ITALY, 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 EDWAKD MOXON, DOVER STREET. 
 1839.
 
 CHISVV ICK : 
 
 PRINTED EY C. WHITTINGHAM.
 
 
 K.^JLA LIBRARY 
 
 ^oLOy- XJJSIVERSITY OF CALIFORNL 
 
 -21^ SANTA BARBARA 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Whatever may be the fate of this Poem, it has led 
 the Author in many an after-dream through a beauti- 
 ful country ; and may not perhaps be uninteresting to 
 those who have learnt to live in Past Times as well as 
 Present, and whose minds are familiar with the Events 
 and the People that have rendered Italy so illustrious ; 
 for, wherever he came, he could not but remember ; nor 
 is he conscious of having slept over any ground that 
 had been ' dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue.' 
 
 Much of it was originally published as it was written 
 on the spot. He has since revised it throughout, and 
 added many stories from the old Chroniclers and 
 many Notes illustrative of the manners, customs, and 
 superstitions there.
 
 VIGNETTES. 
 
 Dog of St. Bernard . 
 Cries of Bologna 
 Stag at bay 
 Galileo's Villa . 
 Thrasymene 
 Return from the Chase 
 A Shepherd 
 An ancient Tomb . 
 Deer drinking 
 Grotto of Posilipo . 
 Tlie Cardinal 
 A Chapel . 
 
 E. Landseer, R. a. . 
 Sir a. W. CALLcorr, R.A 
 E. Landseer, R.A. . 
 Sir A. W. Callcoit, R. A 
 
 E. Landseer, R.A. 
 
 C. L. Eastlake, R. a. 
 
 Sir a. W. CAi-corr, R.A. 
 
 E. Landseer, R. .4. 
 
 Sir A. W. Calixott, R. A. 
 
 E. Landseer, R.A. 
 
 T. UwiN.«, R. A. . 
 
 The Well C. L. Eastlake, R. A. . 
 
 A Bacchanalian . . . 
 
 A Lady in a bower . . . T. Uwins, R. A. . 
 
 Engraved in Wood by J. Thomison. 
 
 The rest by J. Thompson and L. Clennell, 
 from drawings by T. Stothard, R.A. 
 
 Pace 
 19 
 115 
 1-27 
 137 
 151 
 l.-)6 
 101 
 •214 
 •218 
 '234 
 •235 
 
 •27!) 
 319 
 3^20
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 Page 
 
 The Lake of Geneva .... 
 
 1 
 
 Meillerie 
 
 6 
 
 St. Maurice 
 
 . 11 
 
 The Great St. Bernard 
 
 13 
 
 The Descent 
 
 . 20 
 
 Jorasse 
 
 22 
 
 Marguerite de Tours .... 
 
 . 28 
 
 The Brothers 
 
 31 
 
 The Alps 
 
 . 35 
 
 Como ...... 
 
 38 
 
 Bergamo ...... 
 
 . 43 
 
 Italy 
 
 48 
 
 CoU'alto 
 
 . 50 
 
 Venice ...... 
 
 54 
 
 Luigi 
 
 . 63 
 
 St. Mark's Place .... 
 
 66 
 
 The Gondola 
 
 . 76 
 
 The Brides of Venice 
 
 82 
 
 Foscari ....... 
 
 90 
 
 Marcolini 
 
 10-2 
 
 Arquii 
 
 . 10.") 
 
 Ginevra ...... 
 
 110 
 
 Bologna ...... 
 
 . 115 
 
 Florence 
 
 121 
 
 Don Garzla 
 
 127
 
 The Campagna of Florence 
 
 Tlie Pilgrim 
 
 An Interview 
 
 Montorio 
 
 Rome 
 
 A Funeral 
 
 National Prejudices 
 
 The Campagna of Rome 
 
 The Roman Pontiffs 
 
 Caius Cestius . 
 
 The Nun . 
 
 The Fire-fly . 
 
 Foreign Travel 
 
 The Fountain 
 
 Banditti 
 
 An Adventure 
 
 Naples 
 
 The Bag of Gold 
 
 A Character 
 
 Paestum . 
 
 Amalfi 
 
 Monte Cassino 
 
 The Harper 
 
 The Feluca 
 
 Genoa 
 
 Marco Griftbni 
 
 A Farewell 
 
 Notes
 
 THE LAKE OF GENEVA. 
 
 Day glimmered in the east, and the white Moon 
 
 Hung like a vapour in the cloudless sky, 
 
 Yet visible, when on my way I went. 
 
 Glad to be gone ; a pilgrim from the North, 
 
 Now more and more attracted as I drew 
 
 Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan 
 
 Had from his window leant, drowsy, half-clad, 
 
 To snuff the morn, or the caged lark poured forth, 
 
 From his green sod upspringing as to heaven, 
 
 (His tuneful bill o'crflowing with a song
 
 Old in the days of Homer, and his wings 
 With transport quivering) on my wav I went, 
 Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily, 
 Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut ; 
 As on that Sabbath-eve when He arrived, * 
 Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee, 
 Such virtue dwells in those small syllables, 
 Inscribed to consecrate the narrow street, 
 His birth-place, — ^when, but .one short step too late, 
 In his despair, as though the die were cast. 
 He sat him down to weep, and wept till dawn ; 
 Then rose to go, a wanderer through the world. 
 'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it. 
 Yet at a City-gate, from time to time, 
 Much may be learnt ; nor, London, least at thine, 
 Thy hive the busiest, greatest of them all. 
 Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by. 
 And note who passes. Here comes one, a Youth, 
 Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power, 
 A Chatterton — in thought admired, caressed, 
 
 ■* J. J. Rousseau. ' J'arrive essouflB^, tout en nage ; le cteur 
 me bat; je vois de loin les soldats a leur poste; j'accours, je 
 crie d'une voix etoufiee. II etoit trop tard.' — Les Confession!;, 
 1. i.
 
 And crowned like Petrarch in the Capitol ; 
 Ere long to die, to fall by his own hand, 
 And fester with the vilest. Here come two, 
 Less feverish, less exalted — soon to part, 
 A Garrick and a Johnson ; Wealth and Fame 
 Awaiting one, even at the gate ; Neglect 
 And Want the other. But what multitudes, 
 Urged by the love of change, and, like myself. 
 Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's fare. 
 Press on — though but a rill entering the sea. 
 Entering and lost ! Our task would never end. 
 
 Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze 
 Ruffling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave, 
 If such they might be called, dashed as in sport, 
 Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach 
 Making wild music, and far westward caught 
 The sun-beam — where, alone and as entranced, 
 Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff 
 Lay with his circular and dotted line 
 On the bright waters. When the heart of man 
 Is light with hope, all things are sure to please ; 
 And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by, 
 Laden with peasant-girls and fruits and flowers, 
 And many a chanticleer and partlot caged
 
 For Vevay's market-place — a motley group 
 
 Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 'twas gone. 
 
 The shifting sail flapped idly to and fro, 
 
 Then bore them off. I am not one of those 
 
 So dead to all things in this visible world, 
 
 So wondrously profound, as to move on 
 
 In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old* 
 
 (His name is justly in the Calendar) 
 
 Who through the day pursued this pleasant path 
 
 That winds beside the mirror of all beauty, 
 
 And, when at eve his fellow-pilgrims sat, 
 
 Discoursing of the lake, asked where it was. 
 
