/'///^ . 
 
THE TEMPLE OF MEMORY. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 GILBERT AND RIYTNGTON, PRINTERS, 
 ST. JOHN'S SQUARE. 
 
THE 
 
 TEMPLE OF MEMOEY. 
 
 KENELM HENRY DIGBY. 
 
 " Magna vis est Memoriae, nescio quid horrendum, profunda et 
 infinita mu tiplidtas ; et hoc animus est, et hoc ego ipse sum." 
 S. AUGUST. CONFESS., lib. x. c. 26. 
 
 Honfcmt : 
 
 LONGMANS, GEEEN, EEADEE, AND DYEE. 
 1874. 
 
STACK 
 
PEEFACB. 
 
 THE object of this Poem was to visit, with the aid 
 of St. Augustin, some of the wonders of Memory. 
 There are added autobiographical sketches com- 
 prising various remarkable characters, public events, 
 artistic scenes, and even personal incidents con- 
 nected with them, in which it was thought the 
 general reader might take an interest. 
 
 747 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PRELUDE 1 
 
 CANTO II. 
 OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 CANTO III. 
 OF YOUTH 31 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 OF SCENERY 60 
 
 CANTO Y. 
 OF JOYFUL MOMENTS . . . . . .85 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 OF SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS 95 
 
 CANTO VII. 
 OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURES 135 
 
 CANTO VIII. 
 
 OF LOVE 194 
 
 t 
 
Vlll CONTENTS. 
 
 CANTO IX. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 OF BOOKS 203 
 
 CANTO X. 
 OF HAPPY THOUGHTS -*">*.<:. . . . . 219 
 
 CANTO XI. 
 
 OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC 237 
 
 CANTO XII. 
 OF HOPE ALLIED TO MEMORY 268 
 
THE TEMPLE OF MEMOBY. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 Or temples and their wonders poets sing, 
 
 Who through past ages oft their flight will wing 
 
 Towards Egypt and the ancient domes of Nile, 
 
 To Tibur's banks or the ^Egean Isle. 
 
 What do not men there measure, scan, describe ? 
 
 What will not then explain each learned scribe ? 
 
 Karnac or Ammon the first temple built 
 
 After the Deluge consequent on guilt, 
 
 Great Temple of the Pharoahs this they know, 
 
 And Dandour in the Nubian deserts low, 
 
 No less Dracontia and the Pyramids, 
 
 Which last to class with temples nought forbids ; 
 
 To others monolithic do they speed, 
 
 Their sculptured forms and strange inscriptions read, 
 
 To Balbec and Palmyra where the sun 
 
 Was worshipp'd once, nor would they e'er have done 
 
 Till that of Belus they beheld still lower 
 
 Where once had stood famed Babel's haughty tower. 
 
 B 
 
2 CANTO I. 
 
 Then Esneh, Denderah, Persepolis 
 
 Attract them on ; nor Luxor would they miss. 
 
 For such a study they extend their span 
 
 To Pandoo Koolies of grave Hindostan ; 
 
 Cambodia, Siam, Angkor showing all 
 
 Whole cities form'd of temples great and small. 
 
 They pierce through sacred woods, Olympia near, 
 
 Where men would Jupiter and Juno fear. 
 
 Then they would scan the temple over Python, 
 
 There too to gaze and meditate and sigh on 
 
 Apollo's Delphic shrine ; or they will stand 
 
 On lofty summits in the Grecian land. 
 
 Of whispers, secrets, things sublime and old 
 
 Within these porches graver men have told. 
 
 But I would visit what exceeds their walls 
 
 Of Memories the vast capacious halls ! 
 
 The farthest bounds of India thus surpass'd 
 
 For temples here though not in ruins, last ; 
 
 As many there are too as there are minds ; 
 
 Whole cities of them therefore thus one finds. 
 
 One of the smallest I propose to show 
 
 That can be found in any land I know. 
 
 But there's no want of guides if we should call 
 
 Others to show what's greater to us all. 
 
 Each is mysterious, such as still defies 
 
 The longest searching of created eyes 
 
 To scan its depths, its wonders to explain, 
 
 Which render human efforts wholly vain 
 
PKELTJDE. 3 
 
 Its visions clear, inexplicable so, 
 
 Divinely granted that is all we know 
 
 In which our whole past life will ever stay, 
 
 Where long ago seems but the other day 
 
 In ancient silence standing thus apart, 
 
 Alone though nearest, dearest, to our heart, 
 
 Constructed in us yet commanding ever 
 
 Such wide horizons that no vast endeavour 
 
 Can reach the limits of their farthest span 
 
 To teach, inspire, enchant, arid comfort man. 
 
 Wherever found, however small and low, 
 
 Exhaustless wealth this Temple can bestow, 
 
 Not merely archives personal, and old, 
 
 Of which the worth to owners can't be told, 
 
 But titles to all wealth, though some may be 
 
 In presence of them quite unconsciously ; 
 
 For in this temple condescends to dwell 
 
 God, the true God in this most ancient cell. 
 
 Older than all the others that they knew 
 
 For this existed ere their walls were new. 
 
 To have Him absent there some will attempt ; 
 
 But none from the idea are exempt, 
 
 While all around will past experience lie, 
 
 In one stupendous, new reality. 
 
 To see no wonder here some will endeavour, 
 
 But there it stands a mystery for ever. 
 
 " Oh, what a wondrous place ! " Saint Austin cries, 1 
 
 " And how it all my scrutiny defies ! 
 
 1 Confess., lib. x. 
 B 2 
 
4 CANTO I. 
 
 Impenetrable sanctuary deep ! 
 
 I feel a kind of horror o'er me creep 
 
 When there, as though the Infinite I pass 
 
 And think on what my nature can amass. 
 
 Who can but enter here and never feel 
 
 A certain faintness o'er his senses steal 
 
 As if he'd lost himself as I feel lost 
 
 Not as if the firmament I cross'd 
 
 To scan the stars and distance infinite 
 
 Or what this globe of earth reveals to sight, 
 
 But lost in this Hall of Memory I find 
 
 "Pis there that's wholly lost thus my own mind. 
 
 For Mem'ry is my mind, myself, nought nearer 
 
 To myself that is to me, and nought dearer. 
 
 In these domains, in this vast Palace strange, 
 
 Quite countless images themselves will range, 
 
 Enter'd through all the senses as a door 
 
 And showing as I pass still more and more. 
 
 Some are at first sight visible. But others 
 
 By dint of toil and searching one discovers 
 
 Each as if saying ' Is it me you seek ? ' 
 
 As if my hand would each still distant keep, 
 
 Until at last from some dark cave I draw 
 
 What I desire and what once I saw ; 
 
 When the first yield their place to what will follow, 
 
 Backwards receding, till, perhaps to-morrow 
 
 They also may be calPd by me desiring 
 
 To serve some theme on which I am inquiring. 
 
 While what seems strangest, what I know full well 
 
 Is that forgetfulness itself will dwell 
 
PEELUDE. 5 
 
 Within this hall. Since having things forgot 
 
 Once on a time when I could find them not, 
 
 I can remember ; though forgetting so 
 
 Is of my memory the murderous foe. 5 ' 
 
 ; Gainst whom we hear Simonides will rise 
 
 And to exclude him thenceforth even tries. 
 
 Such is this temple grand beyond all thought, 
 
 With what the heart must love, for ever fraught. 
 
 Yet, passing strange, the herd of mortals pass, 
 
 Heedless whatever treasures they amass. 
 
 The great creative mandate has raised here 
 
 A temple that has mysteries most dear. 
 
 The mighty Parent, in all just and wise, 
 
 Has left within it great powers to surprise. 
 
 Free as the breath or as the light of Heav'n 
 
 The secret sweets of Memory has given 
 
 To us who find within its ample store 
 
 The Past with all its charms, and even more 
 
 That shines with brighter hues than when at first 
 
 Its real objects on our sight had burst, 
 
 With nobler features than our vision knew 
 
 Of what was present genuine and new. 
 
 Here thought's associations form the spell 
 
 By which we open all of what we tell. 
 
 A secret union ever there remains 
 
 To furnish poets with their pensive strains. 
 
 A name, a flow'r, a song, a passing breath 
 
 Of perfumed air restores what's lost by death. 
 
 Through bygone things we take our daily walk ; 
 
 And with those pass'd away again we talk. 
 
6 CANTO I. 
 
 'Midst close connected scenes we wander long, 
 And hear within us a sweet, thoughtful song 
 Still finding in what strikes each hour our eye 
 The spots and moments we have long gone by. 
 All that we ever saw or heard returns 
 Through mazy walks ; and wanton Fancy burns, 
 Enchanted with what comes to us entire 
 All that in secret we most love, admire. 
 Our former footsteps thus through life we see 
 Leading us back through past felicity, 
 With curious art to kindle every feeling 
 That age or distance had from us been stealing. 
 Inhaling sweetness like the bees in spring 
 That o'er each garden happy nights will wing, 
 We from dull, dark oblivion rescued thus, 
 Can find the food that best will nourish us. 
 Such dulcet spoils, so charming and select 
 We in these magic scenes can aye collect 
 And even still what doth enchant our taste 
 When elsewhere life becomes a dreary waste. 
 And yet, pilgrims false ! ye would elude 
 The debt of fond and faithful gratitude ! 
 " Here," saith the deep Augustin, " I feel terror 
 Mingled with great surprise to see the error 
 Of men who go so far but to admire 
 The tops of mountains, higher still and higher, 
 The ocean waves, vast rivers flowing far, 
 And watch the movement of each star by star, 
 And yet this greatest wonder they pass by 
 Unmoved, un train' d, its marvels to descry." 
 
PEELUDB. 
 
 Granted free access to its countless store, 
 The Fane divine is never thought of more. 
 Hearing of Ephesus men will not tire. 
 All fabled magic vaults they will admire. 
 Pythagoras and Zoroaster they 
 Opine their wondering visitors repay ; 
 Temples of Thebes and Memphis they consult, 
 Egypt, Chaldsea with the same result. 
 But what surpasses fiction and its dreams 
 To win their admiration never seems, 
 Like things they call occult of nature's power 
 Of sorcerers and fairies in their bower 
 Hermetic and oracular and vain 
 With Trismegistus and the Sybil's strain ; 
 And so 'tis left in point of fact to few 
 What here is found to wonder at and view. 
 
 With reverential steps then let each speed 
 As Pilgrims will the shrine they visit heed, 
 To this mysterious cell and witness thus 
 The various treasures that it shows to us, 
 Of all conditions, fortunes, and desires 
 Whose hearts and minds it taaches and inspires. 
 
 Our project may indeed disturb and vex 
 Some thus invited of the sterner sex ; 
 But never will be wanting on this quest 
 Those whom Mnemosyne esteems the best. 
 Herself a nymph, with daughters fair around, 
 'Tis women who to follow her are found ; 
 
8 CANTO II. 
 
 So vain that boast of Tacitus when he 
 
 Said, men were most attach'd to memory ; 
 
 As if 'twere not to those who shed most tears 
 
 That in this temple all the past appears 
 
 To last the longest ; we might say, for ever ; 
 
 For when are female minds forgetful ? Never. 
 
 In this their hall retentive is like Heav'n, 
 
 So much is treasured there, transform'd, forgiven. 
 
 By woman, good deeds never are forgot, 
 
 'Tis faults alone that with her tears she'll blot. 
 
 But this is a digression, and so we 
 
 Must hasten now the shrine itself to see. 
 
 The first who come forth from this mystic cell 
 Have seen their youth of which they'd all things tell, 
 Like Lamartine and countless others more 
 Who enter thus again their nursery door ; 
 As if to prove what Martial said of yore 
 That memory can all things thus restore. 
 " 'Tis twice to live when so the past we see 
 Brought back," he said, " by keen-eyed memory." 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 A HEEO for our tales already found, 
 
 To search for one we need not look around- 
 
OF CHILDHOOD. 9 
 
 Although no Hector, as he'll freely own, 
 It is his Hall of Memory that's shown ; 
 Within which lie of course things vain and small, 
 But mercy yet may shine upon them all. 
 
 So now, as Saint Augustin said ol yore, 
 Let us within and all these depths explore 
 These numerous, immense retreats so vast 
 Where are found all things that we thought were 
 
 past 
 
 Peopled as if with an infinity 
 Of images which move through memory, 
 Like him reviewing all, almost with dread 
 In the long chambers through which we are led, 
 The first displaying Amaranthine bowers 
 And fill'd with what we once thought fading 
 
 flowers ; 
 
 For e'en the wildest though now fetter'd found 
 Seem here more sweet than when they deck'd the 
 
 ground. 
 
 'Tis portraits of a family of course 
 
 Which always prove at lirst the main resource ; 
 
 And since 'tis his experience that is here 
 
 Thus early must things personal appear. 
 
 When Meleagre fear'd his hearer's blame 
 
 As being too loquacious, without shame, 
 
 To prattle personalities so led, 
 
 To them he with good humour, merely said, 
 
10 CANTO II. 
 
 May you too live to prattle just like me 
 To live again by aid of memory. 
 
 In an old church at Tilton you can see 
 
 Some monuments of fair antiquity. 
 
 But know that even before William came 
 
 In England (only with a change of name) 
 
 His family was mark'd as settled there 
 
 (Not many titles can with that compare.) 
 
 'Tis proved that in one long, unbroken line 
 
 In which some bold Crusaders nobly shine 
 
 Down from the Conquest he can clearly see 
 
 The roots and branches of his Saxon tree. 
 
 His mother to sweet Devonshire he'll trace, 
 
 Which may explain in part her lovely face ; 
 
 For origins are things almost to scare 
 
 From age to age reviving as it were. 
 
 Of influential kinsmen she could boast ; 
 
 But of all ties of blood what pleased her most 
 
 Were those by which she knew that she was bound 
 
 To the good Abbe Edgeworth so renown'd, 
 
 Whose rosary enshrined within a shell 
 
 Is as a holy relic treasured well. 
 
 His father for each grace and art revered, 
 
 Was loved, respected, and to most endear'd. 
 
 He painted with a passion for his art 
 
 Of which his grandfather partook in part, 
 
 Who left his children portraits of the King, 
 
 Each still esteem'd a kind of heirloom thing, 
 
OF CHILDHOOD. 11 
 
 Attesting what a friendship long had grown 
 
 Between him and the monarch he would own 
 
 As with his son so long as he had life, 
 
 Who also hated William and his wife. 
 
 These are all miniatures ; but vast and grand 
 
 Were many paintings by his father's hand. 
 
 He painted well and he could work in gold, 
 
 Repairing clocks and watches artist bold, 
 
 He'd take them all to pieces, and what's more, 
 
 Restore them then to what they were before. 
 
 He was a skilful turner too as well 
 
 And as for skating none could him excel ; 
 
 Nor yet in any other sport could they 
 
 Surpass him in a fair gymnastic way. 
 
 I used to hear he'd say with pride I own, 
 
 That long at Sherborne his great leap was shown. 
 
 He was a landscape gardener too as well 
 
 As his own lake groves rustic piles could tell. 
 
 He was a Hebrew scholar, and he wrote 
 
 Lectures and many other things of note. 
 
 He seem'd a kind of Lord on his domain 
 
 Where peace for great and small alike would reign. 
 
 But what in Mem'ry's Hall be granted must 
 
 Is that he was a man supremely just 
 
 For being which, at last, he sutfer'd much. 
 
 But what would you now have ? since life is such. 
 
 He'd do a righteous act, and then reject 
 
 What others from their virtue would expect ; 
 
 While some whose object he must needs oppose 
 
 Became his open and embitter'd foes. 
 
12 CANTO II. 
 
 Two sisters die,d when he was but a child ; 
 
 In his mind's eye he sees them angels mild. 
 
 His own loved brother, of heroic mould, 
 
 Though young saw much that minstrels should have 
 
 told. 
 
 Through Spain he travell'd, and in France was he 
 Loved, he suspects, somewhat mysteriously. 
 Of others near then 'tis enough to tell, 
 That they were just and sought to do all well. 
 His father and his mother pass'd away 
 When he was but a stripling, you might say. 
 Ah, with what love he saw that figure tall 
 Pacing so thoughtful from their lofty Hall 
 To wander in his groves so robed the while 
 As if he felt that in a little while 
 He must leave all things that on earth were dear ; 
 Though till his last month none for him did fear. 
 Ah, with what grief he left those walks and lawns 
 Where first he ran as life's sweet morning 
 
 dawns ! 
 
 But so it is with man, the primal grief 
 Lies far too deep from words to find relief, 
 While the mere small results that seem external 
 Are yielding sorrow that we think eternal ; 
 Then later came the grief of griefs for man ; 
 His mother died. Yet see her still he can ; 
 And near her portrait, as if side by side, 
 Does Mem'ry paint the mourning far and wide 
 When forty miles of people form'd the host 
 That follow'd one whom they stili loved the most. 
 
OF CHILDHOOD. 13 
 
 Oh, verdant Isle that still so honours death, 
 Love thee he will and to his latest breath. 
 
 But to ancestral themes he would return ; 
 
 With grief that's felt he would not long sojourn. 
 
 His grandfather was Member for Kildare ; 
 
 To that fact he can always safely swear. 
 
 Within that Parliament in College Green 
 
 One night the only sober Member seen 
 
 Saith he was that grave ancestor of mine 
 
 Who in a wig and ruffles I see shine. 
 
 The next day colleagues flock'd within his hall 
 
 To hear from him what they'd been doing all ; 
 
 For he, they said, was never known to drink, 
 
 So to apply to him is best, they think. 
 
 Arid yet that old society was then 
 
 Composed of well-bred and most polish'd men. 
 
 Well he remembers when he was a child 
 
 How greatest nobles were of manners mild. 
 
 The Lords and Ladies of those times were gay 
 
 And brought up somewhat in the French Court 
 
 way. 
 
 Their manners far more courteous were, I vow, 
 Than any that in England we see now. 
 On them while yet a child he loved to call 
 So gentle and affectionate were all. 
 But back to his grandfather let us go ; 
 Dead long before, of him did others know. 
 
CANTO II. 
 
 He saw King James the Second in his flight ; 
 
 The Boyne had seen him, 'twas towards close of night. 
 
 Just at the break of day was heard the sound 
 
 Of horsemen amongst whom poor James was found ; 
 
 He held his arm bent sharp across his eyes, 
 
 His slouch'd hat too conceals the King who flies. 
 
 But his grandfather knew him far too well 
 
 Not to detect him as he used to tell. 
 
 Loyal to the Stuarts he remain'd, 
 
 Till Hanoverians much of him complain'd : 
 
 But being known, and surnamed as " the good," 
 
 That he might have his whims 'twas understood ; 
 
 We might relate some tales about his hat, 
 
 And when he'd wear it, but I leave out that. 
 
 His great-grandfather with his son can be 
 
 By means of Portraits, in his Memory. 
 
 I think he was call'd Bishop of Dromore 
 
 Or was it Elphin ? lawn sleeves they both wore 
 
 The father and his son, I've heard, together, 
 
 But to know more would not outweigh a feather. 
 
 Father and son both wore their mitres long ; 
 
 That fact alone would not prove either wrong ; 
 
 But which Dromore was or which was Elphin, 
 
 Will hardly matter now indeed a pin. 
 
 He only knows when one of them had died, 
 
 His wife too soon was buried at his side. 
 
 The pomp of funerals, in those days great, 
 
 Accelerated he did hear her fate ; 
 
 For she so toil'd with preparations wide 
 
 That ere the stately pageant she too died. 
 
OF CHILDHOOD. 15 
 
 But when they open'd next time that grim vault 
 
 That she had struggled the spectators thought. 
 
 With horror struck, her coffin they had found 
 
 Reversed, as no one left it, on the ground. 
 
 Ah, what avail their pomps and titles now 
 
 Which those who sprung from them should disavow? 
 
 Not that ancestral names he would disdain, 
 
 But that some honours only leave a stain 
 
 You understand me, just a spot, a touch 
 
 I would not for the world now say too much ; 
 
 Though if there be a thing that all should hate 
 
 'Tis when men give up truth to please the State ; 
 
 Perhaps it all seem'd right unto their eyes, 
 
 For circumstance e'en duty oft defies ; 
 
 While some of intellect have no great store, 
 
 And cannot play the part of Thomas More ; 
 
 For people born so high are sometimes low 
 
 In understanding and will act just so. 
 
 There are in life enigmas like the Sphinx 
 
 That seem to some to speak not e'en by winks 
 
 Clear, one might think for all men of good will 
 
 As dark as Erebus for others still. 
 
 Alcseus says it, Mitylene's boast ; 
 
 Yet later times afforded proof the most. 
 
 I do not say that this to his applies. 
 
 'Twas in the time that all the mischief lies ; 
 
 The age itself is circumstance for some 
 
 Who innocently then to evil come. 
 
 Both these at least were well loved by the King ; 
 
 But now of lighter themes I'll lighter sing 1 , 
 
16 CANTO II. 
 
 While straying through his Memory's great Hall 
 Observing, showing things, both great and small. 
 Though here in sober truth he needs must own 
 That evil things at first are to be shown. 
 Nature's own childhood is a sorry thing, 
 Of which in fact no Poet ought to sing. 
 For oft these tales of " Nature, noble, pure," 
 Are merely " fudge ;" of that we may be sure. 
 At least if all in childhood were like him 
 They can't rejoice much in each early whim, 
 Though to their nurse's arms they can trace 
 Like him impressions nothing can efface. 
 For he remembers well a day and hoar 
 Ere on his feet to walk he had the power. 
 Left all to nature, we should freely own 
 The seeds of vice in us are thickly sown. 
 Falsehood, theft, cruelty, and even pride 
 Were found between them empire to divide 
 In that small state we call the mind of man 
 Just when his strength and life itself began. 
 Thus did he boast of seeing wondrous sights 
 Merely from reading the Arabian Nights ; 
 Though no one he appear'd indeed to shock, 
 When saying he had seen the bird called " Rock," 
 Just as he pass'd the lower farthest lawn, 
 Which made his hearers only smile or yawn 
 So thoroughly aware he thinks were they 
 That children will such wanton falsehoods say. 
 " Yes, he had seen the Rock come from the South," 
 And full of false details was his bold mouth ; 
 
OE CHILDHOOD. L7 
 
 While with expanded eyes on them he'd stare, 
 And all dishevell'd raised stood up his hair. 
 " A gentle breeze did waft that bird along, 
 And motionless he seem'd 'twixt vast wings strong, 
 On which his body rested while he sped 
 As if between two banners widely spread ! 
 The flying beast with plumes of silk he saw, 
 And his ferocious looks fill'd him with awe, 
 Though he seem'd trighten'd like a surprised fowl 
 Or the chimera or some hideous ghoul." 
 He had his own description, I must own, 
 Yet terrible, Fromentin then not known ; 
 He thought himself no doubt then wondrous clever. 
 Each hearer laugh'd and said but " Well, I never ! " 
 Of a sly relish too for common theft 
 This early age is seldom quite bereft ; 
 Though things seem'd often left thus in his way 
 As if expressly, why I cannot say, 
 It must be own'd, for some fresh foolish job 
 E'en his own father he would gladly rob, 
 To buy a magic-lantern thus mean 
 Or else a fine electrical machine ; 
 80 that when hearing of the felon's fate 
 He'd slyly to himself all this relate. 
 Then to have childhood's cruel passions known 
 He simply has to think but on his own 
 Keeping bluebottle flies in jails of card, 
 Pretending all the time he was their guard, 
 Until, as with an odious tyrant's scoff, 
 He'd pull them out, and have their heads cut off, 
 
 c 
 
18 CANTO II. 
 
 " That age is without pity," said the Greeks, 
 And like the Anthologia this deed speaks. 
 The pride alone he grants seem'd much to differ 
 From that of adults when their ways are stiffer ; 
 For as to shunning poor boys and their chat 
 Of course he never dreamt or thought of that. 
 But in abhorrence of all just control 
 Pride might still boast of being in him whole. 
 'Tis thus in brief within his Mem'ry's Hall, 
 We find a useful caveat for all ; 
 So that the cant of new Philosophy 
 Which hates the doctrine of Theology 
 Reversing all its views of human things 
 And aping boastful Poets with their wings, 
 Weighs in my mind now just as light as chaff; 
 I don't reply to it at all. I laugh. 
 
 Still the first years of all our lives may be 
 At times a theme of harmless minstrelsy ; 
 As I must freely own with this protest, 
 Proceeding then at once to sing the rest. 
 Days of our childhood ! Oh, how strange, 
 Through these now each of us can range. 
 Sweet Geashill, how he loves to find 
 Thy hills and groves and heaths in mind ! 
 Let each one his own memories tell 
 " One as another is as well," 
 As Musset said it was the whim 
 Of a strange dog to follow him, 
 
OF CHILDHOOD. 19 
 
 While saying to itself the while, 
 " I want a morning to beguile, 
 And this first comer is for me 
 As good as any one can be." 
 So follow just as did that dog 
 And after him proceed to jog. 
 'Twill not be as I greatly fear 
 The Angel's music you will hear 
 As did Lamartine when he sought 
 In memory his childish thought ; a 
 But you will hear of things that may 
 Be done by all boys in their play. 
 Yes follow him through Geashill's lawn 
 At noontide, evening, or at dawn. 
 See how in purple distance loom 
 The mountain ranges of sleeve bloom, 
 While as if reaching to their base 
 One vast expanse of heath you trace. 
 What frolics in the gardens near 
 With rustic lads to him so dear, 
 Assisting him to build, contrive 
 Some precious structure to survive 
 With which his childish heart feels blest, 
 The last improvement always best. 
 See how they change, dig, cut, destroy 
 While fancy free will act the boy. 
 Then to the long yard he'll repair 
 For all things seem collected there 
 
 a Preface des Meditations Poetiques. 
 C 2 
 
20 CANTO II. 
 
 The horses, mules, each eve e'en cows, 
 Landau and chariot, coach and ploughs, 
 Rough carts on which 'tis sport to climb 
 And feel supreme the bliss each time. 
 He'll try to mount the piles of peat, 
 Or fling a sod at those he'd meet ; 
 He'll view with awe and much surprise 
 The forge from which the sparkle flies 
 As the grim smith within strikes hard, 
 And dread he cannot quite discard ; 
 Or, farther on, he'll gaze and pop 
 Within the carpenter's loved shop 
 Where on the sly he makes for him 
 The very thing that suits his whim 
 Some boat, some carriage for the hound 
 That harness'd then with him must bound. 
 While the man work'd for him he'd spout 
 Some poem he had just found out, 
 Some play of Shakspeare or some fun ; 
 For payment this was all he won. 
 But while he wrought and listen'd so 
 No greater joy both seem'd to know. 
 You'd think the page was learn'd by heart, 
 So well was acted then his part, 
 While still each cast a furtive eye 
 Lest some informer should pass by, 
 When 'neath the shavings quick was cast 
 The toy cart or the boat and mast, 
 The heavy work resumed again 
 That none of either should complain. 
 
OF CHILDHOOD. 21 
 
 Forsooth that yard a rural village seems 
 
 With workmen, shops, doors, thatch'd roofs it so 
 
 teems. 
 
 A huge round white tower in which pigeons dwell 
 Had for each pair its comfortable cell, 
 Near which the busy bees in well-thatch'd hives 
 Though somewhat dreaded, spent their happy 
 
 lives. 
 
 Aged mules had stables near the upper gate 
 Where ducks and geese and turkeys congregate. 
 A magpie with its head on one side there, 
 (Though no one ever thought he said a prayer) 
 Did hop about and watch all things below, 
 The whole creation represented so. 
 Far from the West, and that was all he knew, 
 Bathed in a golden light when first in view, 
 The cows came back each evening from the moor 
 With bent, old women, witches, he felt sure, 
 Who had to milk them, so they walk'd along 
 Smoking short pipes or chanting some wild song. 
 The dairy, with its stately, high capp'd dame, 
 The porter with his truck right droll though lame, 
 A well of which the water was so pure 
 That for long years the same it would endure, 
 For lime and making mortar snow-white nooks, 
 The frequent cawing of some distant rooks, 
 The granary with stone steps whence you throw 
 Some missiles on the passengers below, 
 The sound of flails upon the threshing-floor, 
 The top left open of the only door, 
 
22 CANTO II. 
 
 Through which a cloud of dust is often seen 
 
 That issues from the winnowing machine, 
 
 The lofty gable with its spacious wall 
 
 'Gainst which the stable boys will play at ball, 
 
 When these are mention'd nought seems left to add 
 
 Eespecting the surroundings of this lad. 
 
 Yet, to resume our former tone, 
 
 There were some other things, I own. 
 
 For in a porch some poor were fed ; 
 
 One of whom fill'd his soul with dread ; 
 
 For she was mad and walk'd alone, 
 
 Seeming to think the yard her own, 
 
 When she would dine there with the rest, 
 
 Who always gave her up the best ; 
 
 Though he'd with pleasure see her go, 
 
 Her mutterings alarm'd him so, 
 
 When he would meet her in the grove 
 
 And to look careless always strove. 
 
 Behind the stables was a plot 
 
 For playing a most favour'd spot, 
 
 W r ith ricks of hay and straw so nice 
 
 Though full he knew of rats and mice. 
 
 Then to this " haggard " he'll away 
 
 To sport and climb and roll on hay, 
 
 Or farther still the lawn beyond, 
 
 He'll to the fair and spacious pond. 
 
 Ah, there he never can forget 
 
 The rocks he raised, his feet so wet, 
 
 Or lifting ivy with his hand 
 
 He'll read the lines affecting grand 
 
OF CHILDHOOD, 23 
 
 On moss-clad temples that display 
 What a loved father wish'd to say ; 
 Or then come hack to some fair room 
 Where only solemn paintings loom 
 He sees himself on mother's knee 
 So full of love and nameless glee. 
 Then past the hounds of lawn and wood 
 O'er ancient ruins oft he stood, 
 Ancestral that still bore the name 
 Of grave Offalia's honour'd dame, 
 Whither once came that Digby brave 
 Who Geashill's castle vow'd to save, 
 The first of all his race who pass'd 
 From England where his birth was cast, 
 Receiving for reward the hand 
 Of that great Lady and her land. 
 
 But what will Memory not show 
 Unlocking things that once pass'd so ? 
 To Charleville they visits paid 
 Where even while a child he stay'd. 
 A vast grey castle there was found, 
 That could be seen for miles around, 
 So tall its highest round-tower stood 
 Above the deep and ancient wood ; 
 " A second home," he says, " to me, 
 Its hosts seem'd willing it should be." 
 Their daughter to his childish eye 
 Seem'd more a vision in the sky, 
 
24 CANTO II. 
 
 So beautiful, so gentle, fair, 
 
 Nought earthly could with her compare. 
 
 Such then was that now living type 
 
 Of genius and of talent ripe, 
 
 That new Comma's antique grace 
 
 Which London in her talk can trace. 
 
 Thus early scenes like these began 
 
 To mould afresh the future man, 
 
 For the last Minstrel's famous Lay 
 
 Was read already at that day. 
 
 Then childhood had its wonders too, 
 
 Which sometimes its attention drew, 
 
 Some puzzling questions of its own, 
 
 Respecting things not clearly known. 
 
 One instance for a moment take ; 
 
 At Charleville they made a lake, 
 
 Extensive like an inland sea, 
 
 At least such then it seem'd to be, 
 
 To which bis father's swans one morn, 
 
 Fled from the pond where they were born, 
 
 Though seven long miles of country lay 
 
 Between them even more they say. 
 
 / / 
 
 How came they thus to leave their pond, 
 For Charleville so far beyond ? 
 It certainly was not in sight, 
 They'd never flown to such a height. 
 Who told them thither to repair, 
 Winging their course through liquid air ? 
 But this of science seems to smatter, 
 Let's leave it for another matter. 
 
OF CHILDHOOD. 25 
 
 The Lady of this castle vast 
 
 Seems now still living, not as past. 
 
 Her sweet, wild tales, her noble air, 
 
 Her kind receptions, all are there. 
 
 'Twas she who in his hand first placed 
 
 A hrush that sketches might be traced. 
 
 It was her lord who did provoke 
 
 With gifts to draw his favour' d oak 
 
 Some children of whom he was one ; 
 
 'Twas heav'n when thither they were gone. 
 
 The prize he won he still can see, 
 
 'Twas Gilpin's forest scenery 
 
 In which she wrote with her own hand 
 
 Some verses eulogistic, bland. 
 
 Then pray now give me leave to sing 
 
 Of childhood's ways a lightsome thing, 
 
 But somehow which can charm us yet 
 
 And which we seldom quite forget. 
 
 Thus always was he at some work 
 
 In which a later taste would lurk. 
 
 He built an abbey four feet high, 
 
 In which his pets in coffins lie, 
 
 Made by their carpenter, aged man, 
 
 Who'd laugh as only rustics can. 
 
 Beneath the floor, in a dark vault 
 
 His linnet lay, near whom he brought 
 
 His other birds when they were dead 
 
 And coffin'd, for whom prayers he said. 
 
 Each had its epitaph above 
 
 That breathed at least his childish love, 
 
26 CANTO II. 
 
 The mourners being corks so many 
 The church had no more space for any. 
 Thus as he drew his early breath 
 He seems to make a play of death, 
 A presage as it were of what 
 In future years should be his lot. 
 
 But there were also pastimes bright, 
 
 Offsprings of Fancy, joy, and light, 
 
 In which the picturesque could mingle, 
 
 Of which an instance I would single. 
 
 You'd think Saint Michael's Mount he'd seen, 
 
 Such piles will o'er the water lean. 
 
 The maids would vow they'd blast his rocks 
 
 For making him wear dirty socks ; 
 
 But what cared he for all their jeers ; 
 
 Higher each day his mount appears, 
 
 Though sometimes stones would slide away, 
 
 No longer as he piled them stay ; 
 
 And then to fetch these out again 
 
 He'd give them fresh cause to complain. 
 
 These maids thus come across us now 
 
 Demand some mention any how. 
 
 Ah ! how could families get on 
 
 If their kind race should once be gone ? 
 
 No love seem'd lost between the pair, 
 
 For he would make selection there ; 
 
 He'd always one especial friend, 
 
 For whom he used to shout or send, 
 
OF CHILDHOOD. 27 
 
 Till others both of them would chaff, 
 
 As if they gave them cause to laugh. 
 
 One day his elders dining out, 
 
 He said they'd have a boating bout. 
 
 There was a bark could hold them all, 
 
 E'en ere they got the Norway yawl. 
 
 This bark which served them in that line 
 
 Was made out of a pipe of wine 
 
 By his own brothers, well made too, 
 
 By dint of pitch at least 'twould do. 
 
 The parties so invited thought 
 
 The day would prove with gladness fraught ; 
 
 Alone refused to go the cook, 
 
 Who of the thing disliked the look. 
 
 And yet I'm sure he did his best, 
 
 Providing well for every guest. 
 
 But still she'd only shake her head 
 
 And to the kitchen back he sped. 
 
 The fare escapes his memory, 
 
 Excepting leaves of gooseberry. 
 
 For no disaster were they ready, 
 
 Though somehow nought seem'd over-steady, 
 
 Till a raw stable boy and tall 
 
 Must rise, and did upset them all. 
 
 The pond was deep. It seem'd a riddle 
 
 How none sank much above their middle. 
 
 Each with her hair all streaming down, 
 
 No tucking up of any gown. 
 
 (From that resource beyond all aid 
 
 Was each poor floundering boat-wreck'd maid.) 
 
28 CANTO II. 
 
 No shriek, no cry, no word did break 
 The silence of the placid lake. 
 They waded to the shore, when, oh ! 
 Once landed, who the rest could show ? 
 The cook, who heard their screams, came out, 
 And laughing told them not to shout ; 
 For at each step they took on shore 
 They shriek' d and bellow'd more and more ; 
 As if but just escaped from death 
 They'd make the most of all their breath. 
 She said that having had their outing 
 They really should stop their shouting ; 
 Though rather damp, she said that they 
 Might boat again some other day. 
 Right pleased within herself to think 
 That she had not been there to sink. 
 
 'Twere long to tell the childish sports 
 To which that early age resorts, 
 When feet to tickle seem'd such fun 
 Or else some lobby race to run. 
 There was a tall old shepherd there 
 Who always had a witty air, 
 As when with Jonas and some maid, 
 He'd teach them how night-lines were laid, 
 Or even show them where their hand 
 Some crawfish might pull out to land. 
 This wild yet somewhat mystic man 
 To please him will do all he can ; 
 
OF CHILDHOOD. 29 
 
 Yet was there somewhat in his air 
 
 Which you would wish had not been there. 
 
 No one knew all that he had seen, 
 
 No, nor in " risings " where he'd been, 
 
 Though absent for some days, he came 
 
 Back with some wounds of doubtful fame. 
 
 If not a wizard, yet was he 
 
 One who would deal in prophecy. 
 
 The boy did not quite like the man, 
 
 Who oft to talk of him began, 
 
 Still eyeing him from head to feet 
 
 Made merry by some droll conceit, 
 
 When with a wink at others he 
 
 Would say things that were sure to be 
 
 Not savouring of much devotion ; 
 
 Of what was meant youth had no notion ; 
 
 While Jonas would reprove him much 
 
 For all insinuation such, 
 
 Saying how cautious men should be 
 
 In using language rather free 
 
 Before a child however small, 
 
 Who not the less may heed it all, 
 
 Reproof well meant ; but only more 
 
 Remember' d were the words before ; 
 
 For words like matches often lie 
 
 Till friction some one will apply, 
 
 When will be found their true intent 
 
 And all the consequences meant. 
 
 This servant Jonas was his pride, 
 
 'Twas he who taught him how to ride. 
 
30 CANTO II. 
 
 An English lad he was and fair ; 
 
 He never has forgot his air 
 
 Which exercised on him such power 
 
 That he loved England from that hour. 
 
 To ride a pony without spurs 
 
 A grown-up boy of course demurs ; 
 
 But it was somewhat strange to see 
 
 A child that liked such bravery. 
 
 Jonas would make the pony rear, 
 
 Young master on him without fear, 
 
 " Rear for a feed of oats," he'd say, 
 
 The pony did it every day ; 
 
 Though oft fell on the boy's own limb 
 
 The lash that was not meant for him. 
 
 At last to please himself would rise 
 
 The pony, causing much surprise. 
 
 Sly Jonas would the cause ignore, 
 
 But then he whipp'd his legs no more. 
 
 Then too the children would perform 
 
 Some Play, dramatic taste to form. 
 
 The lady's part was given to him, 
 
 The maids would dress him to their whim. 
 
 Though sometimes when there was a hitch 
 
 He had but leave to play a witch, 
 
 So early did great Shakspeare's fire 
 
 Awaken thoughts that could inspire. 
 
 Then, what did frighten maids the most, 
 
 Of which he made his loudest boast, 
 
 Was a machine electric that 
 
 Could send forth sparkles like a cat, 
 
CANTO III. OP YOUTH. 31 
 
 And even give them awful shocks 
 At which the bravest never mocks. 
 But all the while what he liked best 
 Was drawing with a wondrous zest, 
 Though the first colours that he knew, 
 Of which he often stole a few, 
 Were washerwomen's blue cakes flat, 
 Which to his purpose came so pat, 
 When father's pictures he would copy, 
 However some might whisper " Folly ! " 
 
 From memory's temple thus comes glad 
 Each stranger now no longer sad, 
 Refresh'd with childhood's brightest gleams, 
 Once more brought back in more than dreams. 
 For all seems real to his view, 
 As if it had commenced anew. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 OF YOUTH. 
 
 THIS temple has its gardens wide, 
 Its thick dark groves in which men hide 
 Even themselves perhaps at times, 
 Whatever elsewhere sound the chimes. 
 
32 CANTO m. 
 
 Thus grave Saint Austin says that he 
 
 Walks through the fields of memory ; 
 
 He enters too its countless caves, 
 
 And all he finds within them braves. 
 
 " Hither and thither do I go, 
 
 I run, I fly, I wander so, 
 
 I penetrate the depths profound, 
 
 No limits, and no bars are found ! 
 
 So vast is memory's domain 
 
 Where man can thus be said to reign." 
 
 Such are his words, and we must try 
 
 To pass thus through our memory. 
 
 Then here as now within we pass'd 
 
 A room still nobler than the last 
 
 Receives us, and we breathe an air 
 
 Perfumed, with all things graceful there. 
 
 For here too each can find his youth 
 
 Existing as it was in truth ; 
 
 Or rather indeed much more fine 
 
 Since the ideal now is thine, 
 
 And nought perhaps this temple yields 
 
 Resembling more Elysian fields 
 
 Than when the mind is led to stray 
 
 With that so clad companion gay: 
 
 So now some dog-like volunteer 
 
 Will follow him, still keeping near 
 
 As if what will his fancy strike 
 
 Can interest both of them alike. 
 
OF YOUTH. 33 
 
 Now from the Emerald Isle sent, 
 
 To London he directed went. 
 
 That night there came on such a gale 
 
 They had some high steep rocks to scale ; 
 
 As, farther on, they heard it said, 
 
 There's no attaining Holy Head. 
 
 He and two others only dared 
 
 To leave the ship. The rest were scared 
 
 -by the rough tossing of the boat 
 
 Which to such dreadful rocks- must float, 
 
 And soon the crags they had to climb 
 
 Were found right fearful at the time, 
 
 Thence in the dark they had to jog 
 
 Over wild heaths much like a bog. 
 
 For good six miles, he says, our way 
 
 Across that lonely desert lay. 
 
 Arrived in London, he was led 
 
 By his conductor to a bed 
 
 Where in a garret up on high 
 
 The " White Horse Cellar " saw him lie. 
 
 The window he can daily see, 
 
 And not alone in memory. 
 
 The next day by his mother's rule 
 
 At once he was despatched to school. 
 
 School, college, and vacations long 
 
 But glanced at in a rambling song 
 
 May please although details* must be 
 
 Still fraught with personality. 
 
 Then now he finds the Thames will flow 
 
 As full as ever long ago. 
 
 D 
 
CANTO III. 
 
 'Tis Petersham and Eichmond here 
 With all their beauty that appear ; 
 For in the former village stood, 
 Begirt with gardens and with wood, 
 The classic home to which he went 
 When to a master he was sent, 
 Who train'd some boys for future strife 
 In college or some other life. 
 No master lads could ever find 
 More skilful* cordial, gay, and kind ; 
 Though the first evening he came there 
 With eyes wide open he did stare, 
 When sent for to hear stern reproof 
 For having whistled 'neath that roof ; 
 " For such an art he might be able, 
 But he must use it in the stable," 
 Said his new master, looking grave, 
 Disgusted at his boyish stave ; 
 Paternal art ! for father, too, 
 From whistling lively pleasure drew ; 
 As Boyd, the Poet, who translated 
 Dante, has in some verses stated. 
 It seem'd a rather stern beginning, 
 Though told he might indulge in singing ; 
 But never after was he blamed, 
 Though often made to feel ashamed ; 
 When quite, unable to refrain 
 From laughing in hysteric vein, 
 While conjugating verbs in French 
 Of which some sounds he would retrench ; 
 
OF YOUTH. 35 
 
 As when he had to say, " Je souhaite" 
 Dilemma that he can't forget, 
 When further he must say of us 
 That you, he, they, we all sweat thus ; 
 For scholar's titter, master's frown, 
 When bidding him at last " sit down." 
 He seems to hear and witness now, 
 Though he did all he could, he'd vow, 
 This strange wild humour to suppress, 
 Which plagued him more than he'd express. 
 Arithmetic he also found 
 A weight that crush'd him to the ground ; 
 For when all others left for play, 
 Shut up alone there he must stay. 
 But still these troubles grave were light, 
 And far more often things went right. 
 Avaunt the verbs and rule of three ! 
 Look how all haste to have their spree ! 
 And then indeed the wherry flew, 
 Or else the four-oar'd prouder crew 
 With such a speed and such a grace 
 As Richmond lads would quite efface. 
 sweet Durells, ye brothers twain, 
 How ye did brave the sun or rain ! 
 What walks to Hampton or to Kew ! 
 Your sorrows then, I think, were few. 
 O'er Hounslow Heath they'd wander long 
 Nought they could dream of then was wrong ; 
 Unless perhaps when once he stray 'd 
 Alone, and felt somewhat dismay'd 
 D 2 
 
36 CAKTO III. 
 
 I 
 
 To think he might be growing old, 
 
 As thicker fingers plainly told. 
 
