Softly responsive; and, attuned to all Those vernal charms of sight and sound, appeared
Smooth space of turf which from the guardian
fort Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April green, In coolest climes too fugitive, might even here Plead with the sovereign Sun for longer stay Than his unmitigated beams allow,
Nor plead in vain, if beauty could preserve, From mortal change, aught that is born on earth
Or doth on time depend.
Of that high Convent-crested cliff I stood, Modest Savona! over all did brood
A pure poetic Spirit-as the breeze,
Mild as the verdure, fresh-the sunshine,
Thy gentle Chiabrera !—not a stone, Mural or level with the trodden floor, In Church or Chapel, if my curious quest Missed not the truth, retains a single name Of young or old, warrior, or saint, or sage, 240 To whose dear memories his sepulchral verse Paid simple tribute, such as might have flowed From the clear spring of a plain English heart, Say rather, one in native fellowship
With all who want not skill to couple grief 245 With praise, as genuine admiration prompts. The grief, the praise, are severed from their dust,
Yet in his page the records of that worth Survive, uninjured;-glory then to words, Honour to word-preserving Arts, and hail Ye kindred local influences that still, If Hope's familiar whispers merit faith,
Await my steps when they the breezy height Shall range of philosophic Tusculum; Or Sabine vales explored inspire a wish To meet the shade of Horace by the side Of his Blandusian fount; or I invoke His presence to point out the spot where once He sate, and eulogised with earnest pen Peace, leisure, freedom, moderate desires; 260 And all the immunities of rural life
Extolled, behind Vacuna's crumbling fane. Or let me loiter, soothed with what is given, Nor asking more, on that delicious Bay, Parthenope's Domain-Virgilian haunt, Illustrated with never-dying verse, And, by the Poet's laurel-shaded tomb, Age after age to Pilgrims from all lands Endeared.
And who-if not a man as cold 269 In heart as dull in brain-while pacing ground Chosen by Rome's legendary Bards, high minds Out of her early struggles well inspired
To localize heroic acts-could look
Upon the spots with undelighted eye,
Though even to their last syllable the Lays 275 And very names of those who gave them birth Have perished?-Verily, to her utmost depth, Imagination feels what Reason fears not To recognize, the lasting virtue lodged In those bold fictions that, by deeds assigned To the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race, And others like in fame, created Powers With attributes from History derived, By Poesy irradiate, and yet graced, Through marvellous felicity of skill,
With something more propitious to high aims Than either, pent within her separate sphere, Can oft with justice claim.
Union with those primeval energies
To virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your height Christian Traditions! at my Spirit's call Descend, and, on the brow of ancient Rome As she survives in ruin, manifest Your glories mingled with the brightest hues Of her memorial halo, fading, fading, But never to be extinct while Earth endures. O come, if undishonoured by the prayer, From all her Sanctuaries!-Open for my feet Ye Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse 299 Of the Devout, as, 'mid your glooms convened For safety, they of yore enclasped the Cross On knees that ceased from trembling, or intoned Their orisons with voices half-suppressed, But sometimes heard, or fancied to be heard, Even at this hour.
And thou Mamertine prison, 305 Into that vault receive me from whose depth Issues, revealed in no presumptuous vision, Albeit lifting human to divine,
A Saint, the Church's Rock, the mystic Keys Grasped in his hand; and lo! with upright sword
Prefiguring his own impendent doom, The Apostle of the Gentiles; both prepared To suffer pains with heathen scorn and hate Inflicted;-blessed Men, for so to Heaven They follow their dear Lord!
Time flows-nor winds, 315 Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course, But many a benefit borne upon his breast For human-kind sinks out of sight, is gone, No one knows how; nor seldom is put forth An angry arm that snatches good away, Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream
Has to our generation brought and brings Innumerable gains; yet we, who now Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely To a chilled age, most pitiably shut out From that which is and actuates, by forms, Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact Minutely linked with diligence uninspired, Unrectified, unguided, unsustained,
By godlike insight. To this fate is doomed 330 Science, wide-spread and spreading still as be Her conquests, in the world of sense made known.
So with the internal mind it fares; and so With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear Of vital principle's controlling law,
To her purblind guide Expediency; and so Suffers religious faith. Elate with view Of what is won, we overlook or scorn The best that should keep pace with it, and must,
Else more and more the general mind will
Even as if bent on perishing.
There lives No faculty within us which the Soul
spare, and humblest earthly Weal demands, For dignity not placed beyond her reach, Zealous co-operation of all means
Given or acquired, to raise us from the mire, And liberate our hearts from low pursuits. By gross Utilities enslaved we need More of ennobling impulse from the past, If to the future aught of good must come Sounder and therefore holier than the ends Which, in the giddiness of self-applause, We covet as supreme. O grant the crown That Wisdom wears, or take his treacherous staff
From Knowledge!-If the Muse, whom I have
This day, be mistress of a single pearl Fit to be placed in that pure diadem; Then, not in vain, under these chestnut boughs Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul To transports from the secondary founts Flowing of time and place, and paid to both Due homage; nor shall fruitlessly have striven, By love of beauty moved, to enshrine in verse Accordant meditations, which in times Vexed and disordered, as our own, may shed Influence, at least among a scattered few, 366 To soberness of mind and peace of heart Friendly; as here to my repose hath been This flowering broom's dear neighbourhood, the light
And murmur issuing from yon pendent flood, And all the varied landscape. Let us now 371 Rise, and to-morrow greet magnificent Rome.1
THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO AT ROME.
I SAW far off the dark top of a Pine Look like a cloud- -a slender stem the tie That bound it to its native earth--poised high 'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, Striving in peace each other to outshine. But when I learned the Tree was living there, Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's care, Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine! The rescued Pine-tree, with its sky so bright And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home, 1 See Note.
« PreviousContinue » |