 They marvelled, as they might ; and so must all, 
 
 Seeing what now I saw : for now 'twas day, 
 
 And the bright Sun was in the firmament, 
 
 A thousand shadows of a thousand hues 
 
 Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb 
 
 Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont Blanc, 
 
 Thy seas of ice and ice-built promontories, 
 
 That change their shapes for ever as in sport ; 
 
 * BERNAno, Abbot of Clairvaux. ' To admire or despise 
 St. Bernard as he ouglit,' says Gibbon, ' the reader, like myself, 
 should have before the windows of his library that incomparable 
 landskip.'
 
 Then travelled onward, and went down behind 
 
 The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up 
 
 The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe 
 
 Borne homeward through the forest in his hand ; 
 
 And on the edge of some o'erhanging cliff, 
 
 That dungeon-fortress* never to be named, 
 
 Where, like a lion taken in the toils, 
 
 Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit. 
 
 Ah, little did He think, who sent him there. 
 
 That he himself, then greatest among men, 
 
 Should in like manner be so soon conveyed 
 
 Athwart the deep, — and to a rock so small 
 
 Amid the countless multitude of waves. 
 
 That ships have gone and sought it, and returned, 
 
 Saying it was not ! 
 
 * The Castle of Joux in Franclie-Comte.
 
 MEILLERIE. 
 
 These grey majestic cliffs that tower to heaven, 
 
 These ghmmering glades and open chesnut groves, 
 
 That echo to the heifer's wandering bell, 
 
 Or woodman's axe, or 'steers-man's song beneath, 
 
 As on he urges his fir-laden bark, 
 
 Or shout of goat-herd boy above thorn all. 
 
 Who loves not ? And who blesses not the light. 
 
 When thro' some loop-hole he surveys the lake 
 
 Blue as a sapphire-stone, and richly set 
 
 With chateaux, villages, and village-spires. 
 
 Orchards and vineyards, alps and alpine snows ? 
 
 Here would I dwell ; nor visit, but in thought, 
 
 Ferxey far south, silent and empty now 
 
 As now thy once-luxurious bowers, Ripaille;* 
 
 * The retreat of Amadlus, the first Duke of Savoy. Voltaire 
 thus addresses it from his windows: 
 
 ' Ripaille, je te vois. O bizane Araedee,' &c. 
 
 The seven towers are no longer a land-mark to the voyager.
 
 Vevay, so long an exiled Patriot's* home; 
 Or Chillon's dungeon -floors beneath the wave, 
 Channelled and worn by pacing to and fro ; 
 Lausanne, where Gibbon in his sheltered walk 
 Nightly called up the Shade of ancient Rome;-j- 
 Or CoppET, and that dark untrodden grove J: 
 Sacred to Virtue, and a daughter's tears ! 
 
 * Ludlow. 
 
 t He lias given us a very natural account of his feelings at the 
 conclusion of his long labour there: " It was on the night of 
 the 27 th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, 
 that I wrote the last lines of the last page in a summer-house 
 in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns 
 in a herceuu or covered walk of acacias, which commands the 
 lake and the mountains ; and I will not dissemble my joy. But, 
 when I reflected that I had taken an everlasting leave of an old 
 and agreeable companion," &;c. 
 
 There must always be something melancholy in the moment 
 of separation, as all have more or less experienced; none more 
 perhaps than Cowper: — " And now," says he," I have only to 
 regret that my pleasant work is ended. 1"o the illustrious Greei% 
 I owe the smooth and easy flii;ht of many thousand hours. lie 
 has been my companion at home and abroad, in the study, in the 
 garden, and in the field ; and no measure of success, let my 
 labours succeed as they may, will ever comj)ensate to me the loss 
 of the innocent luxury that I have enjoyed, as a Translator ot 
 Homer." 
 
 i The burial-i)lace of jS'itiiiH.
 
 Here would I dwell, forgetting- and forgot ; 
 
 And oft methinks (of such strange potency 
 
 The spells that Genius scatters where he will) 
 
 Oft should I wander forth like one in search, 
 
 And say, half-dreaming, ' Here St. Preux has stood !' 
 
 Then turn and gaze on Clarens. 
 
 Yet there is, 
 Within an eagle's flight and less, a scene 
 Still nobler if not fairer (once again 
 Would I behold it ere these eyes are closed. 
 For I can say, ' I also have been there !') 
 That Sacred Lake * withdrawn among the hills, 
 Its depth of waters flanked as with a wall 
 Built by the Giant-race before the flood ; 
 Where not a cross or chapel but inspires 
 Holy delight, lifting our thoughts to God 
 From God-like men, — men in a barbarous age 
 That dared assert their birth-right, and displayed 
 Deeds half-divine, returning good for ill ; 
 That in the desert sowed the seeds of life, 
 Framing a band of small Republics there, 
 Which still exist, the envy of the world ! 
 
 * The Lake' of tlie Four Cantons.
 
 9 
 
 Who would not land in each, and tread the ground ; 
 
 Land where Tell leaped ashore ; and climb to drink 
 
 Of the three hallowed fountains ? He that does 
 
 Comes back the better ; and relates at home 
 
 That he was met and greeted by a race 
 
 Such as he read of in his boyish days ; 
 
 Such as MiLTiADEs at Marathon 
 
 Led, when he chased the Persians to their ships. 
 
 There, while the well-known boat is heaving in, 
 Piled with rude merchandise, or launching forth, 
 Thronged with wild cattle for Italian fairs, 
 There in the sun-shine, 'mid their native snows. 
 Children, let loose from school, contend to use 
 The cross-bow of their fathers ; and o'er-run 
 The rocky field where all, in every age, 
 Assembling sit, like one great family, 
 Forming alliances, enacting laws ; 
 Each cliff and head-land and green promontory 
 Graven to their eyes with records of the past 
 That prompt to hero-worship, and excite 
 Even in the least, the lowhest, as he toils, 
 A reverence no where else or felt or feigned ; 
 Their chronicler great Nature ; and the volume 
 Vast as her works — above, below, around I
 
 10 
 
 The fisher on thy beach, Thermopyl.!;;, 
 Asks of the lettered stranger why he came, 
 First from his lips to learn the glorious truth I 
 And who that whets his scythe in Ruxnemede, 
 Though but for them a slave, recalls to mind 
 The barons in array, with their great charter ? 
 Among the everlasting Alps alone. 
 There to burn on as in a sanctuary, 
 Bright and unsulhed lives the' ethereal flame ; 
 And 'mid those scenes unchanged, unchangeable, 
 Whv should it ever die ?
 
 
 ST. MAURICE. 
 
 Still by the Le.man Lake, for many a mile, 
 Among those venerable trees I went, 
 Where damsels sit and weave their fishing-nets, 
 Singing some national song by the way-side. 
 But now the fly was gone, the gnat careering ; 
 Now glimmering lights from cottage-windows broke. 
 'Twas dusk; and, journeying upward by the Rhone, 
 That there came down, a torrent from the Alps, 
 I entered where a key unlocks a kingdom ; 
 The road and river, as they wind along,
 
 12 
 
 Filling the mountain-pass. There, till a ray 
 
 Glanced through my lattice, and the household-stir 
 
 Warned me to rise, to rise and to depart, 
 
 A stir unusual, and accompanied 
 
 With many a tuning of rude instruments, 
 
 And many a laugh that argued coming pleasure, 
 
 Mine host's fair daughter for the nuptial rite 
 
 And nuptial feast attiring — there I slept. 
 
 And in my dreams wandered once more, well pleased. 
 