 Well for an instant he did think 
 
 'Twas so, and feel his spirits sink. 
 
 For somehow grown-up men appear'd 
 
 As things not to his mind endear'd. 
 
 The master had some daughters fair, 
 
 As Petersham seem'd quite aware. 
 
 His wife, a mother for them all, 
 
 The best of women they would call ; 
 
 And then their friends they sometimes 
 
 saw, 
 Who seem'd from their dropp'd words to 
 
 draw 
 
 Some food for a right hearty laugh, 
 When simple lads like them they'd chaff. 
 For saying that a stile they chose 
 To sit on just at evening's close 
 Merely to hear the nightingale, 
 Which, said they, was an idle tale ; 
 Shaking their heads, as if with glee, 
 To mark such great simplicity. 
 Ladies these were of witty sort, 
 With whom at times they could consort. 
 But often, too, some men most wise 
 Would ask them, to their great surprise, 
 To pass an evening with them where 
 They'd breathe the summer's dulcet air, 
 Upon the Eel Pie Island's green, 
 Where Poets, Sages, could be seen ; 
 
OF YOUTH. 37 
 
 Disdaining not with lads to sit, 
 
 While they in silence heard their wit ; 
 
 For Spenser, Butler, Englefield 
 
 Could mental banquets ever yield ; 
 
 At least to Master, who'd enjoy 
 
 What scarce was reach'd by lad or boy. 
 
 Perhaps what suited them as well 
 
 Was some wild ghostly tale to tell ; 
 
 Though they had one who scouted it, 
 
 And thought thereby to show his wit. 
 
 " No, not for him the grandame's stave, 
 
 He would all midnight spectres brave." 
 
 " Come," said our hero, " sixpence bet 
 
 (What follows he can ne'er forget), 
 
 That you, my comrade, will be found 
 
 This night in the old churchyard's ground." 
 
 " Done," he replied ; the thing was settled ; 
 
 For by this vaunting all felt nettled. 
 
 To climb their fence was never hard ; 
 
 So fear on that score they discard. 
 
 Indeed, he does remember him, 
 
 Of one lad who'd indulge a whim, 
 
 And had just climb'd it in the dark, 
 
 Though merely for a boyish lark ; 
 
 Who, scarcely over it, did stare 
 
 When caught in the Doctor's arms there. 
 
 But now, to return to their bet, 
 
 On winning which his mind was set. 
 
 The evening closed 'twas darkness all ; 
 
 They reach' d the churchyard's low stone- wall ; 
 
38 CANTO III. 
 
 But scarce the other gave him time 
 
 Completely over it to climb, 
 
 When, what did him indeed provoke, 
 
 The silence of the night was broke 
 
 By flying feet that loudly smote 
 
 With of his iron heels the note 
 
 The pavement all along the lane. 
 
 Alone, of course, he won't remain. 
 
 Back to the Doctor's was he sped ; 
 
 He found the frighten'd youth in bed. 
 
 " What childish things," I hear you say. 
 
 Well, to what's grander let us stray. 
 
 While living near to London so, 
 
 There happen'd what you now must know. 
 
 It was to see the entry grand 
 
 (Thing then he did not understand,) 
 
 Of the French King from Hartwell sped, 
 
 And by our own Prince thither led. 
 
 To Piccadilly then invited 
 
 A boy like him felt much delighted. 
 
 The Charlevilles were living there 
 
 Where the hall-door led down a stair, 
 
 Next to the corner of Park Lane 
 
 Where does our royal Duke remain. 
 
 The rooms with guests fill'd to the brim 
 
 With e'en some small smart lads like him, 
 
 The royal train pass'd slowly by ; 
 
 Quite moist appear'd to him each eye ; 
 
 When lo the King himself they see 
 
 Saluting their own balcony ; 
 
OF YOUTH. 39 
 
 For Louis knew that Lady well, 
 
 Of whom, in fact, she'd often tell. 
 
 But now the time has hasten'd on ; 
 
 And so to Cambridge he is gone 
 
 From Petersham with comrades three, 
 
 Bound like himself for Trinity. 
 
 Adieu, dear Doctor, Sampson named ; 
 
 By other tongues thou shouldst be famed ; 
 
 Though thou wouldst not forsake them then, 
 
 Thou lasting friend, thou best of men. 
 
 Old Cambridge, wise past all dispute, 
 
 At first did not their notions suit. 
 
 The river of such narrow span, 
 
 The dreary wastes through which it ran, 
 
 The tubs that then did serve for boats, 
 
 On which the drowsy fen-man floats, 
 
 Did fill them with a silent scorn, 
 
 And make them feel indeed forlorn. 
 
 But soon they found a sharpish lad 
 
 Who at the lock his dwelling had, 
 
 To let out there the wretched craft 
 
 At which these of the Thames so laugh'd. 
 
 By dint of their persuasions long 
 
 This youth felt there was something wrong 
 
 In all his notions of a funny ; 
 
 And then encouraged by their money, 
 
 He set about constructing there 
 
 Some boats at which the fen would stare. 
 
 In brief, before they left the place, 
 
 The University could trace 
 
40 CAtfTO III. 
 
 The good effects of their renown 
 That follow'd them from London down, 
 Until their eight-oar'd races proved 
 A school for art they long had loved ; 
 And then observe to him was given 
 The task of pulling number seven 
 In Trinity's first famous boat, 
 As sooth already some one wrote. 
 For never, and the fact he'll swear, 
 Was it with him once beaten there. 
 Founder of boating on the Cam, 
 By memory taught he'll say, " I am." 
 
 'Twere long to tell the watery way 
 
 They oft pursued by night and day ; 
 
 For e'en by night they'd sometimes float, 
 
 And sleep for some hours in their boat ; 
 
 Till frosts would stiffen so a cloak, 
 
 That when before the dawn they woke, 
 
 'Twould stand upright upon its edge 
 
 When leaving then the bank of sledge, 
 
 And bringing back as trophies grand 
 
 The boards that warn'd all from the land. 
 
 But here in Memory he'll find 
 
 Recorded one feat of this kind, 
 
 Which is of all so much the best 
 
 That others may in silence rest. 
 
 The Wash, the mighty Wash, they've cross'd, 
 
 So often by wild tempests toss ; d. 
 
OF YOUTH. 41 
 
 At Ely sleeping on they went 
 
 Upon their project all intent. 
 
 At Lynn they found a Pilot brave 
 
 Who never fear'd the Ocean's wave ; 
 
 They soon lost wholly sight of land ; 
 
 They only see some banks of sand, 
 
 On which huge seals would lie or play, 
 
 Or waddle back there as they may, 
 
 Though somehow not much frighten'd then, 
 
 They'd bask while row'd our Cambridge men. 
 
 Observe the sea o'er which they pass 
 
 Is smooth now as a looking-glass, 
 
 Till Boston's high tower comes in sight, 
 
 To which they pull with all their might ; 
 
 Ascending then the river there, 
 
 By evening they became aware 
 
 Of Tattersal's grand ruin'd pile, 
 
 Where they agreed to sleep the while. 
 
 Next morning, after day arose, 
 
 They stood in Lincoln's holy close. 
 
 The Sunday all to rest was given ; 
 
 Their eight-oar'd crew felt quite in Heav'n. 
 
 For as they saunter'd fresh and gay, 
 
 They heard what all the town did say. 
 
 The Monday saw them stripp'd and seated, 
 
 By all the population greeted. 
 
 Till reaching Boston things went well, 
 
 But then what follow'd who should tell ? 
 
 The Wash regain'd, they all did say, 
 
 Alas ! we cannot cross to-day. 
 
42 CANTO III. 
 
 " There are not six days in the year 
 
 That such a boat can cross," they hear ; 
 
 It ne'er could live among those waves ; 
 
 See how the water swells and raves ; 
 
 Although there's but a gentle wind, 
 
 Impossibility they find ; 
 
 They even fear the angry tide 
 
 That would o'erwhelm their slender side 
 
 Were they to turn to go back ; 
 
 And so they hail a fishing-smack, 
 
 That half their crew may climb on board 
 
 And means of safety thus afford ; 
 
 That lighten' d of its burden so 
 
 Once turn'd, all the whole crew may row. 
 
 So now to Boston back again 
 
 They fly. It's needless to complain. 
 
 But then, oh ! then, what can be done ? 
 
 There's but one way. It soon is won. 
 
 Their boat then mounted on a cart, 
 
 On foot despondingly they start. 
 
 But oh ! how piteously they rue 
 
 The fate of their poor helpless crew ! 
 
 With shoes that only suit the boat, 
 
 Not meant to walk in, but to float ; 
 
 From time to time each sits on stones, 
 
 And his poor feet aloud bemoans. 
 
 Each would his neighbour slily nudge ; 
 
 But onwards thus they needs must trudge, 
 
 Until they reach old Wisbeach town, 
 
 Where their long boat can be let down 
 
OF YOUTH. 43 
 
 Into the Wellen Kiver so ; 
 Down which then to the Cam they row, 
 Whose friendly stream receives once more 
 Their crew familiar with its shore. 
 We need no more details produce, 
 They pass the far-famed Danver Sluice ; 
 They leave "Diania" Bobby there, 
 Whose shelves they ransack'd to find fare. 
 Then on arriving at Backsbight 
 Their eyes beheld a grateful sight ; 
 The University entire 
 Came forth expressly to admire ; 
 For meanwhile newspapers had told 
 The whole of what I here unfold. 
 Judge of the raptures of that day, 
 Which never have quite pass'd away. 
 
 But all this while the schools were not 
 Neglected ; though no learned lot, 
 I think they proved to shame the past, 
 As if nought old should ever last. 
 The sound ol TroAAoi they were still 
 All ancient duties to fulfil. 
 I know indeed that others find 
 Much richer fruits within for mind. 
 Their memories contain a store 
 Of science growing more and more. 
 Saint Austin e'en to it ascribes 
 The wealth of scientific tribes. 
 
44 CANTO III. 
 
 For many notions of this sort 
 
 To memory they must resort, 
 
 Where filed in order strict are found 
 
 Problems and answers all profound. 
 
 Arranged there as it were to hand, 
 
 They have the whole at their command. 
 
 They have but to collect, to know ; 
 
 For knowledge is but acquired so ; 
 
 As e'en the word itself implies 
 
 The process of each one who tries ; 
 
 For cogitare means but this, 
 
 To gather. Nought is then amiss. 
 
 For cogere is to assemble ; 
 
 The words each other thus resemble. 
 
 Interior gatherings so brought 
 
 Form the groundwork of our thought. 
 
 These through the senses have not pass'd ; 
 
 (A thing to make us stand aghast !) 
 
 No colour and no sound have they, 
 
 Smell, taste, or substance, so to say. 
 
 But as for him indeed he'll own 
 
 The mathematics were unknown. 
 
 The properties and laws of number 
 
 Which others learn'd would make him slumber. 
 
 Measure he somewhat more admired ; 
 
 Of Euclid he grew seldom tired. 
 
 Still, to confess the honest truth, 
 
 Much was then wanting to his youth ; 
 
 Much to be desired was left, 
 
 In fact of all was he bereft. 
 
OF YOUTH. 45 
 
 The age of Algebra he'll find 
 
 Never existed in his mind. 
 
 He'd scout it not like Lamartine ; 
 
 He'd only tell of what he's been. 
 
 There's room for all of us to grow ; 
 
 And he would leave things even so. 
 
 Such small arithmetic knew he, 
 
 'Twas strange they gave him his degree. 
 
 He won, to win which no one tries 
 
 (Sole honours), the Norrisian Prize. 
 
 But as the Essay must be printed, 
 
 An opening for him seem'd hinted, 
 
 From being idle to escape ; 
 
 And so to Books of every shape 
 
 He took, to use the common phrase, 
 
 To indicate his later ways, 
 
 When thus to see himself in print 
 
 Seem'd more than if he ruled the mint. 
 
 Though boast of course he always can, 
 
 He never was " a reading man." 
 
 But then in this hall he can see, 
 
 How multiplied his friends could be, 
 
 Whose names are graven in his heart 
 
 To which they such a life impart, 
 
 That memory he scarcely needs, 
 
 To bring back what from him ne'er speeds 
 
 From any power of his being, 
 
 Since memory then seems like seeing. 
 
 The sports which these fond names recall, 
 
 Are represented in this Hall. 
 
46 CANTO III. 
 
 The swimming oft presented scenes, 
 
 Where the true comic intervenes, 
 
 As when you saw the divers rise 
 
 The hair all streaming o'er their eyes, 
 
 While one the sought jug holds on high, 
 
 Where he has been to testify. 
 
 The bathing place may be seen still, 
 
 The field is just above the mill, 
 
 Where he must say they often frown 
 
 On certain striplings of the town 
 
 When they brought soap their limbs to 
 
 lave, 
 
 And whit en 'd with it the clear wave. 
 There for three winters with Flamank, 
 Did he plunge from the Cam's green bank, 
 Having at times to break the ice, 
 Which made the whole thing still more 
 
 nice. 
 
 But then the Cam with narrow sides 
 Is warmer than the Thames with tides. 
 Mark me for once, from here you'll learn 
 Much that the wisest may concern. 
 Their expeditions o'er the fen 
 Used to be greatly talk'd of then. 
 No Hostel on the far-famed Cam 
 Had finer eels than Ely's Lamb : 
 While Backsbite, Clayhithe did not own 
 A sign by which they might be known. 
 Once bound for Ely with a steerer, 
 Who anger'd them not keeping clearer 
 
OF YOUTH. 47 
 
 Of all obstructions on the way, 
 
 At last he broke forth and did say, 
 
 While stuttering as needs he must, 
 
 That " Since he won so little trust, 
 
 Some other (and, for all he cared, 
 
 Some fen-man Ely may have spared) 
 
 Should steer them back ; for in a b bug gy, 
 
 He would drive back, he and P Pug gy." 
 
 Should I now hear censorious muttering 
 
 Objecting to these hints at stuttering, 
 
 I add, since then that youth was cured, 
 
 And so our fun may be endured 
 
 Which Simmias of B,hodes might say 
 
 Was borrow'd from his own quaint way 
 
 Of making " figured verses " so 
 
 That things themselves his lines could show 
 
 By long or short feet, signifying 
 
 The very forms he was describing. 
 
 No doubt 'tis not exactly it, 
 
 Though some resemblance you'll admit. 
 
 They sought him then to pacify, 
 
 With soft, kind words to mollify 
 
 His mind which they had sorely vex'd, 
 
 At which they now felt quite perplex'd. 
 
 That harden'd soul they seem'd to please ; 
 
 Again they drew their breath with ease : 
 
 They praised " his ready eye and skill ; 
 
 'Twas only once that he steer'd ill. 
 
 And that, indeed, was not his fault " 
 
 (No one could say a crab he caught, 
 
48 CANTO III. 
 
 So something else must be invented 
 
 That his resolve may be prevented). 
 
 They said " 'twas all the river's doing 
 
 That would the sedgy bank keep wooing." 
 
 With peace restored they left the Cam 
 
 And merrily soon reach'd the Lamb ! 
 
 Where marching in for supper's sake, 
 
 An utterance did make them quake ; 
 
 It was their stuttering friend, who broke 
 
 His silence, and without a joke, 
 
 While struggling at the dreadful birth 
 
 Of each word that dispell'd their mirth, 
 
 As to the ostler he drew near, 
 
 And found some entrance to his ear, 
 
 Saying, " I want a b b bug gy, 
 
 To drive back with my dog P Pug gy." 
 
 Remonstrances were all in vain. 
 
 So how shall they get back again 
 
 All through the darkness of the night ? 
 
 They did seem in a precious plight. 
 
 For the best four-oar in the dark 
 
 To brave the Cam is madness stark. 
 
 At length their Host produced a man, 
 
 Discover no one else he can, 
 
 Who had a wooden leg, 'tis true, 
 
 But what of that ? he'd surely do. 
 
 They drank their punch and ate their eels, 
 
 And wonder'd how their stutterer feels 
 
 With their new friend then in the boat, 
 
 O'er the black stream again they float ; 
 
OF YOUTH. 49 
 
 But ere proceeding far they found 
 That their long boat had run aground. 
 The Pilot then to get her off, 
 But half a trouser had to doff, 
 So, stepping o'er the gunwale, he 
 Did push her on most quietly; 
 But when he'd join them there again, 
 Alas ! his efforts were in vain. 
 For only think of it ! Oh, Lud ! 
 His wooden leg was in the mud 
 So deeply stuck that though he strain'd 
 (And judge how they for him were pain'd,) 
 'Twas long though he did not once shout 
 Before he'd strength to pull it out. 
 Then without further troubles he 
 Got them back safe to Trinity. 
 Another incident again 
 Must be related in this strain. 
 Womb well's far-famed Menagerie 
 Came to the University. 
 By day all went on as was right, 
 But not so when drew on the night ; 
 For then there was permission given 
 (Though to it no one should be driven,) 
 To all who would but sixpence pay, 
 To enter where the Lion lay. 
 This Lion old was Nero named ; 
 To shrink back each one felt ashamed. 
 Though generally in daring worst, 
 'Twas he that mounted to him first. 
 
 E 
 
50 CANTO III. 
 
 " Stoop," said the Keeper, " pass within," 
 
 He stoop'd and thought not of his skin, 
 
 When with a push and friendly whack 
 
 From one who did much prudence lack 
 
 Applied, and where I need not say, 
 
 But his friend did it all in play, 
 
 He fell upon the Lion there. 
 
 Good gracious, how the beast did stare ! 
 
 How unelastic was his hide, 
 
 As our friend felt his tight, hard side ! 
 
 Who as he raised himself upright, 
 
 Saw the brute lift his eyes so bright, 
 
 As if he wanted just to see 
 
 How tall his visitor might be ! 
 
 While motionless still st retch' d he lay, 
 
 And would no more attention pay 
 
 To him while he did there remain, 
 
 Till the barr'd door did ope again, 
 
 To let him out, when soon he found 
 
 'Twas pleasanter upon the ground ; 
 
 Though at the time he rather thought 
 
 To follow him the others ought. 
 
 The University, it seems, 
 
 Which of no folly ever dreams, 
 
 On hearing where had pass'd a gown 
 
 Order'd the Beasts to leave the town. 
 
 Then some months later they all read 
 
 How in the North had been struck dead 
 
 A Maid of that Menagerie, 
 
 Whom country folks were pleased to see 
 
or YOUTH. 51 
 
 With the great Lion every night 
 As if she felt no mortal fright. 
 So Nero, not at all times tame, 
 Deserved at last his odious name. 
 
 ' But yet there still remains a way 
 Through which this first-fledged youth will 
 
 stray ; 
 
 For all vacations must supply 
 Themes that within us never die, 
 Thanks to this gracious Hall we see 
 Sacred to them and memory. 
 These, short or long, were all quite full 
 Of novel things and beautiful ; 
 The short at Sherborne were spent, 
 To which invited oft he went. 
 At first from the near town he'd post 
 As fitting such a noble host ; 
 And then ere starting from the streets, 
 A fact historical he meets. 
 " On to the Castle, then," said he ; 
 " To the Lodge," whisper'd merrily 
 The Landlord, by this change of name 
 Showing traditions did remain 
 Within his mind ; for Raleigh so 
 Who built the house he well did know 
 Had call'd it while the Castle stood 
 Adjacent buried in the wood. 
 Well, it was all the same to him ; 
 My Lord himself shall hear his whim, 
 E 2 
 
52 CANTO III. 
 
 Who smiled perhaps to think that he 
 
 Would outrage all economy ; 
 
 Since sooth whatever might be vaunted 
 
 A chaise and pair were scarcely wanted, 
 
 The distance being very short ; 
 
 But swells are always of that sort ; 
 
 They must be seen arriving thus, 
 
 To suit such tall young men as us. 
 
 He now might sing some noble themes 
 
 When each thing quite romantic seems 
 
 The trees that Pope's own hand did plant, 
 
 The woods and lawns that rise and slant, 
 
 The ruins of the Castle old, 
 
 Of which the story shan't be told, 
 
 Lest Spelman's readers him should taunt, 
 
 And make an unkind, needless vaunt ; 
 
 The vast and undulating Park, 
 
 The smuggler's oak so huge and stark, 
 
 The miles of shaded pleasure ground, 
 
 Where not a living soul is found ; 
 
 Or, passing to the rooms, he'll see 
 
 Some traces of old history, 
 
 As in the hearth-stone Cromwell broke, 
 
 Sight that would all such youths provoke ; 
 
 For hither with his Press he came 
 
 To print his orders without shame. 
 
 Then on another room's small door 
 
 He saw what did attract him more 
 
 The secret lock which leaves a mark 
 
 That the wise host can aye remark 
 
OE YOUTH. 53 
 
 Each time a person enters there ; 
 
 Of which he thus becomes aware 
 
 Lock that sage Raleigh's will betrays 
 
 To learn all things by cunning ways. 
 
 Then to the roof he'd pass through towers 
 
 To see what suits the moonlit hours 
 
 The lake that slumbers far below, 
 
 The woods that sigh as tempests blow. 
 
 But leaving things which dear may be, 
 
 He can some comic scenes now see. 
 
 My Lord, in London's House of Peers, 
 
 Has voted somewhat, it appears, 
 
 That gives great popular offence ; 
 
 111 blood will never want pretence. 
 
 Though he, politest of old men, 
 
 Did what he thought his duty then. 
 
 So now unto the Castle flows 
 
 A mob that what it wants scarce knows. 
 
 The Lord was absent, but a cook, 
 
 A Frenchman too, did from a nook 
 
 His musket fire off; when the crowd 
 
 In terror fled while screaming loud. 
 
 More anger'd at such rude rough play 
 
 They came back soon another day ; 
 
 When now the yeomanry did come 
 
 For rescue without beat of drum ; 
 
 They saw within the Park around 
 
 Besides the deer were oxen found ; 
 
 But being all in scarlet clad, 
 
 They made the bulls that spied them mad ; 
 
54 CANTO III. 
 
 So as to charge that cavalry 
 Which turn'd and fled immediately ; 
 So that their galloping thus fast 
 Frighten' d the mob till all had pass'd, 
 And Peace at length came hack to tell 
 Of dreadful things that ended well. 
 Then sometimes passing still heyond 
 Of Devonshire he grew quite fond ; 
 So many things he there thought best, 
 His heart still lingers in the West. 
 Thus once to Powderham he'd go, 
 Which Gibbon made him wish to know. 
 So on a brown hired horse he went, 
 To think on all the Courtneys bent. 
 At many doors he had to stop 
 Thirsty with heat to ask a drop 
 Of cider from some maiden's hand, 
 Who always made him understand 
 She'd take no money for the glass ; 
 No, sooth not she, that sweet, kind lass. 
 I wonder if she'd do so now ? 
 It might be question'd, I allow. 
 Then later Grlastonbury would 
 Attract him on through many a wood, 
 Till Downside would receive as guest 
 One who revered its inmates best 
 As well he might those cheerful men, 
 But other types seem'd unknown then. 
 Then with a staunch but lighter friend 
 Some whole vacations he would spend, 
 
OF TOUTS. 55 
 
 On the sly cause of which alliance, 
 
 When told you may place strict reliance, 
 
 Although it seems too strange to tell, 
 
 But all is pictured here right well. 
 
 From reading Scott and Southey's " Cid " 
 
 (The truth exact must not be hid), 
 
 Favyn and Barbazan's " Ordene," 
 
 Lord Berners' Arthur's knightly strain, 
 
 The Palmerin of England too ; 
 
 What was done there he thought he'd do, 
 
 Don Quixote pass'd not through his brain ; 
 
 But still a Knight he would remain ; 
 
 Though all the world should recreant prove, 
 
 That was the type that he would love. 
 
 So that like old Vienna's Hall 
 
 Which still that of the Knights they call 
 
 In the Bourg Palace, Memory 
 
 Can images of that kind see. 
 
 King's College Chapel well you know ; 
 
 His vigil there he kept, although 
 
 He rather he will own felt fright, 
 
 When great Saint Mary's in the night 
 
 Did toll the hour, while he kept 
 
 Most wide awake and not once slept, 
 
 But still went stalking up and down, 
 
 Hearing faint voices from the town. 
 
 You'd hardly think that he could find 
 
 Another student to his mind. 
 
 He did though ; and he does not lie. 
 
 Him he must visit at Marklye. 
 
56 CANTO III. 
 
 There solemn tournaments they hold ; 
 On horseback now the. two behold, 
 Each with a hop-pole for his lance ; 
 Just see the ponies how they prance, 
 Wheel round, rear up, then gallop, charge ; 
 On tumbles he need not enlarge, 
 Especially as his were most, 
 Though he was as skilful as his host. 
 While thus midst Sussex woods they tilt 
 He can avouch no blood was spilt ; 
 Yet this for them did not suffice ; 
 They soon had a more grand device ; 
 They'd ride by night to liurstmonceaux, 
 Like Deloraine so long ago. 
 The only thing was to decide 
 Whom to trust for their secret ride ? 
 Who'd let them in when they should be 
 Return'd from this chivalrous spree ? 
 They thought his brother was the man ; 
 They greatly err'd. I never can 
 Describe his looks ironical, 
 Which seem'd to them so comical, 
 When with grave face and words as stern 
 He said that he would have them learn 
 How he at least would ne'er consent 
 To such a plan. To bed they went. 
 No more was said by them that night ; 
 Besides he both of them did fright. 
 Later, though less disposed to vaunting, 
 A grand adventure was not wanting ; 
 
OP YOUTH. 57 
 
 The very thing 'twas to console 
 
 Him whom such thoughts did still control. 
 
 " The best of friends must part," you know, 
 
 As to his hounds said long ago 
 
 King Dagobert. So then was he 
 
 A lonely wanderer to be 
 
 On leaving his dear comrade there 
 
 That he to Hastings might repair; 
 
 When two miles distant from the town, 
 
 From a deep wood came tripping down 
 
 A Damsel, say of seventeen, 
 
 Most fair, but frightened too, I ween ; 
 
 She said some felon on the road, 
 
 Who just before behind her strode, 
 
 Had with his looks upset her so 
 
 She dreaded quite alone to go. 
 
 She ask'd him therefore would he ride 
 
 While she'd keep walking at his side ? 
 
 Just fancy what was his delight 
 
 At such sweet words and such a sight. 
 
 Together they pursued the way, 
 
 But he forgets what she did say ; 
 
 He only knows that once arrived 
 
 In Memory she has survived ; 
 
 And that his leave of her he took 
 
 More than rewarded by her look ; 
 
 Thenceforth intent in all dark lanes 
 
 To find some other who complains. 
 
 Well later, famed Sainte Palaye read, 
 
 Of Knights continued full his head ; 
 
58 CANTO III. 
 
 So in the Tyrol seeing stand, 
 
 Surrounded by a lake and grand, 
 
 A huge old ruin'd Castle, he 
 
 By moonlight would not recreant be. 
 
 Well Sigismandsbourg was its name, 
 
 To which from Nazareth he came. 
 
 With others then he had the whim 
 
 To leave their car and to it swim. 
 
 As Knights they felt they had a call 
 
 To visit that old haughty wall ; 
 
 To see if there were not within 
 
 Some victim of a felon's sin, 
 
 Some captive fair, perhaps a daughter, 
 
 Only to be approach'd by water. 
 
 Coldness itself still seems to be 
 
 The scene within his memory. 
 
 The water black, the pine-woods too 
 
 Cloud-capt, for still no mists withdrew. 
 
 Those dark pine forests heard the splash 
 
 Of one who from the rocks did dash ; 
 
 Each comrade only shook his head, 
 
 And up to the road was quickly sped. 
 
 CalPd by them all to hasten back, 
 
 He thought he heard them cry, " Alack ! " 
 
 And then Scott's lines occurr'd so pat 
 
 His fate denouncing and all that 
 
 " All that come to my towers are sunk, 
 
 Priest or layman, lover or monk." 
 
 The cold he owns did him appall, 
 
 But he was deaf still to their call. 
 
OF YOUTH. 59 
 
 He landed safely on the shore 
 And found but ruins nothing more. 
 Once landed, nothing there was found 
 But ancient desolation round. 
 A coat of arms upon a shield 
 Was all that the old walls did yield. 
 'Twas quite as well, he no maid scared 
 For such a visit not prepared. 
 So finding no one to deliver, 
 And rather in a state of shiver, 
 He swam back in the moonlit stream 
 While distant owls did hoot and scream ; 
 And then to Lermos on did roll, 
 Well satisfied upon the whole. 
 Then later, on the selfsame tour, 
 That he gain'd somewhat he felt sure ; 
 When vast old Ehrenbreitstein he 
 Can o'er the Ehine at Coblentz see. 
 For to himself 'twas thus he spoke : 
 Here is what's better than a joke ; 
 Since here's a title for some page 
 That may depict the Knightly age ; 
 So Honour's own Broadstone shall be 
 Henceforth the theme most loved by me, 
 
 But other scenes we now must view, 
 For " Long Vacations " not a few 
 Will soon unfold things far more strange 
 As backwards thus through time he'll range. 
 
60 CANTO IV. 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 OF SCENERY. 
 
 THIS ancient temple we must own, 
 
 To great Angustin fearful grown, 
 
 Has mysteries enough to scare 
 
 Those who reflect while entering there, 
 
 'Tis not reality we see, 
 
 But shadows of reality, 
 
 Images enter'd by some sense 
 
 And later to be conjured thence 
 
 A vast deposit of reserve 
 
 Outlines and colours to preserve. 
 
 Still onward let us things explore 
 To find recall'd the days of yore. 
 As in the halls contrived to teach 
 How we can distant countries reach, 
 We see depicted on a scene, 
 The varied sites that intervene, 
 So here, successively unroll'd, 
 Of cities, mountains, forests old, 
 Lakes, gardens, and the mighty streams 
 By which one wanders in one's dreams, 
 Dissolving views o'er land and sea, 
 The Pilgrim to this shrine can see. 
 " Thus," saith Augustin, " I descry, 
 What once I saw of earth and sky ; 
 
OF SCENEET. 61 
 
 All the impressions that I felt 
 From scenery in mind have dwelt 
 The time, place, circumstance and all 
 Are given as painted in this Hall. 
 The beauty stands before my eye, 
 Its colours now before me lie. 
 To those who God will see in this, 
 Such true delights come not amiss. 
 They serve for steps to mount on high 
 To the Creator's Majesty. 
 It is the same with works of art, 
 What rapture have they for the heart ! 
 How paintings, statues, can supply, 
 In works of human industry, 
 Robes, vases, and a thousand things, 
 The beauty that to souls gives wings. 
 'Tis from his soul unto his hands, 
 As each true artist understands, 
 That beauty passes ; and his soul 
 Draws from the unseen the whole. 
 All these in memory appear 
 In vision quite distinct and clear. 
 Thus Carthage is before me still, 
 And each scene, be it what it will, 
 Scenes of my travels or my play ; 
 E'en faces that I saw will stay." 3 
 Then, too, remark the scenes that last 
 In memory though long since past, 
 
 3 Lib. x. 
 
62 CANTO IT. 
 
 Are not invariably as grand 
 
 As those which art will take in hand. 
 
 Fromentin traces all that's fair 
 
 In the Arabic life and air 
 
 To but two contrasts which are found, 
 
 " In a dark nest with light around, 
 
 In a small nook from which you see 
 
 A prospect wide from limits free." 
 
 That both these charms do last in mind, 
 
 Our friend attests ; and both you find 
 
 Much nearer than Arabia, too, 
 
 If " The Welsh Harp " be known to you, 
 
 Or any other rustic spot, 
 
 But artificial or else not ; 
 
 Where summer houses dark as night, 
 
 Still open on a landscape bright. 
 
 Then here he finds another scene, 
 
 In memory will intervene, 
 
 And quite as simple as the last 
 
 On which a raptured eye he'll cast. 
 
 He sees a sunny line of ground 
 
 That rises to clear air around, 
 
 Just at the season when 'tis said, 
 
 " The weather listens overhead," 
 
 On an autumnal afternoon, 
 
 While yielding still bright beauty's boon. 
 
 There stand two Pines with summits flat, 
 
 Italian-like there's only that ; 
 
 Their graceful trunks so slight and tall, 
 
 Rise up majestic over all. 
 
OF SCENEKY. 63 
 
 These graceful and purple forms there 
 Seen against pure and pale blue air, 
 With nothing else but brownish green, 
 By memory's eye are ever seen. 
 These he still sees while he admires, 
 Feeling how little he requires. 
 The memory of sounds as well 
 Recalls the scenes of which he'd tell ; 
 For visions, instantaneous, swift, 
 Arising from them are their gift. 
 Thus Fromentin had these in sight, 
 From hearing barking dogs by night, 
 In Africa, which like a trance, 
 Brought him back once again to France ; 
 As tones were varied, at each sound, 
 
 In some French Province he was found. 
 His country walks far in the West, 
 
 Or South or North with" all the rest, 
 
 The hamlets to which there he came, 
 
 Of which he had forgot the name, 
 
 Were all by him enjoy 'd once more, 
 
 Thanks to his memory's rich store 
 
 And to its enchainments strange 
 
 'Twixt sounds and scenes through which he'd 
 range. 4 
 
 Yet still is there a mystery, 
 
 In scenes recall'd by memory ; 
 
 For what most charms each day our eye 
 
 Is seeing things long since gone by, 
 4 Une Annee dans le Sahel. 
 
64 CANTO IY. 
 
 In each grove, gate, style, hill, or field, 
 Which somehow pleasure past will yield. 
 'Tis not what really we see, 
 That pleases us ; 'tis memory. 
 
 A college life, with long vacations, 
 Makes youth conversant too with nations. 
 Through Belgium to the Alps he pass'd 
 On his first tour, which all surpass'd ; 
 For countries needs must please the more 
 When they show things not seen before ; 
 And sooth ! the continent was then 
 Much stranger to all Englishmen 
 Than it proves now when the same mould 
 Has fashion'd all we there behold. 
 
 In fact an album he kept then, 
 
 Quite comic, not alone from men 
 
 Portray 'd as met with every day, 
 
 Dress'd in some strange, portentous way, 
 
 But from the shapes of things around, 
 
 In every inn and chamber found. 
 
 The basins, jugs, cups, teapots seem'd 
 
 More quaint than could have once been dream' d. 
 
 He'd hold up each before he'd quaff, 
 
 And loud would sound an English laugh ; 
 
 While now you see on every side, 
 
 Things all exported from Cheapside ; 
 
OF SCENERY. 65 
 
 And even Spanish towns, they say, 
 
 Will Anglo-mania betray. 
 
 Madrid in omnibuses meets 
 
 Those who first see her ancient streets ; 
 
 By girls' mantillas are forgot, 
 
 While each man wears his " chimney-pot." 
 
 But this again is a digression ; 
 
 Of scenes it is we must make mention. 
 
 Then fair Geneva's Lake and green, 
 
 By him were for the first time seen ; 
 
 Though Secheron appear'd to be 
 
 More like what we in England see ; 
 
 For not alone you never heard, 
 
 There the disdainful sophist herd, 
 
 The villas and the roads around 
 
 Recall' d where such near home are found ; 
 
 While somewhat of a general air, 
 
 In all things seem'd like what is there. 
 
 The heavy, massive, cumbrous things, 
 
 That continental travel brings, 
 
 At least did bring before our sight, 
 
 Were superseded by what's light ; 
 
 While on good roads he now had flown, 
 
 'Midst well-dress'd people like our own. 
 
 Here later to these villas came 
 
 So many English of old name, 
 
 That at Sir John St. Aubyn's he 
 
 Saw daily a gay company, 
 
 Mix'd with the natives of the place, 
 
 Who left in Memory small trace ; 
 
66 CANTO IV. 
 
 For then they were not quite so free 
 To boast of crimes with liberty 
 As now they seem in that small spot, 
 That centre for the sophist lot. 
 
 'Twere endless were he to tell all 
 
 The views he sees within this hall 
 
 Of memory, since every year, 
 
 He went with some companions dear 
 
 To France or wondrous Switzerland, 
 
 Whose snow-capt mountains are so grand. 
 
 His walks o'er these, long painted here, 
 
 To memory of course are dear. 
 
 For three days, thirty miles each day, 
 
 Continuously did he stray, 
 
 But only once, 'tis fair to add, 
 
 For char-a-bancs could oft be had. 
 
 'Tis very well of course to scoff, 
 
 But shoes must not be let fall off; 
 
 So binding soles and sides together, 
 
 He needs must tie strings round the leather, 
 
 Until he reached a market-place, 
 
 Where he relieved his piteous case. 
 
 Materials for grave history these 
 
 All which recorded here one sees, 
 
 Showing how in the open air, 
 
 Shoes sold were often tried on there. 
 
 Some hills on which now all can climb, 
 
 Were rather dreaded at that time. 
 
OF SCENERY. 67 
 
 The Pilate thus whose top he gain'd, 
 Had for some thirty years remain'd 
 Unvisited. Before day dawns, 
 At three they first will tread its lawns. 
 He and another reach'd the top, 
 The other four half way did stop 
 So dark the forest, steep the rock, 
 'Twas evening seven by the clock, 
 When them all Lucern came to meet, 
 Their well-deserved return to greet. 
 At Dresden he could never boast 
 Of having studied porcelain most ; 
 Though there they met a Yorkshire friend 
 Who went there chiefly for that end. 
 But there they saw the best of kings, 
 The Elbe and Park and other things, 
 Which Frederick Foster liked so well, 
 That there some days they needs must dwell. 
 He thinks what chiefly pleased them there 
 Was Pilnitz on the Elbe so fair. 
 An evening on that river spent, 
 Next morning back to it they went, 
 Saw the King dine, his court to meet, 
 While boys walk'd in with naked feet. 
 Moritzburg too, for hunting famed, 
 Before he leaves here must be named, 
 Where in a lofty hall they find 
 Tusks, skulls, and antlers of each kind. 
 In all these towns what moved him most 
 Was that of which De Stae'l did boast 
 F 2 
 
68 CANTO IV. 
 
 That certain sweetness in the voice 
 Of German women. He'd no choice 
 When at the opera or play- 
 He heard them in their native way. 
 He felt so queer about the heart, 
 Do what he would, the tears would start. 
 At Munich a young actress so 
 Thanking the audience, made him know 
 That whatsoe'er it was with all, 
 At least from his eyes they must fall, 
 So touch' d were both his ear and sense, 
 He could not wholly chase them hence. 
 Cold Berlin and the North alone 
 To him who grieved not were unknown. 
 Instinctively he shunn'd a place 
 Where Bismarck was to leave his trace ; 
 And his imperial master be 
 Famed for that ancient piety 
 Which once was Diocletian's boast, 
 E'en when he tyrannized the most. 5 
 Though even then, at table-d'hotes, 
 The craft on which the Prussian dotes 
 Was praised by tradesmen of Swiss towns 
 With boisterous voice and hideous frowns, 
 Enough to fill you with dismay ; 
 For even then was known the fray. 
 Then, too, though on no purpose bent, 
 To Italy he ravish'd went 
 
 5 He and his colleagues are styled in an inscription 6016- 
 raroi and euo-ejSeVraToi. 
 
or SCENERY. 69 
 
 To Italy as in a dream 
 
 Lit with Hyperion's brightest gleam. 
 
 There Venice saw him dream or rave 
 
 When first he saw her glassy wave 
 
 Or clomb to that proud lofty tower 
 
 To look down at the evening hour 
 
 Upon those roseate purple isles 
 
 Stretching so far and bright for miles 
 
 Along the Adriatic there, 
 
 Reflecting that illumined air. 
 
 Then of Ravenna's silence he 
 
 As if a worshipper would be. 
 
 Theodoric's vast tomb he saw 
 
 And ancient palaces with awe. 
 
 But what deprived him of his breath 
 
 Was to see Classe laid in death. 
 
 He knew its woods of pine would prove 
 
 A haunt for those who Dryden love, 
 
 Byron and Ariosto too 
 
 Whose genius there all poets woo ; 
 
 But, what he never dreamt, he found 
 
 That vast Basilica still sound 
 
 With its huge tower all alone 
 
 Around which spirits seem to moan. 
 
 Then need he add to Rome he went, 
 
 Though hardly as a pilgrim bent. 
 
 There passing in the street he'd see 
 
 The Pope, and down he knelt with glee, 
 
 Received his blessing like the rest, 
 
 And felt that kneeling so is best ; 
 
70 CANTO IV. 
 
 For though the day before he dined 
 With Weld, that Cardinal refined, 
 He wanted no distinction there, 
 But like all common folk to fare. 
 At four each morning when he rose 
 He sought what you would ne'er suppose ; 
 Such was then his most favoured whim 
 That in the Tiber he would swim. 
 The gate called from the people there 
 Beheld him pass ; when some would stare, 
 While working in those vineyards wide, 
 To see how he would breast the tide ; 
 Though all the praise he got for that 
 Was to be calPd " a water rat." 
 A friend he met at Kome, who'd been 
 Once to Frascati, where he'd seen 
 The Cardinal of York, who sat 
 Surrounded with his books, to chat 
 With many who their court would pay 
 To the last Stuart and mark his way. 
 " He spake of England with much praise, 
 As one in whom affection stays. 
 He said he felt as young as ever ; 
 Though quite erect I saw him never. 
 Your Royal Highness was the style 
 Of all who spoke to him the while ; 
 Though all that he retains of state 
 Is at a truly royal rate 
 Still to be driven into Kome 
 As often as he leaves his home." 
 
OF SCENERY. . 71 
 
 Such was his good informant's tale, 
 
 Perhaps with you of some avail. 
 
 How he did sketch and mark things well 
 
 It would be idle now to tell. 
 
 Down dark fresh catacombs he stroll'd 
 
 Which seldom other eyes behold. 
 
 The Via Nomentana knew 
 
 To visit them there were but few. 
 
 But where he greatest rapture won 
 
 Was when he saw the rising sun 
 
 Stream on the portals lofty grand 
 
 Where on long slopes and steps doth stand 
 
 Saint John's great church. What mortal can 
 
 Sing worthily the Lateran ? 
 
 To Subiaco then he'd stray, 
 
 Where holy Benedict did stay, 
 
 Or basking midst pale olive groves 
 
 And sunny hills this sketcher roves, 
 
 To see from heights of Tivoli 
 
 The distant rising majesty 
 
 Of great Saint Peter's matchless pile, 
 
 A glorious setting sun the while 
 
 Colouring all the desert plain 
 
 With a deep ruddy purple stain. 
 
 To all was added then the charm 
 
 Of never having dreamt of harm, 
 
 Of cultivating lowly ways 
 
 As just one of the people strays ; 
 
 Though this, I own, did oft betray 
 
 Him in a simply comic way, 
 
72 CANTO IT. 
 
 As elsewhere when he sought a guide 
 
 A rustic lad who at his side 
 
 Might lead him to the Grande Chartreuse, 
 
 And do whatever he might choose 
 
 As Prefect of their promenade 
 
 Through Dauphiny's romantic glade. 
 
 The hostess of the inn below, 
 
 Who got the boy the way to show, 
 
 Did press our friend with signs of love 
 
 To take with him what " up above " 
 
 She said he'd surely want to find 
 
 For both provisions of some kind. 
 
 He knew those monks in times of old 
 
 Had plate of silver and of gold 
 
 On which their guests were served with fish, 
 
 Though poor the food upon each dish. 
 
 The Revolution had not then 
 
 Pillaged, 'tis true, such holy men. 
 
 Lord Charleville had told him this. 
 
 But what if he should riches miss ? 
 
 What cares an artist for such show ? 
 
 So unprovided thus he'll go. 
 
 Arrived there o'er vast rocks that frown, 
 
 The boy and he both sat them down 
 
 Before the huge kitchen fire there, 
 
 The monks appearing not aware 
 
 That he had led a stranger in 
 
 Who would a better welcome win. 
 
