste, non comme 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."
And make that bright revealment known To hearts less trusting than thy own- All is affecting, cheering, grand;
The kindliest record ever given, Even under God's own kindly hand,
Of what Repentance wins from Heaven!
No wonder, MARY, that thy face,
In all its touching light of tears, Should meet us in each holy place,
Where man before his GOD appears, Hopeless-were he not taught to see All hope in Him who pardon'd thee! No wonder that the painter's skill
Should oft have triumph'd in the power Of keeping thee most lovely still
Throughout thy sorrow's bitterest hourThat soft CORREGGIO should diffuse
His melting shadows round thy form; 'That GUIDO's pale unearthly hues
Should, in portraying thee, grow warm: That all-from the ideal, grand, Inimitable Roman hand,
Down to the small, enamelling touch
Of smooth CARLINO-should delight In picturing her who "loved so much," And was, in spite of sin, so bright!
But, MARY, 'mong the best essays Of Genius and of Art to raise A semblance of those weeping eyes- A vision, worthy of the sphere Thy faith hath given thee in the skies, And in the hearts of all men here, Not one hath equall'd, hath come nigh CANOVA'S fancy; oh, not one Hath made thee feel, and live, and die In tears away, as he hath done, In those bright images, more bright With true expression's breathing light Than ever yet beneath the stroke Of chisel into life awoke!
The one,' pourtraying what thou wert In thy first grief, while yet the flower Of those young beauties was unhurt
By sorrow's slow consuming power, And mingling earth's luxurious grace With Heaven's subliming thoughts so well, We gaze, and know not in which place
Such beauty most was form'd to dwell!The other, as thou look'dst when years Of fasting, penitence, and tears Had worn thee down-and ne'er did Art With half such mental power express The ruin which a breaking heart
Spreads, by degrees, o'er loveliness! Those wasted arms, that keep the trace, Even now, of all their youthful graceThose tresses, of thy charms the last Whose pride forsook thee, wildly cast
1 This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which 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 possession of the Count Somariva, at Paris.
Those features, even in fading worth The freshest smiles to others given, And those sunk eyes, that see not earth, But whose last looks are full of Heaven! Wonderful artist! praise like mine-
Though springing from a soul that feels Deep worship of those works divine, Where Genius all his light reveals- Is little to the words that came From him, thy peer in art and fame, Whom I have known, by day, by night, Hang o'er thy marble with delight, And, while his lingering hand would steal O'er every grace the taper's rays,' Give thee, with all the generous zeal Such master-spirits only feel,
That best of fame-a rival's praise!
A Visit to the House where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warens.-Their Menage.-Its Grossness.-Claude Anet.-Reverence with which the Spot is now visited.-Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.-Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene.-Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.-Impostures of Men of Genius.-Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc.
STRANGE power of Genius, that can throw O'er all that's vicious, weak, and low, Such magic lights, such rainbow dyes, As dazzle even the steadiest eyes! About a century since, or near, A middle-aged Madame lived here, With character, even worse than most Such middle-aged Madames can boast. Her footman was-to gloss it over With the most gentle term-her lover; Nor yet so jealous of the truth
And charms of this impartial fair, As to deny a pauper youth,
Who join'd their snug ménage, his share And there they lived, this precious three, With just as little sense or notion Of what the world calls decency,
As hath the sea-calf in the ocean. And, doubtless, 'mong the grave, and good, And gentle of their neighbourhood, If known at all, they were but known As strange, low people, low and bad- Madame, herself, to footmen prone,
And her young pauper, all but mad. Who could have thought this very spot
Would, one day, be a sort of shrine, Where-all its grosser taints forgot, Or gilt by Fancy till they shine- Pilgrims would meet, from many a shore, To trace each mouldering chamber o'er;
1 Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, by the light of a small candle.
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, first- Not 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 dwelt-- 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 forget- This narrow valley, and the song
Of its small murmuring rivulet- The flitting 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 more 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 employ- Of 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 is- How 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 sod- What sensibility may fall
From its false lip, what plans to bless, While home, friends, kindred, country, all, Lie waste beneath its selfishness- How, 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-worstSublimest meanest in creation!
« ForrigeFortsæt » |