 But now a charm was on the rocks and woods 
 
 And waters ; for, methought, I was with those 
 
 I had at morn and even wished for there.
 
 
 --n\ 
 
 THE GREAT ST. BERNARD. 
 
 NiCiHT was again descending, when my mide, 
 That all day long had climbed among the clouds, 
 Higher and higher still, as by a stair 
 Let down from heaven itself, transporting me, 
 Stopped, to the joy of both, at that low door, 
 That door which ever, as self-opened, moves 
 To them that knock, and nightly sends abroad 
 Ministering Spirits. Lying on the watch. 
 Two dogs of grave demeanour welcomed me,
 
 14 
 
 All meekness, gentleness, though large of limb ; 
 
 And a lay-brother of the Hospital, 
 
 Who, as we toiled below, had heard by fits 
 
 The distant echoes gaining on his ear, 
 
 Came and held fast my stirrup in his hand 
 
 While I alighted. Long could I have stood, 
 
 With a religious awe contemplating 
 
 That House, the highest in the Ancient World, 
 
 And destined to perforai from age to age 
 
 The noblest service, welcoming as guests 
 
 All of all nations and of every faith ; 
 
 A temple, sacred to Humanity I * 
 
 It was a pile of simplest masonry. 
 
 With narrow windows and vast buttresses. 
 
 Built to endure the shocks of time and chance ; 
 
 Yet showing many a rent, as well it might. 
 
 Warred on for ever by the elements. 
 
 And in an evil day, nor long ago. 
 
 By violent men — when on the mountain-top 
 
 The French and Austrian banners met in conflict. 
 
 On the same rock beside it stood the church, 
 Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity ; 
 
 ' In the course of the year they entertain from thirty to 
 ihirtv-five thousand travellers.— Le Phe Bisilx, Prienr.
 
 15 
 
 The vesper-bell, for 'twas the vesper-hour, 
 
 Duly proclaiming through the wilderness, 
 
 ' All ye who hear, whatever be your work, 
 
 Stop for an instant — move your lips in prayer !' 
 
 And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale, 
 
 If dale it might be called, so near to heaven, 
 
 A little lake, where never fish leaped up. 
 
 Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow ; 
 
 A star, the only one in that small sky. 
 
 On its dead surface glimmering. 'Twas a place 
 
 Resembling nothing I had left behind, 
 
 As if all worldly ties were now dissolved ; — 
 
 And, to incline the mind still more to thought, 
 
 To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore 
 
 Under a beetling cliff stood half in gloom 
 
 A lonely chapel destined for the dead. 
 
 For such as, having wandered from their way, 
 
 Had perished miserably. Side by side, 
 
 Within they lie, a mournful company. 
 
 All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them ; 
 
 Their features full of life yet motionless 
 
 In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change. 
 
 Though the barred windows, barred against the wolf. 
 
 Are always open! — But the North blew cold ;
 
 \6 
 
 And, bidden to a spare but cbeerful meal, 
 I sat among tbe holy brotherhood 
 At their long board. The fare indeed was such 
 As is prescribed on days of abstinence, 
 But might have pleased a nicer taste than mine ; 
 And through the floor came up, an ancient crone 
 Serving unseen below ; while from the roof 
 (The roof, the floor, the walls of native fir,) 
 A lamp hung flickering, such as loves to fling- 
 Its partial light on Apostolic heads. 
 And sheds a grace on all. Theirs Time as yet 
 Had changed not. Some were almost in the prime ; 
 Nor was a brow o'ercast. Seen as they sat. 
 Ranged round their ample hearth-stone in an hour 
 Of rest, they were as gay, as free from guile, 
 As children ; answering, and at once, to all 
 The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth ; 
 Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk 
 Music ; and gathering news from them that came, 
 As of some other world. But when the storm 
 Rose, and the snow rolled on in ocean-waves, 
 When on his face the experienced traveller fell, 
 Sheltering his lips and nostrils with his hands. 
 Then all was changed ; and, sallying with their pack
 
 17 
 
 Into that blank of nature, they became 
 Unearthly beings. ' Anselm, higher up, 
 Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long, 
 And now, as guided by a voice from Heaven, 
 Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence 
 Whose can it be, but his who never erred ? * 
 A man lies underneath I Let us to work ! — 
 But who descends Mont Velan ? 'Tis La Croix. 
 Away, away ! if not, alas, too late. 
 Homeward he drags an old man and a boy, 
 Faltering and falling, and but half awaked, 
 Asking to sleep again.' Such their discourse. 
 
 Oft has a venerable roof received me ; 
 St. Bruno's once -j- — where, when the winds were 
 
 hushed, 
 Nor from the cataract the voice came up. 
 You might have heard the mole work underground, 
 So great the stillness of that place ; none seen, 
 
 * Alluding to Barii, a dog of great renown in his day- Mf- 
 is here" admirably represented by a j)encil that has done 
 honour to many of his kind, but to none v/ho deserved it 
 more. His skin is stuffed, and preserved iu the Museum of 
 Berne. 
 
 t The Grande Chartreuse.
 
 18 
 
 Save when from rock to rock a hermit crossed 
 
 By some rude bridge — or one at micbiight tolled 
 
 To matins, and white habits, issuing forth, 
 
 Glided along those aisles interminable, 
 
 All, all observant of the sacred law 
 
 Of Silence. Nor is that sequestered spot, 
 
 Once called ' Sweet Waters,' now ' Tlie Shady Vale,' * 
 
 To me unknown ; that house so rich of old. 
 
 So courteous, and, by two that passed that way,f 
 
 Amply requited with immortal verse, 
 
 The Poet's payment. But, among them all. 
 
 None can with this compare, the dangerous seat 
 
 Of generous, active Virtue. ^Vhat though Frost 
 
 Reign everlastingly, and ice and snow 
 
 Thaw not, but gather — there is that within. 
 
 Which, where it comes, makes Summer ; and, in thought, 
 
 Oft am I sitting on the bench beneath 
 
 Their garden-plot, where all that vegetates 
 
 Is but some scanty lettuce, to observe 
 
 * Vallombrosa, formerly called Acqua Bella. 
 
 ' una badia 
 
 Ricca e cortose a chiunque vi venia.' — AniosTo. 
 
 t Akiosto and iMii.ton. Milton was there at the fall of the 
 leaf.
 
 19 
 
 Those from the South ascending, every step 
 As though it were their last, — and instantly- 
 Restored, renewed, advancing as with songs, 
 Soon as they see, turning a lofty crag. 
 That plain, that modest structure, promising 
 Bread to the hungry, to the weary rest.
 
 20 
 
 THE DESCENT. 
 
 My mule refreshed — and, let the truth be told, 
 He was nor dull nor contradictory. 
 But patient, diligent, and sure of foot, 
 Shunning the loose stone on the precipice, 
 Snorting suspicion while with sight, smell, touch, 
 Trying, detecting, where the surface snailed ; 
 And with deliberate courage sliding down, 
 Vv'here in his sledge the Laplander had turned 
 With looks aghast — my mule refreshed, his bells 
 Gingled once more, the signal to depart, 
 And we set out in the grey light of dawn. 
 Descending rapidly — by waterfalls 
 Fast-frozen, and among huge blocks of ice 
 That in their long career had stopped mid-way. 
 At length, unchecked, unbidden, he stood still ; 
 And all his bells were muffled. Then my Guide, 
 Lowering his voice, addi'essed me: ' Thro' this Gap 
 On and say nothing — lest a word, a breath
 
 21 
 
 Bring down a winter's snow — enough to whelm 
 
 The armed files that, night and day, were seen 
 
 Winding from cliff to cliif in loose array 
 
 To conquer at Marengo. Though long since, • 
 
 Well I remember how I met them here, 
 
 As the sun set far down, purpling the west ; 
 
 And how Napoleon, he himself, no less, 
 
 Wrapt in his cloak — I could not be deceived — 
 
 Reined in his horse, and asked me, as I passed. 
 