 At last, when asking, hearing that 
 
 'Twas but to follow him he sat 
 
OP SCENERY. 73 
 
 Like one of some poor beggar folk, 
 
 It did not seem to them a joke. 
 
 So then within the Convent led, 
 
 They gave him supper and a bed, 
 
 The first indeed but rancid fare, 
 
 The latter open to the air 
 
 Which iron bars did not exclude, 
 
 To suit, they thought, a stripling rude, 
 
 Perhaps, impressions first cannot 
 
 For all our airs be quite forgot. 
 
 A fellow-guest to him was given 
 
 Whose theme was not exactly Heav'n ; 
 
 Though talk he would while supper lasted 
 
 While in reality they fasted. 
 
 The next day down they walk'd again, 
 
 And reach'd the same inn on the plain. 
 
 He still can see the hostess stand 
 
 As if she well can understand 
 
 That he her offers won't refuse 
 
 As having nothing else to choose. 
 
 With arms akimbo, laughing so, 
 
 The triumph in her eyes did show. 
 
 But how he sings and rambles on ! 
 
 To Germany he must begone. 
 
 There would you have a glorious sight ? 
 
 Leave then Vienna on the right 
 
 Bank, and then mount the wooded hill 
 
 Which all your wishes can fulfil, 
 
 There stands a castle ruin'd now 
 
 Which heard our Richard's captive vow, 
 
CANTO IV. 
 
 At least 'tis said so, while below 
 Rolls the wide river's mighty flow ; 
 From gold to azure changing there 
 When in the evening's glowing air 
 The setting sun with cloud-fringed rays 
 A matchless spectacle displays, 
 As you look up the river then 
 Gazing on beauty shown to men. 
 Then to the Danube's farther shore, 
 R-eplete with legendary lore, 
 He floats through forests wild and gaunt, 
 Which cranes and birds aquatic haunt. 
 Though Presburg was the farthest bound 
 Beyond which he was never found. 
 The Danube down to Presburg flows 
 Through swamps in which the poplar grows, 
 The forest reaching to the shore 
 With of huge trunks full many a store 
 Broken and prostrate, shatter'd, sad, 
 Showing the foree that floods have had. 
 The sandy stream he did admire 
 Which crackled 'neath the boat like fire, 
 Now deep, now shallow, as your pole 
 While down you whirl denotes the whole, 
 The boat still spinning round the while, 
 The sole boat seen for many a mile, 
 Which cannot ever back return, 
 So there as firewood 'twill burn. 
 Large flocks of herons stood all day, 
 Looking so solemn in their way. 
 
OF SCENERY. 75 
 
 Old Hainbourg frowns upon a hill, 
 
 A vestige of the Templars still. 
 
 But Dehim's rock attracts the eye 
 
 As stranger with wild majesty, 
 
 Where the Hungarian frontier's pass'd, 
 
 Till Presburg welcomes you at last. 
 
 With Germany familiar made, 
 
 Back to the Rhine he often stray 'd, 
 
 Each time with sketches none could count, 
 
 He dares not reckon the amount. 
 
 But as I mention scenes he pass'd 
 
 Which in his memory will last, 
 
 I needs must cite the carriage-way 
 
 'Twixt Kattenberg and Schwaz that lay 
 
 Deep in the valley of the Inn 
 
 Which must an artist's rapture win. 
 
 Sketching has twice in all his life 
 
 Involved him in unpleasant strife 
 
 Once at old Strasbourg, where the guard 
 
 Turn'd out against him, looking hard, 
 
 Till, seeing sketches in his book, 
 
 They left him with a friendly look. 
 
 The second onslaught was more fierce, 
 
 When through Lord Warwick's gate he'd 
 
 pierce, 
 
 For driven thence by a crone with shame 
 She bade him speed to whence he came, 
 " Because all sketchers," she did state, 
 " That lord did quite abominate." 
 
76 CANTO IV. 
 
 But still his sketches, faithful all, 
 
 Must yield in interest to the wall 
 
 That now is painted in his mind, 
 
 So far less perfect them he'll find. 
 
 Yet they were not to be despised ; 
 
 By many even they were prized ; 
 
 And Harriden, who kept a shop 
 
 In Cambridge, at 'which many stop, 
 
 Had four of them engraved in colours, 
 
 That all the more they might please others ; 
 
 So that by many were they bought, 
 
 Though now in vain they will be sought. 
 
 Then six or eight he drew on stone, 
 
 A process that was just then known, 
 
 The Lithographic it was call'd, 
 
 The Photographic thus forestall'd, > 
 
 Whereby he multiplied for many 
 
 Views that he thought as good as any. 
 
 But oh, how all these are surpass'd 
 
 By those which in the mind now last, 
 
 Transmitted to his memory thus 
 
 The best academy for us, 
 
 Though, what would not be now expected, 
 
 From others then were not rejected 
 
 The paintings that he can't forget 
 
 Sent to the House called Somerset. 
 
 Still not with them he'd now advance 
 
 Best seeing through the South of France, 
 
 By Koman arch or castle hoary, 
 
 The scene of some romantic story. 
 
OF SCEKEIIY. 77 
 
 'Tis not such sketches that bring back 
 
 Of all his wanderings the track, 
 
 Or clearly set before his eyes 
 
 What once so fill'd him with surprise. 
 
 Ah, no, the sketch-book of the mind 
 
 Is far more truthful he will find ; 
 
 For there he sees not a mere line, 
 
 It is the light itself will shine, 
 
 'Tis varied tints of earth and sky 
 
 Which make the whole reality. 
 
 Alas ! we Painters, with our rules, 
 
 Our earths, and minerals, and tools, 
 
 Can only hope to make the mind 
 
 What we can't show it there to find. 
 
 Without a tacit understanding 
 
 Light is at least past our commanding. 
 
 On canvas sooth we might as well 
 
 Paint letters what we wish to tell 
 
 As here 'tis sunset which we mean, 
 
 Or there 'tis sunrise that is seen ; 
 
 For even a reflected glow 
 
 On water we can scarcely throw. 
 
 No landscape painter more can tell 
 
 Howe'er his art may all excel. 
 
 To pure convention each must bow, 
 
 For there ends all his talent now. 
 
 'Tis only hints we give, appealing 
 
 To Memory to tell our feeling ; 
 
 While there within her shrine we'll boast 
 
 The Beauty that we saw at first, 
 
78 CANTO IV. 
 
 As bright, as eolour'd, and as grand 
 
 As ever deck'd the sea or land. 
 
 Let's hear a noble artist tell, 
 
 Of what he finds in memory's cell. 
 
 " ' Twill seem to you, perhaps, most strange," 
 
 Saith he, " when through past things I range, 
 
 That after years now thirty-five, 
 
 Remembrance can most clear survive 
 
 Of seeing once upon a stroll, 
 
 Sitting with feet within a hole, 
 
 An evening sky whose tints appear 
 
 Now to me thus and quite as clear, 
 
 While breathing just the self-same air 
 
 As when I sat enchanted there 
 
 Of watching all the birds that flew, 
 
 That seem to perch round me anew, 
 
 The windmills with the reef'd-up sails, 
 
 To indicate what calm prevails, 
 
 As if for some faint breath they wait 
 
 Which comes not to relieve their state. 
 
 You ask how things so truly small 
 
 Can rest in memory's proud hall, 
 
 Where e'en the hour by the clock 
 
 Seems told as if high themes to mock ; 
 
 I cannot tell." But nought was there 
 
 To make the skill' d Fromentin stare ; 
 
 For in us all it must be so ; 
 
 The fact alone is what we know. 
 
 In Memory the Danube, Rhine, 
 
 Between their castled heights will shine. 
 
OF SCENERY. 79 
 
 Then in the silence of the dawn, 
 To sweet Montpellier he is drawn ; 
 He sits beneath the chateau d'eau, 
 And marks the rising beams that glow. 
 The Pont du Gard or Nimes is here, 
 The Pope's old Palace will appear, 
 The broad blue waters of the Rhone, 
 Reflecting not the sky's pink tone. 
 Then to Vaucluse with rocks so high, 
 He hastes, and hears poor Petrarch's sigh. 
 The Isle-Barbe with its ruins fair, 
 Lyons still pious will be there. 
 Again these scenes are here that seem 
 Too bright for aught except a dream. 
 Such is that rich Aosta's vale, 
 So shaded with the olive pale, 
 Unnumber'd palaces in sight, 
 Made golden by the morning light, 
 
 The Campanile graceful, tall, 
 
 Rough roseate crags that crown them all. 
 
 Or he sees Garda's clear blue Lake 
 
 When o'er it the pale dawn will break, 
 
 The little coves, the tawny ground, 
 
 Olives the only green thing found, 
 
 While azure faint or deep around 
 
 The tone prevailing all is found. 
 
 Then as a swimmer rather famed, 
 
 Again Geneva must be named. 
 
 Two sites for bathing you see here, 
 
 To him incomparably dear, 
 
80 CANTO IV. 
 
 To whom the Danube, Elbe, and 
 
 Were known to yield such swimming fine, 
 
 As did at Cette of perfumed air 
 
 The blue Mediterranean there. 
 
 The first is formed by two rocks 
 
 Which meet the azure billow's shocks 
 
 Eising together near the town, 
 
 From which you can plunge headlong down 
 
 To ultramarine depths so clear 
 
 That saphires will the ground appear ; 
 
 And he remembers well the day 
 
 When dark dull clouds above them lay, 
 
 That having dived, when he would rise, 
 
 What he thought sky did much surprise 
 
 To see the blue then overhead 
 
 Become so clear since he was sped, 
 
 Until emerging from the wave 
 
 He found all dark, and dull, and grave, 
 
 Just as he'd left it, azure so 
 
 Eeigning but in the depths below. 
 
 The second site is where the Rhone 
 
 Has issued from the lake, and grown 
 
 So rapid that no diver's might 
 
 Can touch the bottom, though in sight. 
 
 There, by a wooded strip of land, 
 
 With no return at your command, 
 
 However skill'd, and bold, and strong, 
 
 You're wafted like a dart along, 
 
 Until you reach the snow-fed line 
 
 Of waters where the Arve will shine, 
 
OF SCENERY. 81 
 
 Where between heat and cold you steer, 
 The most courageous feeling fear ; 
 For once the landing-point below, 
 There's no regaining it, you know. 
 Then running back beneath the shade 
 Of trees to where your clothes were laid, 
 You there may find, as once he did, 
 Some mouse has her new children hid 
 Amidst them w T hile you were away, 
 An incident both rare and gay. 
 But scenes like these are for a few ; 
 And some would never them review, 
 Nor any other chosen spot, 
 Which might for them be all forgot. 
 There are who do not want to find 
 E'en Rome itself within their mind. 
 Thus Casanova would pass on 
 From there, impatient to be gone 
 To Naples, " caring not if he 
 The Vatican should never see." 
 Avowal strange from any tongue, 
 And strangest from a man so young, 
 Who still had nothing seen as yet ; 
 But Janin bids us not forget, 
 That this young man, to vice all given, 
 Could scarcely care so much for Heaven, 
 As to desire once to see near 
 The place that represents it here. 6 
 
 6 Jules Jaiiin, Varietes Litt. 233. 
 
 G 
 
82 CANTO IT. 
 
 But few when young are of this mould ; 
 
 And most, I think, would still behold 
 
 The mystical and beauteous ground 
 
 Where Christ's own Yicar can be found. 
 
 So still in memory they kneel, 
 
 And deep impressions youthful feel. 
 
 But nought is more preserved in mind 
 
 Than scenes and landscapes of such kind. 
 
 How oft in old Eavenna's wood 
 
 Stands he as once spell-bound he stood. 
 
 This mental scenery won't tire 
 
 When Tivoli he will admire, 
 
 And Subiaco's holy Piles, 
 
 Shaded by olive groves for miles. 
 
 Yes, here that valley windeth still, 
 
 Through hanging rocks and woodclad hill, 
 
 The Arno with its classic tale, 
 
 Still flowing through the foliage pale ; 
 
 Ferrara, Milan, then he'll see, 
 
 As if in grand reality. 
 
 From Milan's white Cathedral's top, 
 
 With eyes astonish'd he can stop, 
 
 To mark the blue horizon's line 
 
 Beyond which snows eternal shine 
 
 The mountain's base as faint as air, 
 
 The roundness of the world seen there. 
 
 Then o'er vast rocks, through caves that yawn, 
 
 He climbs to see the golden dawn ; 
 
 E'en as when Dore paints the snow 
 
 He'll watch the shadows and the glow. 
 
OF SCEKERY. 83 
 
 Though even there will still remain 
 Some figures that he'll see again ; 
 As once for all the truth to tell, 
 No mountain pleased him half so well 
 As a bright mounted English lass 
 He met upon the Scheidegg Pass ; 
 Who, with some others, stopp'd her mule 
 To lecture him as fresh from school. 
 Seeing he wore a certain flower, 
 She said it had a fatal power 
 To make him sleep, perhaps too long ; 
 Wearing it so she said was wrong ; 
 And with a maiden's tender frown 
 She bade him quickly throw it down ; 
 Which on the spot he did, and then 
 Away she rode with all her men. 
 Mount Brevent was his highest flight, 
 To gain which one would need the might 
 Of Homer's twenty hands and feet, 
 Scrambling and climbing in the heat, 
 Till at eight thousand and four hundred 
 Feet counted o'er the sea he wonder'd, 
 And would have mounted e'en Mont Blanc, 
 When you'd have heard a higher song, 
 But certain things he need not mention 
 Forced him to give up that intention. 
 Then o'er those mountain regions flown, 
 He finds still more delight to own. 
 On Engelberg's most solemn pile 
 His eyes will rivet for a while ; 
 
84 CANTO IV. 
 
 Or Vallombrosa's dark pine wood 
 Will teach bow men on earth were good : 
 Camaldoli Alvernia's Fane, 
 Invite him once more to remain 
 To listen to each holy word 
 That from these hooded heads he heard ; 
 Or Drachenfeld's grim rocks will show 
 Where, swimming, many years ago, 
 He cross'd the Rhine and won the prize 
 Not from two blue and loving eyes, 
 For here he always sings the truth, 
 But merely from approving youth. 
 He jump'd in at a spot where nigh 
 To Nonnenwerth he pass'd it by. 
 The stream at that time was so strong 
 That three miles he was borne along 
 Before he reach'd the shore opposed, 
 Still fresh, whate'er might be supposed. 
 These scenes, and countless others more, 
 He sees as in the days of yore ; 
 When long vacations, college life, 
 Supplied him with such summer's strife. 
 I might indeed go on to tell 
 The rides he had through many a dell ; 
 I might describe the forest black 
 Where sketchers never find a lack 
 Of wooden houses, such as Prout 
 Would travel farthest to find out. 
 All these he sees before him still, 
 And see them probably he will 
 
CANTO Y. OF JOYFUL MOMENTS. 85 
 
 Until his death, if not beyond, 
 
 Where may be things of which we're fond ; 
 
 For nothing there perhaps will blot 
 
 What here on earth is not forgot. 
 
 I might, too, tell of men he saw 
 
 In cities where was nought to draw ; 
 
 For those when seen in memory's hall 
 
 Seem living so as to appal ; 
 
 But to these last I must demur, 
 
 Since to them all I shall recur 
 
 Another time, when I must paint 
 
 The hero, lady, and the saint, 
 
 The wise, the learned, and the fair, 
 
 All whom he finds depicted there. 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 OF JOYFUL MOMENTS. 
 
 " JOY ! happiness ! where is the man 
 Who would not gain them if he can ? " 
 It is Saint Austin asks the question ; 
 And it behoves me that to mention ; 
 For otherwise there's not a few 
 Who'd cry, " A Sybarite's in view." 
 The salutation of the Greeks 
 Denotes what each man they thought seeks. 
 
86 CAITTO T. 
 
 Twas in the name of joy and grace 
 
 They met each other face to face. 
 
 Xoijpc, they said ; whereas for health, 
 
 As signifying the hest wealth, 
 
 The Komans meeting used to say, 
 
 Salve more positive were they. 
 
 At first avoiding what's profound, 
 
 Not saying where joy can be found, 
 
 (Though Austin ne'er leaves that in doubt. 
 
 As all his readers soon find out,) 
 
 Let us, like him, a while explore, 
 
 To mark what's found within this door 
 
 Of memory, where lies so much 
 
 That we may e'en be said to touch. 
 
 Since all men then have this desire, 
 
 How comes it to them ? he'd inquire : 
 
 " Does it in memory reside ? " 
 
 That question opens regions wide. 
 
 Is joy but a remembrance still 
 
 Of Paradise before was ill ? 
 
 There is no language known on earth 
 
 Which has not words denoting mirth. 
 
 Joy is, in fact, to all men known ; 
 
 This were impossible, he'll own, 
 
 If there were no reality 
 
 Contained within the memory. 
 
 In sadness he remembers joy, 
 
 The word itself hell stffl employ. 
 
 In what was joy that pure delight ? 
 
 Twas neither in the ear nor sight, 
 
OF JOYFUL MOMENTS. 87 
 
 The smell, the taste, nor in the touch ; 
 
 'Twas in the mind alone. 'Twas such 
 
 Pure sentiment within conceived, 
 
 In which he could not be deceived, 
 
 And in his memory contain' d ; 
 
 Such is the fact to be maintain'd. 
 
 Therefore as joy is still a thing 
 
 Of wbich he and each man can sing, 
 
 As having felt it, some one day, 
 
 Or moment, if you'd rather say, 
 
 We must conclude that happiness, 
 
 That which the word does thus express 
 
 To our memory represents 
 
 What it contains to us presents. 
 
 Then lo ! another treasure vast 
 
 That lies in union with the last 
 
 Those hours, or moments, if you will, 
 
 Which with pur joy the heart can fill ; 
 
 For even these within this hall 
 
 Are laid up to await his call, 
 
 Which he must venture here to show, 
 
 While them it is not all who know, 
 
 Or say they know, though in the main 
 
 Denial on this point is vain. 
 
 There is an instant in most lives 
 
 From time to time when joy revives. 
 
 Cardan will tell the year, month, day, 
 
 When it flow'd o'er him in this way. 7 
 
 ' De propria vita. 
 
88 CANTO T. 
 
 You know what 'tis to watch the wave 
 
 That rises with the tide, to lave 
 
 The thirsty bank of flowers and grass 
 
 O'er which the crystal flood will pass 
 
 How there forget-me-nots are seen 
 
 Through the transparent liquid green, 
 
 The waters ever rising so, 
 
 Refreshing all that grows below, 
 
 Until the very path you trod, 
 
 Submerged, is mantled like the sod. 
 
 So in ourselves a tide will rise 
 
 To fill us with a glad surprise, 
 
 Through which enamell'd gems we find 
 
 That dazzle and renew the mind. 
 
 The flood soon ebbs ; but Memory 
 
 Retains what has been and will be 
 
 A periodic Heaven-sent flow, 
 
 Which is the whole that we need know. 
 
 A far-famed author has named this 
 
 A jewell'd bright parenthesis, 
 
 Which some say they have never known, 
 
 And so in memory can't own. 
 
 " Indeed," they calmly will reply, 
 
 " We ne'er have felt this joy so high." 
 
 Possibly not ; for natures best 
 
 In this life cannot find their rest, 
 
 To have their hearts and minds so full 
 
 Of bliss and of the beautiful ; 
 
 And when experience leaves them thus 
 
 No room for boasts is left to us, 
 
OF JOYFUL MOMENTS. 89 
 
 Who, being worse, may need at times 
 
 To breathe an air from better climes, 
 
 Lit with the rays of hope and love, 
 
 Of that ideal joy, above 
 
 All that e'er from the cold world came, 
 
 For which on earth there is no name. 
 
 By e'en the wildest these are found, 
 
 For moments changing life around ; 
 
 Just as the sun can gild the flow 
 
 Of slimy things that float below. 
 
 While others, so firm and so grand, 
 
 Can life's long passion most withstand 
 
 With manly nerves and courage high, 
 
 Active to live and nobly die. 
 
 Besides, material things can act, 
 
 And mental joy e'en counteract. 
 
 Vienna sees her Prater fill'd 
 
 With crowds who to some sport seem'd will'd, 
 
 On wooden horses riding round, 
 
 Yet not a smiling face is found. 
 
 Both old and young of either sex 
 
 Show gravity e'en to perplex, 
 
 While circling so in serious state 
 
 Their orbit as to calculate. 
 
 If these what they call joy have known, 
 
 'Tis surely much unlike our own. 
 
 The facts are such ; but others, sooth, 
 
 Without recurring to their youth, 
 
 Have felt this bliss, although, alas ! 
 
 For all men it must quickly pass. 
 
00 CANTO V. 
 
 Nathless to these most frail its rise 
 
 May cease to yield them much surprise, 
 
 And all within them then will feel 
 
 Pleasures that o'er their senses steal. 
 
 In these, so tremblingly alive 
 
 To happiness, it will revive 
 
 They know not how to chase away 
 
 The sadness of their mortal day. 
 
 'Twas Antoninus who once said, 
 
 As in his wondrous book is read, 8 
 
 That " where there's sensibility 
 
 Of temper with ability 
 
 The universe to comprehend, 
 
 So far as order is its end, 
 
 We many charming things discern 
 
 Which 'tis not every man can learn 
 
 Or deem as credible, though true 
 
 They're known to be by such as you, 
 
 Who have been long familiar grown 
 
 With works that Nature deems her own. 
 
 G-ay are the visions of the soul 
 
 When thus it opens to the whole 
 
 Of that great bliss which often streams 
 
 On real life, more bright than dreams ; 
 
 For it is still a compound thing, 
 
 And we don't analyze, we sing. 
 
 Let each one his experience tell : 
 
 Then one perhaps remembers well 
 
 s Lib. iii. 2. 
 
OF JOYFUL MOMENTS. 91 
 
 His being distant far away, 
 
 While with his friend at home he'd stray 
 
 In mind, recalling this and that 
 
 With former fond familiar chat, 
 
 Till vile suspicions off were cast 
 
 That would have robb'd him of the past, 
 
 When once again he sees the smile 
 
 That now he feels did not beguile 
 
 There is no language that we know 
 
 To tell the joy that thence will flow. 
 
 Or, heeding but external things, 
 
 Of which no Poet now e'er sings, 
 
 'Tis still some vague impression felt 
 
 When earth into Heav'n seem'd to melt ; 
 
 'Tis his own trip to foreign lands, 
 
 For the first time to Ostend's strands 
 
 'Tis her Canal that will afford 
 
 This joy as on the trunks on board 
 
 He lies and basks beneath the sun, 
 
 And thinks the music's Heaven begun : 
 
 'Tis other joys brought back again 
 
 While never dreaming they were vain 
 
 'Tis resting on the Windsor side 
 
 To watch how the bright Thames will glide, 
 
 While sitting raptured with a friend, 
 
 Who brightness to the earth will lend 
 
 'Tis evening at the twilight hour 
 
 When Ambleton supplies a bower, 
 
 One tree, one bank, one slope of grass, 
 
 O'er which oblivion ne'er will pass. 
 
92 CANTO Y. 
 
 'Tis morning with the birds awake, 
 
 All gladness there, and no mistake. 
 
 At the same inn above the glade, 
 
 Where Monkey Island casts its shade, 
 
 One chamber window o'er a lawn 
 
 Brighter than portals of the dawn, 
 
 Tis light, 'tis darkness, everything 
 
 Through which a raptured flight you wing- 
 
 These were the moments that supplied 
 
 Sweet transports that have never died. 
 
 Why he of all men joys felt so 
 
 Is more than he at least can know ; 
 
 But Heav'n is free, we must suppose, 
 
 To grant such moments e'en to those 
 
 Least worthy of them, we should say ; 
 
 But then, who understands its way ? 
 
 Those moments thus in memory last 
 
 When all the rest with time has pass'd. 
 
 So to the temple of the mind 
 
 Will some repair, what's gone to find 
 
 Of fair Euphrosyne the joy 
 
 Which God all gracious will employ 
 
 To cheer the hearts of mortal men 
 
 By showing Angels like them then. 
 
 " Lo ! we are here," they seem to say, 
 
 " And may you follow on our way ! 
 
 We come with gladsome tidings so ; 
 
 At present seek no more to know. 
 
 Anon we meet to part no more, 
 
 And lay this up in memory's store. 
 
OF JOYFTJL MOMENTS. 93 
 
 Hear us through life within this cell, 
 
 And think of joy where all is well. 
 
 'Tis but our accents that you hear 
 
 When to your heart is Mem'ry dear. 
 
 Through cliffs and o'er the streams we glide ; 
 
 'Tis we that talk thus at your side." 
 
 Such are the echoes of this hall 
 
 Which bring instruction for us all. 
 
 Remembrance thus has gleams as bright 
 
 As ever cheer'd the human sight, 
 
 When in the sacred hours of thought 
 
 More bliss is found than e'en was sought 
 
 From Pleasure's lap or from the noise 
 
 That vain Ambition e'er employs ; 
 
 For Nature opens at the sound 
 
 Of what in memory is found ; 
 
 As when we hearken'd to her voice, 
 
 And found we had no other choice 
 
 But to feel thus supremely glad 
 
 With whatsoever things we had ; 
 
 The present moment was so full 
 
 Of joy and of the beautiful. 
 
 True, Memory has habits, dates ; 
 
 But then, as Fromentin relates, 
 
 It thus revives, and so bestows 
 
 The momentary joys of those 
 
 Who novelties would rather shun, 
 
 Repeating what before was done. 
 
 The Memory is Custom's nurse, 
 
 For keeping which we're never worse ; 
 
94 CANTO Y. 
 
 Though some seek Custom to run down, 
 And so the voice of Nature drown. 
 Yet Custom leaves us not less free, 
 Nor is obedience slavery. 
 The Memory will thus produce 
 A guidance for our daily use ; 
 Our own identity secured, 
 And of ourselves the more assured 
 A precious treasure for our mind, 
 As this great artist wish'd to find. 
 Then maid or youth, our Patmore cries, 
 Oh ! look not with desponding eyes. 
 Your Memory is heard to say, 
 " Dance on, let innocence be gay." 
 For Memory's vast, noble hall 
 Should never souls like yours appal, 
 To scare you from your joys of earth, 
 Which may to endless bliss give birth. 
 Whate'er of music you have heard 
 From mortal lips or from a bird, 
 Whate'er of magic bright, though fleeting, 
 Once on a time has been your greeting, 
 Whate'er of beauty pleased your soul, 
 Whate'er of joy past all control 
 Did seize upon your heart and mind, 
 Come hither and the whole you'll find 
 Preserved, laid up, to light your way 
 To where the smiling angels stray. 
 Nought strange, moreover, if you think, 
 And in your mind let this fact sink, 
 
CANTO VI. OF SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS. 95 
 
 The more you meditate which o'er, 
 
 The brighter shines this temple's store 
 
 That joys which you find laid up here 
 
 Are what should be past language dear ; 
 
 Since though they sprang from sources small, 
 
 From the main spring were these fed all. 
 
 For this each holy mass proclaims, 
 
 While grim censoriousness it shames, 
 
 Announcing but this simple truth, 
 
 That it is God who gladdens youth ; 
 
 Not as man seems inclined to say, 
 
 Who saddens for it every day; 
 
 Who changes Nature at the word 
 
 Of gloomy pedants and absurd ; 
 
 Who awes it with most erring fears, 
 
 Who seems to covet but its tears, 
 
 Who makes it think its joy is bad, 
 
 But thus in brief " who makes it glad." * 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 OP SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS. 
 
 OH, wondrous science, when with beams of light 
 Man can call forth on paper to the sight 
 The portrait of a friend, as if the sun 
 To follow his directions could be won. 
 
 9 Qui laetificut juveiitutem meam. 
 
96 CANTO VI. 
 
 Man can indeed impart a higher tone 
 
 To the realities that we have known. 
 
 In that respect he can surpass the sun 
 
 As more intelligent when all is done. 
 
 Though still the scientific wonder stays 
 
 To fill beholders with a just amaze. 
 
 Yet far more strange it is when in the mind 
 
 All whom we ever knew portray'd we find, 
 
 We know not how, but yet so life-like there, 
 
 That no Velasquez could with them compare, 
 
 No Titian hope to rival them in tone, 
 
 No Raphael in smiles that youth will own. 
 
 Each so well finished, with such semblance wrought, 
 
 Yet without substance, a mere shade, a thought ! 
 
 Yes, far more wondrous is this older art, 
 
 By which a friend is painted in our heart ; 
 
 To find a place in memory for ever, 
 
 Where it may be mislaid, but injured never. 
 
 " There stands each image," Saint Augustine saith, 
 
 " As if it were endow'd with living breath, 
 
 In wondrous frames arranged thus to be shown 
 
 As wondrously to those by whom it's known. 
 
 And if perchance we should forget the name, 
 
 We reject all that do not fit the same, 
 
 Until the ri^ht name comes into our mind 
 
 o 
 
 That wholly suits the image which we find : 
 And it comes back as now a welcomed friend, 
 As if, when call'd for, on us to attend." 
 Sooth, at this moment, and in his mind's eye, 
 Our friend sees many pass'd now standing by, 
 
OF SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS. 97 
 
 To whom would not apply those ancient lines, 
 On limits which to art the muse assigns, 
 As when a girl so well portray'd is shown, 
 Prometheus might avouch the work his own, 
 And it is said, " If but the painter knew 
 How to give speech to her whom thus he drew, 
 Agatharchis, thee we should admire, 
 Possess thee, too, now wholly and entire." 
 For in this hall not only forms he'll see ; 
 Words, accents, all are in his memory. 
 Not only colour of the eyes and hair, 
 Their lips, their eyebrows, fronts are painted there, 
 With their whole air and gestures, and the way 
 In which they smiled or laugh'd in merry play, 
 Their stature and the manner of their walk, 
 But e'en he hears their voice when they would talk. 
 Their mental features, too, are seen no less 
 Than are the styles and fashions of their dress ; 
 He hears the stories that they'd tell of old 
 Their looks revealing thoughts he can behold ; 
 Yea, their handwriting now is here again 
 With its distinctive character most plain. 
 Just think of what a file of letters there, 
 Each with its writer's class'd for whom you care ! 
 Were these said writers living in his sight, 
 Their image to his mind were not more bright* 
 He would not more distinctly nearer see, 
 With eyes than thus by simple memory. 
 Can anything exceed this wonder ? say 
 What is this mind in which such portraits stay, 
 
 H 
 
98 CAKTO vi. 
 
 Needing no varnish, cleaning, dealer's art, 
 
 Hung thus, for years, unchanged within his heart ! 
 
 For his whole life, without one failing tone ! 
 
 Go to, fond artist, blush now for your own. 
 
 Then we might sing of those who want a tomb, 
 
 Who yet in some fond memories find room, 
 
 A far more safe memorial for the dead 
 
 Than found Laertes, as old poets said ; 
 
 For that, with rains and winds was worn away, 
 
 Whereas forget him, said they, no one may. 
 
 Leonidas will over young men mourn, 
 
 Who to no tomb on earth were ever borne. 
 
 But those who loved them, saith he, still can find 
 
 Their persons as if living, in their mind. 
 
 Then others from their own tomb chase away 
 
 Those who lamented them, and there would stay. 
 
 " Remember us," is all they seem to cry, 
 
 " The tomb we prize is in your memory ;" 
 
 And, sooth, as Meleagre says, " their voice 
 
 Can prove how greatly may the dead rejoice." 
 
 Charixones no friend thus e'er forgets, 
 
 Saith he, " What pity, and what deep regrets 
 
 Are left within the memory of those 
 
 In whose remembrance he can so repose." 
 
 We see then how this temple can be found, 
 
 E'en for the dead a safe and holy ground ; 
 
 Ah, through its alleys dark and narrow, long, 
 
 Pass many spirits worthy of a song ; 
 
 But as 'tis pictures only that we see, 
 
 Let ghosts now leave us to behold these free. 
 
OF SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS. 99 
 
 Such galleries in each man's mem'ry so, 
 Of course will varied portraits always show ; 
 Of which the catalogue is often placed 
 Where each proprietor his course has traced 
 In memoirs special of his former life, 
 Recounting its vicissitudes and strife 
 In men obscure a practice rather vain, 
 But of our friend you need not much complain. 
 For though he follows custom known with us, 
 When he invites you for a moment thus 
 To see some pictures which belong to one 
 As special gifts from memory not gone, 
 They are not shown with any other view 
 Than some instruction useful to renew. 
 Descriptions must be brief in such a list, 
 And, consequently, interest will be miss'd ; 
 But one such catalogue may serve as well 
 As any other the chief fact to tell 
 That each man has a hall within his mind, 
 A vast collection of a varied kind, 
 Where he can still consort with ancient friends, 
 With whom the joy of converse never ends. 
 How many youthful pleasant heads are here ! 
 Beyond all price inestimably dear ! 
 Then he sees others of a graver kind, 
 But these in other poems you can find. 
 Passing by Cambridge portraits, he will show 
 Some in the world whom he did once well know. 
 Then first amongst these striking heads behold 
 One whose great fame in letters can be told. 
 H 2 
 
100 CANTO VI. 
 
 An eloquent and truly fearless sire, 
 
 In whom at least you find no " wordless ire." 
 
 Thoughtful, and what there's no one to expect, 
 
 Full of unfeign'd and infinite respect 
 
 For the old Catholic and Eoman Church, 
 
 Whose foes for him might flounder in the lurch, 
 
 When he contrasted, as he often did, 
 
 The goodness which in talk he never hid, 
 
 Of her great priests and bishops whom he saw, 
 
 With ministers who followed the new law ! 
 
 For oft he had a passion to relate 
 
 What he had seen in Spain, and quaintly state 
 
 Impressions that were made upon his mind 
 
 By men that he well knew were wise and kind. 
 
 Thus he would tell how travelling one day, 
 
 Upon a mule, in quite the Spanish way, 
 
 He found himself with hunger rather faint, 
 
 When follow'd an adventure somewhat quaint. 
 
 High on a rock that crown'd a lonesome dell 
 
 He spied a church and house where some must dwell. 
 
 The mulateer, he said, might wait below, 
 
 But he would climb and see if it were so. 
 
 The door was shut, but knocking, soon he saw 
 
 A tall black figure that strong bolts did draw. 
 
 " I'm hungry," said he, " can you give me food ? " 
 
 The stranger's looks denoted nothing good ; 
 
 At least, it seem'd so when he slamm'd the door, 
 
 And for a moment he was seen no more, 
 
 Till he perceived him stealthily to glide 
 
 Down through a door that open'd from the side. 
 
OF SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS. 101 
 
 " He's gone to call some, me to rob and slay," 
 
 Then to himself he nervously did say ; 
 
 But what was his surprise when he saw creep 
 
 Into a pool of water that seem'd deep, 
 
 The man, who from a box did pull a fish ! 
 
 It was the curate who thus found his dish. 
 
 " I wonder," my friend added, "shall we ever 
 
 See one of these grave ministers so clever, 
 
 Whom you extol above the Popish Priest, 
 
 Take such a plunge a stranger but to feast ! " 
 
 Then while much silence he remarked around, 
 
 Another tale as readily he found. 
 
 To some Archbishop he'd a visit pay, 
 
 Though who he was to you I cannot say; 
 
 Simonides himself could not contrive 
 
 That all things should in memory survive ; 
 
 In this one point my own I find will fail, 
 
 But this does not the least concern the tale. 
 
 Call it Toledo, if you want precision, 
 
 But to be truthful still is my decision ; 
 
 On all points through this poem I'm exact, 
 
 Resolved not to distort the smallest fact ; 
 
 Or say 'twas Seville, though I'm sure 'twas not ; 
 
 The real title has been quite forgot ; 
 
 I only can assure you 'twas in Spain ; 
 
 To say aught more about the see were vain. 
 
 Shown through his palace, by the pontiff led, 
 
 The rooms majestic told of artists dead ; 
 
 Such as Velasquez, Zurbaran, and more 
 
 Of whose sublime productions he had store. 
 
102 CANTO VI. 
 
 Returned to his small and humble cell, 
 
 The Prelate said, " My friend, all this is well 
 
 So far ; but surely now you'd rather dine ; 
 
 The dinner's ready. Would you behold mine ? " 
 
 When from a drawer within his table he 
 
 Drew bread and cheese, and said with sparkling glee, 
 
 " I hardly think that you would like such fare ; 
 
 But shudder not, I mean not you to scare." 
 
 Then ringing a gold sculptured table-bell, 
 
 A servant came, to whom he said, " Go tell 
 
 The Canon," such a one, " my ancient friend, 
 
 That I to him a hungry guest now send." 
 
 Then winking at him, nodding all the while, 
 
 " Follow/' said he, " I know right well his style. 
 
 I promise you at us you will not scoff, 
 
 Or say with bread and cheese you've been put off." 
 
 He told the tale expressly to denote 
 
 That those who talk of " luxury " but dote ; 
 
 Accusing Spanish prelates, as he said, 
 
 Of faults from which they had the farthest fled. 
 
 You see, then, how this great prose writer thought, 
 
 Not quite the same as when in books he wrought 
 
 Imaginary conversations, prose 
 
 Matchless, of which the errors he now knows. 
 
 Yea, days there were when he'd say with a sigh, 
 
 It would be well for him like such to die. 
 
 'Tis Landor that he sees. May God grant rest 
 
 To one who wrote and did what he thought best! 
 
 The next is Wordsworth, playful although grave, 
 
 Who quoting verses seem'd almost to rave, 
 
OF SOCIAL CIECLES PORTRAITS. 103 
 
 So deeply did he feel the truths he sung, 
 
 While condescending chiefly to the young, 
 
 And like the other saying things by speech, 
 
 Which his own writings did not always teach, 
 
 Confessing had he seen an earlier day 
 
 That he like some would have been found to pay 
 
 Obedience to that scorn 'd, most ancient creed 
 
 Of which he own'd he might have felt the need. 
 
 Oh, gentle poet, may some wreath divine 
 
 Around thy temples now for ever shine ! 
 
 Lo, a famed lawyer, with an ample front, 
 
 Cautious and moderate, as was his wont, 
 
 The first of all the Catholics he met 
 
 To whom he owed what he can ne' er forget, 
 
 His introduction to a holy man, 
 
 A Jesuit, although the tidings ran 
 
 That he to that society was known 
 
 To cherish views that it would scarcely own ; 
 
 Yet full of ancient lore and faith was he, 
 
 And still in heart to it no enemy ; 
 
 Since thus for him who sought instruction then, 
 
 He chose for guide one of those very men, 
 
 Who stands beside him, ne'er to be forgot, 
 
 The holy saint, revered wise Father Scott, 
 
 Whose accents fell so potent on his ear, 
 
 That thenceforth Catholic he held him dear. 
 
 'Tis the famed Charles Butler he can see, 
 
 SkilFd in both law and school divinity. 
 
 Then next in mitred lowliness appear 
 
 Poynter and Bramston, Griffiths, to whom clear 
 
104 CA:NTO vi. 
 
 Was every theme by holy Church approved, 
 
 By foes undaunted and by youth beloved. 
 
 Alone Maguire standeth from the throng, 
 
 By reasoning deep, invincible and strong, 
 
 So skill'd to every question to reply 
 
 Proposed by wisdom or theology, 
 
 While like a student solitary there, 
 
 He sits close retired and given all to prayer. 
 
 But look again, prepare your soul to view 
 
 Great Wiseman, in whom ancient things seem new, 
 
 So well prepared for questions of the day, 
 
 Familiar most with every mental fray ! 
 
 Presenting to the men of his own age 
 
 Coloured as if for them each holy page, 
 
 Not to confound and startle friends and foes, 
 
 But to invite them to a sweet repose 
 
 Musician, artist, poet, sage, and saint, 
 
 Whom no skill'd human hand could justly paint, 
 
 Yielding to none in theologic lore, 
 
 Yet than all schools prosaic knowing more 
 
 Sweet Heaven's great secrets and the heart of man, 
 
 Whose depths mysterious he would ever scan. 
 
 Oh, grace divine ! to think our friend has known 
 
 One to such heights of glory lately flown. 
 
 But now he'll move on to a foreign land, 
 
 Arid before those he meets there pensive stand. 
 
 Are they of France, or Germany, or Spain ? 
 
 Like poets, in the Anthologic strain, 
 
 To all lands we may say that such belong, 
 
 Themselves well worthy of a minstrel's song. 
 
OF SOCIAL CIECLES POETE4ITS. 105 
 
 Chevalier first presents his hoary head, 
 
 Who to explore the land of Troy had led 
 
 The way for scholars there to wander long 
 
 Through scenes immortal in Homeric song. 1 
 
 Legitimist and Christian to the core, 
 
 Yet knowing times and principles far more, 
 
 Perhaps, than some who kings and thrones adore, 
 
 Talleyrand's own Secretary, when 
 
 The age was hostile to all loyal men, 
 
 Still viewing revolution with disgust, 
 
 Though bow to tempests for a time he must, 
 
 Eeplete with anecdotes of evil days ; 
 
 Through scenes of terror each who hears him strays, 
 
 A classic scholar with perhaps one fault, 
 
 That Quintus Calaber he always thought 
 
 Was really Ulysses, whose wise pen 
 
 Recorded all the rest that follow'd then. 
 
 'Twere well if we could hear the tales he knew, 
 
 Now lost for mankind, or but known to few 
 
 How he had had heard the wretch who made his 
 
 boast 
 
 That he at Fribourg friars slew the most 
 How he thrown them headlong from their 
 
 rocks 
 
 A tale which no good " citizen " then shocks ; 
 " Though," said he, with a hideous grin, " no more 
 They'll sing their psalms as in the night before." 
 
 1 Voyage dans la Troade ; ou, Tableau de la Plain de Troie 
 dans son tat actuel. 
 
106 CANTO VI. 
 
 " I order'd," said he, " some to make ' report/ 
 
 That I might know to what I should resort." 
 
 " Eeport !" Chevalier utter'd, with a face, 
 
 To show to what " bureaux " the word he'd trace. 
 
 " 'Twas said that they ate fish, were much devout, 
 
 Quite Roman Apostolical, no doubt " 
 
 Each word then drawing from his mouth a sneer, 
 
 Which show'd an inward hatred to cause fear. 
 
 " But soon," continued he, " I heard enough 
 
 Of all their clerical and stupid stuff. 
 
 So I went up one morning with my men ; 
 
 You should have seen the sport we witnessed then ! 
 
 Ha ! ha ! I think there's no sight can compare 
 
 To that of monks sent flying through the air ! " 
 
 All this had at a banquet been deliver'd ; 
 
 Judge how Chevalier, hearing him, had shiver'd. 
 
 Then he had tales of Choiseul and Belgrade, 
 
 To which by order he went retrograde ; 
 
 As if they wish'd the plague might stop his book, 
 
 On which, he said, with jealous eyes they'd look. 
 
 Then he would tell the dangers of those days 
 
 How he found foes whichever way he strays 
 
 How he conversed with Joseph at a mask 
 
 Imperial at Vienna, where his task 
 
 Was to relate to his attentive ears 
 
 The ground there was in Turks for future fears. 
 
 One fact he used to single from the whole ; 
 
 He saw De Lambelle's head upon a pole. 
 
 He sought no more himself to justify, 
 
 He but resolved from Paris then to fly. 
 
OF SOCIAL CIBCLES POBTEAITS. 107 
 
 " 'Twas not the moment," as he said, " to seek 
 
 To any minister of France to speak." 
 
 He told from all these horrors how he fled 
 
 To England, where on landing he had said 
 
 To those who questioned him about his store 
 
 Of watches, trinkets, an offence then sore, 
 
 That 'twas for eating, they were in his trunk, 
 
 All other goods of his then being sunk ; 
 
 When the bland officer of customs there 
 
 Said that to his house he must repair 
 
 For food and lodging ; and with whom he stay'd 
 
 That night, where first acquaintance then he made 
 
 With English hospitality, which proved 
 
 His aid, said he, when from poor France removed. 
 
 Librarian then of famed Saint Genevieve, 
 
 A cordial welcome him he always gave ; 
 
 Though many English travellers he met 
 
 Were not just men on whom his heart seem'd set ; 
 
 He styled them " cobblers." Showing once, he said, 
 
 Of Scottish Mary the beloved head 
 
 To one of these, who seeing it exclaimed, 
 
 " Ha ! it is doubtless her who has been named 
 
 By all our nation well ' the bloody queen,' " 
 
 'Twere well if but his look you could have seen. 
 
 He calPd a servant, then turn'd on his heel 
 
 And said to him, " A rising wrath I feel ; 
 
 So take this cobbler quickly from my sight ; 
 
 Pray show him round as you may fancy right." 
 
 But I must needs my wish and hand restrain ; 
 
 For long details I know are counted vain ; 
 
108 CANTO YI. 
 
 Though now another form revered behold ; 
 It is De Haller who so well has told 
 The folly of the sophists who overthrew 
 All ancient rule, and would begin anew 
 To leave without a government or law 
 All Europe, as their tendencies he saw. 
 " Of civil science " thus " the restoration " 
 He would proclaim to help each wretched nation. 
 From Berne as a convert he had flown 
 Whose senators would Catholics disown ; 
 And so to France and to her king he came, 
 Where he enjoyed a truly honour 'd name, 
 Till Soleure at the last became his home, 
 Whence until death he would no longer roam. 
 Soleure and Fribourg, then alike could boast 
 Of having each of French a polish 'd host 
 Whose sons had with the Jesuits been placed 
 When the tenth Charles had their schools effaced. 
 The Count O'Mahony had salons there 
 To which the noblest circles would repair, 
 Enchanted with his hospitable way, 
 Receiving both the wise and good and gay. 
 Such exiles for the sake of education 
 Would lustre shed, I think, on any nation. 
 
 Then next he sees a placid face and small, 
 By youths respected and beloved by all. 
 'Tis one who all " the sanctities of old 
 Would help to re-establish and uphold." 
 
OF SOCIAL CIECLES POETEAITS. 109 
 
 The Latin country, as Parisians name 
 The mountain quarter to which students came, 
 Knew well his house which on the summit stood, 
 Where young men learne all things that were 
 
 good. 2 
 
 The Place de 1'Estrapade might harshness sound, 
 But there this mildest, gentlest man was found, 
 Directing them to study where they ought, 
 And yielding more than e'en their parents sought 
 By dropping words of holy inspiration 
 Before some thirty lads of every nation. 
 Words, looks, and manners, all to correspond 
 With the pure type of which the Heavens are fond, 
 Become familiar there to every one, 
 Which were remember'd well when each had gone. 
 To watch whate'er he did in least details 
 Was to receive a lesson that avails 
 Each day and hour still through their later life 
 Far more than hearing all scholastic strife ; 
 For though but to see pictures he was bound, 
 You saw him always kneeling on the ground 
 Before he would attempt his eyes to raise 
 A masterpiece of art to see and praise. 
 Perfect good breeding comprehends the sphere 
 Where e'en religion well taught must appear. 
 'Twas he who secretly and first of all 
 Did found the conference named from Saint Paul ; 
 And when he heard that others did lay claim 
 To that great merit, he'd conceal his name, 
 2 Maison des bonnes etudes. 
 
110 CANTO VI. 
 
 Committing to the flames before he died 
 
 The Prelate's letter which the proof supplied. 
 
 How many were the students there he knew ! 
 
 But, thanks to sweet Heaven ! still are dead but few; 
 
 So that their portraits cannot now appear ; 
 
 That of Du Lac alone he'd mention here 
 
 That silent Frenchman, wrapt in deepest thought 
 
 While doing all things as he felt he ought. 
 
 D'Esgrigny's picture must be left unhung, 
 
 While elsewhere of his friendship I have sung. 
 
 That friend of friends with Bailly first was known 
 
 To him who claims him ever as his own ; 
 
 Though living still, perhaps he too might be 
 
 Seen as enshrined in tender memory, 
 
 Since distance, though of life he draws the breath, 
 
 Seems for such intervals a kind of death. 
 
 It was through him besides that he first knew 
 
 That other friend, accomplish'd Montagu, 
 
 In whose proud castle he could often feel 
 
 At home, as perfect ease would quite reveal 
 
 Amidst a circle beautiful and gay, 
 
 In which a month would seem one summer's day, 
 
 Rowing his boat alone upon the lake, 
 
 Or stopping it at times for sketching sake ; 
 
 While to them both alike he then did owe 
 
 His thorough knowledge of the French chateau 
 
 Most sweet remembrance, like a potent charm 
 
 To chase all foolish thoughts that mortals harm 
 
 In fact, a kind of close initiation 
 
 Into the noble manners of a nation, 
 
OF SOCIAL C1ECLE8 POBTEAITS. Ill 
 
 That while to all the graces ever given 
 
 Has never lost in fine the thought of Heav'n. 
 
 Now follows here a series grave and long 
 
 Of portraits that would suit the Muse's song. 
 
 Montalembert comprised a world alone, 
 
 Its scope the universe, and Heaven its tone. 
 
 Alas ! how soon that spirit pass'd away ! 
 
 It was to save him from a bitter day. 
 
 In Paris by his illness found detain'd, 
 
 In autumn, when of course so few remained, 
 
 His visitor, on leaving, hoped that he 
 
 On his next call would in the country be, 
 
 " Say in my country true," was his reply ; 
 
 " 'Tis thither, there alone that I would fly." 
 
 Then Ozanam he sees, and near him placed 
 
 The Eussian lady, Swetchin ; for he paced 
 
 Within her salon, where such men were seen 
 
 As Lacordaire, Bonetty, Lamartine. 
 
 One, and one only, sophist now he'll keep, 
 
 Whose fall methiiiks might make historians weep ; 
 
 Though since he thus but mentally is dead, 
 
 Of him 'tis only little should be said. 
 
 He to seem humble seem'd almost to try, 
 
 Unless when something holy met his eye, 
 
 When it was found by far too hard a task, 
 
 And tore off suddenly was then the mask. 
 
 The next is Hurter, who had him for guide 
 
 In Paris, where he listen'd at his side. 
 
112 CAtfTO VI. 
 
 That things of practice it takes time to learn 
 
 From what he said to him he could discern ; 
 
 For on their stroll as from a church they came 
 
 (Saint Thomas, styled Aquinas, was its name), 
 
 He stopp'd him on the steps, and said he ne'er 
 
 Had known a fact which he disco ver'd there 
 
 Namely, that two together can confess ; 
 
 " With his own eyes he's seen them. 'Tis no guess." 
 
 Though on this one point curiously deceived, 
 
 He was soon after to the Faith received ; 
 
 Schaffhausen then a mother proved for him 
 
 Of little love, to whom his grace was dim. 
 
 He told him as he left he could not trust 
 
 His life to her just then, and that he must 
 
 Proceed to Austria another way, 
 
 However roundabout he'd have to stray. 
 
 'Tis Russian portraits that he'll next behold, 
 
 Like him, all converts to the ancient fold. 
 
 Young Prince Gallitzin, Theodore he'll mean, 
 
 Assisting poverty with zeal is seen ; 
 
 Then Schauvaloff, so polish'd and so gay, 
 
 Appears, preparing for his holy way. 
 
 But of all memories within his breast, 
 
 'Tis that of Yermoloff, perhaps, is best. 
 
 'Tis not his friendship he'd have me record, 
 
 Though for that song I'd need the sweetest chord ; 
 
 It is his genius versatile, and wit, 
 
 His conversation with true wisdom lit ; 
 
 Like the good General, his brother, saint, 
 
 A convert too, for doing good ne'er faint. 
 
OF SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS. 113 
 
 Well he remembers how upon a day 
 When he to dine with them one night would stay, 
 A servant speeding whisper'd in his ear 
 That he was wanted by a friend quite near ; 
 To the next corps de garde he'd have to roam ; 
 They then were living in the Place Vendome. 
 He went, return'd soon, and then laughing said, 
 'Twas well that he to that same friend was led. 
 Arrested he just was upon the spot, 
 And for a reason not to be forgot. 
 A young French tutor he in Russia had 
 Whose treatment in the end was truly bad. 
 Long in that distant country had he been, 
 While still no money had he ever seen ; 
 At length advised by Paris friends, he'd ask 
 Some portion small of what might claim his task ; 
 When instantly expell'd the house with shame, 
 Back to his parents and on foot he came. 
 The journals now announced some days before 
 What pleased them quite as well, if not e'en more, 
 That this same potent prince had just arrived 
 In Paris, where they very soon contrived 
 To have him seized, to be constrain'd to pay ; 
 But that, he said, was not the Russian way. 
 Ere leaving Moscow he had notice given 
 That in his absence he would not be driven 
 Then any one to pay, although each debt 
 He likewise said he meant not to forget. 
 Hearing where Yermoloff his friend might be, 
 He had then sent for him his plight to see. 
 
 i 
 
114 CANTO VI. 
 
 With furious rage he this did all repeat, 
 
 Till crowds collected outside in the street. 
 
 " Pooh ! pooh ! " said Yermoloff, " 'tis not enough, 
 
 And never will in Paris pass such stuff. 
 
 So pay at once." He paid upon the spot. 
 
 Curious the story quaint ; say, is it not ? 
 
 At other times, when youth he would delight, 
 
 He had his tales to suit a winter's night, 
 
 About the Empress Anne, and how she saw 
 
 Herself a spectre, chilling guards with awe 
 
 As on her very throne they saw her sit, 
 
 Until she rush'd in with a taper lit. 
 
 The captain, said he, was of his own race, 
 
 So 'twas a tale traditional he'd trace ; 
 
 And how they at the spectre fired at last, 
 
 Charged by the Empress, who stood pale aghast"; 
 
 They struck a glass, it scatter'd far and wide ; 
 
 But two days afterwards the Empress died. 
 
 But what excited real interest there 
 
 Was proof of persecution, not then rare, 
 
 When princes once converted lost their name, 
 
 And so to be known but by a number came, 
 
 As penal captives, while a still worse fate 
 
 Befell some others, as he did relate ; 
 
 For to a lady order'd to attend 
 
 The Kussian Church, whom no great dangers bend, 
 
 After of aide-de-camps her third neglect, 
 
 There came a carriage she did not expect, 
 
 Which, to be brief, convey'd her to a place 
 
 For all mad people. So she leaves no trace ! 
 
OP SOCIAL CIECLES PORTRAITS. 115 
 
 However, did he pause thus before each 
 Of these long halls, the end he'd never reach. 
 Still now a portrait known to all behold 
 Of one familiar e'en to him of old 
 In whom transferr'd to memory you see 
 The type most perfect of theology. 
 Need I announce now who is smiling there ? 
 It is the holy, gentle Lacordaire, 
 Whose words of flame did fire his youthful breast, 
 In whose remembrance fond his age would rest. 
 Lamennais too he sees, and feels some fear, 
 To find a brilliant star so disappear. 
 His portrait rests in memory no less 
 To teach a lesson he would not express. 
 He never liked his passion, so like pride, 
 And e'en his famous book he did deride 
 When first he read it, as it seem'd to be 
 Fraught with both terror and austerity. 
 He took it back, exchanged it for another ; 
 His feelings of dislike he could not smother. 
 Yet, soon appeased, the author he would see, 
 Moved less by love than curiosity. 
 He saw him seated stern with those around, 
 Who of their softest voices fear'd the sound. 
 Decoux was there, and others he could name, 
 But still his own impressions were the same. 
 Discoursing long, the Angelus did toll, 
 Lamennais talk'd on still the speaker sole. 
 The bell toll'd from the Carmes, which stood so nigh, 
 That if you'd disregard it you must try. 
 i 2 
 
116 CANTO VI. 
 
 Theology show'd there no condescension ; 
 To bells it did not pay the least attention. 
 But just arrived from wild Swiss valleys where 
 That call he noticed raised up Priests to prayer, 
 E'en from their meals or % cheerful conversation, 
 Whatever interest might have the relation, 
 The contrast great he hardly understood, 
 Presented thus by one he thought so good. 
 Pride, as the learned Champagny has said, 
 Has far more often to great errors led 
 Than ignorance herself, or passions such 
 As those of which men feel the common touch ; 3 
 The conversation though it here transcends, 
 Seem'd not for what was lost to make amends. 
 But who are we to comment on a face, 
 Which once for many a fair wreath did grace ? 
 He's gone to Him who knew his provocations, 
 All which are weigh'd when souls must take their 
 stations. 
 
 But now he'll hasten to a brighter part, 
 
 Of this great Hall where nothing wounds the heart. 
 
 For as he passes through a foreign land 
 
 Where sparks of social love must needs expand, 
 
 As Eogers sings, where in another's smile, 
 
 " The stranger greets each native of his isle," 
 
 He oft was drawn to close affinity 
 
 With some whose portraits still he loves to see ; 
 
 3 Les Cesars du 3me Siecle, torn, ii 268. 
 
OF SOCIAL CIECLES PORTRAITS. 117 
 
 Though now endow'd with melancholy grace, 
 Each with its well-known character and trace ; 
 Each seems so candid, though most nohle styled, 
 Subtle though simple, careless as a child, 
 With unproportion'd courtesy to mould 
 All minds, and mariners, never stiff or cold ; 
 But " artless," as a poet says, " in art," 
 To sweeten language and to win the heart. 
 There is, for instance, one who now may seem 
 The fairest type of that famed old regime, 
 As far at least as courtesy and grace 
 May be consider'd its peculiar trace. 
 Expressing awe first to his presence led, 
 " He's like a child," his own grave porter said. 
 Bishop and saint, what strikes attention most 
 Is his right noble air that makes no boast 
 Of social greatness, though no other race 
 Can from an older source its fountain trace. 
 'Tis Forbin Janson, Nancy's Prelate still, 
 Though furious parties contradict him will, 
 With wealth ancestral, splendours at command, 
 Nought but strict duty will he understand. 
 To save the lives of Chinese infants he 
 Will found a vast express society, 
 For which with failing strength he will employ 
 His time and sacrifice all other joy. 
 Physicians said he must no longer preach ; 
 But him, not fearing death, in vain they teach. 
 No, never can the mind forget his look, 
 When leave of him in his own house he took, 
 
118 CANTO VI. 
 
 Resolved to preach through all the South of 
 
 France, 
 
 In order that its interests might advance. 
 'T was clear he valued not his life a pin, 
 If lives of Chinese females he could win. 
 He had been famed for travelling of old, 
 A well skill'd horseman, like a courier bold, 
 Who, on some secret royal mission sent, 
 Dauntless, unwearied, as if careless went 
 Trait of his youth to be recounted here 
 The sense of his last words to render clear ; 
 For after preaching in some Southern town, 
 Lo ! all at once remaining health broke down, 
 Just as foretold by doctors skill'd and grave, 
 Who vainly sought his present life to save. 
 The Count his nephew, with a sad surprise, 
 Seeing, while seated near him, how his eyes 
 Did close upon the paper while he wrote, 
 Heard from his tongue these words that now hell 
 
 quote, 
 
 " ' Tis but another journey, my young friend." 
 It all was finish'd so : his course did end. 
 Well, now another gracious face behold, 
 Though quite unformed by that ancient mould. 
 Olivier, curate, pontiff, is the man, 
 His grave expression join'd with mirth just scan. 
 Fearless and cheerful, eloquent and gay, 
 Unskill'd to utter what he ought to say, 
 As some will think whom formal rules restrain 
 From aught that foolish men regard as vain, 
 
OF SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS. 119 
 
 Whose jealous spleen his mirthful ways provoke, 
 
 This indefatigable curate of Saint Eoch 
 
 "Would often drive his cab through Paris streets, 
 
 Saluting gaily all the friends he meets, 
 
 While daily round his pulpit he could see 
 
 Assembled thoughtful men of each degree, 
 
 Not rhetoric to hear as drawn from rules, 
 
 So vainly taught within some formal schools, 
 
 But to catch from him sparkling words of fire, 
 
 Explaining all the Gospel to inspire 
 
 Their hearts and minds by them heard ever yet ; 
 
 For accents such men never do forget. 
 
 No eloquence more thrilling e'er was known 
 
 Than his unstudied, short, and graphic prone. 
 
 It was as if our Lord Himself just spoke 
 
 To rich and poor who heard him in Saint Roch. 
 
 Once on a time when summon'd in the night 
 
 To speed to some rich patient, he deem'd right 
 
 At first to such proposals to demur, 
 
 Since, as he said, he was unknown to her, 
 
 Who living in another parish ought 
 
 Another curate to have call'd, he thought ; 
 
 But being urged to come without delay, 
 
 He rose and to her dwelling took his way. 
 
 In an apartment vast he seated found 
 
 A pompous dame whose health seem'd wholly sound, 
 
 Who then began philosophy to speak, 
 
 In words denoting not that strength was weak. 
 
 At last grown weary of such idle talk, 
 
 Which seem'd her purpose and his aim to baulk, 
 
120 CANTO VI. 
 
 He said he was prepared at once to hear 
 Her in confession, but his time was dear. 
 The lady laugh'd, and said for him she sent 
 With other object, not with that intent. 
 Of his great zeal for souls she often heard, 
 Which seem'd to her excessive and absurd ; 
 And so she sent for him that she might know 
 If really his rule was practised so. 
 You can divine the rest ; but in the hall 
 Low at his feet he saw a damsel fall, 
 Lamenting much, who him besought with tears, 
 That he would come again to calm her fears 
 For that Voltairian lady's mental state, 
 And not against her feel the smallest hate. 
 " She only sent for you, alas ! " she said, 
 " To see if you would rise up from your bed 
 To seek another parish not your own, 
 So full of vain suspicion is she grown." 
 Some few years later Evreux's ancient See 
 Beheld how great a Pontiff he could be, 
 Where still his cheerful simple ways did last, 
 Till soon from all grave critics he was past. 
 The portrait next that comes within his view 
 Is that of Affre whom he once well knew. 
 He o'er the Paris flock his crosier waved, 
 By whose hard labours many sheep were saved. 
 With him as with a friend he often walk'd, 
 Who to him young and careless freely talk'd, 
 Through the deep forest of old Saint Germain, 
 Where for some summers he would then remain. 
 
OF SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS. 121 
 
 He'd speak of all the trials he incurr'd, 
 
 When to the King's proposals he demurr'd. 
 
 One little thought it was an armed mob 
 
 That Paris would of such a Pontiff rob. 
 
 But there suspended was the martyr's crown 1 
 
 For him who sought to save that reckless town. 
 
 He might proceed with you to see on high 
 
 Still holy Priests whose image ne'er can die. 
 
 Migeon and Brady memory can show, 
 
 The last the chaplain of the Dame Lezeau, 
 
 Whose holy Sisters lived within that wood, 
 
 Screen'd by the forest that around them stood ; 
 
 Or while in Paris in the Rue Barbette, 
 
 A man whose goodness no one can forget. 
 
 He might point out that cheerful, playful air 
 
 Which always follow'd such men everywhere, 
 
 As when a holy Curate 4 who foreknew 
 
 That days for him on earth would be but few, 
 
 Would follow him politely to his gate, 
 
 Where between them both ensued debate ; 
 
 Since he had tried to stop him long before 
 
 He reach'd his garden at his outward door ; 
 
 When archly he replied and pointed round, 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! But here my choicest pears are found ; 
 
 And it were well perhaps that I should see 
 
 Clean, wholly out, beyond my farthest tree, 
 
 One who has just the cut and air of you. 
 
 To leave you there alone would never do." 
 
 4 Of Pouliguen. 
 
122 CANTO VI. 
 
 Such men could ne'er suggest a contrast sad 
 With ancient sages which might oft be had 
 Elsewhere. Their heart seem'd not on money set 
 Like some in London that one can't forget, 
 Whose pious purpose scarcely makes amends 
 For talk that never turns to other ends. 
 But with the best to linger might be wrong ; 
 So gaze we now on a promiscuous throng. 
 Besides too for himself abash'd he'll feel, 
 When o'er his field of vision such shapes steal, 
 Attesting what a grace has been abused 
 By one who never such occasions used 
 As others would have for their endless good ; 
 But means like these he never understood. 
 
 To all the portraits then that here can be, 
 
 Belong'd a tone of great civility ; 
 
 Ionian elegance was often shed 
 
 Around at least the youthful air and head, 
 
 But little known to circles of our day, 
 
 That rather prize and keep another way. 
 
 A certain strange simplicity was there, 
 
 At which these later times would only stare ; 
 
 As when they witness manners quite Homeric, 
 
 Of which the thought alone makes them hysteric ; 
 
 Although each primitive and homely thing 
 
 A charm most sweet to life will ever bring ; 
 
 As when fair damsels, matrons, and their friends 
 
 Of either sex, with merely cheerful ends, 
 
OF SOCIAL CIECLES PORTKAITS. 123 
 
 Are seen in streets while seated at their door, 
 Chatting and watching all that pass before 
 Their courteous eyes, like dogs, perhaps you'd say, 
 Who love to gaze thus on the public way, 
 Each at its own door seated, to see pass 
 The great and little, or but lad and lass. 
 Such friends, I think, and of whatever station, 
 Seem always join'd as in a close relation. 
 A certain link connects them all together 
 Stronger than iron, light as any feather ; 
 Like Arab youths that Fromentin describes, 5 
 To whom some traits in common he ascribes, 
 Who their own necks on some near shoulders place, 
 To sleep there even with a certain grace ; 
 And, as if to show how Love will linger, 
 Still hold each other by the little finger. 
 Sooth none, while in these circles they remain, 
 Will feel what Piron said to Des Fontaines 
 The need of aught that wounds another's heart, 
 As if they had no choice but send their dart, 
 Excusing what he had been known to utter, 
 Which did that Abbe's. spirits grieve and flutter, 
 By saying that for Poets of all times 
 There ever were " necessities of rhymes." 
 All these were rather in their conversation 
 Such as you find described in a relation 
 Of a French soldier and his custom'd ways, 
 Of whom our friend Fromentin only says, 
 
 5 Un fite dans le Sahara. 
 
124 CANTO VI. 
 
 While traversing Sahara's burning plain 
 
 Together, often in a thoughtful vein, 
 
 " To speak yourself when it is he who listens 
 
 Is just as pleasant as to mark how glistens 
 
 His sparkling talk, which is like music's sound, 
 
 And you yourself keep silence most profound." 
 
 Saint Austin, you might think, had known them 
 
 well, 
 
 When the best charms of life he thus would tell 
 " Exchange of gentle thoughts with lively sport, 
 Kindness, and all expressions of that sort, 
 Affectionate civility ; dissent 
 Most rare, and to offend at no time meant, 
 But such as with oneself one may have had, 
 Which never renders social circles sad, 
 But only makes their unanimity 
 Still pleasanter with some variety ; 
 For absent friends to have our feelings burn, 
 A joyful welcome on their safe return, 
 With all those kinds of testimonies thus 
 Which loving hearts produce each day in us, 
 By lips and tongues and eyes and countless modes 
 Of tenderness, of which each always bodes 
 That true affection which in friends we see 
 Eeducing them and all to unity." 6 
 Then mark that affability for all 
 Which ne'er the humblest present would appal. 
 Each had that " entre gens" as Frenchmen say, 
 The little virtues for each cheerful day ; 
 8 Confess., lib. iv. c. 8. 
 
OF SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS. 125 
 
 Which though perhaps without the highest ends, 
 
 Succeed in keeping all the whole world friends. 
 
 And yet he's rather tempted to repeat 
 
 What in the holy ritual we meet, 
 
 That " God it is who causeth those to dwell 
 
 In one house, thinking all alike and well," 
 
 Those who gain strength and virtue from His grace, 
 
 Which in such unanimity we trace. 
 
 Nor were there limits to those manners set, 
 
 As if a friend deceased could them forget ; 
 
 For some attentions still were duly paid 
 
 To those departed, in the memory laid. 
 
 Between the dead and those alive on earth 
 
 A union felt and understood gave birth 
 
 Not only to the prayers that Christians know, 
 
 But e'en to the civilities we show 
 
 Each other in this life, the social bond 
 
 Extending thus mortality beyond. 
 
 They show'd politeness even to the dead, 
 
 As if they thought what the Greek Poet said, 
 
 Leonidas, who once Tarentum graced, 7 
 
 Whose kindness to the poor can yet be traced, 
 
 That mutual regards must still be dear 
 
 To those removed by death, as practised here. 
 
 Idyllic fancies, things to ponder on ! 
 
 Now that the old humanity is gone, 
 
 And that to the dead attentions thus 
 
 Would seem a folly not befitting us. 
 
 * Antholog. 
 
126 CANTO VI. 
 
 Such thoughts and ways exist, alas ! no more, 
 Though happier, I think, we were before. 
 With hand upon your conscience, does it seem 
 To you that rails, trains, telegraphs, and 'steam, 
 The godless journals through the people toss'd, 
 Exceed in value things that we have lost ? 
 
 Behold, then, in his Hall of Memory 
 
 How men and women thus could gracious be. 
 
 The Dillons had in Paris left a trace, 
 
 And being then connected with that race, 
 
 He sees within it there an ancient dame 
 
 Whose husband of Beau Dillon bore the name. 
 
 Ambassadress in Florence once, she knew 
 
 Unnumber'd facts which wore an interest new 
 
 When in the street of Matignon now told 
 
 To young connexions of those loved of old. 
 
 De Rochefort's Countess, boasting of that race, 
 
 He also sees, whose portrait he would trace, 
 
 Aged, but still sprightly, beautiful e'en yet, 
 
 And one whom no one ever could forget. 
 
 The Sixteenth Louis she remember'd well, 
 
 And how he loved her husband oft would tell. 
 
 She had her anecdotes to make you tremble, 
 
 At least when young folks would round her 
 
 assemble ; 
 
 And oft she'd tell of strange historic things, 
 All orally first known to her of kings, 
 And of the ancient nobles pass'd away, 
 Comparing theirs with manners of the day. 
 
OF SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS. 127 
 
 She had her tales of terror and its reign 
 
 How she had tried, and that too all in vain, 
 
 To get her husband through his prison bars ; 
 
 But her best project something always mars. 
 
 She told how they at last the frontiers pass'd 
 
 With many others ; but what all surpass' d 
 
 In interest was the pictures that she drew 
 
 Of scenes romantic she herself well knew. 
 
 There's one he cannot pass in silence quite 
 
 Of Perigeux's Cathedral and by night. 
 
 A friend, she said, one day was strolling there ; 
 
 Some funeral he'd folio w'd, not for prayer. 
 
 He walk'd thus straying, gazing round about, 
 
 Until the dead man's train had all gone out, 
 
 When, what concern' d him then a little more, 
 
 Was finding shut and lock'd up fast each door ; 
 
 So there he " guess'd " that he must pass the night, 
 
 For any one indeed a sorry plight. 
 
 A soldier and innured to hardships, he 
 
 Perhaps might sleep, at least, he said, he'd see. 
 
 So in the choir, with cushions propp'd around, 
 
 His slumber very shortly proved most sound ; 
 
 Until awoke, and to his mortal fright 
 
 A noise did break the silence of the night. 
 
 It was a door that open'd ; some one walk'd ; 
 
 Then from the distance a white figure stalk'd 
 
 Before the altar, falling down, there knelt : 
 
 Judge for yourself what then the live man felt. 
 
 His elbow at the moment touch'd a book ; 
 
 It fell ; the spectre heard, and turn'd to look ; 
 
328 CANTO vi. 
 
 When to the other's great and glad surprise 
 
 'Twas but the Bishop thus before his eyes, 
 
 Whose custom it was ever thus to pray 
 
 Within the church long before dawn of day, 
 
 And who now made him promise on the spot, 
 
 As if what he had seen were all forgot, 
 
 To keep it close within his bosom so, 
 
 That what was still his custom none might know, 
 
 At least, he added, till his own decease, 
 
 When from his promise he might have release. 
 
 She had her recent anecdotes as well, 
 
 And not less personal with warmth to tell. 
 
 Thus as she travell'd, while the horses changed, 
 
 Another carriage by her side was ranged, 
 
 Meeting her own, of course inversely bound, 
 
 With all the curtains closely drawn around, 
 
 Of which a window hastily let down 
 
 She saw within it, speeding then to town, 
 
 The Duchesse so revered of Angouleme, 
 
 Who knew her instantly and did exclaim, 
 
 " Iii Paris how did you leave all things ? say." 
 
 " Madame," she answered, " well ; but on my way 
 
 I stopp'd three days with such and such a friend." 
 
 The other would not hear her to the end. 
 
 " So far the contrary," the Duchesse said, 
 
 " That all is lost. Postilion, mount, be sped." 
 
 On then she flew and left our friend aghast, 
 
 Who knew not at that moment what had pass'd. 
 
 From Vichy came the Duchesse, having known 
 
 By telegraph what she then knew alone. 
 
OF SOCIAL CIRCLES PORTRAITS. 129 
 
 Of course you know it was " the heathen come," 
 
 As he himself predicted then to some 
 
 The fatal days that overthrew the throne, 
 
 When future horrors were so surely sown ; 
 
 Which we have lived to see now very nigh, 
 
 His old prediction thus to verify. 
 
 Then mark De Tuissy, Montmorency there, 
 
 The last a Saint quite given up to prayer, 
 
 Who tried to make his peasants pray as well 
 
 By means that it were idle here to tell. 
 
 The former having views, from England brought, 
 
 Of men and measures with some shades of thought 
 
 That would have served French Royalists far more 
 
 Than those which only suited times of yore 
 
 Or rather days when all men would rebel 
 
 And all repressive measures were deem'd well ; 
 
 For these the seneschals of old Champaign 
 
 Had fled to England, where they did remain, 
 
 Avoiding so the Revolution's power 
 
 When for worst men in France it was the hour. 
 
 The Marquis who had even felt its rage, 
 
 Had first at Versailles been a royal page, 
 
 And when returned to France and Saint Germaine, 
 
 Of past misfortunes ceasing to complain, 
 
 He used to point out spots of which he'd tell, 
 
 Gay traits of youth that he remember 'd well. 
 
 His frugal habits to his latest years 
 
 A theme might furnish useful for some ears. 
 
 " Don't come to me on Friday," he would say, 
 
 " For mark I tell you that it is a day 
 
 K 
 
130 CANTO VI. 
 
 When though in England you can have your fish 
 Some beans or eggs are here your only dish." 
 His sons, well read in politics and art, 
 With sterling common sense would play their part. 
 No harsh, wild theories to them seem'd truth ; 
 They thought like wisest statesmen and like youth. 
 Adjoining these, and of the cautious school, 
 He sees the Walshes, ever calm and cool. 
 Who, when their salons show'd a chosen crowd, 
 Would say to him, though not indeed aloud, 
 That days would come when he too must collect 
 Assemblies just like theirs and as select, 
 In hopes of gaining for a daughter's hand 
 Some honest bridegroom in his native land. 
 In these high circles you oft heard reports 
 Most quaintly told, romantic, of all sorts, 
 So graphically given to the eye, 
 They rested ever in the memory. 
 The nephew of a Minister of State, 
 For instance, did this anecdote relate. 
 He told him that when Bonaparte did reign, 
 Who privately oft cherish 'd credence vain, 
 It was his own intention on a day 
 To Miss Le Noir then famed to take his way- 
 That sorceress of whom it oft was said 
 That e'en Napoleon by her was led 
 At times, and not without some grave results, 
 When all in secret with her he consults. 
 As early, then, one morning he would go 
 To this same witch, 'twas in the Kue Duphot 
 
OF SOCIAL CIRCLES POETEAITS. 131 
 
 He met his other uncle, who would pass 
 To the Assumption Church to say his mass. 
 Archbishop then he was of Bourges, a town 
 For its Cathedral of such old renown. 
 Then question'd why so early thus he stray'd 
 A frank avowal on the spot he made. 
 The holy prelate, both surprised and shock'd, 
 So wild a purpose stigmatized and mock'd ; 
 But finding that his nephew would persist, 
 He said he hoped his object might be miss'd, 
 That he for him most earnestly would pray 
 While saying mass, and so he walk'd away. 
 The nephew, not abash'd, proceeded then 
 And found the Witch all ready in her den 
 Some circles drawn, some lines writ on the spot, 
 Some cards and other things, you know not what. 
 All of a sudden did the sorceress cry, 
 " Ah, me ! Ah, me ! in vain to-day I try, 
 That man in black, that man in black I see, 
 'Tis all his art that now preventeth me." 
 'Twas while the prelate sage was saying mass 
 That this strange scene and horrible did pass. 
 The interview was ended even so, 
 The fact is certain ; more he could not know. 
 Nor would he here omit of some to tell 
 Who although English would in Paris dwell ; 
 Such was aged Berkley, hospitable, kind, 
 Whose portrait still with others he can find, 
 His house a centre for all English guests, 
 A staunch true friend on whom his memory rests ; 
 K 2 
 
132 CANTO VI. 
 
 For somehow all who have lived long in France 
 
 Have cordial ways that greatness will enhance. 
 
 Yet would he not be understood as though 
 
 His mem'ry could not London circles show. 
 
 There he sees others in a lighter crowd 
 
 Whom time from him can never wholly shroud. 
 
 What gay assemblies can he there recall, 
 
 The grand reception or the midnight ball 
 
 In Lansdowne House the once loved circles fair, 
 
 Whose interventions often led him there, 
 
 To meet again in theatres so bright, 
 
 More joyous still, where pass'd a magic night. 
 
 The " taking leave " he sees, departure vain, 
 
 For the next night, lo ! there was he again, 
 
 Having slipp'd down the mail, while on it went, 
 
 His place prepaid and all his luggage sent, 
 
 Before him to the place he now gave up, 
 
 As having drunk from love's enchanting cup, 
 
 Trudging back then some ten miles on his feet, 
 
 That once again he might the same face meet. 
 
 Then sees he also what no grief involves, 
 
 His sudden, unexpected, firm resolves 
 
 To follow one who had to Thanet flown, 
 
 Who finally near there became his own 
 
 I nsipid themes for others, I'll confess, 
 
 But why we sing them coldest hearts can guess. 
 
 He might recall traditions of the past 
 
 Which through aged English lips came to him last, 
 
 As when the Barrington that Durham knew 
 
 Liked to recount of tales like these a few. 
 
OF SOCIAL CIBCLES POETEAITS. 133 
 
 When first he went to France he saw some pride ; 
 'Twas then an upstart which he would deride. 
 The Due de Choiseul was the statesman there 
 To whom with letters favour'd he'd repair ; 
 But he was told that it would be in vain, 
 Since he would ask no stranger to remain. 
 He went, however, and when ask'd to dine 
 He found great courtesy was not the line 
 Of all the guests, since between two he sat, 
 Who, when he sought to have a little chat, 
 Declined to answer, did not say a word, 
 A trait of manners that he thought absurd. 
 The dinner over, Choiseul then walk'd up 
 Just at the time each held his coffee cup, 
 And said he wish'd to serve him any way 
 That he might choose, as long as he would stay. 
 No sooner had the Duke then turn'd his back 
 Than round the Englishman there flock'd a pack 
 Of sycophants, who fawn'd upon him then 
 With servile bows befitting all such men, 
 Whose sham politeness, all like sordid earth, 
 He said he took for just what it was worth. 
 
 What gracious beings sees he round him here, 
 That charms possess which were to him most dear. 
 And yet in memory there still will dwell 
 Another type, known, valued, loved as well 
 Of one that still would deal in common sense 
 Detesting all that sounds like mere pretence 
 
134 CANTO VI. 
 
 As best described in journals of the day, 
 
 Of which the name I do not dare to say. 
 
 Then mark sweet woman when confronted thus, 
 
 With what at least can be conceived by us, 
 
 The contrasts which she yields to pompous art 
 
 Of high and tip -toe poesy a part. 
 
 The time is night when all would now retire ; 
 
 The useful lesson surely you'll admire. 
 
 A young man in a high dramatic way 
 
 Leaves her he loves to whom he thus will say, 
 
 Raising aloft his chamber candlestick, 
 
 With words that would make any woman sick, 
 
 " In golden slumber may'st thou take thy rest," 
 
 Saith he, " thou fairest, of the fair and best, 
 
 May wings of angels winnow round thy head, 
 
 May their sweet breath shed fragrance o'er thy bed !" 
 
 The other knows no language but her own, 
 
 And hates, no doubt, such poetry, high flown, 
 
 " Good night, but now be sure," the girl replied, 
 
 " To turn the gas off, and then leave outside 
 
 Your dirty boots, just at your bedroom door, 
 
 And as the walls are thin, don't, pray don't snore." 
 
 The portraits, therefore, he sees round him here, 
 
 E ? en when unlike each other are all dear ; 
 
 For of this last who won't forgive the style 
 
 If he will only think of it the while 
 
 Recalling as it may one he has known 
 
 And such as he did love, he'll freely own. 
 
 Ah, me ! now after seeing all the rest, 
 
 Perhaps for peace there's nothing like her breast. 
 
CANTO VII. OF TRAYEL AND ADVENTURES. 135 
 
 Positions even that will oft imply 
 This turn of mind must needs attract the eye. 
 'Tis not great people that make loved a town ; 
 It may be some one of a class low down, 
 Whose eyes proclaim she's found a secret store 
 Of love and joy, and that she wants no more ; 
 Watch'd for a moment, casually there, 
 'Tis she that makes a whole vast city fair. 
 But more of these to study I must cease 
 And grant to you, much wearied, a release ; 
 For having glanced at some upon the wall, 
 You may be said in few to have seen all. 
 
 CANTO VII. 
 
 OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURES. 
 
 AGAIN another gallery appears 
 
 Fraught with past pleasures, with great hopes and 
 
 fears ; 
 
 And portraits as just seen in series long 
 No longer now must occupy our song ; 
 Although, indeed, of memory no flight 
 Can ever bring before our anxious sight 
 A knowledge half so tempting and so fair 
 As what we found hung up and marshall'd there ; 
 Since nought exists within its mighty span 
 So fruitful as is ever man to man. 
 
136 CANTO VII. 
 
 But now with touches hasty, sketchy, light, 
 
 His memory will bring before his sight 
 
 The incidents of former restless life, 
 
 With all its movements and its varied strife. 
 
 So here adventures, so call'd, will be found, 
 
 For all such accidents most likely ground, 
 
 While thus both pleased and yet still daunted he 
 
 Will haunt the walls and walks of memory. 
 
 He is no traveller, he well might say, 
 
 To follow in the wise Fromentin's way ; 
 
 " One who has wander ; d " would the fact express ; 
 
 But as for the results he must confess 
 
 Like him that no one from his journeys gains 
 
 Aught for which another spares no pains. 
 
 Of science from his travels nothing new 
 
 In geography, history, comes in view. 
 
 What he has seen and heard can scarce be told, 
 
 Conceal'd as oft they are in memory's fold. 
 
 But then the more interior is its dwelling 
 
 The better it will serve for what I'm telling. 
 
 Though most decided ne'er from truth to swerve, 
 
 Imagination tinting things will serve 
 
 The purpose of a meditative song ; 
 
 'Tis preferable, and yields nothing wrong. 
 
 Here are preserved, distinct, and never mix'd, 
 
 All species that there entered to be fix'd, 
 
 Each by its special door, as by the sight 
 
 Colours, material figures, and the light, 
 
 Sounds by the ear, odours, tastes as well, 
 
 By the sense fitting each of which w tell 
 
OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURES. 137 
 
 Hard, soft, hot, cold, grave, light, or sweet, or rude 
 
 None can the grasp of memory elude, 
 
 But down each sinks into this depth profound 
 
 Where each, when wanted, can again be found. 
 
 Ineffable and labyrinthian folds 
 
 Containing all until the mind beholds, 
 
 What it desires, ranged in order wide, 
 
 Each in its proper place on every side. 
 
 Such wonders are attached to common things 
 
 Of which the trivial poet even sings. 
 
 We hear at times of revolutions vast 
 
 That change in fine all matters of the past ; 
 
 But nought, perhaps, can now be ever thought, 
 
 With greater, stranger alterations fraught, 
 
 Than all the modes we call of locomotion 
 
 Of which, indeed, our fathers had no notion. 
 
 And yet with all their faults and wants confess'd, 
 
 In some few points perhaps the old were best. 
 
 Of course some dangers in the way might lie, 
 
 A fact that he attempts not to deny. 
 
 But then the merits also should be told, 
 
 Belonging to these many things of old. 
 
 The dangers of them he himself well knew ; 
 
 Let me record here simply but a few. 
 
 So now o'er Anglesea's wild land he'll fly ; 
 
 The Royal Mail and horses he'll descry. 
 
 Alas ! the driver all control has lost ; 
 
 He sees where they must quickly pay the cost ; 
 
138 CANTO VII. 
 
 For after dashing on with reckless speed, 
 As gal]op would each swift and frighten'd steed, 
 He marks descending from a long straight hill, 
 The turn abrupt where they must have " a spill." 
 Then down they come, and with a hideous crash, 
 They fall, and see the pole and harness smash. 
 Bare, sharp rough rocks before had lined the way ; 
 But all the spot was green where now they lay. 
 Though still the whole affair was past a joke, 
 For the poor coachman had his right arm broke ; 
 As for our friend, you saw laid bare his skin 
 Like a Greek statue ; but he knew within 
 The coach he had to hide such nakedness 
 A coat ; so on to London he might press ; 
 Though otherwise and still but in his teens 
 He could not farther go by any means, 
 There being not two inches sound and whole 
 Of broadcloth left without some rent or hole. 
 The others wounded and strew'd all about, 
 Did a quaint secret hear and then let out ; 
 For in the upset coach a man was found 
 Who lay, poor wretch, the nearest to the ground, 
 While on his batter'd face were marks of blood 
 To show where a young wench's heels had stood, 
 Essaying through the upper window so 
 To join them on the safer grass below. 
 Her hobnail boots had left a hideous trace 
 For many a week upon his luckless face, 
 She heedless of his cries, when he'd implore 
 That she would tread upon him so no more. 
 
OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURES. 139 
 
 The horses, quickly disengaged, had fled, 
 
 The guard and driver seeni'd, forsooth, half dead. 
 
 While they lay sprawling on that plot of grass, 
 
 Bangor's law-bishop chanced that way to pass. 
 
 That pillar of the statesman's British church 
 
 Koll'd on and left them lying in the lurch ; 
 
 He never once his handsome landau stopp'd, 
 
 But spied through glasses where they all had dropped 
 
 Upon the roadside, while he gently pass'd, 
 
 And only but one tranquil look had cast. 
 
 Such accidents as this of course would be ; 
 
 But then just please to think and say to me 
 
 Has science served to change the whole of this ? 
 
 Does nothing now befall us so amiss ? 
 
 As an old coachman lately to me said, 
 
 And shook expressively his honest head, 
 
 " Of yore you fell, of course, and there you were ; 
 
 But falling in these days, where are you? where ?" 
 
 Your cutter too might oft, I know, be left 
 
 Of means at night to enter ports bereft ; 
 
 As when he saw old Dover Castle past 
 
 And anxious eyes indeed on Deal were cast, 
 
 To watch if boats that might observe their plight 
 
 Would land them there before the fall of night ; 
 
 When two of them arrived ; and then befell 
 
 A queerish accident that I must tell. 
 
 For while he careless stepp'd between the twain, 
 
 A vast white wave did part them then again, 
 
 When down he plunged into the foaming sea, 
 
 To find how pleasant even that could be ; 
 
140 CANTO VII. 
 
 For icy cold upon the deck and wet, 
 
 (He thinks his teeth must chatter even yet,) 
 
 Once in the waves, he swam through summer heat 
 
 A sudden change most acceptably sweet. 
 
 Of course he heard a female's plaintive scream 
 
 From some sweet, tender, beauteous soul, I deem ; 
 
 Misfortunes must be very close and sly 
 
 That do not hear a woman's pitying cry ; 
 
 But though he sought awhile to swim about, 
 
 The sailors seized and pull'd him quickly out. 
 
 The incident though small I'd mention so, 
 
 Just to prove here to you and clearly show 
 
 That e'en by water, and no less by land, 
 
 Entire perfection we could ne'er command ; 
 
 Though then to winds and waves I trow were not 
 
 Collisions added for our human lot, 
 
 Such as the so-called Pyroscaphic way 
 
 Presents with horror to us every day. 
 