 How far 'twas to St. Remi. Where the rock 
 
 Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away, 
 
 Narrows almost to nothing at the base, 
 
 'Twas there ; and down along the brink he led 
 
 To Victory ! — Desaix*, who turned the scale, 
 
 Leaving his life-blood in that famous field, 
 
 (When the clouds break, we may discern the spot 
 
 In the blue haze) sleeps, as you saw at dawn. 
 
 Just where we entered, in the Hospital-church.' 
 
 So saying, for a while he held his peace. 
 
 Awe-struck beneath that dreadful Canopy ; 
 
 But soon, the danger passed, launched forth again. 
 
 * ' JNIauy able men have served under me ; but none like 
 him. He loved glory for itself.'
 
 90 
 
 JORASSE. 
 
 JouASSE was in his three-and-twentieth year; 
 
 Graceful and active as a stag just roused ; 
 
 Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech, 
 
 Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up 
 
 Among the hunters of the Higher Alps ; 
 
 Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness, 
 
 Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies, 
 
 Arising (so say they that dwell below) 
 
 From frequent dealings wath the Mountain- Spirits. 
 
 But other ways had taught him better things ; 
 
 And now he numbered, marching by my side, 
 
 The great, the learned, that with him had crossed 
 
 The frozen tract — with him familiarly 
 
 Thro' the rough day and rougher night conversed 
 
 In many a chalet round the Peak of Terror *, 
 
 Round Tacul, Tour, Well-horn, and Rosenlau, 
 
 * The Sclirekliorn.
 
 23 
 
 And Her, whose throne is inaccessible *, 
 Who sits, withdrawn in virgin-majesty. 
 Nor oft unveils. Anon an Avalanche 
 Rolled its long thunder ; and a sudden crash, 
 Sharp and metallick, to the startled ear 
 Told that far-down a continent of Ice 
 Had burst in twain. But he had now begun ; 
 And with what transport he recalled the hour 
 When, to deserve, to win his blooming bride, 
 Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound 
 The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod 
 The Upper Realms of Frost ; then, by a cord 
 Let half-way down, entered a grot star-bright. 
 And gathered from above, below, around. 
 The pointed crystals ! — Once, nor long before f, 
 
 * The Jung-frau. 
 
 t M. Ebel mentions an escape almost as miraculous : " L'an 
 1790, Cliristian Boren, j)ro]irietaire de Taubcrge du Grindel- 
 vvald, eut le mallieur de se jeter dans une fente du glacier, en 
 le traversant avec un troupeau de moutons qu'il raraenoit des 
 paturages de Biiniseck. Ileureusement qu'il tomba dans le 
 voisinage du grand torrent qui coule dans I'interieur, il en suivit 
 le lit par-dessous les voutes de glace, et arriva au pied du glacier 
 avec un bras casse. Get bomme est actuellenient encore en 
 vie." Manuel da I'oyagein .
 
 24 
 
 (Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet, 
 And with an eloquence that Nature gives 
 To all her children — breaking off by starts 
 Into the harsh and rude, oft as the Mule 
 Drew his displeasure,) once, nor long before, 
 Alone at dav-break on the Mettenberg, 
 He slipped and fell ; and, through a fearful cleft 
 Gliding insensibly from ledge to ledge, 
 From deep to deeper and to deeper still, 
 Went to the Under-world I Long-while he lay 
 Upon his rugged bed — then waked like one 
 Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever ! 
 For, looking round, he saw^ or thought he saw 
 Innumerable branches of a Cave, 
 Winding beneath that sohd Cinist of Ice ; 
 With here and there a rent that showed the stars 
 \\'hat then, alas, was left him but to die ? 
 What else in those immeasurable chambers. 
 Strewn with the bones of miserable men. 
 Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on, 
 Till cold and hunger set his spirit free ! 
 And, risinof, he began his drear}- round ; 
 WTien hark, the noise as of some mighty Flood 
 Working its way to light I Back he withdrew.
 
 25 
 
 But soon returned, and, fearless from despair, 
 
 Dashed down the dismal Channel ; and all day. 
 
 If day could be where utter darkness was. 
 
 Travelled incessantly ; the craggy roof 
 
 Just over-head, and the impetuous waves, 
 
 Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength, 
 
 Lashing him on. At last as in a pool 
 
 The water slept ; a pool sullen, profound, 
 
 Where, if a billow chanced to heave and swell, 
 
 It broke not; and the roof, descending, lay 
 
 Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood, 
 
 His journey ended ; when a ray divine 
 
 Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her 
 
 Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin, 
 
 He plunged and swam — and in an instant rose. 
 
 The barrier passed, in sunshine ! Through a vale, 
 
 Such as in Arcady, where many a thatch 
 
 Gleams thro' the trees, half-seen and half-embowered. 
 
 Glittering the river ran ; and on the bank 
 
 llie Young were dancing ('twas a festival-day) 
 
 All in their best attire. There first he saw 
 
 His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear, 
 
 When all drew round, inquiring ; and her face. 
 
 Seen behind all and varying, as he spoke,
 
 26 
 
 With hope and fear and generous sj'mpathy, 
 Subdued him. From that very hour he loved. 
 
 The tale was long, but coming to a close, 
 When his wild eyes flashed fire ; and, all forgot, 
 He listened and looked up. I looked up too ; 
 And twice there came a hiss that thro' me thrilled I 
 'Twas heard no more. A Chamois on the cliff 
 Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear, 
 And all were gone. But now the theme was changed ; 
 And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes. 
 When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay, 
 (His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung. 
 His axe to hew a stair-way in the ice) 
 He tracked their wanderings. By a cloud surprised. 
 Where the next step had plunged them into air, 
 Long had they stood, locked in each other's arms, 
 Amid the gulfs that yawned to swallow them ; 
 Each guarding each through many a freezing hour, 
 As on some temple's highest pinnacle. 
 From treacherous slumber. Oh, it was a sport 
 Dearer than life, and but with life relinquished ! 
 ' My sire, my grandsiro died among these wilds. 
 As for myself,' he cried, and he held forth 
 His wallet in his hand, ' this do I call
 
 27 
 
 My winding-sheet — for I shall have no other !' 
 And he spoke truth. Within a little month 
 He lay among these awful solitudes, 
 ('Twas on a glacier— r-half-way up to heaven) 
 Taking his final rest. Long did his wife, 
 Suckling her babe, her only one, look out 
 The way he went at parting, but he came not ; 
 Long fear to close her eyes, from dusk till dawn 
 Plying her distaff through the silent hours. 
 Lest he appear before her — lest in sleep, 
 If sleep steal on, he come as all are wont. 
 Frozen and ghastly blue or black with gore, 
 To plead for the last rite.
 
 28 
 
 MARGUERITE DE TOURS. 
 