 But what no doubt denoted simpler ways, 
 Each like an errant knight rode in those days. 
 Then journeys upon horseback were thought best 
 For seeing things at leisure and with zest. 
 And this I find will open such a door, 
 That pardon will be needed more and more ; 
 For which occasions many will be found 
 To furnish for expostulations ground ; 
 Since of this temple some will here complain, 
 For taking cognizance of secrets vain. 
 
OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURES. 141 
 
 As in the halls of science you can see 
 
 Arranged some things that seem to disagree 
 
 With what you deem'd of any worth before ; 
 
 So in the mind lies here an ancient store 
 
 Of specimens perhaps that if you found, 
 
 You'd leave them, where you saw them, on the 
 
 ground. 
 
 This temple too has many private nooks 
 At which a stern man with suspicion looks. 
 It differs no less from all others so 
 In letting enter both high things and low. 
 Whatever to Dame Nature appertains, 
 Thus class' d or in disorder it contains. 
 While seeming to neglect all rules of art 
 That would select and only show a part, 
 The ruling powers here find room for all 
 Things elsewhere swept away as mean and small. 
 What refuse in the Memory is seen, 
 As in wise Cardan's or with Lamartine ! 
 Their lawsuits and their ravings there they 
 
 find; 
 
 His rubbish, not exactly of that kind, 
 Can never be palm'd off for things as grave ; 
 And if he wish'd appearances to save, 
 It should have all been clear' d away ere this ; 
 But somehow rubbish e'en at times we miss. 
 To find true gems in it he long may wait, 
 Or what belongs in any way to state ; 
 We might of course at once get rid of all ; 
 But then you'd lose one feature of this hall ; 
 
142 CANTO VII. 
 
 For alien to it nought can ever be 
 
 That savours wholly of hilarity. 
 
 'Tis litter, I admit, that here you'll find 
 
 Within this vaunted temple of the mind ; 
 
 But what as useless remnants many hold, 
 
 Still lying here and there we must behold. 
 
 A microscopic world within us lies, 
 
 Of which details may please though not surprise. 
 
 'Tis like a dust of atoms without number, 
 
 That in the Memory collects to slumber ; 
 
 Until some movement or some light seen near 
 
 Will cause them thus to rise and reappear. 
 
 For always something sparkles in each mite, 
 
 Which can explain why it attracts the sight 
 
 A certain germ of beauty, you might say, 
 
 If it but meet with a responsive ray 
 
 That can a colour yield to things of sense, 
 
 Which otherwise might only prove offence. 
 
 So as he glances at these trifling things, 
 
 And some will wonder why of them one sings, 
 
 The simple reason is we find them here, 
 
 And so, howe'er you scream, they must appear. 
 
 Besides, 'twill serve some persons to unfold 
 
 What thus has gather'd since the times of old ; 
 
 That they may know how common mortals plod, 
 
 As firmly b'lieving as the saints in God. 
 
 They think that none have faith but the demure ; 
 
 But of the fact I'd have them not so sure ; 
 
 And, who knows ? It may even do them good, 
 
 If this plain truth by them be understood 
 
OF TBAVEL AND ADVENTTJKES. 143 
 
 That those who will appearances least save, 
 
 Give the same evidence as did the grave. 
 
 Each then becomes a witness indirect, 
 
 On other minds can therefore most effect. 
 
 This is the secret that explains the whole, 
 
 If you deem parts would need more strict control. 
 
 Perhaps indeed it is these very parts 
 
 Which prove how good lay deepest in their hearts ; 
 
 For Tartuffe's French or English worship pride, 
 
 With which their minds and senses too are dyed ; 
 
 While these fond wand'rings of the eye and ear 
 
 Can only be where simple things are dear. 
 
 Of follies even there may be a choice, 
 
 While of the most disdain'd we hear the voice. 
 
 Visit some other halls so full of whim, 
 
 And then you'll not be so severe with him. 
 
 Just hear grave Cardan while he loves to trace, 
 
 When erysipelas attacked his face, 
 
 What money he had won at playing dice ; 
 
 What meats or sauces seem'd to him most nice ; 
 
 When irritation spread upon his skin, 
 
 From what great authors he could praises win. 
 
 The things at least which with our friend you find 
 
 Are always wholly of another kind ; 
 
 On whatsoever ground they seem to border, 
 
 Thank Heav'n, I say, they are not of that order. 
 
 If things ensued at times that wanted grace, 
 
 It may be said at least they were not base. 
 
 Perhaps, young people whisper sometimes, hush ! 
 
 But then, do say, at what will some not blush? 
 
144 CANTO VII. 
 
 A chime of fancy, wrong or right, he'll find, 
 Or stray experience of a vacant mind. 
 'Tis lowly pleasures, homely sympathies, 
 Each of which too with common life agrees. 
 This temple suited to its neighbourhood 
 Has never lowly things misunderstood. 
 It stands, you know, to very poor things near, 
 Which not the less to it are ever dear. 
 Careless and unassuming is the spirit 
 Which those who will consult it must inherit. 
 From the green lane or from the busy street 
 It welcomes all, and will their coming greet. 
 From the gay shop or attic up on high, 
 A ready entrance it will ne'er deny. 
 There's not a place to which it feels not bound, 
 However mean and humble it is found. 
 This temple knows no supercilious scorn 
 For any items which with us were born. 
 Though seeming the result of hearts at leisure, 
 It holds such acquisitions lawful seizure. 
 Howsoe'er poor, despised the thing and low, 
 'Tis always good enough for it to show ; 
 At least to such as you who hear my song, 
 Who never are the first to find out wrong. 
 Eecurring then to Chivalry's new type, 
 For which your boys of sixteen would be ripe, 
 I needs must tell of those who booted go 
 Homeric-like, and things quite a propos. 
 For formerly whatever way they went, 
 Their inclinations could this way be bent. 
 
OF TEAVEL AND ADVENTTJEES, 145 
 
 For know that there were types as if to fire 
 
 The youth who to such moulding would aspire. 
 
 The post-office had boys to carry letters, 
 
 Who rode as well as any of their betters. 
 
 There were the lads who also bore despatches, 
 
 Whose rapid riding what we read of matches. 
 
 Employ'd by Government or by the press, 
 
 They had relays sent thus as an express ; 
 
 And until lately could this ancient mode 
 
 Be seen, at least upon the Dover road. 
 
 The boys would gather round them at each change 
 
 With looks that show'd they felt an envy strange ; 
 
 They'd watch in silence, pointing out some spots, 
 
 And seem more pleas'd when finding there were lots. 
 
 Then butcher boys each day would ride you past, 
 
 And no one seem'd to think their pace too fast. 
 
 What childish things in Memory will rest ! 
 
 Take as an instance one not of the best. 
 
 Ought I to show it ? Yes, you say ; why not ? 
 
 Then let not your permission be forgot. 
 
 The picture seem'd so joyous in its way, 
 
 That in his memory he found 'twould stay. 
 
 'Tis not high " Christian art " to suit a Jiio ; 
 
 Yet is there somewhat pleasing in the trio 
 
 That he still sees portray'd within this hall ; 
 
 Though them I'm rather puzzled what to call. 
 
 The incident is pleasant in its way, 
 
 It seems to have just pass'd the other day. 
 
 So now let me, as wanting sense, sing on ; 
 
 'Twill make me tell a wiser tale anon. 
 
146 CANTO Til. 
 
 He says two young ladies he saw in the street 
 Who one of these blue friends on horseback did meet ; 
 He pull'd up his nag and they chatted with glee. 
 I own that I watch' d them with pleasure, saith 
 
 he. 
 
 You ask me how came he attention to lend ? 
 He stood at the corner to wait for a friend. 
 If you will ask rude questions, 'tis not my fault 
 When the answer responds in no lofty thought. 
 Although they beheld a fourth standing so nigh, 
 Of him they felt sure that they need not fight shy, 
 One just like themselves as their smiling implied ; 
 So still they continued to chat by his side, 
 While now and then glancing e'en archly at him 
 As if they thought he would be pleased with each 
 
 whim. 
 
 It seem'd not the first time they both had come out ; 
 So neither cared much to be looking about ; 
 The one seem'd high-spirited, frolicksome, gay, 
 The other at first scarcely knew what to say ; 
 Too timid by half and compassionate, shy ; 
 And contrasts yield pleasure when thus they're seen 
 
 nigh. 
 
 Her friend, while the ridden horse stood thus near her, 
 Could never once take off her eyes from the spur ; 
 Though what there was in it to please her so much, 
 Who can tell ? but watch she would each slightest 
 
 touch, 
 
 Pretending in haste to be looking elsewhere, 
 Though all the time conscious of what went on there. 
 
OF TEAYEL ATSD ADVENTUEES. 147 
 
 Great pride to see master'd as always is right, 
 Although in a horse cannot fail to delight, 
 Or orders quite wanton to witness fulfilPd, 
 When strength much superior might have been self- 
 
 will'd. 
 
 The horse only made more obedient shows pluck ; 
 And that's why she rather liked seeing him struck ; 
 Without which she knew he could never be taught 
 To do just each moment the thing that he ought. 
 And then there was something so quiet the while 
 Still in her young rider she liked his whole style. 
 Perhaps this accounts for the pleasure she took, 
 When thus at his spur she would furtively look; 
 The lad could not play with it e'en on the sly 
 And escape the quick glance of her merry eye. 
 The two girls said nought, though they saw that he 
 
 wore 
 
 But only one spur, and it pleased them the more 
 The tender one thinking 'twas one side to spare, 
 The other of something more real aware ; 
 The two are for ornament seldom applied, 
 The one is for him who will fearlessly ride ; 
 Neither foppish nor timid the girls will say, 
 And to win their approval this goes a great way. 
 So the three now stopp'd short, two like sisters agreed, 
 Then talk'd to the rider, who stroked down his steed ; 
 The gay one but wink'd and the shy one look'd down, 
 As if just to settle some pleats in her gown. 
 The boy slapp'd him hard as a finishing trick, 
 As much as to say, " Little horse, you're a brick." 
 L 2 
 
148 CANTO Til. 
 
 Some sly, silly secrets appear'd then to pass, 
 
 To judge by the titter at least of one lass : 
 
 'Twas doubtless of songs lately heard in the hall 
 
 Their own Metropolitan, and that was all. 
 
 They smiled and they giggled, looked arch at each 
 
 other, 
 
 As if some gay fancy they each had to smother. 
 The lad saw what pleased them when they did so stare, 
 So he just touch'd his horse and left his heel there. 
 'Twas clear that a rider who did things so cool, 
 Had never been train'd in too morbid a school ; 
 The horse is accustom'd to meet with rude hands 
 When trotting on highways or while he thus stands, 
 A docile and rather a good-looking hack, 
 A fairish but somewhat bold boy on his back. 
 To the girls the whole seem'd a matter of course ; 
 At least they affected to have that resource 
 Familiar perhaps to the feminine mind, 
 When puzzled a little excuses to find 
 For what it feels certain is no grievous fault, 
 When all has been said of it, all has been thought. 
 In silence they watch' d him as if but one word, 
 Now ought one to say so ? their pleasure disturb' d ; 
 When one of them seem'd somewhat frighten'd and 
 
 shy; 
 
 The other half whispering thus did reply, 
 " Well such softness as yours would a girl provoke ; 
 You see how his horse he continues to stroke ; 
 Don't you see that he treats him quite like a friend ; 
 That real affection upon him he'll spend ; 
 
OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURES. 149 
 
 E'en when 'gainst his side he continues to press, 
 You see there's not wanting a hand to caress 
 Both arms round his neck too see smilingly thrown, 
 How you'd scream if you saw them encircle your 
 
 own ! 
 
 There's nothing so dreadful at all in his way, 
 When fond words of coaxing you hear him still say ; 
 So do not affect now, young silly, or hawl, 
 That pressing his heel in's the way with them all. 
 Besides, you should feel that he serves him quite 
 
 right, 
 
 For putting a creature like you in a fright." 
 " Yet," said the other, " had he let him alone, 
 His horse would have stood as stock still as a stone." 
 The gay one replied, " I don't trouble my head 
 As to who first began, let what will be said ; 
 Of course- 1 can see that he left a slight spot ; 
 The horse well deserved, I think, all that he got. 
 Besides, don't you see that he looks rather pleased? 
 'Tis I by your screams, I do think, that am teased. 
 How he arches his neck and paws with his feet ! 
 Which shows that he finds even punishment sweet. 
 At least I do think that the horse scarcely knows 
 What 'tis that his rider would do or propose. 
 Then thus growing brave, too, and merry and free, 
 She wish'd she could get herself off on a spree. 
 " A pretty horsebreaker," she said, " I should make, 
 I'm sure you'd be pleased with him soon for my sake." 
 The other look'd doubtful, and shaking her head, 
 " I'd be sorry to see you on this one," said, 
 
150 CANTO VII. 
 
 " A quieter nag, my dear girl, you'd require." 
 
 She answer'd, "Pis this very one I'd desire ; 
 
 He can't bear a touch, you say ? Well, hear my 
 
 whim, 
 
 I'd see for myself just, and ride only him ; 
 And would not I make him obey me and feel, 
 The nice little toy that I'd have on my heel ?" 
 You'd have thought with the horse she was fallen 
 
 in love, 
 
 And having a secret she seem'd far above. 
 She patted his neck and she smooth'd down his mane, 
 While wishing his rider would touch him again. 
 The more he would touch him and slily provoke, 
 The more she esteem 'd it a capital joke. 
 " He did do it that time," she said ; " well, I never ! 
 I thought he'd have thrown him, but Harry's so 
 
 clever ! 
 
 Yet if he will keep contradicting him so, 
 He's sure some fine morning to have a bad throw. 
 How frighten 'd we were both that time when we 
 
 run ! 
 
 To have stood on the road would never have done." 
 The tenses will sometimes get rather confused, 
 And past things seem present whereby we're amused. 
 Then she who too clearly had liked the thing most, 
 Began of that brown horse's beauty to boast. 
 " Poor thing, ain't he handsome ? " she said ; " but 
 
 he's hot, 
 Each time that you touch'd him you left a small 
 
 spot. 
 
OF TEAYEL AND ADYESTTTJKES. 151 
 
 I hardly can think that you know what you've 
 
 done." 
 
 The lad only laugh'd then, and call'd it his fun. 
 In truth all the time he could tell by her look, 
 That her own secret wishes might be mistook, 
 Of course she knew well how he made his horse 
 
 prance ; 
 
 But 'twas for that method she liked him perchance. 
 Then touching the steel prick with her little hand, 
 She wonder' d the horse would so quietly stand. 
 " Well, jesting apart," she said, " I should not like, 
 If while my hand rested there he were to strike." 
 While both of them spoke they kept looking to see, 
 If with them the strange young man would not 
 
 agree. 
 
 I don't think that any face there wore a frown, 
 Though one of them, troubled, still kept looking 
 
 down. 
 The roadster then plunged and stood straight in the 
 
 air, 
 Till frighten'd while pleased too seem'd both of the 
 
 pair. 
 
 Ought one to say it ? But the plain fact to know, 
 They'd longer have stood there to see him touch'd so, 
 For more and more pleased still seem'd both girls, he 
 
 thought ; 
 The taste seem'd to grow on them once it was 
 
 caught ; 
 
 For now they no longer pretended to feel 
 What their bright, joyous faces did not reveal. 
 
152 CANTO VII. 
 
 And she that was softest now liked the thing more 
 Than even the other, though timid before* 
 At length, as if nothing were left them to say, 
 Their friend nodded laughing and rode fast away. 
 You'd know by the sound of the hoofs in a trot, 
 That none of these practices then were forgot. 
 " Now mind you come soon to us," both of them 
 
 cried, 
 " Though mother says our way you neTer will 
 
 ride." 
 
 Then left to themselves, they both kept talking fast, 
 Their heads turn'd once or twice till he was pass'd j 
 And he who had stood near and heard all they said, 
 Could never the gay group get out of his head. 
 They were at the time just what all will forgive 
 Though afterward things but as follies may live 
 In memory ; yet to eternal bright classes, 
 And needful they rest with us as lads and lasses, 
 As pleasant to think of, for all you can say, 
 As state-prying fellows too busy to stay. 
 Not many days after he saw at a door 
 Tied up a brown horse like the one seen before. 
 He thought it was some one who moved in that line, 
 Said he, " If it were, 'tis no business of mine." 
 I. mention this circumstance only to show, 
 That friends can be civil though stations are low. 
 Thus civil to call, though they ne'er had a card, 
 But merely to friendship still paying regard ; 
 I mention it, too, just to show what small things 
 A juvenile memory frequently brings. 
 
Or TEAVEL AND ADYENTTTEES. 153 
 
 In classical anecdotes 'tis said we miss 
 Too oft traits of nature, quite simple like this. 
 Now ought one to say it ? but their mirth compare 
 With gravity such as our sophists oft wear ; 
 For all that appears most unlike what they write 
 Will seem to me something that ought to delight ; 
 Though call it you may, perhaps, vulgar rude stuff, 
 That one trait suffices ; for me 'tis enough. 
 Such fanciful things are not always the worst, 
 Whatever you think of them say from the first. 
 It is not in them that the spirit will dwell 
 Which comes to our reason, commission'd from hell. 
 Besides, who could quarrel with such youth the 
 
 while 
 Who once versed in knighthood had known its old 
 
 style ? 
 Young Bayard, we read, was much praised for this 
 
 game 
 
 When thus before damsels his horse he would tame ; 
 Those Dauphiny girls never once sought to hide 
 What they liked to see when they saw a boy ride. 
 We're told though they saw here and there a small 
 
 drop, 
 That him they were far from attempting to 
 
 stop. 
 " Well done ! " they kept crying out; " give him the 
 
 spur ! " 
 
 And that is what he never heard said by her 
 Whose wishes could only be guess'd by her smile 
 And eyes on the horse's side fix'd all the while. 
 
154 CANTO Til. 
 
 These juvenile riders their horses loved much ; 
 But some nags there are that can't bear the least 
 
 touch ; 
 
 And therefore to rough lads were often consigned 
 Such horses to mount which but few felt inclined ; 
 The thought of a heel would awaken their ire ; 
 Their eyes and their nostrils would both emit fire ; 
 They'd dash up the necks with their heads in the 
 
 air; 
 
 'Tis only good riders who play with them dare. 
 Then they'd rear up and plunge, still kick, and 
 
 would kill 
 The lad on their back, who'd keep touching them 
 
 still. 
 
 The proudest at last would be found to submit, 
 Avoiding occasions again to be hit ; 
 A triumph then there was of skill to behold 
 Which e'en by a minstrel most famed might be told. 
 Yet still to the butcher boys must we return, 
 With one of whom now has been too long sojourn. 
 But thus it is sometimes that tongues one can't stop 
 However we want them wild stories to drop. 
 
 Our hero had a fancy for the tribe 
 
 Which first began as he will now describe. 
 
 One of these azure lads was riding by, 
 
 When a great crowd assembled caught his eye. 
 
 A staunch policeman said it must move on ; 
 
 When instantly the multitude was gone. 
 
OF TKAVEL AND ADVENTUBES. 155 
 
 A foreigner who saw it, laughed aloud, 
 
 And rudely scouted all the docile crowd. 
 
 " You Englishmen are cowards ! " still he cried ; 
 
 Our butcher boy was not to be defied. 
 
 Down from his saddle slipp'd he in a trice ; 
 
 'Twas clear that he was after some device. 
 
 Bidding another boy his horse to hold, 
 
 He strode up to the foreigner right bold. 
 
 Challenged and bade him fiercely turn again ; 
 
 But, sooth, his invitation proved in vain. 
 
 " What, won't you fight us cowards ? " ask'd the 
 
 boy, 
 His face quite flush'd with honest pride and 
 
 jy- 
 
 The passers-by applauded, as they might ; 
 But off he rode, and soon was out of sight, 
 Leaving our friend, he says, now with a mind 
 Some likeness in himself with him to find ; 
 Almost as if he thought that corduroy 
 Was the best clothing for a valiant boy. 
 Such lads had often challenged him to trot 
 On country roads to such and such a spot, 
 Not caring how the heels might be employed, 
 Provided a good match could be enjoy'd. 
 But then indeed in town and country both 
 At that time for such sport seem'd no one loth. 
 Men nobly task'd for cruelty preventing 
 Could not take all spurs off with them consenting. 
 Besides 'twas clear that women, as of old, 
 Would sanction what denoted riders bold. 
 
156 CANTO VII. 
 
 They liked to see it, or, with careless eye, 
 
 Heard those who blamed it, and made no reply. 
 
 Affected sensibility was not 
 
 A female feature with the common lot ; 
 
 They never seem'd inclined to hide their thought 
 
 That young gay friends did all things as they ought. 
 
 This meekness hypocritical has grown 
 
 Only of late years, as our Lamb does own, 
 
 Who thinks our older tale-writers would spurn 
 
 What morbid, stupid seems us all to turn. 
 
 With now these fancies brooding in his breast, 
 
 Journeys on horseback seem'd to him the best. 
 
 Then too the hacks of origin Newmarket 
 
 Excell'd all later. Many have remark'd it. 
 
 Thus, as an instance, he will here relate 
 
 That sped from Cambridge, stopping then to bait 
 
 But once, at Wades Mill, he has reach'd the square 
 
 Call'd Manchester, and then dismounted there 
 
 Just as the clocks about it one had struck ; 
 
 But nought could e'er surpass that horse's pluck. 
 
 To Oxford rode he, Newbury and Bath ; 
 
 But then he was as light as any lath. 
 
 At Chippenham, last stage, he had a fright ; 
 
 For snow had deeply fallen in the night ; 
 
 But soap well rubb'd into his horse's heels, 
 
 He rode on, though no track remain'd of wheels. 
 
 As if to make him like a knight of old, 
 
 A pair of spurs, though not indeed of gold, 
 
 Were given to him by a gentle friend, 
 
 And, to say truth, expressly for that end, 
 
OF TBAYEL AND ADYENTTJEES. 157 
 
 Which proves they are not that vile, cruel thing 
 That sentimentalists will say and sing : 
 Though farther on they led him to a fray 
 With singing boys about the close of day, 
 Within the aisles of Salisbury, where he 
 Stroll'd in, when they his spurs did quickly see. 
 They flock'd all round him, and had e'en the face 
 To say for wearing them in such a place 
 There must a fine be paid, at which he laugh'd, 
 And, as he thought, them rather finely chaff 'd, 
 Bidding them see the tomb of one whom they 
 Had never challenged thus a fine to pay, 
 Commanding them to see, the saucy curs, 
 Where lay a knight who also wore his spurs. 
 He thought with this he fairly shut them up ; 
 So to the " White Hart " back he went to sup. 
 But, sooth, he had adventures riding so, 
 Though future times may not all want to know, 
 And though had they been known in days of old, 
 They ne'er by Pindar's Muse would have been 
 
 told, 
 
 E'en had she seen him stretch'd upon the plain 
 And rising unscathed to be off again ; 
 For though of hunting he disliked the sounds, 
 He just could say that he had follow'd hounds. 
 Though none would cross the fields more straight 
 
 than he, 
 
 The road had still attractions to cause glee ; 
 For even then, though grass and turnips shine, 
 He liked still more the human face divine, 
 
158 CANTO VII. 
 
 Although it might not always indeed prove 
 
 That real type which moulds the face you'd love 
 
 As in an instance he sees painted now 
 
 Which might have ended in a famous row. 
 
 Approaching London on a winter's night 
 
 A farmer join'd him and a cunning wight. 
 
 To chat about the weather then began 
 
 That artful dodger and deceitful man ; 
 
 Till at a gate near Shoreditch our friend drew 
 
 His rein, when th' other rode on and went through. 
 
 " Ho ! " cried the keeper, " for him do you pay ? " 
 
 As speedily he spoke and answer'd "Nay." 
 
 He slamm'd the gate and left him to stand there 
 
 Till after some time, coming forth more fair, 
 
 " Then if you be a gentleman," he said, 
 
 " Just after him immediately be sped, 
 
 Apply your horsewhip to his back and thighs, 
 
 That he may pay a forfeit for his lies." 
 
 A horse that had from Cambridge come that day 
 
 Was not the steed to bear him to the fray ; 
 
 And once for all he'd say a horse that's tired 
 
 Through the long city streets so deep bemired 
 
 Must needs be treated with discretion too ; 
 
 For recklessly to ride on would not do. 
 
 Another time while through a Cambridge fen 
 
 He rode by night, returning with some men, 
 
 They gallop' d fast and felt prodigious merry 
 
 Till to the river come, they'd cross a ferry ; 
 
 When halfway pass'd, the river being deep, 
 
 One fiery horse would kicking, plunging keep. 
 
OF TEAYEL AND ADVENTURES. 159 
 
 He thought to hold him down, but rearing high, 
 In the black water soon the two you spy. 
 They swam together, he still at his side, 
 Till safe on shore to Cambridge on they ride. 
 A scene far different befell him later 
 Who of unfeeling roughness was a hater ; 
 For stopping once to rest at Basingstoke, 
 He saw a man that him did much provoke. 
 A funeral, he folio w'd to the yard 
 Where stood a minister whose face was hard ; 
 Some women and some boys were all in tears ; 
 But what is this harsh scolding that he hears ? 
 The mourners standing near him o'er the grave, 
 This proud, rude hireling began to rave 
 Because, forsooth, the surplice that was brought 
 Was not the sullied one that he had sought, 
 As fitting such a place and skies that lour ; 
 When he drew contrasts telling from that hour. 
 
 Nor was it only in our native land 
 
 That he a nag for journeys would command ; 
 
 For e'en in France a post-horse he would ride 
 
 Across the sands or through the rising tide 
 
 From. Avranches to behold Saint Michael's Mount, 
 
 Which among foreign rides his best he'll count. 
 
 That holy pile " in perils of the sea," 
 
 As it is styled, a noble theme might be. 
 
 The post-boy, who kept riding close at hand, 
 
 Bade him ne'er stop an instant on the sand ; 
 
160 CANTO VII. 
 
 Or else the horse would settle down so fast 
 That 'neath its banks would be their graves at last. 
 With these French post-boys would he often vie, 
 And some of their devices even try 
 With, to his own contentment, great success, 
 As you at once, he thinks, will quickly guess ; 
 As when his trotting horse he would not stop 
 While from his saddle down he'd let him drop, 
 Or mounting up again regain his seat, 
 And think he had accomplish 'd quite a feat ; 
 Though all this leaping up and slipping down 
 Was rather like an English circus clown. 
 
 But leaving all this now as sooth is meet, 
 Since men " In chariots will conceal their feet," 
 As said the Grecian Muse in days of old, 
 Let us the chariot of those days behold. 
 The posting also such as then was known, 
 Would ever vying with the wind disown. 
 Three days upon the road they always spent 
 When from the port Boulogne- sur-Mer they went 
 To Paris, seeing all things well and nigh, 
 Which you had time to sketch ere passing by. 
 Thus walk'd he to Saint Eiquier to draw ; 
 Also to Corby, which with love he saw. 
 The former's fame Dacherius could tell, 
 Whose Spicilegium chronicles that cell ; 
 The latter dear to every student's mind, 
 In whom least mediaeval lore you find ; 
 
OP TKAYEL AND ADVENTTJKES. 161 
 
 Both still majestic in their grey remains, 
 And worthy surely of a minstrel's strains. 
 From Abbeville and Amiens lies the way 
 To these vast scenes of interest pass'd away. 
 'Tis true through other lands as you advance 
 Were dangers not then often found in France ; 
 Unless through quite the South you slowly glide 
 To see " gens-d'armes " riding by your side. 
 Posting to Darmstadt from Frankfort town, 
 They had to stop before the sun went down. 
 The forests were so haunted at that time 
 By brigands, that as soon as five did chime 
 You were forbidden to pursue your road 
 Without an escort that beside you rode. 
 This posting slowly left you time to stop 
 And hear what might by chance from some lips drop. 
 So thus while near Vienna he heard tell 
 Of young Napoleon rem ember 'd well. 
 To Schoenbrunn the good Emperor did go, 
 That his great father's death the boy might know. 
 He shed some tears, and then to Francis said, 
 " Why had he been to such a distance led ? " 
 " He injured many," was the grave reply ; 
 " Me more than all." Which seem'd to satisfy 
 The lad, whom Francis loved as his own son ; 
 But questioning him still he had not done. 
 Thoughtful and sad, he ask'd with scanty breath, 
 " By fair means did rny father meet his death ? " 
 The answer calm'd him greatly, they were told ; 
 The Duke of Keichstadt then was nine years old. 
 
 M 
 
162 CAKTO VII. 
 
 All this he heard from one who knew the fact, 
 Who by his place could speak and be exact. 
 Now to the road again, and let us hear 
 Of things which to adventures approach near. 
 For oft did follow such that seem'd quite new 
 To him and to his friends. Let's hear a few. 
 To Salzburg and from Lambada's post-town lay 
 Now many years ago these young men' way. 
 They heard the Emperor himself had started 
 For the same town, and just as they departed ; 
 Or rather say it was an hour before, 
 A dreadful inconvenience they fear'd sore. 
 But yet for all their dreary expectation 
 They still found horses ready at each station, 
 And even waiting for them harness' d there, 
 As if for them alone men did prepare. 
 Then all wide open as they drove did fly 
 The long white barriers that they passed by; 
 Till as they roll'd beneath the last they heard 
 A question that their minds somewhat disturb'd. 
 " Say are you also of the Caesar's train ? 
 If not, stop now, 'tis here you must remain 
 To pay this barrier and all the rest 
 That you have pass'd, as we do here attest." 
 Accounts then slowly settled, on they drove, 
 And Salzburg city saw them cease to rove. 
 The Emperor himself, it seems, had been 
 The cause of this mistake, as now was seen ; 
 For hearing that they meant to follow him, 
 It was his own Imperial charming whim, 
 
OP TRAVEL AND ADVENTUEES. 163 
 
 Or rather kind and wondrous condescension, 
 Of them at each post to make always mention ; 
 As if their own hired courier he became 
 Through love for England and its cherish'd name ; 
 And then he always bade hosts take great care 
 That horses for them should be ready there. 
 The Diligence so-calPd for other folk 
 Would often with its long delays provoke. 
 When from the sunny capital you sped 
 To Bordeaux city you were nearly dead 
 Arriving there not until the seventh day, 
 Jolted to jelly, melted on the way, 
 So weary that an iron nail might lie 
 So as to press your drowsy, wounded eye ; 
 And yet you could not wake up then, although 
 You knew what 'twas that press'd and pain'd you so, 
 The carriages themselves were hideous things 
 In France ; their speed was never that of wings. 
 From Avignon he would to Yaucluse go ; 
 'Twas all arranged for the next morning so. 
 " But," said the waiter, " there's an Englishman 
 Who'd travel with you, if he only can." 
 Agreed was he ; so at the dawn of day 
 Our friend beneath the porch would waiting stray. 
 The sky without a cloud, one pale gold light 
 Announced the near departure of the night. 
 At last the silence of the streets was broken 
 By wheels that Morpheus' self would have awoken ; 
 The sound like distant thunder nearer peals ; 
 The stranger down the stairs now quickly steak. 
 M 2 
 
CANTO VII. 
 
 The silence of the town, abrupt and great, 
 
 Beign'd then again, when, stopp'd short at the gate, 
 
 The huge machine its presence only tells 
 
 By now and then the hcrse-neck's tingling bells. 
 
 A vast and cumbrous vehicle appears 
 
 So black as to awaken deadly fears ; 
 
 Drawn round it curtains of thick, foul-greased leather, 
 
 Not quite required, thought he, by hot weather. 
 
 The wheels, springs, roof, and sides were all so vast, 
 
 That the poor stranger seem'd to feel aghast ; 
 
 When slowly walking round it twice or thrice, 
 
 He wonder'd at the cumbersome device. 
 
 He then our friend accosted, and thus said, 
 
 Who to find out his country was soon led, 
 
 " I fear a dreadful hating we shall get, 
 
 When once within those curtains fairly set." 
 
 The look he gave it also was so droll, 
 
 That yet in Memory remains the whole. 
 
 But even then the French could justly boast 
 
 Of their unrivall'd, famed, and swift malle-post. 
 
 Still of this travelling, slow, he grants, but sure, 
 
 Which he while grumbling did so oft endure, 
 
 He can with perfect justice always say 
 
 For many persons 'twas a better way. 
 
 Perhaps you'll smile when he will only add 
 
 That by these means a knowledge could be had 
 
 Of smallest matters met with on the way 
 
 Of local genius an inscription, say. 
 
 Inscriptions often indicate much taste ; 
 
 But who can read them that will fly with haste ? 
 
OF TEAYEL AND ADVENTUEES. 165 
 
 At Ems upon a lofty tower he found 
 
 These lines, which for some thought will furnish 
 
 ground. 
 
 " You see a small and but to few known town, 
 On which no less eternal God looks down 
 With love and care." 8 At Salzburg too he saw 
 Words that could any one's attention draw 
 Inscribed upon a rock through which he pass'd 
 By an Archbishop shorter than the last. 
 " Of thee, Lord, speak the stones," 9 and that was 
 
 all; 
 
 The maker's name was not upon the wall. 
 At Constance on some ancient monk's retreat 
 These beauteous words inscribed you still can meet, 
 " Here sacred, sweet tranquillity is found ; 
 The spot prepared for it you see around." l 
 But true adventures will this method slow 
 Of travelling cause you at times to know. 
 An incident at least in one sense high 
 I cannot pass in silence wholly by. 
 The scene is now the rich, vast Lombard Plain ; 
 You see him mounted, journeying once again ; 
 But this time truly not with chaise and pair, 
 But rather like a simple proletaire. 
 It now is on a diligence he'll lie, 
 And to a young conductor seated nigh. 
 
 8 Aspicis exiguam nee magni nominis urbem, 
 Quam tamen aBternus curat aniatque Deus. 
 
 9 Te saxa loquuntur. 
 1 Tranquillati sacrse. 
 
166 CANTO VII. 
 
 They've left Verona, now for Milan bound, 
 
 A glorious landscape stretching all around. 
 
 You know how youth with youth will talk away ; 
 
 You can conceive, then, how they pass'd the day. 
 
 The journey made, they roll'd through handsome 
 
 streets, 
 
 This young conductor greeting all he meets ; 
 Who make him such a gracious, friendly nod, 
 Our friend began to think it rather odd 
 That one in such a station thus appear'd 
 To swells and swellesses so much endear'd. 
 His wonder greatly was increased when he 
 His young companion later chanced to see 
 At the great opera that very night, 
 Whose presence seem'd to yield a true delight 
 To a large circle that was quite select ; 
 And then, what he did never there expect, 
 He saw him greet him as the very best 
 Among his friends as if of all the rest, 
 Saying, " When perch'd up with you scorching 
 
 there, 
 
 I suffer'd from the dust and sultry air. 
 And you ? I think with pain you likewise felt 
 The heat which both of us did seem to melt." 
 Aristocratic grace was quickly seen 
 Engraved upon his noble front and mien. 
 Some few days later asking, he was told 
 That young man's family was great and old ; 
 But that late wtfrs and frequent revolution 
 Had prompted his bold present resolution 
 
OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURES. 167 
 
 To meet its ruin, as he nobly did ; 
 
 While nought he ever ask'd and nought he hid. 
 
 Such scenes, in truth, had a romantic tone, 
 
 But so had many others he will own. 
 
 What stirring incidents by day and night 
 
 Occurred to fill him with some fresh delight ! 
 
 What sweet companions often too by chance 
 
 He met in England, and no less in France ; 
 
 What invitations sometimes intervening, 
 
 While youth knew not, in truth, their real meaning! 
 
 What opportunity for many pranks, 
 
 And for which others vainer would give thanks ! 
 
 With wayside inns what insight has he gain'd 
 
 While for a night he there perforce remained. 
 
 Then he knew much of Zurich's ancient " Haven," 
 
 Of Bruges' " Fleur de Bled," that safe fair 
 
 haven, 
 
 Of Freiburg's justly famed Zahringer's " Hof," 
 Nor from Cologne, I think, would he be off 
 Till he did rest to sketch for many an hour 
 In its quaint, antique hostel, " The White Tower ;" 
 Then Rhineneck's " Crown," and the famed " Eagle 
 
 Gold " 
 
 At Constance, as the place itself as old, 
 " The Golden Goose " at Lindau's island town ; 
 These and a thousand others he'd note down. 
 And then their hosts were not men to disdain 
 Though now unknown to the remorseless train ; 
 For no one now with any landlord stops, 
 Or into cosy hostels ever drops, 
 
168 CANTO YII. 
 
 Such as, like ancient Innspruck's " G-olden Eagle," 
 To stop for days were sure him to inveigle, 
 Where Louis Benoit Nider Kercher's name 
 As one of these good hosts he would proclaim : 
 Who all things knew, from crystals on the rocks 
 To alpine pale flowers and the goatherd's flocks, 
 From the wild chamois on the mountains high 
 To what will skim the plains the butterfly. 
 His tale too had this pleasant, honest host, 
 And one to please an English guest the most. 
 Sir Thomas Ackland but the year before 
 Had left his Inn to enter Hoffer's door. 
 Finding him poor, with many children too, 
 He said that such a thing would never do. 
 Back to Vienna, to the Emperor's ear 
 He told his visit. Next day did appear 
 In the Gazette an order to allow 
 One thousand florins as a pension BOW 
 To Hoffer aged, whose family should be 
 Enroll'd, it said, among nobility. 
 An extract he saw posted on the wall 
 Of his own room, proclaiming it to all. 
 Then at Poligny's post-house he must praise 
 The landlady's fair daughter and her ways ; 
 For as he saunter 'd through her courtyard there 
 At some small puppies he would stop and stare, 
 When he was bitten by her pointer bitch ; 
 And then her sorrow rose to such a pitch 
 That she and mother parsley took and salt, 
 As if their only fear was he should halt ; 
 
OE TEAT EL AND ADYENTTJEES. 169 
 
 They bandaged up the wound well, for the night, 
 And when he left, that he might feel all right, 
 They pull'd and gave a rose for him to smell, 
 Which as the puppy's he remembers well. 
 In memory still rests, he finds, the name 
 Of all the inns to which he ever came. 
 What recognitions also might be had 
 True or imagined as were of this lad ! 
 When in the South of France, one day he met 
 A lady's eyes that were upon him set, 
 Who cried that he must be her long-lost son 
 Who from America, she said, had gone, 
 Evincing such a lively transport there, 
 As made him rather naturally stare. 
 And then, although of nothing else he'd tell, 
 How slight amusements chanced to please him well ! 
 With time for always seeing this and that. 
 What playing with the dog and even cat ! 
 What converse on the road with earth and sky, 
 As he pass'd slowly watching, thoughtful by ! 
 If these are things that you will now disdain, 
 Go on and boast your railway's express train. 
 But leave him with these ancient pictures quaint 
 Which in this Hall he sees grow never faint. 
 
 Still, on the other hand, he needs must own 
 Some grievous inconveniences are shown 
 Emblazon'd even on this very wall, 
 Howe'er one would forget and hide them all. 
 
170 CA^TO Til. 
 
 What will not men like him at times forget ? 
 
 Of books and paintings their whole once loved set, 
 
 Their past misfortunes, ay, e'en too themselves ! 
 
 But in his Memory's Hall are certain shelves 
 
 On which lie many things within his reach 
 
 That dangers of the old ways clearly teach. 
 
 " Speed has suppressed adventures." This is said 
 
 By Fromentin, through many countries sped, 
 
 At least adventures of the ancient kind, 
 
 Though others wholly hideous you may find ; 
 
 But if speed has its own material shocks, 
 
 It never wafts you o'er a sea with rocks 
 
 'Gainst which perhaps imagination dashes 
 
 With, what the heart should fear, interior smashes. 
 
 The old style gave you time, you know, and leisure, 
 
 And so exposed your thoughts to frequent seizure. 
 
 For whether you but saunter'd in a town, 
 
 And saw the faces that were looking down, 
 
 (Supposing, still, of course, always the best, 
 
 And quite ignoring certainly the rest,) 
 
 Or through their outskirts only took your way, 
 
 Quite carelessly just towards the close of day, 
 
 Enchanted with your pleasant, lonely walk, 
 
 Where only birds and brooklets seem' d to talk, 
 
 Though you would envy both the bush and stile, 
 
 And think how in a very little while 
 
 There might be passing from some humble door 
 
 One whose light steps would please you even more, 
 
 As giving more of life unto the whole 
 
 That you might not be the spectator sole 
 
OP TBAYEL AND ADVENTURES. 171 
 
 Or elsewhere when you anxious look'd about 
 To see if others also were not out, 
 Who in the town before had been seen straying, 
 To you unknown, of course, and nothing saying, 
 To wander to its ancient " Castle Hill," 
 Just as the country folk below grew still 
 Or whether, as you saunter'd, came in sight 
 Some fair one who would cause a Moor to cite, 
 (Although he saw it only from afar) 
 The Proverb of the East, " Good face, good star " 
 Or whether riding, and some bright ones near, 
 Your horse seem'd somewhat on the road to fear, 
 Though he was taught so archly on the sly, 
 They saw nought else while passing smiling by ; 
 The horse's way their whole attention draws, 
 Though they might think perhaps about the 
 
 cause, 
 
 And consequently feel the while aware 
 Of what, no doubt, had been experienced there ; 
 For while they secretly the thing admired, 
 Of course they'd all know what had been required : 
 ('Twas easy to throw blame upon the steed, 
 When thus to please some strangers you would 
 
 need) 
 
 Whether, he'll say, you rode thus all alone, 
 Or to some foreign country you were flown, 
 Perchance when leaving England, far too young 
 Alone Italians to be thrown among, 
 Having then with some hired veterino, 
 Found some one rather used to a Casino, 
 
172 CANTO TIL 
 
 Arid needing some distractions on her way, 
 
 Where travellers like her must sometimes stay, 
 
 Who seem'd, perhaps, inclined to play her part, 
 
 As if she thought to meddle with your heart 
 
 Or whether, back again to England flown, 
 
 You'd think each town you came to was your own, 
 
 Till from some lodger that lived opposite, 
 
 A dart would fly, to slay you then outright 
 
 Or whether at the play you'd silent sit 
 
 Near some one who seem'd ne'er to think of it, 
 
 With dress described as like " the running water," 
 
 As Indians say of each. chaste gauze-clad daughter 
 
 Or whether staying in your own room whistling, 
 
 And not at all disposed to any listening, 
 
 You in the next one heard the merry laugh, 
 
 Of giggling damsels, who each other chaff 
 
 Whether he'll say, 'twas this way, then or there, 
 
 Without you ever being quite aware, 
 
 To whatsoever place you chanced to go 
 
 While travelling by these methods that were slow, 
 
 Some inconvenience often would arise 
 
 Which always took you wholly by surprise ; 
 
 For when in fact you thought of it the least, 
 
 From perils you were never quite released 
 
 E'en when some silent shy one brought your dinner, 
 
 Of sympathy each seem'd to come off winner ; 
 
 For though you could not say there e'en was chat 
 
 (And no harm surely would have been in that) 
 
 Though innocence herself was ever there, 
 
 There was a something in the very air ; 
 
OF TEAYEL AND ADVENTURES. 173 
 
 And not till long months afterwards you knew 
 What then was whisper'd only to a few ; 
 Though at the time were looks to cause remorse 
 Perhaps just as you mounted on your horse. 
 'Tis certain in those ancient and slow times 
 Were things that would not strictly suit these 
 
 rhymes. 
 
 So that, upon the whole, he thinks, least vain 
 May prove at last the flying railway train 
 Say the express, you're always sure to be 
 From such entanglements at least quite free, 
 " Wait till the train stops ! " being always there 
 The charge, and, when stopp'd, who has time to spare? 
 You'll nothing see, of course ; the fact is so, 
 Of what to see you only want to go ; 
 To whatsoever place you ever roam 
 You might indeed as well have stay'd at home ; 
 But then, by aid of these grand new inventions, 
 You're safe from what, of course, one never mentions; 
 And therefore in this, Memory's grand Hall 
 You should no doubt prefer and praise them all. 
 