 Now the grey granite, starting through the snow, 
 
 Discovered many a variegated moss* 
 
 That to the pilgrim resting on his staff 
 
 Shadows out capes and islands ; and ere long 
 
 Numberless flowers, such as disdain to live 
 
 In lower regions, and delighted drink 
 
 The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues, 
 
 With their diminutive leaves covered the ground. 
 
 There, turning by a venerable larch, 
 
 Shivered in two yet most majestical 
 
 With his long level branches, we observed 
 
 A human figure sitting on a stone 
 
 Far down by the way-side — just where the rock 
 
 Is riven asunder, and the Evil One 
 
 Kas bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument f 
 
 * Lichen geograpliicus, 
 
 t Almost every mountain of any rank or condition has sudi a 
 bridge. The most celebrated in this country is on the Swiss 
 side of St. Gothard.
 
 29 
 
 Built in one night, from which the flood beneath, 
 Raging along, all foam, is seen not heard. 
 And seen as motionless ! — Nearer we drew ; 
 And lo, a woman yomig and delicate, 
 Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot. 
 Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand, 
 In deepest thought. Over her tresses fair, 
 Young as she was, she wore the matron-cap ; 
 And, as we judged, not many moons would change 
 Ere she became a mother. Pale she looked, 
 Yet cheerful ; though, methought, once, if not twice, 
 She wiped away a tear that would be coming ; 
 And in those moments her small hat of straw. 
 Worn on one side, and glittering with a band 
 Of silk and gold, but ill concealed a face 
 Not soon to be forgotten. Rising up 
 On our approach, she travelled slowly on ; 
 And my companion, long belbre we met. 
 Knew, and ran down to greet her. — She was born 
 (Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears) 
 In Val d'Aosta ; and an Alpine stream. 
 Leaping from crag to crag in its short course 
 To join the Doha, turned her father's mill. 
 There did she blossom, till a Valai^an,
 
 30 
 
 A townsman of Martigny, won her heart, 
 Much to the old man's grief. Long he refused, 
 Loth to be left ; disconsolate at the thought. 
 She was his only one, his link to life ; 
 And in despair — year after year gone by — 
 One summer-morn, they stole a match and fled. 
 The act was sudden ; and, when far away. 
 Her spirit had misgivings. Then, full oft. 
 She pictured to herself that aged face 
 Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in wrath ; 
 And, when at last she heard his hour was near. 
 Went forth unseen, and, burdened as she was. 
 Crossed the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness. 
 And hold him to her heart before he died. 
 Her task Vi^as done. She had fulfilled her wish, 
 And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping. 
 A frame like hers had suffered ; but her love 
 Was strong' within her ; and rig'ht on she went, 
 Fearing no ill. May all good Angels guard her ! 
 And should I once again, as once I may. 
 Visit Martigny, I will not forget 
 Thy hospitable roof. Marguerite de Tours ; 
 Thy sign the silver swan. Heaven prosper thee !
 
 31 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 In the same hour the breath of Ufe receivrng, 
 They came together and were beautiful ; 
 But, as they slumbered in their mother's lap, 
 How mournful was their beauty ! She would sit. 
 And look and weep, and look and weep again ; 
 For Nature had but half her work achieved. 
 Denying, like a step-dame, to the babes 
 Her noblest gifts ; denying speech to one, 
 And to the other — reason. 
 
 But at length 
 (Seven years gone by, seven melancholy years) 
 Another came, as fair and fairer still ; 
 And then, how anxiously the mother watched 
 Till reason dawned and speech declared itself I 
 Reason and speech were his ; and down she knelt, 
 Clasping her hands in silent ecstasy. 
 
 On the hill-side, where still the cottage stands, 
 ('Tis near the upper falls in Lauterbrounn ;
 
 For there I sheltered now, their frugal hearth 
 Blazing with mountain-pine when I appeared 
 And there, as round they sate, I heard their story) 
 On the hill-side, among the cataracts. 
 In happy ignorance the children played ; 
 Alike unconscious, through their cloudless day. 
 Of what they had and had not ; every where 
 Gathering rock-flowers ; or, with their utmost might, 
 Loosening the fragment from the precipice. 
 And, as it tumbled, listening- for the plunge ; 
 Yet, as by instinct, at the 'customed hour 
 Returning ; the two eldest, step by step, 
 Lifting along, and with the tenderest care, 
 Their infant-brother. 
 
 * Once the hour was past ; 
 
 And, when she sought, she sought and could not find ; 
 And when she found — Where was the little one ? 
 Alas, they answered not ; yet still she asked, 
 Still in her grief forgetting. 
 
 With a scream. 
 Such as an Eagle sends forth when he soars, 
 A scream that through the woods scatters dismay-, 
 The idiot-boy looked up into the sky, 
 And leaped and laughed aloud and leaped again ;
 
 33 
 
 As if he wished to follow, in its flight, 
 
 Something just gone, and gone from earth to heaven : 
 
 While he, whose every gesture, every look 
 
 Went to the heart, for from the heart it came, 
 
 He who nor spoke nor heard — all things to him, 
 
 Day after day, as silent as the grave, 
 
 (To him unknown the melody of hirds. 
 
 Of waters — and the voice that should have soothed 
 
 His infant sorrows, singing- him to sleep) 
 
 Fled to her mantle as for refuge there. 
 
 And, as at once o'ercome with fear and grief. 
 
 Covered his head and wept. A dreadful thought 
 
 Flashed thro' her brain. ' Has not some bird of prey, 
 
 Thirsting to dip his beak in innocent blood — 
 
 It must, it must be so I' — And so it was. 
 
 There was an Eagle that had long acquired 
 Absolute sway, the lord of a domain 
 Savage, sublime ; nor from the hills alone 
 Gathering large tribute, but from every vale ; 
 Making the ewe, whene'er he deigned to stoop, 
 Bleat for the lamb. Great was the recompence 
 Assured to him who laid the tyrant low; 
 And near his nest, in that eventful hour, 
 
 D
 
 34 
 
 Calmly and patiently, a hunter stood, 
 A hunter, as it chanced, of old renown, 
 And, as it chanced, their father. 
 
 In the South 
 A speck appeared, enlarging ; and ere long, 
 As on his journey to the golden sun, 
 Upward he came, ascending through the clouds. 
 That, like a dark and troubled sea, obscured 
 The world beneath. — ' But what is in his grasp ? 
 Ha ! 'tis a child — and may it not be ours ? 
 I dare not, cannot ; and yet why forbear. 
 When, if it lives, a cruel death awaits it ? — 
 May He who winged the shaft when Tell stood forth. 
 And shot the apple from the youngling's head, * 
 Grant me the strength, the courage !' As he spoke, 
 He aimed, he fired ; and at his feet they fell, 
 The Eagle and the child — the child unhurt — 
 Tho', such the grasp, not even in death relinquished. f 
 
 * A tradition. — Gesler said to him, when it was over, ' Vou 
 had a second arrow in your belt. What was it for?' — ' To kill 
 you,' he replied, ' if I had killed my son.' There is a monu- 
 ment in the market-place of Altorf to consecrate the spot. 
 
 t The Eagle and Child is a favourite sign in many parts of 
 Europe.
 
 35 
 
 THE ALPS. 
 