 But now much graver sights he can behold 
 That here can be brought back and simply told. 
 
 A witness of events in Paris he 
 Seem'd destined from an early age to be. 
 Had he been ask'd,he'd say he'd rather not ; 
 What skills it seeing things you'd wish forgot ? 
 
174 CANTO VII. 
 
 The incident, however, first he'd cite, 
 
 Only displays a grave and solemn sight. 
 
 So from Besan^on passing in the mail, 
 
 He heard at dawn of day a startling tale 
 
 That Louis, King of France, was very ill, 
 
 And, the same evening, that he was so still. 
 
 At Dijon they reported, if not dead, 
 
 He was in danger, and the bad news spread. 
 
 But some leagues farther passing Citeaux, thought 
 
 Flew back to other ages as it ought. 
 
 At Troyes next morning he saw crowds for prayer 
 
 Assembled in the church and kneeling there. 
 
 But innkeepers and vulgar merchants said, 
 
 Or rather hinted, that the king was dead ; 
 
 " Though the whole truth to publish was afraid 
 
 The Government, who fear'd some sudden raid." 
 
 You've seen the knowing air such people take ; 
 
 Such he saw now as they their heads did shake. 
 
 At Provins in the evening 'twas disclosed 
 
 That theatres in Paris had been closed. 
 
 At Nangis, after sunset, at his door 
 
 A baker sat, who seem'd to know still more. 
 
 The cool of evening he would there enjoy ; 
 
 But not the less his tongue he would employ. 
 
 He thought that yesterday the king had died, 
 
 For a great general from ther.e did ride, 
 
 Summon'd thence from his shooting. 'Twas the last 
 
 They heard that night ; for onwards then they pass'd, 
 
 While risen high the moon hung pale and bright, 
 
 Which into Paris would their last stage light. 
 
OF TBAVEL ASD ADVEOTUBES, 175 
 
 He always thought it solemn drawing near 
 
 To any capital ; and so 'twas here. 
 
 The Mail, so certain in its steady night, 
 
 Seem'd to bring laws of nature to his sight, 
 
 As if from nothing else could ever be 
 
 Such sure and constant regularity ; 
 
 But never felt he this impression more 
 
 Than now, as he can read in memory's store* 
 
 You know those endless avenues which shade 
 
 All roads to Paris, Theirs that night was made 
 
 More solemn still when they at times were pass'd 
 
 By some express who gallop'd by them fast. 
 
 No other signs of life in all around, 
 
 Such solitude upon the road was found, 
 
 By trees o'ershadow'd, with vast plains in sight, 
 
 And scatter'd hamlets clear in lunar light. 
 
 In mind he wander'd o'er the landscape there, 
 
 And felt some change was pending in the air ; 
 
 While, as he gazed upon the moon so high, 
 
 He thought of Louis, then about to die. 
 
 Por, after all, howe'er we spend our breath, 
 
 There's more than common in a monarch's death. 
 
 Arrived at last, the king was not yet dead ; 
 
 But the last prayers around him had been said ; 
 
 While he, expecting death, did calmly lie, 
 
 Evincing great and noble constancy. 
 
 The court and gardens saw a pensive crowd, 
 
 Who certainly lamented him aloud. 
 
 The clergy then appear'd familiar most, 
 
 As if they thought (and 'twas an honest boast) . 
 
176 CANTO VII. 
 
 That where death prowl'd about to leave his 
 
 trace 
 
 They were the proper persons for the place. 
 While still the king's house shone with gold and 
 
 glitter, 
 
 Although the moment seem'd so very bitter. 
 The guards, in most splendid uniform seen, 
 Pass'd to and fro, the prelates, priests, between. 
 The church of Notre Dame contained a mass 
 Of poor, who pray'd, and men of highest class ; 
 The poor quite prostrate on the pavement found, 
 With looks that show'd their feeling was profound. 
 Saint Koch was crowded even to the door 
 With those who mercy for a soul implore. 
 That evening he saw pass along on high, 
 Through a long open gallery and nigh, 
 The court returning from the chapel there 
 Where for a parting soul was said the prayer. 
 Fronting the palace gate was his hotel, 
 Which gave him means for seeing all things well. 
 Next morning about six he heard a shout 
 Raised by the people, who saw driving out 
 King Charles the Tenth, proceeding to Saint Cloud ; 
 For from the Tuileries he then withdrew, 
 King Louis having died two hours before, 
 In point of fact five minutes just to four. 
 At ten, the royal palace open thrown, 
 In rush'd the crowds as if it were their own. 
 Then did the solemn bells of Paris toll, 
 Imploring prayers for a departed soul. 
 
OP TEATEL AND ADYESTTUKES. 177 
 
 The " Bourdon '' of our Lady then did sound 
 Above them all as from a depth profound. 
 For two days thus the dead king lay in state ; 
 Then the procession to his tomb was great. 
 He saw it pass across the crowded plain. 
 On to Saint Denis moved the solemn train. 
 Some hundred poor men, clad each with a hood 
 Monastic (why he never understood), 
 Walk'd with their tapers in the long, long file, 
 The loud-toned bells still tolling all the while. 
 It took two hours passing that is all 
 That's painted of it in his memory's hall. 
 
 But now to other scenes he must advance, 
 To show what, later, he beheld in France. 
 Not solemn now, but simply hideous, strange, 
 So e'en the note upon my lyre must change. 
 
 Intensely hot had been the day ; 
 At sunset forth he went to stray. 
 Avaunt all books ! so now he said, 
 Off to the streets he's quickly sped. 
 You know how Paris looks at night, 
 The sky still pale with golden light, 
 The heated walls so high and dark, 
 All this the English can remark. 
 The pavement will burn still your feet, 
 But breath of evening ! 'tis so sweet ! 
 
178 CANTO Til. 
 
 He lodged then in the Bue Grenelle, 
 Saint Germain, pray distinguish well. 
 Down to the Tuileries he'll stray, 
 And will just pop in on his way 
 Where famed Desmarcs his cafe keeps; 
 Each customer at journals peeps ; 
 And all the men you mark there seem 
 Like nobles of the old regime. 
 A waiter who well knew him there, 
 Whisper'd this, " Monsieur, pray take care 
 The Palais Royal to go round ; 
 Be not within its precincts found ; 
 For on the people there they fire, 2 
 You'd better to your home retire." 
 He wink'd and hurried then away 
 With ice or coffee on his tray. 
 Such was the first announcement made 
 To him of that sinistrous raid, 
 Which ended, as three days did show, 
 In the old Bourbon's overthrow. 
 He sallied forth each night and day, 
 And cautious watch'd the deadly fray. 
 All white and well washed in the Seine 
 Floated down many corpses slain ; 
 One was no doubt a proletaire ; 
 His dirty blouse was left him there ; 
 That other who knows ? a good liver 
 Now naked join'd him down the river. 
 
 2 On tire sur le peuple. 
 
OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURES. 179 
 
 All seem'd like lilies on the stream, 
 When on their breasts the sun did gleam. 
 But those that in the streets did lie 
 Grew black as they did putrefy. 
 
 Young friends he met whose breasts now wore 
 The colours they despised before. 
 He smiled interiorly to think 
 How some men's highest spirits sink. 
 For his part, he disdain'd to wear 
 Their tricolour, though well aware 
 The risk he might incur thereby 
 From furious bands when passing by ; 
 So when they came, lest they should note, 
 Immediately went off his coat 
 A somewhat over-prudent way 
 Not to be drawn into the fray, 
 While still he had not bow'd the knee 
 To what he deem'd iniquity. 
 He met a learned scribe, who said 
 That to his printer he was sped, 
 That his hieroglyphic page 
 Might not be stopp'd at such a stage ; 
 But that the moment seem'd not quite 
 Propitious to receive its light. 
 So he would only hasten back, 
 Whate'er his printer then might lack. 
 To Merlin then away he goes, 
 Who would his precious bookshop close ;; 
 JST 2 
 
180 CANTO VII. 
 
 For then along th' Augustin's Quay 
 The mob advanced, intent to slay. 
 In fact, a ball that just was sped 
 Lodged in a book quite near his head. 
 Each night seem'd short ; for ere the dawn 
 Commenced the din of battle drawn. 
 A colonel of the Swiss famed Guard, 
 He heard was dash'd down to the yard 
 Of his own barracks. He passM on ; 
 'Twas in the street of Babylon. 
 He knew not then indeed his name, 
 Or for his flight he should feel shame. 
 Alas ! 'twas but the night before. 
 Within his friend De Haller's door, 
 That these two had the evening passM, 
 And little thought it was his last. 
 Through bloody mire of dead and dying, 
 He pass'd where friends and foes were lying. 
 Incidents he'd now curtail, 
 For what avails the hideous tale? 
 But now the king and court have fled, 
 The dead may bury all their dead. 
 A change of measure even in the song 
 To such confusion may, I think, belong. 
 Some startled Irish students wish'd to fly, 
 At least not to be noticed, passing by. 
 
 He gave them short coats, colour'd ties quite 
 small ; 
 
 He stripp'd himself, but he disguised them 
 all. 
 
OP TEAYEL AND ADYENTTJKES. 181 
 
 I think the metamorphosis was great, 
 
 Which only made these young men more elate ; 
 
 And so they parted as right joyous friends, 
 
 And this part of his story with them ends. 
 
 He knew them not before ; but those were days 
 
 When each to help another sought some ways. 
 
 He knew not if they left the college so, 
 
 For afterwards they never let him know. 
 
 But 'twas a merry item in the row, 
 
 Which with some pleasure he remembers now. 
 
 The Sunday came, and some would dare 
 
 Within the church to say their prayer. 
 
 Alone the clergy courage felt ; 
 
 The others trembled as they knelt. 
 
 The Gospel for the day was such 
 
 That many it did startle much ; 
 
 It told how Christ had wept to see 
 
 Jerusalem's futurity, 
 
 Had prophesied its speedy fall, 
 
 Its trenches, horrors, ruins, all ; 
 
 But whatsoever each one thought 
 
 About this no one utter'd aught. 
 
 'Twas left for other days to feel 
 
 What sieges later did reveal. 
 
 There were in Paris then who thought 
 
 That some advantage could be sought 
 
 From what had pass'd for holy Church ; 
 
 But others said, " She's in the lurch, 
 
182 CAJ*TO VII. 
 
 And mass will never more be said ; 
 Such old things now like that are dead." 
 'Twas ask'd him gravely whether prayer 
 Would ever once more be said there ; 
 Parisian youth so well saw through 
 The aim of revolutions new. 
 Return'd to London, no one seem'd 
 The king like him to have esteem'd, 
 Though with him, the plain truth to say, 
 His tranquil hours seem'd pass'd away. 
 Some even to his great surprise 
 Look'd on his fall with raptured eyes. 
 Of course the journals led the way ; 
 " For France it is a glorious day," 
 Said all who boasted of good sense, 
 The fears of others chasing hence. 
 " The future now," said they, " is sure, 
 'Tis nonsense when you look demure." 
 Those still averse to what was new 
 Seem'd but to constitute a few ; 
 'Mongst whom his banker, sooth, was not 
 Whose words and looks he ne'er forgot. 
 He had a most expressive smile, 
 Though very busy all the while, 
 Saying, " So you did see the fight. 
 We here in town were in a fright, 
 At first, we fear'd might fail the stir 
 All's right now there's your money, sir." 
 The whole though said and done so fast 
 Did in his memory thus last. 
 
OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURES. 183 
 
 But now more years have pass'd away 
 
 Through Paris once again he'll stray; 
 
 And would that I had not to tell 
 
 How very long he there did dwell ; 
 
 Although for students I must own 
 
 It stands unrivall'd and alone. 
 
 Its vast collections are so near 
 
 To every one to whom they're dear ; 
 
 Its libraries are so free 
 
 From what is found a bar to be 
 
 Elsewhere where still are such delays, 
 
 That scarce with many patience stays ; 
 
 Its lectures all the while supply 
 
 Instruction varied for the shy, 
 
 Who their first studies would renew, 
 
 While unexposed to public view. 
 
 Then Boissonade, himself a host, 
 
 Gave lectures that did please him most. 
 
 The galleries of art in reach 
 
 Of even strangers much can teach ; 
 
 As when to paint he used to roam 
 
 And feel the Louvre was his home. 
 
 In fact 'twas there he first did paint 
 
 For churches, martyr, king, or saint, 
 
 Or legend as at Argenteul, 
 
 And elsewhere where they still are full, 
 
 Of works of his to serve the end 
 
 For which henceforth his time he'll spend ; 
 
 So that in Belgium and in France 
 
 His zeal would, if not fame, advance ; 
 
184 CAOTO Til. 
 
 While Ireland and England too 
 Had proof of what he'd try to do. 
 Ever so far beyond the sea, 
 America his works can see, 
 As can Australia and the Isle 
 Of Alderney ; and all the while 
 Great thanks to him were often given, 
 As if these works had dropp'd from heaven. 
 For even maires, priests of all ranks 
 Would letters write to give him thanks, 
 Until a hundred churches now 
 Have realized his secret vow ; 3 
 While still all England might command 
 The future products of his hand. 
 But to say truth, the English priest 
 Is one who values pictures least ; 
 He's known one constant to this whim, 
 Begging he would not paint for him. 
 Perhaps they think that some object 
 To pictures hated by their sect ; 
 They think too pictures spoil the wall 
 Whose lines should be distinguished all ; 
 And then, besides, what cost them nought 
 Is always something worthless thought. 
 Some there are too that art disdain, 
 At least who of his skill complain. 
 He can't command, of course, 'tis true, 
 The genius of great Montagu, 
 The Marquis who thus every day 
 To make such presents finds a way ; 
 3 One hundred and twenty-one. 
 
OF TEAYEL AOT) ADVENTTJBES. 185 
 
 But though no masterpiece may shine 
 He can do somewhat in that line. 
 I hope you'll pardon this long strain, 
 You know that artists are all vain. 
 
 Well these facilities for art 
 As Paris could so oft impart, 
 To leave in silence all the rest, 
 Suffice to make that town the best 
 For those who cultivate their mind 
 And care not other joys to find. 
 Still one of such men ne'er was he. 
 In London he can feel more free ; 
 And now I have again to show 
 Occasions that would prove it so. 
 It is not that he wanders there 
 And still finds nothing that can scare ; 
 Nor even, what is elsewhere hard, 
 That there none need be on their guard, 
 Against sly traps that men will lay 
 To catch you on the public way ; 
 Which with such dangers may abound, 
 As he himself in Paris found. 
 For as the Louvre court he crossed, 
 A strange young man would him accost ; 
 He wanted to be shown the way 
 To the Hue Dauphine, where he lay. 
 Told that our friend was going there, 
 To part with him he did not care j 
 
186 CANTO Vll. 
 
 They walked together while he spoke 
 
 Of what suspicions soon awoke. 
 
 " A stranger surely you must be," 
 
 He wish'd to be of use, said he. 
 
 He had at home some tickets rare 
 
 And one of these indeed he'd spare 
 
 For him, who with it could behold 
 
 What draws all Paris young and old, 
 
 He needs but follow to his door, 
 
 A moment wait, he ask'd no more. 
 
 Mistrusting all he'd do or say, 
 
 Soon as 'twas found he knew the way, 
 
 Our friend resolved to wait and see 
 
 What he prepared to do and be. 
 
 Come to a door and told to mount 
 
 Along with him, take no account 
 
 Of the dark passage or the stair, 
 
 Too narrow one was well aware ; 
 
 The third floor reach'd, our friend would stop 
 
 And more acquaintance with him drop ; 
 
 But being much urged on he went 
 
 To find what might be his intent. 
 
 Who to another room did pass, 
 
 From which he came and cried, " Alas ! 
 
 My absent wife has got the key, 
 
 But just a moment stop with me. 
 
 Here you can see a table stand 
 
 For billiards, all at your command ; 
 
 Though first, I pray you, take a drop 
 
 Of wine with me just while you stop." 
 
OF TBAVEL AND ADVENTUBES. 187 
 
 'Twas lifted to his lips at once, 
 
 But then he thought that for the nonce 
 
 Enough was known about his ways, 
 
 That danger waits for him who stays ; 
 
 So while the strange host quickly ran 
 
 To fetch for them some other man, 
 
 A guest who chanced with him to stay, 
 
 And who might like with them to play, 
 
 He slipp'd down through the outward door, 
 
 And trust him to be caught no more. 
 
 It is not then that traps like these 
 
 In London no one ever sees, 
 
 And that in Paris they are found 
 
 Laid cunningly for all around, 
 
 But that the discords which are there 
 
 For strangers hateful things prepare. 
 
 What life more odious than when each 
 
 Would politics profess and teach ? 
 
 In Paris there were, as he knew, 
 
 Haunts well kept hidden from the view, 
 
 Where in deep silence and by night 
 
 Pass'd things that peaceful men would fright. 
 
 Societies call'd secret then 
 
 Had their secluded evil den ; 
 
 And for an instance let me tell 
 
 A fact by him remember'd well. 
 
 He knew there a skill'd Abbe Count, 
 
 Who thus his sory did recount. 
 
 " A friend," said he, " did lately call 
 
 To leave with me purse, watch, and all, 
 
188 CANTO Til. 
 
 Saying that he was bent to pry- 
 That very night in secrecy 
 Where these conspirators would meet 
 In Saint Genevieve's new street, 
 Where chiefly vine-topp'd walls are found 
 Dividing solitary ground. 
 He left these things and took his way. 
 What pass'd was heard another day. 
 He had the first word like a key, 
 Arm'd with which he would be free 
 To pass quite unsuspected in 
 As if a brother of their kin. 
 Beyond a little garden there 
 He found the strong and grim repair, 
 Where, seated like the rest, he hears 
 What soon awakens deadly fears. 
 " My friends," the President then said, 
 " By information I am led 
 To know there now is in our sight 
 One who to enter has no right ; 
 So now the second word pass round, 
 That the said culprit may be found." 
 Judge of the stranger's deep dismay ! 
 He kept his cool and off-hand way, 
 For, nudging his next neighbour sly, 
 " My stars," he said, " what memory ! 
 I feel that I must seem absurd 
 But just remind me of the word." 
 'Twas told him. Question'd, he replied ; 
 On safety thenceforth he relied. 
 
OF TRAVEL AtfD ADVENTURES. 189 
 
 But then the scrutinize? came 
 
 To one who answer'd not the same, 
 
 Who instantly in some den nigh 
 
 Was heard with dying tones to sigh. 
 
 An agent of police 'was he, 
 
 Who'd dive into their mystery. 
 
 Who expiated there and then, 
 
 His efforts to betray the men. 
 
 Another time reports were spread 
 
 That well might scare an English head. 
 
 'Twas said on an approaching day 
 
 That Paris would behold a fray 
 
 As terrible as any known. 
 
 That he was troubled I must own. 
 
 Directed by an anxious friend, 
 
 To Garibaldi he must wend 
 
 The Internonce, with no great fuss, 
 
 Whom carelessly he question'd thus : 
 
 " Pray, think you, is there real ground 
 
 For this opinion now around ? " 
 
 That Genoese, sagacious man, 
 
 Then look'd on him as only can 
 
 One versed in diplomatic lore, 
 
 And an Italian ever more. 
 
 He answer'd not, but gravely rose, 
 
 The door that led without to close, 
 
 Then bade him draw his chair near him, 
 
 His fears almost o'erflow'd their brim. 
 
 The rooms were vast in that hotel, 
 
 The very silence seem'd a spell 
 
190 CANTO Til. 
 
 Connected with the solemn air 
 
 Which the sly Nuncio chose to wear. 
 
 He seem'd afraid of his own voice ; 
 
 A finger raised seem'd more his choice ; 
 
 At last he spoke. " Young friend," he said, 
 
 " I cannot wonder air your dread ; 
 
 But I a fact will now disclose 
 
 Which no one here, perhaps, well knows. 
 
 Lend an attentive ear, mark well 
 
 The secret I'm ahout to tell. 
 
 If aught should happen on that day 
 
 Tremble to think of it you may 
 
 I am for nothing in the fray. 
 
 'Twill be no deed of mine. Know that." 
 
 He laugh'd ; our friend then took his hat, 
 
 Leaving him merry with his joke, 
 
 Which him he knew would not provoke. 
 
 But where, then, did not our friend feel 
 
 The fears that o'er all spirits steal ? 
 
 While many call'd on them each night 
 
 To bed he went with hideous fright. 
 
 For to their salon there would come, 
 
 As to a safe asylum, some 
 
 Who rather scream' d than talk'd for hours, 
 
 Depicting how the moment lours. 
 
 There like pure ignorance sat he ; 
 
 And looking simpler nought could be. 
 
 For all his thoughts, howe'er express'd, 
 
 In whatsoever colours dress'd, 
 
 Were sure to meet with a reception 
 
 Most pitiful without exception. 
 
OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTURES. 191 
 
 They're so daub'd o'er by politicians, 
 
 Who will insist on their additions, 
 
 They're made so great a mess of where 
 
 But to advance them once he'll dare, 
 
 His whole interior contradicted, 
 
 As if of being null convicted, 
 
 Having these orators to thank 
 
 For making such an utter blank, 
 
 In all his views, however settled, 
 
 However he himself felt nettled, 
 
 Just as if colours they had mix'd 
 
 That were upon his palate fix'd, 
 
 Until the whole then to the sight 
 
 Became confused a dirty white, 
 
 He says to such a mental fusion 
 
 Was he reduced, to his confusion, 
 
 That hopeless was it to essay 
 
 To any anything to say 
 
 Respecting any subject then, 
 
 Such contradictors were these men ; 
 
 While those whd knew and heard them best 
 
 Found as dark omens as the rest. 
 
 An English friend now known to fame 
 
 Would shout like them and all men blame, 
 
 Demanding, " Will they be content 
 
 With pillage, or on murder bent ? 
 
 Will they now all our lives destroy, 
 
 Yours and my own with my poor boy ? 
 
 For pillage I am well prepared 
 
 If such should prove the object dared ; 
 
192 CANTO VII. 
 
 \ For in a mattress have been sewn 
 All the chief jewels that we own." 
 What charming music, was it not, 
 To go to bed by on the spot ! 
 
 Monotonous is all the strife 
 
 That now belongs to Paris life. 4 
 
 A change -loving society 
 
 Admits of no variety. 
 
 Democracies that rise and fall 
 
 Denote sufficiently to all 
 
 That some what very like decline 
 
 Awaits us in the civil line. 
 
 So hark again, the cannons roar ! 
 
 And monarchy exists no more ! 
 
 O'er barricades of greatest height 
 
 He has to climb his way by night ; 
 
 And that too on an errand bent 
 
 The most unlike to their intent ; 
 
 Politely treated, he must say, 
 
 When guards had heard what made him stray, 
 
 Who with a lantern would guide, 
 
 Attending closely to his side, 
 
 Still in succession as he went, 
 
 From each to each on purpose bent. 
 
 But still 'twas no great charm to see 
 
 Revived the French democracy. 
 
 Physicians some days later told 
 
 'Twere better to be not so bold ; 
 
 4 " Rerum novaruin avidi." Tacitus. 
 
OF TRAVEL AND ADVENTUBES. 193 
 
 'Twere safer for the one he loved 
 To be from all such scenes removed, 
 Which threaten'd daily to become 
 More sad and perilous for some. 
 So one in still a weaken' d state, 
 They had without the least debate, 
 Or waiting longer than a day, 
 To pack their trunks and haste away, 
 Rolling up paintings from the wall, 
 Stripp'd of their stretchers, frames and all, 
 Effacing e'en their fleur-de-lis, 
 Lest raging mobs their shield should see 
 Upon their carriage as it pass'd, 
 Until they had escaped at last, 
 And had regain'd the shores so dear, 
 Where peace would no such discords fear, 
 But bows and arrows would supply, 
 By means of poet's phantasy, 
 A contrast to the guns and smoke 
 With which poor Love is there awoke, 
 To find he has no longer place, 
 Where a new Mars, of still worse race, 
 With hideous shouts and flags absurd 
 Will let no other voice be heard 
 But his own cries of " Liberty," 
 Forsooth too and " Equality," 
 And what will prove as false as hell, 
 " Fraternity," as France can tell. 
 They sped from him to myrtle groves, 
 Where each of these in person roves, 
 
 o 
 
194 CA1STO VIII. 
 
 Without pretensions or a boast, 
 Though these 'tis England prizes most, 
 While proving none need feel a shame 
 For things of mythologic name. 
 
 CANTO VIII. 
 
 OF LOVE. 
 
 PENSIVE he walks, so many portraits seen, 
 Grave, solemn, grand, with some fair ones between, 
 But such as wore too that majestic air 
 Which plainly said that love must not be there. 
 Some think that love is for another clime, 
 The bliss he grants intended not for time ; 
 Dark spirits from the soul of Nature far 
 Thus led astray can't see things as they are. 
 Others intent on strict and social rules, 
 Look down on all but fashion's formal schools, 
 And no distinctions ever seem to know 
 Unless those that they call of high and low. 
 Draw back the curtain, enter with him there, 
 And other paintings you will witness rare, 
 All masterpieces by the hand divine, 
 However censors choose them to define, 
 Most dear and e'en inestimable grown, 
 Though each such gallery will have its own. 
 
OF LOYE. 195 
 
 Affections of the soul in memory dwell ; 
 
 But how ? Augustine saith, " he cannot tell." 
 
 How moral sentiments can thus endure 
 
 He can't explain, although the fact is sure. 
 
 How pure realities once pass'd away 
 
 Can here be found, he thinks no one can say. 
 
 But so it is in matters of the heart, 
 
 From which, by Memory's aid, they ne'er depart ; 
 
 Else would e'en many names grow obsolete, 
 
 As that of Love would be, however sweet, 
 
 As the word "health," unto the sick would sound 
 
 As in some strange vocabulary found. 
 
 Some things are here too deeply felt veil'd so ; 
 Which you'll forgive him if he will not show. 
 There must be close retreats where souls can fly, 
 Ay, e'en the presence of their Memory, 
 To find themselves as if quite wholly lost 
 In thoughts conflicting and affections cross'd. 
 Yet know that there within that curtain lies 
 One still who our analysis defies. 
 The good and fair in her came forth to sight, 
 To worship God, e'en here her chief delight. 
 Nought was there wanting but that final glaze, 
 To fix for ever that on which we gaze, 
 Which there imparted has to her now given 
 The everlastingly fix'd grace of Heav'n. 
 A world with her of pure joys pass'd away 
 Must therefore yield to that of but to-day, 
 o 2 
 
196 CANTO Till. 
 
 O'er which, perhaps, she tenderly looks down, 
 
 With the same front that never here could frown. 
 
 But leaving this deep-veil'd and holy spot, 
 
 Let us repair to what is not forgot 
 
 To things of fancy, natural to all, 
 
 Which may, as such, be found within this HalL 
 
 And though through order strict led not their ray, 
 
 Who knows ? The fault may elsewhere die away, 
 
 While only past realities remain 
 
 From social dangers left without a stain. 
 
 Celestial pity ! who will limit place 
 
 To what it will pass by, forgive, efface ? 
 
 Irregular to sight howe'er things be, 
 
 As outward nature seems so often free, 
 
 The kindred impulse need not be denied, 
 
 Though alien to nought else, but only pride. 
 
 And so the pilgrim through this world may find 
 
 Some Beatrix appearing to his mind. 
 
 What might not in Euphorian's mem'ry dwell 
 Whose tomb said, " All through life he had loved 
 
 well." 
 
 Oh, sweet it is, when evening casts its beams 
 And the night's fair precursor brightly gleams 
 That peerless, pale, but brilliant evening star 
 Which wanders o'er the darken'd plains so far, 
 O'er hamlets, woods, and river's sparkling wave 
 Of Love, howe'er long past, to think and rave ! 
 Oh, sweet, when at this temple of the mind 
 You sit as on a mossy bank, to find 
 
OF LOYE. 197 
 
 The images of love still present there, 
 
 As if beneath the lamp, denoting prayer 
 
 While other creatures sleep, alone to be 
 
 Thus kneeling at the shrine of Memory ; 
 
 Shrine ! temple ! holy, therefore, is the place ; 
 
 And shall we simple mortals, dare to trace 
 
 Within such an august and sacred spot, 
 
 The love of old ? Well, yes, perhaps ; why not ? 
 
 For love himself is innocent and pure, 
 
 And must, past doubt, beyond this life endure. 
 
 Whate'er were his attendants, still was he 
 
 An angel singing of felicity. 
 
 Then name him here we will, yes, even here ; 
 
 For God will not disdain the heart's fond tear. 
 
 Farewell, cold thoughts of earth, of earth alone ; 
 
 At love's sweet name our thoughts to Heav'n are 
 
 flown. 
 
 There is love's own delightful native clime ; 
 While all the rest we know will pass with 
 
 time. 
 
 Through tender memories he'll pass, 
 And visions round him will revive. 
 Without them, what is left, alas ! 
 So long as we ourselves survive ? 
 Let no misanthropists come here, 
 Their matchless value to disdain, 
 When love immortal is seen near, 
 Without which all the rest were vain. 
 
198 CAKTO VIII. 
 
 Let no proud pedant mock the heart, 
 For which the master did prepare 
 The choicest treasures to impart 
 When saying, Let true love be there. 
 Though here are many, types are one, 
 ; Tis that on which he'd ever gaze, 
 The many from this life are gone, 
 The primal beauty ever stays 
 Now in the steps that still are traced 
 Through flowers or along the glade, 
 Anon where arm in arm was placed, 
 Or rendezvous with whispers made ; 
 Or here, as memory inspires, 
 Tis resting that will please us more, 
 Beneath one tree when sauntering tires 
 Inhaling zephyrs as of yore. 
 What great and small things do we learn 
 From those we love, when train'd to wait 
 For hours alone, and to discern 
 How good is patience for our state ? 
 Instruction in this useful line, 
 So practical for all degrees, 
 We should not scruple to define, 
 As that which best with life agrees. 
 Such patient habits will grow thus, 
 From hearing but a lover's song, 
 Who boasts that woman gains for us 
 The grace to find no waiting long. 
 How short will now a long while seem ? 
 To no delays we will demur ; 
 
OF LOVE. 199 
 
 The longest pass as in a dream, 
 
 Accustom'd thus to wait for her. 
 
 But where's the man so full of pride, 
 
 So dead to manhood's sense of shame. 
 
 As having woman at his side, 
 
 Will not avoid her gentle blame ? 
 
 Love seeks the humble above all ; 
 
 The partner that can win his heart 
 
 May in a social sense be small, 
 
 But he can all the rest impart. 
 
 'Tis thus recorded, here we find 
 
 In archives of a worth untold, 
 
 How man grows noble, gentle, kind, 
 
 Disdaining titles, rank and gold. 
 
 And then how changed is oft the style 
 
 Of men's whole air and conversation, 
 
 If they had learned to defile 
 
 Their speech of faults a concentration ! 
 
 The cynic coarseness of the pure 
 
 With one glance here is frown'd away ; 
 
 'Tis what no mem'ry can endure, 
 
 That still shows love's own graceful way. 
 
 There are who seek a compensation 
 
 For what they fancy they give up, 
 
 While others, with a dispensation 
 
 Self-granted oft quaff love's own cup. 
 
 The former when they're rude and coarse, 
 
 Who love no doubt have never known, 
 
 Deem that such speech is a resource, 
 
 When through sheer ordure they are flown. 
 
200 CANTO VIII. 
 
 But others have been told by love 
 
 That modest nature is enough, 
 
 That thenceforth they should feel above 
 
 The style of censors coarse and rough. 
 
 Methinks where language is refined, 
 
 The pupils of sweet love must be ; 
 
 Perhaps the rest can be divined 
 
 The total being blithe and free. 
 
 'Tis they who angry feel ashamed 
 
 At what the strict censorious say ; 
 
 The farthest thus they can be named, 
 
 From the whole style of Eabelais. 
 
 Forth from this hall men seem to come, 
 
 As having now a nobler air, 
 
 Wearing a tone and look that some 
 
 Will know they could have caught but there. 
 
 'Tis now that each will learn to hate 
 
 The vaunts we hear 'midst pride's own train, 
 
 Where people, feeling nought, relate 
 
 What they think always must be vain. 
 
 It is the form of nature here, 
 
 Antipodal to all the proud, 
 
 There's not one vaunting trick seen near, 
 
 To win applauses from the crowd. 
 
 If you would count the loss and gain, 
 
 You'd find the wants were only such 
 
 As all through life will make remain 
 
 What you could never love too much. 
 
 To memory you need not say 
 
 That she with love but haunts the earth, 
 
or LOYE. 201 
 
 When nature once will have her way, 
 
 And yield you her own simple mirth. 
 
 She knows, for all your proud disdain, 
 
 That what, most loved, she owed to Heav'n, 
 
 Was never selfish, base, or vain, 
 
 But always to the sweet muse given. 
 
 'Tis memory that puts down fools, 
 
 Who amidst flowers see hut roots, 
 
 Who scowl away with senseless rules, 
 
 The joy no affectation suits. 
 
 'Twere long to tell what words are here 
 
 On adamantine tablets writ, 
 
 What looks and graces will appear, 
 
 What arch replies, what ready wit ! 
 
 Here power remains with either sex 
 
 To say what charms the other's ear, 
 
 In words that you might think would vex 
 
 Those who but find it still more dear. 
 
 The fault that's noticed face to face, 
 
 With signs of a pretended pity, 
 
 Becomes by their laughing at it grace, 
 
 Whose lamentations are but witty. 
 
 Each seems to fear its own success ; 
 
 It thinks it conquers with such ease ! 
 
 A feign' d regret it will express, 
 
 The other only more to please. 
 
 As when of men, young women say, 
 
 " So easily they're taken in 
 
 In common matters of each day, 
 
 Deceiving them's almost a sin," 
 
202 CAtfTO VIII. 
 
 Yet " angels in the house " are they, 
 
 As Patmore sings, whose words I borrow, 
 
 For us it is to let them say 
 
 Just what they like, and feel no sorrow. 
 
 Here those who witness real wrong 
 
 Have only strength themselves to blame ; 
 
 To those so loved will ne'er belong 
 
 Aught but the dearest, sweetest name. 
 
 It is with grief (as once we said 
 
 It is with joy), there are who ne'er 
 
 Can feel while they're through either sped 
 
 The pain or bliss that should be there. 
 
 When comes the dark and bitter hour 
 
 Of parting, as to others known, 
 
 Though then the moments thus will lour, 
 
 Such anguish deep they do not own. 
 
 It is not all hearts that can feel 
 
 The grief that a departure brings, 
 
 The wounds profound that never heal, 
 
 Although the Muse may spread her wings. 
 
 But, oh, what tongue can ever tell 
 
 The fascination that is here, 
 
 Where love employs a magic spell, 
 
 And leads back what is absent near. 
 
 The shades and mists are pass'd away, 
 
 Dark, cold mistrusts no more you find ! 
 
 'Tis light, 'tis peace that now will stay ; 
 
 There's only left the soft and kind. 
 
 'Tis the ideal ever there, 
 
 The muse can put to flight all fears ; 
 
CANTO IX. OP BOOKS. 203 
 
 With this there's nothing to compare, 
 
 Though life should count a million years. 
 
 A law is here he knows, forsooth, 
 
 By which he lived where memory stays, 
 
 But what can more accord with truth, 
 
 That when man while still free obeys ? 
 
 Constrain'd are those the muses bind ; 
 
 They only feel their freedom more ; 
 
 Such bonds give wings unto the mind, 
 
 Still higher over earth to soar. 
 
 For love will ne'er contented be 
 
 With mortal smiles or banks of flowers ; 
 
 More than his joys he'd rather see 
 
 Him who once walk'd through Eden's bowers. 
 
 Then learn how much we ever owe 
 
 To visiting this ancient hall, 
 
 When Love himself is brought back so, 
 
 Sighing for what is all in all. 
 
 Yes, let it boast its ample store 
 
 Of knowledge and experience vast, 
 
 But love ! love's memories are more ; 
 
 Yielding the future in the past ! 
 
 CANTO IX. 
 
 OF BOOKS. 
 
 BTJT now will open here another gate, 
 Where memory unlocks a pond'rous weight 
 
204 CA1STO IX. 
 
 Of what seems piled together for her use, 
 
 Which men for her advantage would produce, 
 
 Composing and collecting what they thought 
 
 Might otherwise in vain with her be sought ; 
 
 As if, without this, an unfurnish'd hall 
 
 The whole would prove ; which was no error small ; 
 
 Since heaps like theirs seem often but to cover 
 
 Things that in value never yield to other. 
 
 But still these have their worth, view'd even there, 
 
 As all who enter thus are well aware. 
 
 'Tis vast collective wisdom that they teach, 
 
 Though not of all men equally in reach. 
 
 But memory's own votaries they aid, 
 
 O'er whom they seldom cast a useless shade. 
 
 While they themselves to her will ever owe 
 
 Their own and real value, as we know. 
 
 Unless brought hither, what are they at best, 
 
 But simply rubbish on which dust will rest ! 
 
 While once placed here they will acquire worth 
 
 Beyond all other treasures of this earth. 
 
 Elsewhere quite useless, if but here they lie 
 
 A moment they yield joys that never die. 
 
 In books, as in the scenes of real life, 
 
 Pass men and things with all their ancient strife. 
 
 Therefore as such we can behold them all 
 
 Becoming personal within our hall 
 
 Of memory, where they are seen to play 
 
 Their former parts as in their special day ; 
 
OF BOOKS. 205 
 
 And so a whole world, otherwise unknown, 
 
 Is to our sight and hearing open thrown. 
 
 Great are the triumphs of the human mind, 
 
 When all that once existed of each kind 
 
 Is thus brought back presented to the eye, 
 
 Or to the ears, as if we heard it nigh. 
 
 From all the deep recesses of the past 
 
 They come again, and in our memory last ; 
 
 When we see stamped on an immortal page 
 
 Whate'er was greatest in a former age. 
 
 But oh, what wondrous treasure for the mind 
 
 Which in the Book of books we mortals find ! 
 
 We see ; we hear ; adoring we fall down 
 
 To worship Him who wore the bleeding crown ; 
 
 We hear the woman questioned and forgiven ; 
 
 'Tis the calm words of mercy known in heaven. 
 
 We see the form that stoops on ground to write, 
 
 That rises then with such majestic might, 
 
 All hypocrites austere to scare away, 
 
 Not one of whom to bear that look can stay. 
 
 What is this mem'ry, then, just say to us, 
 
 If not sweet Eden's groves thrown open thus ? 
 
 Then eyes averting from that matchless glory, 
 We witness breathing those who live in story 
 Sages and poets, kings of ancient fame, 
 Pagan and Christian. Endless 'twere to name 
 The deeds, the words, the worth of all and each ; 
 But what is there that memory can't teach ? 
 
206 CANTO IX. 
 
 How Plato reason'd, and how Homer sung, 
 
 What had from Tacitus his deep words wrung, 
 
 What could a gentle Cicero provoke, 
 
 What Grecians heard 'neath old Dodona's oak, 
 
 Virgil and Horace there will ever dwell 
 
 As in their own best-loved and favour'd cell ; 
 
 Or, what exceeds them all in grandeur true, 
 
 We see the pontiffs that from heav'n sounds drew 
 
 Those accents of Augustin and the rest 
 
 As through the middle ages so far blest, 
 
 Edward and Louis still upon the thrones 
 
 That truth with goodness as past glory owns. 
 
 All these from books transmitted to this hall 
 
 Come forth so full of life as to appal. 
 
 And then the scenes beheld in days of yore 
 
 Are seen as if to charm our fancy more. 
 
 Where Plato wander'd and a Pindar sung, 
 
 We too can wander, praise with grateful tongue. 
 
 Eomantic groves that saw Arpinum's sage, 
 
 Where Horace wrote his wise familiar page, 
 
 Receive us though we only stroll in mind, 
 
 The picturesque and scenes far-famed to find 
 
 Conjoin'd what pleases most the artist's eye, 
 
 And what inspires best the phantasy. 
 
 Through old Lyceum's walk we seem to stray, 
 
 Towards Academus still to take our way, 
 
 By pure Ilissus are we often found, 
 
 To catch enchanted some Socratic sound. 
 
 These long-past glories of the ancient time 
 
 Seem here transported to our native clime ; 
 
or BOOKS. 207 
 
 Or, to sing highest things, by that blest lake 
 We walk, which can such thoughts divine awake, 
 Where reverence and love o'erflow their brim, 
 To think so much more deeply there of Him 
 Whose footsteps, by its shores so traced, can fire 
 The hearts of all who to such scenes retire. 
 These, as if pictured by a master's hand, 
 Show what a landscape painter can command, 
 Who train'd in memory has a soul to dare 
 To represent the grand, the good and fair. 
 
 Nor is it only what in books is found 
 
 That constitutes of memory a ground ; 
 
 For by a strict association strange 
 
 Of our ideas as we backwards range 
 
 Through bygone things, we see no less the place 
 
 Where each was read, and can its contour trace, 
 
 At least when studied in the open air, 
 
 A custom that makes all fair things more fair. 
 
 By a most wondrous strict concatenation, 
 
 And one deserving here commemoration, 
 
 The place brings back the page, the page the place ; 
 
 Both are presented lasting face to face. 
 
 Alas ! for those whose minds were never known 
 
 With such associations to have grown ! 
 
 Alas ! for those whose thoughts are never weigh'd 
 
 Beneath the greenwood or the winding glade ; 
 
 Like many now who seek their mental food, 
 
 Where needs like these are never understood. 
 
208 CANTO IX. 
 
 Who care not that the spring should ever look 
 
 Upon the open pages of their book, 
 
 Or that the smile of flowers should be seen 
 
 Before them with the grass so fresh and green, 
 
 As they beneath a tree, though near the town, 
 
 While fann'd with zephyrs soft will lay them down, 
 
 To drink in silence through the liquid air 
 
 The mental sweets combined and offer'd there. 
 
 The writers too how different had been, 
 
 If while they wrote they saw fair nature's sheen ! 
 
 Though this is view Utopian for our times ; 
 
 Cacographers detest her smiles, her chimes. 
 
 But memory herself disowns the store 
 
 That now is writ within men's close-shut door ; 
 
 While this is what they bring to us each day, 
 
 Content if but the article will pay. 
 
 The modern thought too often bends to packs 
 
 (Excuse the word) of literary hacks, 
 
 Whose lucubrations should be all forgotten, 
 
 A fitting end for things unwholesome, rotten. 
 
 Though while they're read as from a deep drugg'dcup, 
 
 A baneful mixture that our age drinks up, 
 
 'Tis a Circean draught we have to swallow, 
 
 Till, like the swine it made, in sloughs we wallow. 
 
 The modern thought, as it is call'd, contains 
 
 Some items of which no man wise complains, 
 
 Rejoicing rather where its triumphs stand 
 
 Confirni'd by manners all can understand, 
 
 More merciful and natural and fair 
 
 Become as if by changes in the air. 
 
OF BOOKS. 209 
 
 There's much in it, of course, though new, that's 
 
 just ; 
 
 But there is also much we cannot trust. 
 The hideous and the false should be combined 
 If the whole spirit of the age you'd find. 
 A slight infusion into man of brute 
 Seen and inculcated will often suit. 
 Some pictures of black bushmen daily seen 
 With Gazette " evening articles " between 
 Would prove best culture for a young man now 
 Who would to all it says assent avow. 
 No better course the school could recommend 
 Sure to succeed if only he'll attend, 
 Still keeping thus within his view so brought 
 The deep laid basis of much " modern thought," 
 To come to the reality of things 
 So call'd, of which some savage wildly sings. 
 Not, as our Coleridge said " plebification " 
 Does this produce of knowledge for a nation : 
 The Plebs have better thoughts and better ways 
 With whom the common heart of mankind stays ; 
 But putrefaction for the sophist class 
 Whose minds dissolved to loathsome virus pass. 
 
 Nor is it quite unknown to memory's song 
 That books have also their own annals long. 
 What change of state as them new men will own, 
 Those of Sir Kenelm to him were shown 
 In the king's library at Paris where 
 Stood all his stately copies tall and fair. 
 