 Who first beholds those everlasting clouds, 
 Seed-time and harvest, morning noon and night, 
 Still where they were, steadfast, immovable ; 
 Those mighty hills, so shadowy, so sublime. 
 As rather to belong to Heaven than Earth — 
 But instantly receives into his soul 
 A sense, a feeling that he loses not, 
 A something that informs him 'tis an hour, 
 Whence he may date henceforward and for ever ; 
 
 To me they seemed the barriers of a World, 
 Saying, Thus far, no further ! and as o'er 
 The level plain I travelled silently, 
 Nearing them more and more, day after day, 
 My wandering thoughts my only company, 
 And they before me still — oft as I looked, 
 A strange delight was mine, mingled with fear, 
 A wonder as at things I had not hoard of! 
 And still and still I felt as if I gazed
 
 36 
 
 For the first time ! — Great was the tumult there. 
 Deafening the din, when in barbaric pomp 
 The Carthaginian on his march to Rome 
 Entered their fastnesses. TrampHng the snows, 
 The war-horse reared ; and the towered elephant 
 Upturned his trunk into the murky sky, 
 Then tumbled headlong, swallowed up and lost, 
 He and his rider. 
 
 Now the scene is changed ; 
 And o'er the Simplon, o'er the Splugen winds 
 A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone 
 Flung about carelessly, it shines afar, 
 Catching the eye in many a broken link, 
 In many a turn and traverse as it glides ; 
 And oft above and oft below appears. 
 Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up. 
 As if it were another, through the wild 
 Leading along he knows not whence or whither. 
 Yet through its fairy-course, go where it will. 
 The torrent stops it not, the rugged rock 
 Opens and lets it in ; and on it runs, 
 Winning its easy way from clime to clime 
 Thro' glens locked up before. — Not such my path 
 The very path for them that dare defy
 
 37 
 
 Danger, nor shrink, wear he what shape he will ; 
 
 That o'er the caldron, when the flood boils up. 
 
 Hang- as in air, gazing and shuddering on 
 
 Till fascination comes and the brain turns ! * 
 
 The very path for them, that list, to choose 
 
 Where best to plant a monumental cross, 
 
 And live in story like Empedocles ; 
 
 A track for heroes, such as he who came. 
 
 Ere long, to win, to wear the Iron Crown ; 
 
 And (if aright I judge from what I felt 
 
 Over the Drance, just where the Abbot fell,-]- 
 
 Rolled downward in an after-dinner's sleep) 
 
 The same as Hannibal's. But now 'tis passed. 
 
 That turbulent Chaos ; and the promised land 
 
 Lies at my feet in all its loveliness ! 
 
 To him who starts up from a terrible dream. 
 
 And lo, the sun is shining, and the lark 
 
 Singing aloud for joy, to him is not 
 
 Such sudden ravishment as now I feel 
 
 At the first glimpses of fair Italy. 
 
 * ' J'aime beaucoup ce tournoiement, pourvu (jue je sois en 
 surete.' — J. J. Rousseau, Les Confessions, I. iv. 
 
 t ' Ou il y a environ dix ans, que I'Abb^ de St. Maurice, ]Mons. 
 C'-ocatrix, a et6 precipit6 avec sa voittire, ses chevaux, sa cuisi- 
 niere,. et sou coclier.' — Descript, du Valais.
 
 COMO. 
 
 I LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake 
 
 Under the shore — though not, where'er he dwelt, * 
 
 To visit Pliny ; not, in loose attire, 
 
 When from the bath or from the tennis-court. 
 
 To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk, 
 
 Or angling from his window : -j- and, in truth. 
 
 Could I recall the ages past, and play 
 
 The fool ^\^th Time, I should perhaps reserve 
 
 * ' Hujus in littore plures villas mea.' — Epist, ix. 7. 
 t Epist. i. 3, ix. 7.
 
 39 
 
 My leisure for Catullus on his Lake, 
 
 Though to fare worse,* or Virgil at his farm 
 
 A little further on the way to Mantua. 
 
 But such things cannot be. So I sit still, 
 
 And let the boatman shift his little sail, 
 
 His sail so forked and so swallow-like. 
 
 Well-pleased with all that comes. The morning-air 
 
 Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round 
 
 A silvery gleam : and now the purple mists 
 
 Rise like a curtain ; now the sun looks out, 
 
 Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious light 
 
 This noble amphitheatre of hills ; 
 
 And now appear as on a phosphor-sea 
 
 Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pa via ; 
 
 Some sailing up, some down, and some at rest, 
 
 Lading, unlading at that small port-town 
 
 Under the promontory — its tall tower 
 
 And long flat roofs, just such as Gas par drew, 
 
 * His Peninsula he calls ' the eye of Peninsulas;' and it is 
 beautiful. But, whatever it was, who could pass it by ? Napo- 
 leon, in the career of victory, turned aside to see it. 
 
 Of his villa there is now no more remaining than of his old 
 pinnace, which had weathered so many storms, and wliich he 
 consecrated at last as an ex-voto.
 
 40 
 
 Caught by a sun-beam slanting through a cloud ; 
 A quay-like scene, glittering and full of life, 
 And doubled by reflection. 
 
 What delight, 
 After so long a sojourn in the wild, 
 To hear once more the peasant at his work ! 
 — But in a clime like this where is he not ? 
 Along the shores, among the hills 'tis now 
 The hey-day of the Vintage ; all abroad, 
 But most the young and of the gentler sex, 
 Busy in gathering ; all among the vines, 
 Some on the ladder, and some underneath. 
 Filling their baskets of green wicker-work, 
 WTiile many a canzonet and frolic laugh 
 Come thro' the leaves ; the vines in light festoons 
 From tree to tree, the trees in avenues, 
 And every avenue a covered walk 
 Hung with black clusters. 'Tis enough to make 
 The sad man merry, the benevolent one 
 Melt into tears — so general is the joy ! 
 While up and down the cliffs, over the lake, 
 Wains oxen-drawn and panniered mules are seen, 
 Laden with grapes and dropping rosy wine. 
 Here I received from thee, Basilico,
 
 41 
 
 One of those courtesies so sweet, so rare ! 
 When, as I rambled through thy vineyard-ground 
 On the hill-side, thou sent'st thy little son, 
 Charged with a bunch almost as big as he. 
 To press it on the stranger. May thy vats 
 O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer. 
 Live to become a giver ; and, at length. 
 When thou art full of honour and wouldst rest, 
 The staff of thine old age ! 
 
 In a strange land 
 Such things, however trivial, reach the heart, 
 And thro' the heart the head, clearing away 
 The narrow notions that grow up at home. 
 And in their place grafting Good- Will to All. 
 At least I found it so, nor less at eve, 
 When, bidden as a lonely traveller, 
 ('Twas by a little boat that gave me chase 
 With oar and sail, as homeward-bound I crossed 
 The bay of Tramezzine,) right readily 
 I turned my prow and followed, landing soon 
 Where steps of purest marble met the wave ; 
 Where, through the trellises and corridors, 
 Soft music came as from Armida's palace, 
 Breathing enchantment o'er the woods and waters ;
 
 42 
 
 And thro' a bright pavilion, bright as day, 
 
 Forms such as hers were flitting, lost among 
 
 Such as of old in sober pomp swept by. 
 
 Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts 
 
 By Paolo painted ; where a Fairy-Queen, 
 
 That night her birth-night, from her throne received 
 
 (Young as she was, no floweret in her crown, 
 
 Hyacinth or rose, so fair and fresh as she) 
 
 Our willing vows, and by the fountain-side 
 
 Led in the dance, disporting as she pleased, 
 
 Under a starry sky — while I looked on, 
 
 As in a glade of Cashmere or Shiraz, 
 
 Reclining, quenching my sherbet in snow, 
 
 And reading in the eyes that sparkled round, 
 
 The thousand love-adventures written there. 
 