 P 
 
210 CAITTO II. 
 
 Bequeath'd upon his death they told him then, 
 To the great hospital surnamed from men 
 Incurable. When all such houses fell 
 Poor victims to the Revolution's spell, 
 They being scattered were collected so, 
 Which graciously to him the guardians show. 
 Then often to some volumes are attached 
 Quaint stories how from stalls they had been 
 
 snatch'd. 
 Where found, with whom, and what had been their 
 
 fate 
 
 The Muse herself might willingly relate. 
 But first perhaps it might be well to show 
 How he himself began of books to know. 
 How came then such a truant to love books ? 
 Prom a few simple words and simple looks. 
 The being ask'd a passage to admire 
 Sufficed a taste for reading to inspire 
 In one to whom Hugues Rose as careless spoke, 
 As if he did not use the words in joke. 
 First from that moment, from that simple word, 
 Began his love for books. Ain't it absurd ? 
 To have been thought to understand a page 
 In Latin made this lad not sooth a sage, 
 But one to books for ever after given 
 So much to estimate them he seem'd driven. 
 'Twere not for him to sing of what he scraped, 
 But only from what errors he escaped. 
 Coleridge had taught him sophists to despise, 
 From all whose words great mental mischief flies, 
 
OE BOOKS. 211 
 
 As when the understanding they corrupt, 
 
 And feelings even seek to interrupt, 
 
 All fix'd grave principles to undermine, 
 
 By a criterion false to make incline, 
 
 By leaving all things doubtful and denied 
 
 Employing ridicule against truth's side, 
 
 Accustoming all ears to hear disputed 
 
 Things which by reason cannot be refuted, 
 
 By having minds, in brief so sensualized 
 
 That nought but what is visible is prized, 
 
 Faith overthrown by merely vain pretences, 
 
 To yield to superstition of the senses, 
 
 To leave a race of animals alone 
 
 Of whom the reason could be only known 
 
 From instinct's absence, miserable proof 
 
 That they from brutes might still be class'd 
 
 aloof. 
 
 A figure used to grave within the head 
 He graphically, not less wisely said : r- 
 " A scientific chart terrestial thus 
 Can only be constructed now for us, 
 By pure celestial observations made, 
 The method sole its errors to evade." 
 Then the true bounds of reason, Whewell taught 
 Him to distinguish ; and he likewise brought 
 Him to consider metaphysic lore 
 As only proving those and nothing more. 
 " Its best results," he said, " was showing still 
 What it can't show and what's more never will. 
 
 p 2 
 
212 CANTO IX. 
 
 From these great dangers which in books can be 
 Thus saved, from less mistakes he was kept free. 
 In minor things, we too, may oft get wrong, 
 And even they have consequences long. 
 It was not he for instance who'd confound 
 The Platonicians, equally profound, 
 Like great Saints Anselm and Bonaventure, 
 With the scholastics as Saint Thomas pure 
 Aristotelian, men as subtle quite, 
 Though somehow not so charming to delight. 
 He learnt too 2 , in the primitive first ages, 
 The church did not interpret all the pages 
 Of Sacred Scripture always in the sense 
 Quite literal, despising reason. Hence 
 The books he read maintain' d the harmony, 
 'Twixt Faith and what was known as certainty. 
 This incidental glance is to explain 
 The dangers that beset this whole domain, 
 The pitfalls, dens of wild beasts that abound 
 And the mere presence of unwholesome ground ; 
 For books are forests in which perils lie ; 
 And this itself is told by memory. 
 
 When first he went to Paris, one might say 
 On every stall that precious volumes lay. 
 Napoleon's reign had not much favour'd books ; 
 So now you found them in obscurest nooks ; 
 For no one cared to own or cheaply buy 
 What he possess'd, or what might catch the eye. 
 2 Champagny, Les Cesars du 3me Siecle, torn. ii. p. 258. 
 
OF BOOKS 213 
 
 Sold and neglected on the public mart, 
 
 Their wretched state would move a feeling heart. 
 
 For instance, on the Royal Bridge that stands, 
 
 Where the old Tuilleries the road commands, 
 
 Who should he find extended on the wall, 
 
 But Richard, whom we of De Bury call. 
 
 The price demanded, just one hasty glance 
 
 His keeper cast on him nor would enhance, 
 
 His value which quite carelessly he said, 
 
 Was but one franc, when he our friend was led, 
 
 To tell the worth of this poor captive there, 
 
 Which did not even make his jailor stare. 
 
 " Give me the franc," he said again, " and pay ; 
 
 Then seize and lead him where you please away," 
 
 The tradesman seem'd offended at the thought 
 
 The price should be increased by him who bought. 
 
 Just fancy how his stars our friend did thank, 
 
 When finding in his pocket not one franc. 
 
 What could he do ? the jailor said, " Look here, 
 
 This shoeblack can accommodate him near, 
 
 Within his box ; for I must now pack up, 
 
 Leave the book there ; for I'll go home to sup ; 
 
 You can return and with the needful pelf; 
 
 To pay that boy is just to pay myself." 
 
 Oh, foul disgrace to letters ! treason black ! 
 
 He waits in darkness till our friend gets back, 
 
 Richard de Bury with a shoeblack's pot, 
 
 A shameful legend, ne'er to be forgot. 
 
 Then on another time to him there fell 
 
 A prize as great of which I now would tell. 
 
214 CANTO IX. 
 
 Long and with painful efforts had he sought 
 
 Caesar of Heisterbach, until he thought 
 
 One day, at last the book indeed was found ; 
 
 His heart dilated at the welcome sound ; 
 
 " We have him," said the bookseller, " he's here ! 
 
 Nor is the price extravagantly dear." 
 
 The whole was said too, with a certain look 
 
 Which ask'd where else could you have found the 
 
 book? 
 
 He brought him Caesar's Commentaries, yes. 
 Crestfallen then he sought him still no less. 
 Nathless at length the Caesar that he sought 
 Since many years, in Paris found, was caught. 
 It was Toulouse, that just man, learned and fair, 
 Who him from Spain had lately led back there, 
 And who for ransom would but five francs take 
 Declaring it was not for friendship's sake, 
 The price was fix'd, but that when he bought 
 Whole libraries thus he ever sought 
 To find the gain that should accrue to him, 
 So no one book was sold as from a whim ; 
 But all by rule was estimated so ; 
 And hence he said the price was now so low ; 
 As sooth it was ; since 'twas a book for Kings 
 To purchase and lay up with precious things, 
 As he himself was well aware when thus 
 For poor five francs he sold it without fuss. 
 This brief allusion to the just Toulouse 
 Yields an occasion that I must not lose, 
 To sing of booksellers and of their lore, 
 Whom he did haunt in Paris more and more. 
 
OP BOOKS 215 
 
 Toulouse, of conscience delicate, would burn 
 
 The volumes all good Christians needs must spurn ; 
 
 Perhaps it was intolerance in him ; 
 
 Perhaps of some defence admits his whirn ; 
 
 But what he most committed to the flames 
 
 Were dark sad books with Jansenistic names ; 
 
 Esteem it quite a cursed thing he must 
 
 To paint God as a tyrant and unjust. 
 
 The Rue de Foin did boast his vine-clad shop, 
 
 Where many scholars, livelong days would stop, 
 
 As Escalopier that right noble Count, 
 
 Whose library exceeded in amount 
 
 Of precious gems all others that were known, 
 
 Incomparable being deem'd his own 
 
 Among collections private then in France, 
 
 Of which the value daily he'd enhance 
 
 By seeking from Toulouse or from De Bure 
 
 What only from such men he could secure. 
 
 By Pontiffs honour'd and by scholars prized, 
 
 He saw Toulouse oft seated, not surprised, 
 
 When at his own long table such men dined, 
 
 Fed doubly for the body and the mind. 
 
 I named De Bure. He can't forget his joy 
 
 When first Chevalier led him there a boy, 
 
 So archly saying, " Lo to you I lead 
 
 A young Republican of English breed." 
 
 He still can see the hideous, stern grimace 
 
 Sarcastically stamp'd upon his face, 
 
 When to monarchal men like these he led 
 
 A youth who loving monarchy was bred. 
 
216 CANTO IX. 
 
 The Eue Serpente made then no greater boast 
 
 Than owning men who honoured letters most. 
 
 But on th' Augustin's Quay there dwelt another, 
 
 Aged Merlin, whom oblivion cannot cover. 
 
 Worthy of his name, so wise, profound ; 
 
 In him a magic influence was found 
 
 To draw all scholars thither, where they came 
 
 In flocks attracted by his mighty fame. 
 
 But mark how Paris honour'd letters then 
 
 As in the very persons of such men ; 
 
 For when he died and to the church was borne, 
 
 Saint Severin beheld a crowd forlorn 
 
 Of Priests and nobles greatest in the land, 
 
 Who could not, as you saw, their tears command. 
 
 But the whole Latin country did abound 
 
 With precious books at least as those he found ; 
 
 Though as for men who sold them, unlike these 
 
 Mere sordid tradesmen, all for gain one sees, 
 
 Who like their idol deem'd but " singeries," 
 
 Books, prayers, processions, and all mysteries. 
 
 To search their volumes vellum-bound so white 
 
 Became his chief and exquisite delight. 
 
 From convents long since pillaged or suppressed, 
 
 Laid on their stalls they foully were oppress'd, 
 
 Consigned to dust, and of base worms the food, 
 
 By few who pass'd there loved or understood ; 
 
 Unless by chance they caught the pitying eye 
 
 Of some who like himself went strolling by. 
 
 Perceforest, Huon, or Tirante white 
 
 Would of a sudden steal forth to the light ; 
 
or BOOKS. 217 
 
 Or else 'tis tomes of falconry old 
 With holy volumes waiting to be sold. 
 'Twas there Chivalric men and Priests as well 
 Would speed, where jailers ignorant did sell 
 Almost for nothing what they never knew 
 Possess'd an interest that revived anew. 
 They thought 'twas merely rubbish that they sold, 
 For they'd grown up disdaining what was old ; 
 And so till all such hucksters pass'd away, 
 These noble captives in dark prisons lay 
 Despised ; but later times of wiser thought 
 Revived a race that books devoutly sought ; 
 So he has sung of what exists no more, 
 Since seldom now we find such learned store, 
 Unless in shops well known to connoisseurs, 
 Where ransoms high must pay all amateurs. 
 
 Then too observe the Providential way 
 In which they come to those who careless stray, 
 Just at the moment when they're wanted most 
 By those for whom they prove a useful host. 
 " Bravo, Menandre ! " Palladas did cry ; 
 " Thou hast thus made of Chance a Deity ; 
 Thou nursling of the Muses, Graces too ; 
 For herein thou hast sung but what is true ; 
 Since Chance to unexpected things gives rise, 
 Better than when our meditation tries." 
 'Tis thus for books, as has been often said, 
 There is a Providence by which they're led ; 
 
218 CANTO IX. 
 
 Without whose orders authors would in vain, 
 Ransack old shelves and torture their own brain ; 
 While led as if by Fortune they acquire 
 The very text that serves them to inspire. 
 For what did not the author of those pages, 
 Entitled vauntingly " Of Faith the Ages," 
 Owe to a hasty glance at the dark shelves 
 Which held best proof of Faith's great worth 
 
 themselves ? 
 
 His " Compitum, or Meeting of the Ways," 
 Might have been named from this while on he 
 
 strays 
 
 With unobservant eye on things around, 
 Till what exactly suited him was found 
 E'en forced on his attention, he might say, 
 As carelessly he pass'd where bookstalls lay. 
 Through libraries vast he might have stroird, 
 And groped beneath their shades like forests old 
 In vain ; since while unaided, all alone, 
 The path to what he wants is quite unknown 
 To him, who yet would day and night still rave 
 Of Mazarine and o]d Saint Genevieve. 
 But somehow he would stumble on the thing 
 Precise towards which he stretch'd his feeble wing. 
 These aids to accidents, so call'd, he owes ; 
 He found them thus, and that is all he knows. 
 No great results did come from them forsooth ; 
 Yet were they granted to his wandering youth. 
 But then how oft for mean and little ends 
 The Providence directing all things bends ? 
 
CANTO X. OF HAPPY THOUGHTS. 219 
 
 No light divine descends to save a crown ; 
 To guide some child an angel will fly down. 
 Enough of this. Let Memory proclaim 
 Henceforth her riches which involve no blame. 
 So on we're usher'd, yet still more to see 
 Contain'd in Halls of noble Memory. 
 
 CANTO X. 
 
 OF HAPPY THOUGHTS. 
 
 " MY memory," Augustin said, 
 
 " Is but myself, by which I'm led 
 
 To wonder at my nature more, 
 
 And its Creator to adore ; 
 
 A life most marvellous and strange 
 
 As through phenomena I range, 
 
 Astonish'd by all things I see, 
 
 And such immense variety. 
 
 Just think of what has pass'd in mind, 
 
 And how it all again you find. 
 
 Our mental operations thus 
 
 Are made perpetual for us. 
 
 I can remember how I err'd, 
 
 And to false reasoning deferr'd. 
 
 How from the false to truth I pass'd, 
 
 1 find in Memory will last 
 
220 CAtfTO X. 
 
 With my intellectual acts 
 
 And all their circumstantial facts ; 
 
 Remembering the place and hour 
 
 When each had over me such power ; 
 
 And even I remember well 
 
 Having remember'd, wondrous spell ! 
 
 I see here how my pride gave way 
 
 To what, oh ! Thou, my God, didst say ; 
 
 And even (fact mysterious) Thee 
 
 I find within my memory ; 
 
 For never since I heard Thy name 
 
 Has it departed. How it came 
 
 First seems a mystery profound ; 
 
 But ever since it there is found. 
 
 Was it from Adam heard within 
 
 My nature? Thee I'd ever win. 
 
 So thus in me Thou deignest to dwell, 
 
 To answer, counsel, all to tell. 
 
 These are my delights so pure, 
 
 And these in memory endure." 
 
 Such are Saint Austin's words, you know, 
 
 Which it behoves me here to show, 
 
 When happy thoughts we must define 
 
 As comprehending what's divine ; 
 
 And e'en the lightest of us know 
 
 How these will often come and go. 
 
 Sainte Beuve says that we live by thought ; 
 
 But he goes further than he ought ; 
 
 And Paradoxes, e'en the best, 
 
 Are what the Muse will most detest ; 
 
OP HAPPY THOUGHTS. 221 
 
 But still, 'tis true, that some thoughts seem 
 More real than this life's short dream. 
 
 So now as farther on we stray 
 In mind, we find upon our way, 
 While gazing on the varied wall 
 Of Memory, what some will call 
 More gracious subjects, as if e'en 
 The hand of Raphael were seen. 
 In the long gallery he'll own 
 These never are, or seldom shown. 
 'Tis scarcely right that he should boast 
 Of what belongs to others most ; 
 And then, besides, it seems quite clear 
 Originals are not found here ; 
 At least, what any one must see, 
 Pre-Raphaelite they cannot be ; 
 Since these from Nature appear drawn, 
 'Tis not of art the purest dawn, 
 Such as some painters love to haunt, 
 And make perhaps too fond a vaunt. 
 For much of flesh and blood remains 
 In some one sense to suit light strains. 
 Although perhaps in this there lies 
 What soundest minds would not surprise, 
 The whole together being so 
 The source which should to all men flow 
 Of happiness ; since all things thus 
 Are link'd to form a whole for us, 
 
222 CANTO x. 
 
 i 
 
 Not by a co-existence then, 
 
 But by succession yielding men 
 
 More truth, enjoying thus the whole, 
 
 Than they would reap from each part sole ; 
 
 Just as in reading we must wait, 
 
 Till all the letters come to state 
 
 The whole of what they're meant to say ; 
 
 So one by one should each thing play 
 
 Its part, the carnal sense employ'd, 
 
 At times, as if alone enjoyed. 
 
 But here I do not mean to stray 
 
 In the French sophist's odious way, 
 
 Who analyzes thoughts and feelings 
 
 As if he'd make some strange revealings, 
 
 And prove that nought within our mind 
 
 Was ever pure whate'er we find. 
 
 Let him call each of us an elf, 
 
 But keep his sermon for himself. 
 
 And yet, although with those he'll stroll 
 
 Who speak least often of the soul, 
 
 Who seldom will religion name, 
 
 As Patmore sings, " they think the same ;" 
 
 While talking much about it proves 
 
 A theme that not so deeply moves. 
 
 Though such then are their habits here, 
 
 Where no exclusions will appear, 
 
 Where it must be a point agreed 
 
 Of faith itself to take no heed, 
 
 Divided as our people are 
 
 From unity, alas ! so far, 
 
OF HAPPY THOUGHTS. 223 
 
 Though their poor hearts are thus constrained 
 
 To have this silence aye maintained, 
 
 In their great hall is heard at times 
 
 An echo as of distant chimes, 
 
 While they " feel delicately drawn," 
 
 As if to an Elysian lawn, 
 
 By thoughts that warbled long ago, 
 
 Which never wholly ceased to flow ; 
 
 So that in memory they find 
 
 What once pass'd as a summer wind, 
 
 Refreshing with inconstant breath 
 
 What each time swept off thoughts of death 
 
 Breath which here tropical might blow 
 
 Perpetuated even so ; 
 
 So that they need but thus retire, 
 
 To find in regions ever higher 
 
 Celestial moments fix'd for us, 
 
 Retaining all their sweetness thus. 
 
 We know how joy and grief are shown 
 
 Within this Hall as having flown 
 
 With transitory quickness on, 
 
 Till both did seem for ever gone. 
 
 The thoughts commemorated now, 
 
 That come and go we know not how, 
 
 Though oft as fleeting, never vain 
 
 Appear to visit some again. 
 
 We see how they are painted here. 
 
 We hail their presence ever dear. 
 
 Let those who felt them ne'er forget 
 
 Whatever other thoughts they met 
 
224 CANTO x. 
 
 Amidst the tasks of manhood's life 
 
 Or of loud tongues the vulgar strife ; 
 
 These mental gleams were like the light 
 
 Before which pass the shades of night ; 
 
 They flash'd like lightning and were gone ; 
 
 But while they lasted much was won ; 
 
 Since for an instant, ere they fled, 
 
 The soul to heavenly joys seem'd wed ; 
 
 For in the heart's profoundest feeling 
 
 That sphere its sweetness is revealing 
 
 To minds so free from earthly care 
 
 They almost think they must be there, 
 
 As if the future life were now 
 
 Without the need of hope or vow. 
 
 These moments then of happy thought 
 
 May thus in memory be sought 
 
 In yours, not his, observe 'tis meant ; 
 
 To leave me free he won't consent ; 
 
 Lest, said I " his," you might complain 
 
 That he was in the worst way vain. 
 
 But since in you such thoughts are found 
 
 Of you henceforth this strain should sound ; 
 
 For of them all the basis thus 
 
 May be ascribed to each of us. 
 
 A predisposing warmth will need 
 
 The understanding if our creed 
 
 Is by historic proofs to be 
 
 Endow'd with credibility. 
 
 The mind, susceptible grown long 
 
 Of these impressions which belong 
 
OF HAPPY" THOUGHTS. 225 
 
 To such specific outward signs 
 Of all the truths that Faith defines, 
 Will not perhaps in memory find 
 The day when first warmth of this kind 
 Was kindled ; for it has forgot 
 The time when it existed not, 
 Which can with other proofs dispense 
 While resting, too, on common sense. 
 But then it can remember still 
 Having had always such a will ; 
 And nothing else in memory's store 
 Should be loved, cherish'd, valued more. 
 
 But now some instances just take, 
 And that for our instruction's sake. 
 Then is the sense recorded here 
 Of feeling your Creator near, 
 That nothing fair can ever be 
 But what descends from Him to thee, 
 And that what charms that breast of thine 
 Is in reality divine. 
 
 'Tis thus that common things so given 
 Seem as if fallen just from Heaven. 
 The very fruits of earth, a peach, 
 An attribute of God can teach, 
 Who gave us tastes and then decreed 
 To make what best with them agreed. 
 The Maker, Father of us all, 
 Knows all our wants, both great and small ; 
 
 Q 
 
226 
 
 And though in these we are divided, 
 For each and all he has provided. 
 Oh ! then how is it right and well 
 That this in memory should dwell ! 
 E'en grave Augustin won't disdain 
 To find in memory again 
 The pleasure of some kinds of food ; 
 Since all thus made by God is good. 
 And though some fancies may seem wild, 
 Such as would suit a truant child, 
 The farthest from that abstract vein 
 Where disembodied life will reign, 
 Their secret source can all be traced 
 To what need never be effaced ; 
 So that, whate'er the form may be, 
 With innocence they may agree. 
 
 But now another thought is here 
 
 Recorded, which should be most dear. 
 
 'Tis true, as poets even sing, 
 
 Faults that are grievous have a sting ; 
 
 And they will constitute a game 
 
 Where victory brings greatest shame ; 
 
 So that the losers, without sin, 
 
 Gain more than those who seem to win. 
 
 But still somehow man's hopeful heart 
 
 Will other views no less impart. 
 
 It has such depths, such instincts strong 
 
 That it will sometimes say what's wrong, 
 
Or HAPPY THOUGHTS. 227 
 
 Or what seems wrong when heard alone 
 
 Apart from God's strange mercy's tone. 
 
 Thus, when confessing all his ways, 
 
 Saint Austin owns that he loved praise. 
 
 This love in his own memory 
 
 As painted clearly he can see. 
 
 But then what joy when each can find 
 
 Like him, that period in his mind, 
 
 When truth far more than praise from men 
 
 Did please him as remember'd then ! 
 
 " For if," saith he, " the choice were given 
 
 Between men's praise and winning Heav'n, 
 
 To have their praise for holding error 
 
 Or blame for sake of truth with terror, 
 
 Not doubtful then would be my choice 
 
 In which remembrance I rejoice." 
 
 Now memory records the time 
 
 When your own thoughts with these words 
 
 chime ; 
 
 Just as when he first thought that he 
 Might after all not worthless be ; 
 And such a consciousness will gladden 
 When all besides the heart will sadden. 
 
 Then you remember, too, with joy 
 When you first vow'd none to annoy 
 By having crotchets of your own 
 To serve or please yourself alone ; 
 Till others merrily would say 
 That " somehow as if day by day 
 4 2 
 
228 CANTO X. 
 
 You did improve, at least each year," 
 Which is a pleasant thing to hear, 
 That memory is sure to treasure 
 As satisfaction without measure. 
 Another of these moments must 
 Accompany that silent trust 
 Resulting from experience long 
 That, though you may seem often wrong, 
 Heaven contrives yet to fulfil 
 Your own poor truant wanton will ; 
 While, how or why you cannot tell, 
 You find at length that all is well, 
 Most unexpectedly achieved, 
 Yourself from every care relieved. 
 Then follows from this sweet reliance, 
 As if of honour an alliance 
 Between your inmost soul and God, 
 When you are conscious that the rod 
 Implying what's opposed to this, 
 Works far less wonders than the kiss ; 
 So that, almost dismissing awe, 
 'Tis sweetness only that you draw 
 From what occurs to you each day 
 While your accustom'd part you play. 
 Then, too, another thought you see 
 Eecorded as to comfort thee ; 
 Since, after all, it says that Love, 
 All erring sacrifice above, 
 Love, undistinguish'd, such as here 
 You feel for those to whom you're dear 
 
OP HAPPY THOUGHTS. 229 
 
 Will be for hope the safest ground, 
 When nothing else with you is found, 
 Excepting what with that agrees, 
 Which oft proves more than what one sees. 
 To pass and not have grieved one soul 
 Perhaps is somewhat, on the whole. 
 To think no woman e'er complains 
 Of you is much that never pains. 
 'Tis more when feeling your heart glow 
 With love for those you see moved so, 
 To kneel with youth and worship Heaven, 
 Though you to it may not seem given. 
 Such feelings you at least can tell 
 Seem not to presage those of Hell. 
 
 Then memory records the thought, 
 
 With practical results so fraught, 
 
 That what all nature wills must be 
 
 Accordant with felicity ; 
 
 And that when we of her complain 
 
 Our faith most probably is vain. 
 
 " Tis infidelity in life 
 
 With Nature so to be at strife," 
 
 Saith a wise poet of our day, 
 
 Who sings of love in every lay ; 
 
 And hence the sage in ancient times 
 
 Would count such contradictions crimes. 
 
 For Hermes Trismegistus saith 
 
 This Nature endeth not with death ; 
 
230 CANTO X. 
 
 For " all things that in Heaven are found 
 
 Are also on this earth around, 
 
 Though only in an earthly way ;" 
 
 While still, as he went on to say, 
 
 " All things that on the earth we find 
 
 Are there, though of celestial kind, 
 
 Yea, found all in Heaven." So that we 
 
 From groundless scruples should be free. 
 
 Then, further still, we here advance 
 
 Through thoughts that will the worth enhance 
 
 Of what Religion can supply, 
 
 When she will pass the unseen by, 
 
 And introduce fair customs thus, 
 
 Visible, natural to us. 
 
 An enemy to Faith will find 
 
 A thousand things that wound his mind. 
 
 Processions, Pilgrimages, seem 
 
 To him an earthly foolish dream. 
 
 Saith he " Religion pure, I wot 
 
 Such ceremonious thing is not." 
 
 ffis journals at the present time 
 
 Will seldom with Saint Austin's chime. 
 
 Just for a moment but suppose 
 
 That yesterday 'twere told to those, 
 
 How holy bodies had been found 
 
 For their long articles what ground ! 
 
 Which certainly would ill agree 
 
 With what he writes when he did see 
 
 At Milan on a like occasion 
 
 That great and popular sensation. 
 
OF HAPPY THOUGHTS. 231 
 
 Yet what are they with all their shouts 
 To great Augustin who his doubts 
 Did cast abroad unto the winds 
 When at the last true faith he finds ? 
 Yea, more ; (and useful is the thought 
 Which in the supposition's sought,) 
 Just fancy how these scribes would write 
 If now they heard had been in sight 
 The garment touch'd, the people fed ; 
 To what exclaims would these have led ! 
 How would their "articles " combine 
 To laugh down faith like yours and mine ! 
 Of these, our thoughts, remember'd here 
 A refutation will appear. 
 For we thought all things that can be 
 Have annexations as we see, 
 That are not of their essence pure 
 Though oft to follow them they're sure. 
 There's nothing that has not its fete 
 Accordant with its simple state. 
 The boat-race and the cricket-ground 
 With consequential things abound, 
 Which, seen without the force or skill, 
 Could ne'er the purpose meant fulfil. 
 Not much concern with them in truth 
 Seem to have flags and feasts of youth, 
 When trials of its strength come off 
 And no one's heard to blame or scoff. 
 Then why should not Religion, pray, 
 Have still its simple human way ; 
 
232 CANTO x. 
 
 Though visiting the sad we know 
 
 In its pure essence here below ? 
 
 That human way, we know not why, 
 
 Like martial music makes us cry. 
 
 " Through lowly paths the mind thus wends," 
 
 The Muse has said "to lofty ends," 
 
 Adding " The bitterest cross to see 
 
 Of all is infidelity." x 
 
 But now will come another thought 
 "Which can from memory be brought. 
 For great Saint Austin speak eth thus, 
 As if he were but one of us. 
 " I own " he says " That in my mind 
 The pleasure of my ears I find. 
 Yes, I confess it, still with me 
 Will last the sweets of melody. 
 Since what I heard in churches sung 
 My purest joys is still among. 
 For all sweet tender sounds I hear 
 I make a place of honour near. 
 Since holy thoughts are still their soul, 
 As I now find upon the whole. 
 There seems commingled with that voice 
 A charm to feel which I've no choice. 
 My soul's affections are more moved 
 Than when such singing is removed ; 
 And a more puissant wing of love 
 Then raises me the earth above. 
 1 Patmore. 
 
OF HAPPY THOUGHTS. 233 
 
 'Tis true I do remember well 
 
 Of hearing some men often tell 
 
 Of Athanasius and his way 
 
 Of recitation, as they say, 
 
 With slight inflexions of the voice 
 
 As if sweet songs were not his choice. 
 
 But then, when I rememher too, 
 
 The tears I shed, (for that I do), 
 
 When hearing the soft anthem's peal 
 
 And felt my faith recover' d steal 
 
 O'er all my passions, soothed to rest, 
 
 I needs must think such music best. 
 
 In memory, thus I recognize 
 
 The great utility that lies 
 
 In all the church's harmony, 
 
 Which thus I find did act on me." 
 
 Now much of this recorded here 
 
 You find, as quickly will appear ; 
 
 And sooth, until the last few years 
 
 The London churches saw these tears. 
 
 But while reflections past you track 
 
 The church in which you made them back 
 
 Will seem to come before your eyes, 
 
 With all that sweetness you did prize 
 
 When from the noisy world apart 
 
 You heard the voice of your own heart, 
 
 Remembering the church's sign 
 
 When all was silent and divine, 
 
 Those flashing torrents of a fire 
 
 Celestial that did you inspire. 
 
234 CANTO X. 
 
 You have in mind too, how the sound 
 
 Of the loud chanting all around 
 
 E'en its plain solemn tones and grave 
 
 Did teach your heart and make it brave, 
 
 To meet all incidents below 
 
 From which to mortals sorrows flow, 
 
 Such as jour death in a strange land, 
 
 So far from a familiar hand 
 
 To close your eyes, and from the ground 
 
 In .which you hoped there would be found 
 
 In later times your mortal coil 
 
 When ended was your earthly toil. 
 
 Thus Fromentin admits that he, 
 
 When in the desert he did see 
 
 A cemetery, felt dismay, 
 
 To think that on some future day 
 
 His own bones might be lying there, 
 
 A thought which did him deeply scare. 
 
 E'en in a church the self-same thought 
 
 May trouble to your mind have brought, 
 
 If, stray'd to some far foreign land, 
 
 Your life be wreck'd upon its strand. 
 
 But the old office of the choir 
 
 With other feelings can inspire 
 
 Such as that holy Mother knew 
 
 When from her lips Augustin drew 
 
 Those words, referring to the shore 
 
 Which she was ne'er to visit more, 
 
 Dying at Milan, far away 
 
 From Africa, and she did say : 
 
Or HAPPY THOUGHTS. 235 
 
 " In no place where I lie, the sod 
 
 Can ever be thought far from God ; 
 
 The place He'll know and recognize 
 
 When He will bid my body rise." 
 
 Yes, those who sing great David's Psalm 
 
 Will all our carnal terrors calm. 
 
 For there is something in that voice 
 
 That seems to leave you without choice 
 
 Respecting where your bones may lie 
 
 Though even such may be not nigh, 
 
 Though you should have no other grave 
 
 But where the sea and tempests rave. 
 
 So all these thoughts are graven here 
 
 To dissipate your doubts and fear, 
 
 Reminding you that spot is best 
 
 Where God may wish that you should rest. 
 
 Oh Pouliguen, in mind he'll see 
 
 How gracious to him thou couldst be ! 
 
 Standing on verge of desert ground, 
 
 Where nought but tracts of waste are found ; 
 
 Nought heard without but winds that blow 
 
 Or distant waves from tides that flow ; 
 
 While there within thy choir so bright 
 
 With tapers at the fall of night, 
 
 Is heard the sweet sonorous Psalm 
 
 Which sheds within the mind such calm. 
 
 Thou still in Memory's Hall will be 
 
 A thing of Heaven's felicity, 
 
 An Eden in the waste of thought, 
 
 A harmony from angels brought, 
 
236 CA^TO x. 
 
 Yea, Heaven itself within the soul 
 As if on earth it knew the whole. 
 Two languages there are for mind, 
 Distinct, most different in kind ; 
 The one amongst us men is learn' d, 
 Bounded and changeable discerned ; 
 The other of the soul sublime 
 Is destined not to pass with time, 
 No dead sound, scatter'd in the air, 
 But living in the heart and there 
 To move, illuminate, inflame, 
 And the interior transports name, 
 As if it were the words of Heav'n, 
 On earth to love alone thus given. 
 
 With these past visions painted all, 
 
 By mem'ry in her brightest hall, 
 
 I might conclude this varied tale 
 
 Of life in a minute detail, 
 
 But that another side remains 
 
 Unsung to suit the simple strains 
 
 Of one who hefe and there would touch 
 
 The chords which quickly run o'er much 
 
 Can interest, though they only serve 
 
 To please those who least things observe, 
 
 And who would leave to graver sprites 
 
 Events that the historian writes. 
 
 Let me then briefly now relate 
 
 What was our England's later state 
 
CANTO XI. OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 237 
 
 Regarding Faith, when our friend saw 
 That light, and did such new breath draw. 
 
 CANTO XI. 
 
 OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 
 
 WELL hitherto perhaps now some complain 
 
 That through confusions they have pass'd in vain. 
 
 Objects well known on well-known objects flash'd 
 
 As still on each a wearied eye they cast. 
 
 To them one mass of trifles sooth might glitter, 
 
 But still the whole to them seem'd only litter. 
 
 But now the gravest will, as I presume, 
 
 Inhale with pleasure a more clear perfume. 
 
 For here, in fact, they needs must pass beyond 
 
 Things of which lightest mortals seem most fond. 
 
 It looks as if they came upon a shrine 
 
 Where all is vast, most fragrant and divine. 
 
 Though 'tis not strange, perhaps if some should say 
 
 That in this last room they will sadly stray. 
 
 Oh what grim halls did memory possess 
 
 In those whom savage laws would long oppress, 
 
 In England and in Ireland still more 
 
 While Faith was combatted in days of yore ! 
 
 Our hero cannot show us so far back 
 
 The direful scenes we can in others track. 
 
 'Tis but the leavings of most cruel men, 
 
 That here he finds recall'd and painted then ; 
 
238 CANTO xi. 
 
 Though these suffice to cast a darksome gloom 
 
 O'er his first steps within this solemn room. 
 
 Far in the western sea did Faith remain 
 
 In sweet sad silence but without a stain. 
 
 After a period long of pressing need 
 
 In secrecy, more free, that ancient creed 
 
 Began to shake off shackles, till at length 
 
 Unknown to foes revived its ancient strength. 
 
 These did not so much quarrel with it& law 
 
 As scornful charges from its customs draw. 
 
 An upstart aristocracy and cruel 
 
 For constant ridicule did find them fuel. 
 
 Hereditary enemies, the most 
 
 Of being like their fathers could still boast. 
 
 Too ignorant to judge of such a theme, 
 
 Of ancient glories even once to dream, 
 
 'Tis their conclusion practical, unchanged, 
 
 To which they'd stand as in a battle ranged, 
 
 That the religion, so-call'd of the masses, 
 
 Could appertain but to the lowest classes, 
 
 That whatsoever might be its extension 
 
 It was in fact too low a thing to mention. 
 
 Upstarts in all but this, each seem'd then born, 
 
 To have for heritage to hate and scorn. 
 
 In England meanwhile, Faith had other foes, 
 
 As memory herself to most men shows. 
 
 Here it seem'd interest more that was at work, 
 
 And rather spite that would in each breast lurk. 
 
 Here men though ignorant suspected all ; 
 
 And 'tis this doubt that should their friends appal. 
 
OP BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 239 
 
 There was not proud disdain to show and boast, 
 Like fanatics of what should win them most. 
 They might have known 'gainst whom they plied 
 
 their trade 
 
 And harsher only were they thereby made ; 
 Till even gentle scholars would imbibe 
 The style and spirit of their well-paid tribe. 
 As when to learned Milner they applied 
 That epithet reecho'd by their side, 
 Of " surpliced ruffian " sad example sooth, 
 To show what comes of warring against truth. 
 Of course, 'tis clear, the songs of Scott once 
 
 heard, 
 
 Some names at least began to sound absurd. 
 It then seem'd scarcely possible to be 
 Just like the " orange " aristocracy. 
 How can they praise and admire in their church 
 What in their salons leaves them in the lurch ? 
 How can the student, like a vulgar swain, 
 Jeer the grave subject of the poet's strain? 
 Or, what is worse, as an audacious boor, 
 Feel to trust most where he can least be sure ? 
 But still would interest keep all to their task, 
 Even though wearing while they work'd a mask. 
 Besides, no doubt extravagance itself, 
 Arising from the unconscious love of pelf, 
 Can be hereditary even there, 
 When men of its true source are not aware. 
 Within this hall of memory he'll find 
 Some proof at least of hatred of this kind. 
 
240 CANTO XI. 
 
 So strangers seated calmly side by side, 
 
 Their conversation to this theme will glide. 
 
 " O wretched family ! " then one will cry, 
 
 " Who ever heard of such adversity ? 
 
 The eldest son, in battle slain, you knew ; 
 
 The second last year, in a fever threw 
 
 Himself from a high window, and, by Jove, 
 
 The third to papistry they say will rove ! " 
 
 Then still he thinks he hears the furious cry 
 
 That will the Pope and the old faith defy ; 
 
 Which oft he heard wlien riding home by night 
 
 Alone, from Old Hall and with no delight. 
 
 What would they cry if they had only known 
 
 The nest from which his horse and he are flown ? 
 
 In later years, at times there would come back, 
 
 The ancient spirit which historians track, 
 
 Resembling somewhat days of persecution ; 
 
 To meet which, calmly, needed resolution. 
 
 Permit me here an incident to sing, 
 
 Which might indeed have proved a tragic thing. 
 
 'Twas at Southampton where a mansion stood, 
 
 His family had hired near a wood. 
 
 A minister converted, well known there 
 
 To them who knew him not chose to repair. 
 
 Gaily received by them and without fuss, 
 
 After some days his visit ended thus. 
 
 He had been famed for preaching in the town, 
 
 A fact they knew not when they ask'd him down ; 
 
 Though rather self-invited came this guest, 
 
 Who thought to stop some days with them were best, 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 241 
 
 While those, it seems, whom he had just forsook, 
 Had mark'd him down within their own black book. 
 Indeed, on Sunday, walking down the street, 
 No looks were seen directed on him sweet ; 
 J Twas wordless, settled anger in the face, 
 Which his now unsuspecting host could trace. 
 He thought not of it then. He little knew 
 The letters that their guest had had, not few, 
 Which threatened him with death, and that by fire. 
 One who within himself liked to retire, 
 Despising all these wild denunciations, 
 Their guest to them made no annunciations; 
 Though, what was passing strange, they later heard, 
 What in a London journal was observed, 
 That in a merry serio-comic way, 
 Next January's third was named a day 
 On which, as some one writing in it states, 
 Their guest, whose name is told, " illuminates," 
 Of this prediction knowing not, that night, 
 He left them early for the Isle of Wight. 
 'Twixt two and three, so long before the dawn, 
 Was heard the page boy shouting from the lawn. 
 " Fire ! fire ! " he cried, and as you may suppose, 
 No sooner our friend heard it than he rose. 
 In fact he saw there was no time to spare, 
 If he would save the inmates sleeping there. 
 'Twas lurid glare ; 'twas stifling, smothering smoke, 
 That greeted him the moment he awoke. 
 But all were safely out of it before 
 He even could unlock the outer door ; 
 
 E 
 
242 CAKTO XI. 
 
 For through a window pass'd the babes and all, 
 While from the rooms above some paintings fall ; 
 The ruling passion lasts, you know, till death ; 
 He'd save some pictures while he still had breath. 
 But what must not be pass'd in silence here, 
 The cause of the disaster became clear. 
 For in a pantry where no chimneys ran, 
 The raging fire, spreading from there, began. 
 A large round aperture was in the pane 
 Of a glass window, through which, it was plain 
 Whate'er had caused the fire had been flung 
 Old wainscotting and paper'd shelves among. 
 Besides the pantry all the rest was dark, 
 As he who fled the first did well remark. 
 'Twas on the ground floor with no shutters, too, 
 I leave the judgment to be pass'd by you. 
 
 So Dry den's panther prowling thus by night, 
 
 Not only shows his teeth but he will bite. 
 
 Yet much the host saw that grim morning 
 
 bring 
 
 Proved at the time a semi-comic thing. 
 With blood-stain'd vest through broken glass he'd 
 
 fly, 
 
 'Till those he loved were out of jeopardy ; 
 With naked feet upon the frosty ground 
 Hither and thither ran he all around ; 
 There are the paintings strewn upon the grass, 
 There are of books and manuscripts a mass ; 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 243 
 
 Scorch'd with the flames and wet, half drown'd in 
 
 mire, 
 
 They dread the water quite as much as fire ; 
 While the brave man who managed the new 
 
 hose, 
 
 As cool as he was did our friend suppose, 
 Though at the time the latter felt and thought 
 He might have other themes for jesting sought. 
 
 Nor was it only mobs and brutal boors 
 From whom aspersions foolish one endures. 
 In Memory's Hall he sees an ag'd man stand, 
 Who fond of sketches, shakes him by the hand, 
 When saying, with a melancholy smile, 
 " I hope that Rome will never you beguile, 
 Like your famed ancestor, who bore the name 
 You're call'd by, clad still with a lasting shame." 
 Well known at Mongewell and at Durham's fane, 
 A man most noble was he without stain, 
 Unless that mitred in a usurp'd station, 
 He must defend the errors of his nation. 
 Abundant proof we therefore here can find, 
 How England still was most to truth unkind. 
 Another epoch now he sees not dim, 
 When foreign countries open'd first to him. 
 Ne'er can he tell the visions in his soul. 
 When in a faithful church he first did stroll. 
 He look'd ; he felt ; he wonder'd and admired, 
 At least, though not by truth as yet inspired. 
 B 2 
 
244 CAKTO XI. 
 
 What figures kneeling ! altars lighted there ! 
 
 Is this what's meant when men have talk'd of 
 
 prayer ? 
 
 Nought then he utter'd audible to others ; 
 But nothing thenceforth what's within him 
 
 smothers. 
 
 A smouldering light then at the bottom lay, 
 Which must burst forth upon some future day. 
 While still at school some aged men he had met 
 Whose faith once told him he could ne'er forget. 
 They only talk'd, 'tis true, on classic themes, 
 Homer and Virgil, but in all there seems, 
 Though silent in their mind, a certain voice, 
 On hearing which he could not but rejoice ; 
 For Englefield and Butler there had sat, 
 Both Catholics ; he only well knew that. 
 And although men are men, faith can supply 
 A certain stamp, to copy which none try, 
 Without being detected at a glance, 
 Whatever propositions they advance. 
 
 To college sent, vacations come again, 
 What still he is, perhaps he can't remain. 
 For there he heard from lips he honour'd most 
 How scholars true of faith might chiefly boast, 
 How books inspired so, and by him there read, 
 Had to the old religion great men led, 
 How novel lights might sparkle for a while, 
 But that the old, more steady, won't beguile, 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 245 
 / 
 
 How only they can ever clearly show 
 
 What most is grand upon this earth below, 
 
 How theirs, though seeming dormant in the breast, 
 
 For many prove the surest and the best. 
 
 His ears their keen discourse had often shock'd, 
 
 When at things still revered by him they mock'd. 
 
 How can he e'er give up that evening prayer, 
 
 *' Lighten our darkness," that resounded there ? 
 
 Or what in advent sounded quite as grand, 
 
 And yet so soothing, thought he, soft and bland 
 
 " Now in this our time of mortal strife ! " 
 
 No more to hear these is to give up life. 
 
 This to himself he said, and saying kept, 
 
 But even then remembrance had not slept. 
 
 Why at the same time cannot he be both ? 
 
 To leave the one or other feeling loth. 
 
 Still day by day reflection brought to him 
 
 Conviction that he could not feed a whim ; 
 
 To pick and chose and take what he liked best, 
 
 And leave before he knows it all the rest. 
 
 The words of St. Augustin in his ears, 
 
 And those of Bossuet revived his fears 
 
 That all he heard around him was not well ; 
 
 Though none expressly would the stern facts tell. 
 
 By implication only could he find 
 
 What might be lurking in the learned mind. 
 
 Thus Hare, who to the last would Luther call, 
 
 " That godlike man," and him e'en then appal, 
 
 Would not the less continuously say 
 
 To those around, that ignorant were they, 
 
246 CANTO XI. 
 
 When with such men as Bossuet compared, 
 To question whose grave words they never dared. 
 That with his genius they could not contend, 
 However long they might vain efforts spend. 
 Lock, although a text-book, quite disdain'd, 
 Paley, of whom so many still complain'd, 
 Burnet, loud laugh'd at as a vulgar fool, 
 To honour foreign writers seem'd the rule. 
 Bonald and De Maistre were most read, 
 At least by those whom Hare's example led. 
 Goerres and Stolberg, Schlegel, Hurter, Yogt, 
 These were the German authors they invoked, 
 With Ildefons von Arx and Wilkens, men 
 Second to none in erudition then, 
 And Staudenmaier, Liebner, and a host 
 Of whom the south of Germany could boast. 
 And then, too, Hare and others wise as him, 
 As if complying with some cherish'd whim, 
 Would lend him German books by faith inspired, 
 Saying how greatly these should be admired ; 
 For authors from the south they knew right well, 
 The English booksellers had not to sell 
 While these great scholars he was well aware 
 Would read, themselves, such authors as will dare 
 To scout all Christian faith with foolish breath, 
 To leave us only doubts, wild words and death 
 Such as the north of Germany still yields, 
 To those who traverse those unwholesome fields, 
 Until they render even English youth 
 Insensible to plain and honest truth, 
 
OE BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 247 
 
 Which ever still responds to revelation, 
 
 Ay, even in that soul-sick Prussian nation. 
 
 But for all this he found himself prepared 
 
 By what he read in ancient books that dared 
 
 Predict in plainest terms, and from the first, 
 
 When this new light of " reformation " burst, 
 
 Upon the world, led thus so far amiss, 
 
 That what they wrought was sure to end in this. 
 
 Well such facts studied, ponder'd, in his mind, 
 
 That something wrong is here he's sure to find. 
 
 The history, the history alone 
 
 Might well account for his embarrass'd tone, 
 
 And Strype did such a curtain then draw back, 
 
 He saw enough, no more, to feel a lack, 
 
 Of controversy fitting only then 
 
 Scholastics, not plain, simple, gallant men. 
 
 So when vacations suffer'd him to stray 
 
 After a tour, at Paris he would stay. 
 
 To aged Chevalier then he quickly went, 
 
 And told him all his wishes and intent 
 
 To know some priest who would receive him there, 
 
 Into the holy Church relieved from care. 
 
 Soon to a learned doctor he was gone, 
 
 Who lived within the far-famed grave Sorbonne. 
 
 I still can see, he says, his blank dismay, 
 
 When he had heard in brief what I would say. 
 
 " I think," he said, " you're young for such affairs ; 
 
 Me, an imprudent fervour, always scares. 
 
 What would your father and your mother say ? 
 
 I'd like to know first, you from both away ! 
 
248 CABTO xi. 
 
 A truant wanderer o'er hill and dale. 
 
 As you have told me subject for a tale 
 
 Romantic rather than a sage discourse 
 
 (I well know what you want to say of course) 
 
 Which suits me better living neath a roof 
 
 Where I would keep from worldly strife aloof. 
 
 Domestic squabbles I have long forgot ; 
 
 So pray excuse nie ; I had rather not. 
 
 Besides, just look, what papers round me lie ! 
 
 Sheets from the printer that await my eye 
 
 To be corrected, e'en this very day ! 
 
 Involve myself with you I never may. 
 
 Go home, go home, consult your family, 
 
 There at the least you'll find, more skill'd than I y 
 
 Some one who if all things should turn out worst 
 
 Will find a way to quench your present thirst." 
 
 At first, perhaps, this looks a little queer ; 
 
 To him in that light it did not appear. 
 
 For all was true, and wise he must confess, 
 
 In what was said, though he did grieve no less. 
 
 A monumental work then was compiling 
 
 That learned doctor, whom he's not reviling. 
 
 In fact he had himself procured and prized 
 
 The first of these same books which were revised; 
 
 And though he had no parents living then, 
 
 He not the less respected such wise men. 
 
 So all was over soon in Paris thus, 
 
 For him who never liked to make a fuss. 
 
 Back then to England he would take his way 
 
 Still bent some other measures to assay. 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 249 
 
 In Castle Street, in depths of London town 
 There lived, he heard, a prelate of renown, 
 Poynter was he, a learned man who gave 
 Then to the world clear writings, solid, grave. 
 Where are they now ? alas ! how all things speed 
 To dark oblivion whatsoe'er we need ! 
 Hearing his wishes then 'twas proudly thought 
 The priest to show surprise and pleasure ought, 
 To hear from Cambridge just arrived that he 
 For such a purpose would his suppliant be ; 
 For truly such great changes then were rare ; 
 They were not, as much later, in the air. 
 But nought of either show'd he in the way 
 With which he heard what he had wish'd to say. 
 He only ask'd him whereabouts in town 
 He lived, and then, not noting it e'en down, 
 He said to Westminster he'd better go, 
 Where from the priest that lived there he could 
 
 know 
 
 All that concern' d him. No more was said ; 
 So to that priest the next day he was sped. 
 " He's not at home, my lad. Why come so late ? 
 Think you, the priest on such as you must wait ? 
 Come then to-morrow and right early too, 
 At such an hour as this 'twould never do." 
 So spake the crone. He had to ask his way 
 Through the foul narrow slums through which it 
 
 lay. 
 
 Next morn again applying at that door, 
 His answer was much like the one before. 
 
250 CANTO XI. 
 
 " He has been call'd away on urgent case," 
 Said she, and slamm'ed the hall-door in his face. 
 What was there then for him to do ? But one 
 1'esource he had. To use it he is gone. 
 To Charles Butler, met but once before, 
 At William Spencer's in school-days of yore 
 Who to him gave a note for Father Scott, 
 Whose gracious aid, for ever changed his lot ; 
 When Norton Street, now with another name, 
 To which some strangers hearing of him came, 
 Saw at last kindled those long latent fires 
 Which to his shame he owns he but admires. 
 Then there was no more said. He must return 
 To Cambridge, where much longer he'll sojourn. 
 But how can I refuse that you shall see 
 What lives for ever in his memory ? 
 Since this will show the movements of the age, 
 And hence for others prove a curious page. 
 Received with kindness that took no account 
 Of what had pass'd, I needs then must recount 
 How those at least who now are pass'd away 
 To him such undeserved attention pay. 
 If you would know the cause as 'twas in truth, 
 They look'd upon him as a wanton youth. 
 Such changes, never heard of in that day, 
 Seem'd to them then a kind of mad-cap trait, 
 Which almost pleased ; it seem'd so strange and new ; 
 And imitators, said they, would be few. 
 " ' Twas chivalry that led him, as was clear, 
 From such a taste there's not now much to fear." 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 251 
 
 Though later, what they found with sad surprise 
 
 Made them regard it with far other eyes. 
 
 But this refers to what concerns him not ; 
 
 I only sing of what he ne'er forgot. 
 
 Whewell, consistent with himself throughout, 
 
 (For from the first his own he would ne'er scout) 
 
 Continued still a dear and constant friend, 
 
 The most indulgent even till his end. 
 
 Then he remembers sitting in the hall, 
 
 That Sedgwick sent his grave-faced Gyp to call] 
 
 Him to his room as soon as he had dined, 
 
 A message that did trouble much his mind. 
 
 " What could great Sedgwick have to say to me," 
 
 Said he, some censures are in store I see 
 
 Shrinking he went, but then received with grace, 
 
 He saw no sad displeasure on his face, 
 
 As who e'er saw it in his genial looks, 
 
 E'en when he fumbled o'er some doctors' books 
 
 At which he heard him laugh with temper gay, 
 
 Saying he thought they knew not what to say, 
 
 That Barrow seem'd his own mind but to tease 
 
 When writing on the power of the keys ; 
 
 Hubbing his hands, as if quite pleased himself,' 
 
 He then replaced that author on the shelf. 
 
 Said he, " Perhaps you'll smile when you will hear 
 
 For what slight purpose I sent for you here. 
 
 You know that me some people often blame ; 
 
 Of course who these may be I need not name, 
 
 Who say I ever seem disposed to greet 
 
 Just whomsoever I by chance may meet, 
 
252 CANTO XT. 
 
 Without regard to what may be their creed ; 
 
 And to such ways they say, I should take heed. 
 
 Well, all this long vacation I have been 
 
 Where populations Catholic I've seen 
 
 In Styria and Carinthia ; and I vow, 
 
 I care not what our Dons are whispering now, 
 
 But trust me never, never, did I see, 
 
 A people that can dearer be to me, 
 
 On whom my memory would rather rest 
 
 As being of all mankind known the best. 
 
 Of course I know what you are now right well ; 
 
 I thought you'd like to hear me all this tell ; 
 
 And what was sure to please you I would show ; 
 
 So come again, and soon. You now may go." 
 
 The blame of others here implied observe 
 
 Was not beyond what some few did deserve ; 
 
 That much excuse they had requires admission, 
 
 If you will place yourself in their position. 
 
 For wishing that the Catholics were free 
 
 To take their University Degree, 
 
 For writing likewise, strongly in that sense, 
 
 The man most skill'd in Greek, for that offence, 
 
 Had been condemn'd to lecture there no more, 
 
 When he departed, although chief in lore ; 
 
 When soon a wiser Government took care, 
 
 That well provided he should be elsewhere. 
 
 When he looks back to other scenes without, 
 Great was the kindness shown to him no doubt. 
 
OE BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 253 
 
 But still there was a change in most relations, 
 As is inevitable in such nations. 
 The cordial grew polite, the lukewarm cold, 
 Nothing was just the same as 'twas of old. 
 The grave would use a kind of ill-bred banter, 
 The jolly preach as would become a ranter. 
 The one, invited to your house, would say, 
 'Twixt him and you " a mighty gulf now lay : " 
 The other, clad in red to hunt with hounds, 
 Would slap your back and cry, " I know well, 
 
 zounds ! 
 
 "Why, my good boy, you have so strange a creed ; 
 It is because the Bible you don ; t read. 
 Yes, my boy, read your Bible, then you'll know, 
 I come ! I come ! good-bye, then ; tally ho ! " 
 Others, more serious, would first cease to write ; 
 Indeed they did not think it would be right. 
 To call were act of supererogation ; 
 Besides it would not now become their station. 
 Some few there were, not clever, but sincere, 
 At least as far as we can judge while here. 
 So slowly riding while he still looks down, 
 Our friend now meets the rector of a town. 
 'Twas in the park of his great patron that 
 This minister would have with him some chat. 
 A Calvinist was he, though not perplex'd, 
 To mark the disaccordance with his text, 
 Which must have often struck him one might 
 
 say, 
 In those with whom he dined each holiday. 
 
254 CASTO XI. 
 
 On epicures as on each dish he'd wink, 
 And on Predestination still would think. 
 On Sundays never would he prayers begin 
 Until he saw the old Lord safe within 
 His lofty pew, to which he went in state, 
 Though sometimes, perhaps often, rather late. 
 The pealing organ would then swell and rise, 
 The minister begin, you'd say, with sighs. 
 This ever-sighing downcast-looking man, 
 Thus meeting him their converse then began, 
 Verbatim, as I give it, while he stood, 
 Beside his horse, that was both safe and good. 
 " My Lord is well this morn, I hope ? " said he ; 
 " Ah, well-a-day, it sore distresses me, 
 To think that you, from holy Cambridge flown, 
 Where Simeon and such saints you must have 
 
 known, 
 
 Should now be what you are ! well, well, I never 
 Could have thought it, and thrown 'midst young 
 
 men clever 
 
 At least you have been ! do just tell me now 
 (Oh, if you knew my humble, secret vow) 
 Have you e'er read but one of our small books, 
 One of our little tiny tracts that looks 
 So unpretending ? that would set you right, 
 And make you e'en a vessel to our sight !" 
 " Sir," he replied, " permit me now to ask, 
 Have you e'er thought it worthy of your task 
 To look at any of our books as small, 
 Which in brief compass paint our faith and all?" 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 255 
 
 Then with a groan he cried, " Justification 
 
 By faith alone, that's the true relation." 
 
 The words were still repeated with a moan, 
 
 " Justification, and by faith alone." 
 
 Then said he, " Sir, the Trentine Council once, 
 
 On that sole point departed for the nonce, 
 
 From its authoritative simple way, 
 
 And did the whole truth before mankind lay, 
 
 Which indeed now, as far as I can see, 
 
 Exactly doth with what you hold agree. 
 
 The book is small, as small quite as your own % 
 
 In which the whole of what you ask is shown, 
 
 Just say to me, now have you ever read 
 
 What there in that brief compass has been said ? " 
 
 " Gree, gee," he whisper'd, speaking to his steed, 
 
 That seem'd some such encouragement to need, 
 
 " Good day, good day, alas !" and then he sigh'd; 
 
 And to the castle slowly on did ride. 
 
 One other incident, and then I'll cease, 
 
 From Sorrow's page to find a sweet release ; 
 
 For what more sad than to see worthy men 
 
 Left thus defenceless to a trivial pen ? 
 
 Stopping in Christchurch, Oxford, for a day, 
 
 His pocket-missal on a table lay. 
 
 His friend, who had not guess 'd what it might be, 
 
 Open'd, then shut it instantaneously. 
 
 He ask'd him if his finger it had stung ; 
 
 This taunt from him this frank confession wrung : 
 
256 CANTO XI. 
 
 For wriggling, laughing, with warmth then he said > 
 " The plain fact is, to look in it I dread." 
 'Twas so with many then and 'tis so still, 
 If but observe and think of it you will. 
 The dread of having an unsettled mind, 
 Estranged then from you many that were kind. 
 Suspecting in their hearts they might be wrong, 
 Dreading the force to which you then belong, 
 They find that you are mix'd up in their thought 
 With what has only to them unrest brought. 
 So nought they think is better than to find, 
 That you are wholly banish'd from their mind. 
 'Tis best for them of you to lose all sight ; 
 To keep up friendship so would not be right ; 
 And thus your friends will drop off one by one, 
 No scene, no anger, till they all are gone. 
 Your portrait suits not their memorial hall ; 
 So they get rid of it, and that is all. 
 
 Somewhat too much of this. Let him return 
 To Alma Mater and with her sojourn. 
 Then now to Cambridge a choice spirit came, 
 Just Catholic become, but him to name, 
 I am debarr'd, since in this hall I show, 
 Only those pass'd from all our scenes below. 
 Yet somewhat of him too I needs must sing ; 
 His image is so bright and pure a thing ! 
 A boy, and still at school, he did suspect, 
 That all he wanted was not in his sect ; 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 257 
 
 So to the master he applied one day 
 
 And ask'd permission what he wish'd to say 
 
 As in confession ; but the other stared 
 
 And ask'd him, the young dog, how he had dared, 
 
 To utter such absurdity ; so he 
 
 Then went his way as meek as meek could be. 
 
 The next day then his master said to him, 
 
 " I see that youth like age will have its whim. 
 
 I have been looking into books last night, 
 And finding on the whole you're partly right ; 
 Since they allow us always men to hear 
 Who may address their secrets to our ear. 
 
 So now proceed and let me hear you tell 
 
 Just what you like. My harshness was not well." 
 
 Confession made, the minister did ask, 
 
 What next was wanted to complete his task ; 
 
 The boy replied that 'twas his absolution ; 
 
 The new-lit zeal evinced no diminution. 
 
 But then for him, at such proceedings raw, 
 
 There was a slight embarrassment he saw. 
 
 II For in this book," saith he, " I find forms two, 
 One long, one short. Now which of them will do ? " 
 The boy replied he thought the long one best ; 
 And so the thing in brief was set at rest. 
 
 But soon to Dryden's hind he found his way, 
 And thenceforth felt he had no more to stray. 
 So now, ensconsed in Nevill's-court you see 
 One who a teacher and a guide could be. 
 For first, his books ! in vellum bound so white ! 
 Became their playmates both by day and night ; 
 
258 CANTO XL 
 
 With a mysterious air this fresh ally, 
 Would choicest pages of old times supply ; 
 Italian, French, and Spanish thoughts were shown, 
 All by his graceful comments made his own. 
 His little Latin volumes proved for him 
 True cups Ambrosian that o'erflow'd their brim. 
 Impossible to draw near such a feast, 
 And not inhale the fragrance at the least. 
 Each thing was shown with such an angel's smile, 
 That Heav'n to earth seem'd open all the while ; 
 And then his friends, who felt his fascination, 
 Would humbly own the errors of their nation ; 
 Though not like him found constant at the end, 
 Each by his presence there became your friend. 
 From all extracting good from this or that, 
 A lofty school was his familiar chat. 
 Preserved from all immoderate complaints, 
 He knew no zeal but what belongs to saints 
 Pure innocence that aye convers'd with truth 
 Such was the student ! Known to him in youth. 
 What man will visit memory and be 
 Displeased if such a portrait he should see ? 
 The picture of itself might give a tongue 
 To him who sees it, from whom might be wrung 
 That wish (which argued no discerning glance 
 At what in outward union did advance), 
 Which was expressed with such a plaintive sigh 
 By one who saw two unlike students nigh ; 
 From whose tutorial lips these words were heard 
 " I wish with you two I could make a third/' 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 259 
 
 Him in these pages I forbear to name, 
 
 And for a reason still in part the same. 
 
 I mention it that only you may see 
 
 What grave deep thinkers would with them agree. 
 
 Another follow'd of illustrious line ; 
 
 Already holy Spencer you divine ; 
 
 But he soars higher, far beyond our reach, 
 
 So what he proved to be let others teach. 
 
 Meanwhile, observe the spirit of the place, 
 
 As far as in the students you could trace 
 
 Its action, was to hail still more and more 
 
 Those who went fearless to the ancient shore. 
 
 They saw the days observed the rules exact, 
 
 But still they seem'd untroubled by the fact. 
 
 'Twas then that he to Sauston would repair, 
 
 For mass on Sundays that was nearest there. 
 
 Of its revered grave owner I would speak, 
 
 But him in other poems you can seek. 1 
 
 'Tis here enough to say that in this hall 
 
 Of memory I mean, on him he'd call 
 
 To show to friends and foes if such were known, 
 
 The choicest portrait that he e'er did own. 
 
 Yet still remains a picture he would show, 
 
 Of which I sang but briefly long ago 
 
 That of Old Hall I mean, which here will stand 
 
 For all observers simple although grand. 
 
 Thither for mass and vespers would he ride ; 
 
 The night before while friendly at his side 
 
 1 " Little Low Bushes," Sauston Hall. 
 
 s 2 
 
260 CAIS'TO XI. 
 
 Rode oft some stranger either man or boy, 
 Who in the dusk some chatting would enjoy. 
 Eeturning later mostly in the dark 
 (This fact important always he'd remark), 
 Two hours and a half he took each time 
 To reach, just hearing, great Saint Mary's chime 
 At nine, the town just six and twenty miles, 
 A fairish pace methinks this each one styles. 
 These rides were on a horse that trotted well ; 
 And to some minutes he could always tell 
 How long he'd take to be upon the road ; 
 But then the horse was 'custom'd to his load. 
 To London he oft went upon this hack, 
 And as I said, to Oxford, Bath, and back. 
 Excuse details, repeated thus, though small, 
 The horse was known by name as Canon Ball. 
 But what concerns more others must be told, 
 And that is much indeed which you behold. 
 Lo the fair chapel ! What a stillness there ! 
 Here is indeed again a house of prayer ! 
 But oh, the solemn strains that float around ! 
 How little like the legal chanting found ! 
 Then when all present have so well adored, 
 Witness prepared the hospitable board, 
 Whence passing to a parlour good men sit, 
 To revel in the feasts of stingless wit, 
 Or of the Abbe Caron tales to tell, 
 And of men like him there remember 'd well, 
 Or, stealing forth all quietly, you find, 
 Some holy scholar to instruct your mind, 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 261 
 
 Who till the evening bell for vespers sounds, 
 Will lead you through their grove or playing 
 
 grounds. 
 
 What learning deep ! Yet what kind nature's still, 
 Tis here indeed are found " men of good will " 
 Not men excluding life from the divine, 
 But in whom always the " small virtues " shine, 
 So wanting elsewhere where there seems to be 
 In spite of boasts but little charity. 
 There is a world quite new that you behold, 
 Where are true mines of what surpasses gold. 
 " The old man " of Saint Paul with all his airs, 
 To enter such a circle never dares. 
 The type of college dons was here unknown 
 And nothing struck him more than this he'll 
 
 own. 
 
 Nor is there yet beheld its counterpart 
 When studied airs would use a fawning art. 
 Here's no pretentious vaunting to show off, 
 At which men, used to greatness, only scoff 
 No sly insinuation just to show 
 That high-life's secrets they exactly know 
 No wish to seem acquainted with the world, 
 Though grief's express' d when it is madly whirl'd. 
 Here men are men content to pass for such ; 
 And, with such solid lore, this wish is much. 
 Their sanctity a quiet humble thing 
 To all that's fair and good would ever cling. 
 A certain homely air it always wore 
 That young and old liked only more and more. 
 
262 CANTO XI. 
 
 No truer thing old time could ever mellow 
 
 Than this so sure to make a right good fellow, 
 
 Which question'd would admit no other test, 
 
 But simply what denoted natures best. 
 
 You'd say the whole appeared a new creation, 
 
 A thing unthonght of in our English nation 
 
 Faith yet with nature as it is in truth, 
 
 What an alliance to attract all youth ! 
 
 And yet 'tis here that orally survives, 
 
 What life imparts to records and revives. 
 
 For 'tis tradition opens wide the doors 
 
 Of ancient story to him who explores, 
 
 What is all painted and engraven here 
 
 In memories that no omissions fear. 
 
 When first the storms of legal persecution, 
 
 Subsided somewhat 'twas a revolution, 
 
 And one most truly in a better sense 
 
 Than when the change was one of more pretence. 
 
 For from fair Douai, flocks of holy men 
 
 Eeturn'd to their country, unlike then 
 
 The furious herds that now with her consort, 
 
 And to their fell conspiracies resort. 
 
 To Hampshire first these men of unity, 
 
 E-eturn'd, whence migrates this community 
 
 To Hertfordshire, where here it settled down 
 
 Upon this hill, so far from any town. 
 
 But of the talk heard here where all is well 
 
 Oh, who can sing ? or what grave Muse can tell ? 
 
 'Tis not alone Dantesque, scholastic lore, 
 
 For suiting times at present ; it is more. 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 263 
 
 It is the answer calm, so sound, so high, 
 To which no sophist living can reply. 
 It is solutions that you vainly sought 
 Elsewhere, external or in your own thought, 
 That simply clearly once for all are given, 
 Needing no finish but what's found in Heav'n. 
 
 Strangers you've seen the whole, the whole he'd 
 
 show, 
 
 While other pictures still remain you know. 
 For as was whisper'd long since while we stroll'd, 
 Some do relate to things that can't be told. 
 So it is elsewhere, though admission's free, 
 There are some rooms the public must not see. 
 Look at those curtains black all drawn beyond ; 
 They hide some gems of which each owner's fond, 
 In lonely, dull hours when he'll thither stray, 
 And all the world seems long since gone away, 
 When gay light visitors are seen no more, 
 And men would haunt alone some things of yore 
 Things that to others would supply no good, 
 Things that perhaps would not be understood. 
 Left there in silence for their lonely breast ; 
 Let it suffice that you have seen the rest. 
 Besides these, there are others, cover'd so, 
 Which for another reason men can't show. 
 The property it is, of each such hall 
 (And to the fact I'd your attention call) 
 To please us more the farther we advance ; 
 At what is first met we don't care to glance. 
 
264 CANTO xi. 
 
 I scarcely know to what we can compare 
 
 The kind of pictures that you witness there, 
 
 As through each outward vestibule you pass, 
 
 Than to what's found among the common mass 
 
 Of paintings, products of a recent school, 
 
 That the ideal never has for rule, 
 
 "Which seems to suffer from a constant thirst, 
 
 To be sensational and from the first. 
 
 There's nought so common, ordinary known 
 
 As private tragedies we mortals own. 
 
 What's latest nearest in the memory so 
 
 Shows, with the trappings and the suits of woe, 
 
 Things much too sad to sing of or produce ; 
 
 They're all intended for another use. 
 
 As studies they are far too crude and raw ; 
 
 Artistic hints from them men cannot draw. 
 
 Sorrows of this kind none should ever choose 
 
 As what they'd volunteer to give the Muse. 
 
 To them we might apply the words that said 
 
 Julian of Egypt thinking of the dead, 
 
 Crying out " Theodotus ! yes, 'tis she, 
 
 Who by the aid of painting comes to me. 
 
 And would now to Heaven that the painter's art 
 
 Had proved deficient not to wound my heart ! 
 
 But still to leave forgetfulness to those 
 
 Who weep to see again recall'd those woes." 
 
 These need the lapse of time to gain a tone, 
 
 Before to any stranger they are shown ; 
 
 In time such might be mellow' d for the eye, 
 
 In time unveil'd perhaps without a sigh ; 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 265 
 
 But for the present cover'd they must be 
 
 In the deep folds of each one's memory. 
 
 Besides, the grief they tell of is too vast ; 
 
 Men pass on to observe what's longer past ; 
 
 'Tis too gigantic ; all art it defies ; 
 
 It seems to teach nought, only to surprise ; 
 
 Or, what they see thus first they might compare 
 
 To frightful visions as embodied there. 
 
 For all its stern reality 'twill seem 
 
 The hideous phantom of some last night's dream, 
 
 From which men even still appear to start 
 
 As from what has wounded most their heart ; 
 
 Just as we feel oft, while the day will dawn, 
 
 When we lie speechless with breath hardly drawn, 
 
 So from these recent pictures must we turn, 
 
 Leaving in silence there the cypress urn, 
 
 Still wandering forwards to our ancient schools, 
 
 Which better can respond to all these rules. 
 
 But what is stranger still, one soon discovers 
 
 That these are more secured than were the others. 
 
 The farther back you search and look around, 
 
 The more things in exact detail are found. 
 
 As if our memory disdain'd the new 
 
 And only kept what's ancient in our view. 
 
 The oldest paintings here are best preserved, 
 
 Whate'er the newest have in truth deserved. 
 
 'Tis only as we penetrate beyond 
 
 The fresh additions that we find things fond, 
 
 Preserved in least, the most minute detail 
 
 Each to repeat its most affecting tale. 
 
266 CANTO xi. 
 
 The newest hardly even find admittance ; 
 
 Could we exclude them wholly 'twere a riddance. 
 
 You have the temple and its gardens fair ; 
 For from a garden did he pass in there 
 Meridional and bright and happy spot, 
 And therein painted too and ne'er forgot, 
 Where reigns " a certain habit," we might say, 
 " Of sweetness," following Fromentin's way, 
 Who says there is no word to paint the peace 
 When noises wholly absent there will cease. 
 Or rather, and to compare ears with sight 
 Where silence like transparent air and bright, 
 Will render all perceptions far more clear, 
 And open thereby to the ravish'd ear 
 The unknown world of sounds so very small, 
 That infinitely such they seem to all 
 Vast field for real transports wholly new, 
 That seem replete with joys e'en for the view. 
 There for a month with D'Esgrigny he sought 
 The sweets of placid and untroubled thought, 
 Never so valued, ne'er to man so dear, 
 As when he knows what makes the contrast here. 
 
 So now should end our walks through memory's 
 
 room 
 
 But that perhaps we mark what seems like gloom 
 Just stealing o'er the face of every guest, 
 As if in fine 'twould in their feelings rest ; 
 
OF BECOMING A CATHOLIC. 267 
 
 Not strange if 'twas in him this sadness grew, 
 
 Who thus has had his past years within view ; 
 
 For certes what a useless life was led 
 
 He thinks in truth can ne'er be sung or said. 
 
 Still since all deep offence to minds is bad, 
 
 It might be just as well perhaps to add 
 
 That some small things of a much higher tone 
 
 Might be discover'd always if not shown ; 
 
 Though still the fact that stares him in the face, 
 
 Is that there's room for good he cannot trace. 
 
 What were e'en all the fruits he sought to yield, 
 
 But such as proved at best a poor wild field ? 
 
 Chateaubriand, indeed, who saw his book, 
 
 Told him he wholly his own age mistook 
 
 That faith and honour painted ne'er could be 
 
 A theme that would with its demands agree, 
 
 Nor, from the signs that even then appear'd, 
 
 With those of our posterity, he fear'd. 
 
 " Your book a mere anachronism seems," 
 
 Said he, " it suits a youth who only dreams." 
 
 Alas ! for me I've done for him my best, 
 
 His thoughts and deeds in my best colours dress'd. 
 
 But though 'tis his hall here that grieves the eyes, 
 
 Yet were it e'er so good the pleasure dies 
 
 For those who merely thus in mind look back, 
 
 And bygone joys as they suppose them track. 
 
 Inherent is this feeling in the walls 
 
 Of memory alone which oft appals. 
 
 Supposing all were right within it then, 
 
 The same impression visits better men ; 
 
268 CANTO xn. 
 
 And this before we leave must pass away, 
 So for a short time longer let us stray. 
 
 CANTO XII. 
 
 OF HOPE ALLIED TO MEMORY. 
 
 THE gallery is seen, though thus we own 
 There's much remaining that has not been shown. 
 If the vast halls through which each strays 
 
 eontain'd 
 
 Nought but the past, and nothing more remained, 
 Each might for all its paintings howe'er sweet, 
 Go forth from it as from a sad retreat 
 As if he'd wander'd uselessly and long, 
 Through the pale phantoms of a tragic song 
 As if in mem'ry all that he had seen 
 Was only what the Poet says " has been," 
 With whose concluding lines he'd too agree, 
 Saying with him, " and never more will be." 
 If thus collected all each saw was past, 
 If nothing of the whole could ever last, 
 We might take leave with tears and bitter sorrow, 
 Of what would own that it had no to-morrow. 
 But no, deceived, and that too by a name, 
 As yet no doubt 'tis me that you should blame* 
 For know this temple two-fold always stands 
 Where a surpassing future it commands. 
 
OF HOPE ALLIED TO MEMOET. 269 
 
 Of Hope its proper title should have been 
 
 That substance of the things which are not seen. 
 
 Well might dark gloom now settle on our brow 
 
 If nought that's durable we'd witness'd now. 
 
 There's nothing good that ends, that does not last ; 
 
 But this is not what's found within the past, 
 
 And so this temple is a double fane, 
 
 Which when thus view'd comprises nothing vain. 
 
 Thus a great artist speaks of one who said, 
 
 " I do not believe in death or in the dead. 
 
 'Tis a dark pass or say a certain door 
 
 Just met with in life once, and nothing more. 
 
 When thrice or four times near it a small light 
 
 Beyond the passage clearly was in sight. 
 
 That little speck was quite enough for me ;" 
 
 So in full peace I pass through Memory. 
 
 Through the same temple had that mother gone 
 
 Who with her son Augustin ponder' d on 
 
 The bliss of future and eternal years, 
 
 And found for ever fled their former fears. 
 
 That Ostian garden and that window thrown 
 
 Open, through which their happy thoughts had 
 
 flown, 
 
 Had nought to do with things that ever die 
 'Twas Hope's own temple, reaching past the sky, 
 Through which they stray'd as if through high 
 
 Heaven's bliss, 
 
 Finding that Memory did end in this. 
 " Art thou dead, Pyrrhon, and still dost thou 
 
 doubt ? " 
 Julian of Egypt asks, " Is nought found out ? " 
 
270 CANTO XII. 
 
 No, 'tis not doubting that death leaves him still ; 
 'Tis doubt that ends, and with it all his ill. 
 Observe now though we saw but one such hall, 
 What here remains to sing is true of all. 
 
 Retrace we then our steps through what seems gone ; 
 There's nothing pass'd away for ever so ; 
 For just attend ; observe them one by one, 
 The future, not the past, they're meant to show. 
 Indeed that all things will in some form live on, 
 Mere science of itself appears to know. 
 If least things are annihilated never, 
 The great we may be sure exist for ever. 
 
 In that first room as we did enter here, 
 
 This Hall of Memory we found you know 
 
 Depicted all life's spring-tide visions dear 
 
 That once did pass so many years ago. 
 
 But think you now that they won't reappear 
 
 In some much brighter form when life will flow, 
 
 Where of no pure enjoyment there is lack, 
 
 Think you that these will never more come back ? 
 
 Know you not how our childhood's opening gaze 
 Beholds with joy unutterable all 
 That first in silence caused such blank amaze ? 
 Then read inscribed within this very hall 
 That a fresh childhood elsewhere for us stays, 
 Just as the worm dons wings at Nature's call ; 
 Much more than ever issued from the womb 
 Awaits us : so mere folly is your gloom. 
 
Or HOPE ALLIED TO MEMOET. 271 
 
 When earthly friends behold the infant smile, 
 They're heard to say with accents of delight, 
 It is the Angels that it sees the while, 
 As if by instinct led they felt its might, 
 And knew from conscience it does not beguile, 
 Though nothing to explain it was in sight. 
 Then your first childhood's joy alone implies 
 That there awaits you what will more surprise. 
 
 Then your past youth remember'd pleased you well, 
 
 But yet how often still did fall its tear ! 
 
 Are you here bound by such a fatal spell 
 
 As not to hail the absence of all fear ? 
 
 As not to trust the heavens when they tell 
 
 How there a youth eternal will appear ? 
 
 Instinctively men paint the angels young, 
 
 And of no other have they ever sung. 
 
 " But this is fanciful," perhaps you say ; 
 
 I doubt if reason be your teacher here ; 
 
 For what doth cause our youth to pass away 
 
 Unless what elsewhere must all disappear 
 
 The lapse of years, and so its dreaded sway ? 
 
 From fancy, not from reason springs your fear \ 
 
 Of nothing perfect can there be decline 
 
 There up above where those bright orbs do shine. 
 
 Have they not shone from all past ages known 
 Without a change or any diminution ? 
 The times of Homer saw them like our own ; 
 Then why reject as fancy a solution 
 
272 CANTO XII. 
 
 Founded on such facts, though facts alone ? 
 Or why should falter now your resolution 
 To believe that spirits which amidst them dwell, 
 Enjoy an everlasting youth as well ? 
 
 We pass'd through scenes to mortals oft most fair 
 The lakes, the woods, the mountains, and the plain, 
 What will it be when made immortal there 
 We float midst orbs of light that never wane ? 
 Consult but science. Are you not aware 
 That it will count all other objects vain 
 Comparatively, judged from what it sees 
 And knows with certainty respecting these ? 
 
 But now we have more efforts to employ, 
 
 To show with what security we must 
 
 Confide in the revival of that joy, 
 
 Which once, or twice, or thrice, at least I trust, 
 
 You like himself for moments did enjoy, 
 
 Confined I think not to our mortal dust. 
 
 T only ask you now the fact to own 
 
 That joy intense for instants you have known. 
 
 Then pray what caused it soon to disappear ? 
 
 Was it not something evil in your state ? 
 
 Was joy intended only to be here 
 
 Where woes including tedium on you wait ? 
 
 What a strange desert would to all be near 
 
 If thus the universe were desolate ? 
 
 Is joy to be the fading flower alone 
 
 Of this life now and elsewhere quite unknown ? 
 
OP HOPE ALLIED TO MEMORY. 273 
 
 Some never breathe it in a summer bower, 
 Or pass a day with one that makes them glad, 
 Some never look back on a pleasant hour, 
 Kememb'ring all the raptures they have had, 
 Without experiencing a certain power 
 Of instinct which forbids their being sad, 
 Feeling that joy, they know not how, will last, 
 That in another life they'll have the past. 
 
 " Confined from birth, of infinite desires, 
 Man," says the Poet, " can remember well 
 Traditionally (means he oft acquires) 
 The songs of Paradise where he did dwell. 
 The depth immense from which he still admires 
 What all have felt his future joys can tell. 
 'Tis not for him the world to explain ; 
 Yet something cries that joy will come again." 
 
 When age exclaims then in the holy mass, 
 " Why art thou now cast down thus, oh my soul ? 
 Why must it now through such great sadness pass ? " 
 The youth that serves it briefly says the whole, 
 Bidding it hope in God not cry alas ! 
 Since of all gladness He is author sole ; 
 For 'tis from Him that youth can ever trace 
 Even the cheerful beauty of its face. 
 
 Think you, like some, it is enough to see 
 The universe itself replete with joy ? 
 Enough to think it lasts eternally 
 While each part 'twill successively destroy ? 
 
274 CAKTO XII. 
 
 Absorbing individuals like thee 
 While the whole ever reigns without alloy ? 
 Though what is after all this supposition 
 Unless of old mistakes a repetition ? 
 
 But what would be the whole if this were right 
 Unless a mockery of all its parts ? 
 Where would be love, that great ideal bright 
 If such were still the end of human hearts ? 
 We see what loving care is here in sight 
 Expended on the things on which it darts. 
 To make a mere abstraction thus the whole 
 Seems the result of faults within the soul. 
 
 Is all this care to be confined to earth, 
 And short-lived creatures over whom it reigns ? 
 Of care elsewhere is there a total dearth, 
 Except o'er abstract infinite domains ? 
 Can a material universe know mirth ? 
 To feel life's pleasures has it ever veins ? 
 Assent to this seems like a wilful word, 
 Which quiet breasts must hold to be absurd. 
 
 But oh ! when Memory would now recall 
 The friends that once we knew so dear and fond, 
 *Tis then enthroned within this very hall, 
 That hope will suffer no one to despond, 
 Those social circles then surround us all, 
 And further sad departures now beyond. 
 The death of 'others will not then appal ; 
 Those long since lost, the father, mother dear, 
 All whom we loved on earth again are here. 
 
OP HOPE ALLIED TO MEMOBY. 275 
 
 Do we suspect the voice of all mankind ? 
 Do we mistrust the whispers in our heart ? 
 Do we imagine we shall never find 
 Those who from life with hope did so depart ? 
 Are we to Nature's signals even blind ? 
 Do we at sweetest echoes faithless start ? 
 Oh ! no. Society, receptions, there 
 Await us with which nothing can compare. 
 
 And you, too, who all novelties will seek, 
 Who love adventures, journeys, and to see 
 What when once seen will weary in a week, 
 However sweet and glorious it may be, 
 What think you is the sight of snow-clad peak 
 Of Greece, or Rome, or of the azure sea, 
 Compared with that strange instantaneous burst 
 Of Heaven's own grandeur that will quench your 
 thirst ? 
 
 But now I see a light from love that springs, 
 Pale in its beauty, like the evening star, 
 A form that hovers with its balmy wings, 
 To point at what comes back to us from far, 
 That rapture which no memory e'er brings, 
 Compared with which the sweetest things will jar ; 
 It is the hope, the knowledge, and the trust, 
 That meet there, and for ever, lovers must. 
 
 Alas ! for man, if all were here below ! 
 He wants to love for ever, and he finds 
 That what he loves is passing on to flow, 
 From short weak sight and from as feeble minds. 
 T 2 
 
276 CANTO xn. 
 
 Do what he will, while here, it must he so. 
 A dark sad shroud his fond affection binds : 
 When lo ! to hope his memory will change, 
 And all untrammell'd thenceforth will he range 
 
 Through meads of Asphodel and fragrant howers, 
 
 With those he loved the best of all on earth, 
 
 To live for ever, not the sport of hours, 
 
 To reap together, a celestial mirth, 
 
 Of time no more to fear the storms and showers, 
 
 Of one supernal joy to feel no dearth. 
 
 And will you then from this great temple turn, 
 
 Gloomy and sad, and feel no thoughts that burn ? 
 
 Oh, if your love had been seduction base 
 
 A selfish aim to injure and betray, 
 
 For hope hereafter there would be small place, 
 
 While memory alone with you would stay. 
 
 But if your heart responded to your face, 
 
 If to do good to others was your way, 
 
 If tears you dried up, caused them not to flow, 
 
 'Tis Hope will lead you through this world below. 
 
 This twofold temple may some faults proclaim, 
 There's much in it, no doubt, to grieve your soul ; 
 But then of hope it still may bear the name, 
 For hope may still transform, bring back the whole, 
 By showing Him from whom all transports came, 
 Pity for the fall'n hope's foundation sole 
 Oh then your memory from earth will fly 
 To find transferr'd its raptures to the sky. 
 
OF HOPE ALLIED TO MEMOET. 277 
 
 Then too your memory of learning told, 
 Of books and sundry things pass'd long ago, 
 Which if you never should again behold, 
 Perhaps from you not one small tear would flow ; 
 Although there still was much in these themes old, 
 With which most others would enamour'd grow. 
 But then observe, so far from pass'd are these, 
 That what they tell of there above one sees. 
 
 For it is not mere transitory things 
 That Plato spoke of, or great Homer sung ; 
 Ideas, principles themselves have wings 
 To bear them everlasting things among. 
 Truth on its pinions nothing mortal brings, 
 Though here it falleth from a mortal tongue. 
 That angles differ, that twice two make four, 
 Are what we know will last for evermore. 
 
 Strange it would be if all such things should last 
 
 For ever as transcribed beyond our sight, 
 
 And that the minds conceiving them were pass'd, 
 
 As soon as death involved them in its night, 
 
 Irrevocably gone and overcast 
 
 To dark oblivion, senseless unto light. 
 
 'Twere stranger still if what is heard in song 
 
 No more to hearts like ours could still belong. 
 
 Upon his tomb, as speaking from the dead, 
 The Theban Crates charged his friends to write, 
 " All that I learnt or thought on earth, or said, 
 I now possess as when the Muse's light 
 
278 CANTO xn. 
 
 Me to such lofty inspirations led." 
 Is confidence like his to be thought right, 
 And think we thoughts divine are not to last 
 When all things else on earth from us are past ? 
 
 Why were thoughts happy call'd? just think with me. 
 
 Was it not always that they made us fly 
 
 Far above all the pleasures that we see, 
 
 The dance, the music, raptures e'er so high ? 
 
 In memory still living, they must be, 
 
 Now wing'd with hope that soars beyond the sky 
 
 A certain foretaste to us mortals given 
 
 Of what will last eternally in Heaven. 
 
 Oh say, the happy thoughts engraven here 
 
 Are they like twinkling feet to cease for ever ? 
 
 Are all these mental gleams to disappear ? 
 
 Eternal food will gratitude find never ? 
 
 Will love no longer have an object near ? 
 
 From God can Time one mind that loved Him sever ? 
 
 'Twas Faith with Nature join'd through which we 
 
 pass'd. 
 And He who did write Nature's laws will last. 
 
 Enough that great assurance. For though changed 
 
 Be elsewhere all the forms that we shall see, 
 
 The virtues they involved are not estranged 
 
 From what must last for all eternity. 
 
 But what were virtues with no actors ranged. 
 
 To hear and follow ever their decree ? 
 
 The actors then must last their parts to play, 
 
 And ne'er from truths eternal pass away. 
 
OF HOPE ALLIED TO MEMORY. 279 
 
 Conversion, as we call it here, remains, 
 
 Thwarted and baffled Oh, how oft, alas ! 
 
 It grieves the sage who mournfully complains 
 
 That all its fervour will so quickly pass ! 
 
 What will it prove, where Heaven's own blessed 
 
 strains 
 
 Will fire of souls and hearts the docile mass, 
 All feelings, hindrances from time, above, 
 The ruling power, perfect, lasting love ? 
 
 Such is the temple of which David sings, 
 Where one day spent is always worth far more 
 Than are a thousand that the sun's orb brings ; 
 Since here, for each of us, still as of yore, 
 Aye dwelleth not alone the thoughts of things 
 Past, in immense and varied countless store, 
 But God Himself the source of hope and bliss ; 
 For Memory's long halls will end in this. 
 
 Then to the portals of this temple fly. 
 
 Still hover round them on the wings of hope ; 
 
 For there the past and future for you lie, 
 
 To make this blue, sun-clad air Heav'n's own cope, 
 
 Where nothing ever fades to pass and die. 
 
 Elsewhere from doubts to doubts no longer grope : 
 
 Be yours that great asylum. There kneel you ; 
 
 There rest, to find its visions all were true. 
 
 THE END. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 GILBEET AND BIVINGKTON, PEINTEES, 
 ST. JOHN'S SQTJAEB. 
 
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