 Can I forget — no never, such a scene 
 So full of witchery. Night lingered still. 
 When, with a dying breeze, I left Bellaggio ; 
 But the strain followed me ; and still I saw 
 Thy smile, Angelica ; and still I heard 
 Thy voice — once and again bidding adieu.
 
 43 
 
 BERGAMO. 
 
 The song was one that I had heard before, 
 
 But where I knew not. It inchned to sadness; 
 
 And, turning round from the dehcious fare 
 
 My landlord's little daughter Barbara 
 
 Had from her apron just rolled out before me, 
 
 Figs and rock-melons — at the door I saw 
 
 Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like 
 
 They were, and poorly clad, but not unskilled ; 
 
 With their small voices and an old guitar 
 
 Winning their way to my unguarded heart 
 
 In that, the only universal tongue. 
 
 Hut soon they changed the measure, entering on 
 
 A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour, 
 
 A war of words, with looks and gestures waged 
 
 Between Trappanti and his ancient dame, 
 
 MoNA LuciLiA. To and fro it went ; 
 
 While many a titter on the stairs was heard, 
 
 And Barbara's among them. When it ceased,
 
 44 
 
 Their dark eyes flashed no longer, yet, methought, 
 
 In many a glance as from the soul, disclosed 
 
 JVIore than enough to serve them. Far or near, 
 
 Few looked not for their coming ere they came, 
 
 Few, when they went, but looked till they were gone ; 
 
 And not a matron, sitting at her wheel. 
 
 But could repeat their story. Twins they were, 
 
 And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world ; 
 
 Their parents lost in an old ferry-boat 
 
 That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down, 
 
 Crossing the rough Benacus.* — May they live 
 
 Blameless and happy — rich they cannot be. 
 
 Like him who, in the days of Minstrelsy,f 
 
 Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door, 
 
 * The lake of Catullus; and now called 11 lago di Garda. 
 Its waves, in the north, lash the mountains oi'tlie Tyrol ; and it 
 was there, at the little village of Limone, that Ilofer embarked, 
 when in the hands of the enemy and on his way to IMantua, 
 where, in the court-yard of the citadel, he was shot as a traitor. 
 Less fortunate than 'J'ell, yet not less illustrious, he was watched 
 by many a mournful eye as he came down the lake; and his 
 name will live long in the heroic songs of liis country. 
 
 He lies buried at Innspruck in the church of the Holy Cross; 
 and the statue on his tomb represents him in his habit as he 
 lived and as he died. 
 
 t Petrarch, Epist. Rer. Sen. 1. v. ep. 3.
 
 45 
 
 Asking, beseeching for a lay to sing, 
 
 And soon in silk (such then the power of song) 
 
 Returned to thank him ; or like that old man. 
 
 Old, not in heart, who by the torrent-side 
 
 Descending from the Tyrol, as Night fell. 
 
 Knocked at a City-gate near the hill-foot. 
 
 The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone, 
 
 An eagle on a ladder, and at once 
 
 Found welcome — nightly in the bannered hall 
 
 Tuning his harp to tales of Chivalry 
 
 Before the great Mastino, and his guests,* 
 
 * iMastino de la Scala, the Lord of Verona. Cortusio, ilie 
 embassador and historian, saw him so surrounded. 
 
 This house had been always open to the unfortunate. la the 
 days of Can Grande all were welcome; Poets, Philosophers, 
 Artists, Warriors. Each had his apartment, each a separate 
 table ; and at the liour of dinner musicians and jesters w-ent 
 from room to room. Dante, as we learn from himself, found an 
 asylum there. 
 
 " Lo primo tuo rifugio, e'l primo ostello 
 Sara la corlesia del gran Lombardo, 
 Che'n su la scala porta il santo uccello." 
 
 Their tombs in the public street carry us back into the times 
 of barbarous virtue ; nor less so do those of the Carrara Princes 
 at Padua, though less singular and striking in themselves. 
 Francis Carrara, the Elder, used often to visit Petrarch in hi.-, 
 small house at Arqua, and followed him on foot to bis grave.
 
 46 
 
 The three-and-twenty kings, by adverse fate, 
 By war or treason or domestic strife, 
 Reft of their kingdoms, friendless, shelterless, 
 And living on his bounty. 
 
 But who comes. 
 Brushing the floor with what was once, methinks, 
 A hat of ceremony ? On he glides, 
 Slip-shod, ungartered ; his long suit of black 
 Dingy, thread-bare, tho', patch by patch, renewed 
 Till it has almost ceased to be the same. 
 At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads 
 ' 'Tis my necessity !' he stops and speaks. 
 Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face. 
 ' Blame not a Poet, Signor, for his zeal — 
 When all are on the wing, who would be last ? 
 ITie splendour of thy name has gone before thee ; 
 And Italy from sea to sea exults, 
 As well indeed she may ! But I transgress.* 
 He, who has known the weight of Praise himself. 
 Should spare another.' Saying so, he laid 
 His sonnet, an impromptu, at my feet, 
 (If his, then Petrarch must have stolen it from him) 
 
 * See the Heraclides of Euripides, v. 203, <Sfc.
 
 47 
 
 And bowed and left me ; in his hollow hand 
 Receiving my small tribute, a zecchine, 
 Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees. 
 My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine, 
 Pure as the virgin-spring, had happily 
 Fled from all eyes ; or, in a waking dream, 
 I might have sat as many a great man has, 
 And many a small, like him of Santillane, 
 Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise.* 
 
 * Hist, de Gil Bias, 1. i. c. 2.
 
 48 
 
 ITALY. 
 
 Am I in Italy ? Is this the Mincius ? 
 Are those the distant turrets of Verona ? 
 And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque 
 Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him ? 
 Such questions hourly do I ask myself; 
 And not a stone, in a cross-way, inscribed 
 ' To Mantua' — ' To Ferrara' — but excites 
 Surprise, and doubt, and self-cong-ratulation. 
 
 O Italy, how beautiful thou art ! 
 Yet I could weep — for thou art lying, alas, 
 Low in the dust ; and we admire thee now / 
 As we admire the beautiful in death. 
 Thine was a dangerous gift, when thou wert born, 
 The gift of Beauty. Would thou hadst it not ; 
 Or wert as once, awing the caitiffs vile 
 That now beset thee, making thee their slave ! 
 Would they had loved thee less, or feared thee more I 
 But why despair ? Twice hast thou lived already
 
 49 
 
 Twice shone among the nations of the world, 
 As the sun shines among the lesser lights 
 Of heaven ; and shalt again. The hour shall come, 
 When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit, 
 VVho, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey, 
 Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again 
 If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess 
 Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame 
 Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously, 
 And, dying, left a splendour like the day, 
 That like the day diffused itself, and still 
 Blesses the earth — the light of genius, virtue. 
 Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death, 
 God-Hke example. Echoes that have slept 
 Since Athens, Laced^emon, were Themselves, 
 Since men invoked ' By those in Marathon !' 
 Awake along the ^Egean ; and the dead, 
 They of that sacred shore, have heard the call. 
 And thro' the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen 
 Moving as once they were — instead of rage 
 Breathing deliberate valour.
 
 50 
 
 , COLL'ALTO. 
 
 " In this neglected mirror (the broad frame 
 
 Of massy silver serves to testify 
 
 That many a noble matron of the house 
 
 Has sat before it) once, alas, was seen 
 
 What led to many sorrows. From that time 
 
 The bat came hither for a sleeping place ; 
 
 And he, that cursed another in his heart, 
 
 Said, ' Be thy dwelling, thro' the day and night, 
 
 Shunned like Coll'alto.'"' — 'Twas in that old Pil< 
 
 Which flanks the cliff with its grey battlements 
 
 Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest. 
 
 Hangs in the Trevisan, that thus the Steward, 
 
 Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left. 
 
 Addressed me, as we entered what was called 
 
 * My Lady's Chamber.' On the walls, the chairs. 
 
 Much yet remained of the rich tapestry ; 
 
 Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot 
 
 In the green glades of some enchanted wood.
 
 51 
 
 The toilet-table was of silver wrought, 
 
 Florentine Art, when Florence was renowned ; 
 
 A gay confusion of the elements, 
 
 Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers : 
 
 And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage, 
 
 Hung a small bird of curious workmanship, 
 
 That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold 
 
 (So says the babbling Dame, Tradition, there) 
 
 His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again 
 
 The song that pleased her. While I stood and looked, 
 
 A gleam of day yet lingering in the West, 
 
 The Steward went on. " She had ('tis now long since) 
 
 A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristine, 
 
 Fair as a lily, and as spotless too ; 
 
 None so admired, beloved. They had grown up 
 
 As play-fellows ; and some there were, that said. 
 
 Some that knew much, discoursing of Cristine, 
 
 ' She is not what she seems.' When unrequired. 
 
 She would steal forth ; her custom, her delight. 
 
 To wander thro' and thro' an ancient grove 
 
 Self-planted half-way down, losing herself 
 
 Like one in love with sadness ; and her veil 
 
 And vesture white, seen ever in that place, 
 
 Ever as surely as the hours came round,
 
 52 
 
 Among those reverend trees, gave her below 
 The name of The White Lady. But the day 
 Is gone, and I delay thee. 
 
 In that chair 
 The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting, 
 Her gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristine, 
 Combing her golden hair ; and thro' this door 
 The Count, her lord, was hastening, called away 
 By letters of great urgency to Venice ; 
 When in the glass she saw, as she believed, 
 ('Twas an illusion of the Evil One — 
 Some say he came and crossed it at the time) 
 A smile, a glance at parting, given and answered. 
 That turned her blood to gall. That very night 
 The deed was done. That night, ere yet the Moon 
 Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf 
 Baying as still he does (oft is he heard, 
 An hour and more, by the old turret-clock) 
 They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristine, 
 Helping her down in her distress — to die. 
 
 " No blood was spilt ; no instrument of death 
 Lurked — or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose; 
 Nor was a hair of her unblemished head 
 Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower just blown,
 
 53 
 
 And warm with life, her youthful pulses playing, 
 She was walled up within the Castle-wall.* 
 The wall itself was hollowed secretly ; 
 Then closed again, and done to line and rule. 
 
 Would'st thou descend ? 'Tis in a darksome vault 
 
 Under the Chapel : and there nightly now, 
 As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair, 
 And as if nothing had been done or thought. 
 The stone-work rose before her, till the light 
 Glimmered and went — there, nightly at that hour, 
 (Thou smil'st, and would it were an idle tale !) 
 In her white veil and vesture white she stands 
 Shuddering — her eyes uplifted, and her hands 
 Joined as in prayer ; then, like a Blessed Soul 
 Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away 
 Flies o'er the woods and mountains. Issuing forth,-]- 
 The hunter meets her in his hunting-track ; 
 The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims 
 (For still she bears the name she bore of old) 
 ' 'Tis the White Lady !' " 
 
 * Murato was a technical word for tliis puDishment. 
 t Aa old huntsman of the family met her in the haze of tlie 
 morning, and never went out again. 
 
 She is still known by the name of Madonna liianca.
 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 There is a glorious City in the Sea. 
 
 The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, 
 
 Ebbing and flowing ; and the salt sea-weed 
 
 Clings to the marble of her palaces. 
 
 No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, 
 
 Lead to her gates. The path Hes o'er the Sea, 
 
 Invisible ; and from the land we went,
 
 55 
 
 As to a floating City — steering in, 
 
 And gliding up her streets as in a dream, 
 
 So smoothly, silently — by many a dome, 
 
 Mosque-like, and many a stately portico. 
 
 The statues ranged along an azure sky ; 
 
 By many a pile in more than Eastern pride, 
 
 Of old the residence of merchant-kiiigs ; 
 
 The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them, 
 
 Still glowing with the richest hues of art. 
 
 As though the wealth within them had run o'er. 
 
 Thither I came, and in a wondrous Ark, 
 (That, long before we slipt our cable, rang 
 As with the voices of all living things) 
 From Padua, where the stars are, night by night, 
 Watched from the top of an old dungeon-tower. 
 Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelin* — 
 Not as he watched them, when he read his fate 
 And shuddered. But of him I thought not then, 
 Him or his horoscope ; f far, far from me 
 
 » Now an Observatory. On the wall there is a long inscrip- 
 tion : ' Piis carcerem adspergite lacryniis,' &;c. 
 Ezzelino is seen by Dante in the river of blood. 
 
 t Bonatti was the great astrologer of that day ; and all the 
 little Princes of Italy contended for him. It was from the top
 
 56 
 
 The forms of Guilt and Fear ; tho' some were there, 
 
 Sitting among- us round the cabin-board, 
 
 Some who, hke him, had cried, ' Spill blood enough !' 
 
 And could shake long at shadows. They had played 
 
 Their parts at Padua, and wex-e floating home, 
 
 Careless and full of mirth ; to-morrow a day 
 
 Not in their Calendar.* Who in a strain 
 
 To make the hearer fold his arms and sigh. 
 
 Sings ' Caro, Caro !' — 'Tis the Prima Donna, 
 
 And to her monkey, smiling in his face. 
 
 Who, as transported, cries, ' Brava ! Ancora !' 
 
 'Tis a grave personage, an old macaw, 
 
 Perched on her shoulder. — But who leaps ashore, 
 
 And with a shout urges the lagging mules ; -j- 
 
 of tlie tower of Forli that he gave his signals to Guide Norello. 
 At the first touch of a bell the Count put on his armour; at the 
 second he mounted his horse, and at the third marched out to 
 battle. His victories were ascribed to Bouatti ; and not perhaps 
 without reason. How many triumphs were due to the Sooth- 
 sayers of old Rome ! 
 
 * " Douze personnes, tant acteurs qu' actiices, un souffieur, 
 un machiniste, un garde du magasin, des enfans de tout age, de's 
 chiens, des chats, des singes, des perroquets; c' etoit 1' arche 
 de Noe. — Ma predilection pour les soubrettes m'arreta sur 
 Madame Baccherini." Goldosi. 
 
 t The passage-boats are drawn up and down the Brenta.
 
 57 
 
 Then climbs a tree that overhangs the stream, 
 
 And, like an acorn, drops on deck again ? 
 
 'Tis he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh; 
 
 That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino. 
 
 And mark their Poet — with what emphasis 
 
 He prompts the young Soubrette, conning her part I 
 
 Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box. 
 
 And prompts again ; for ever looking round 
 
 As if in search of subjects for his wit, 
 
 His satire ; and as often whispering 
 
 Things, though unheard, not unimaginable. 
 
 Had I thy pencil, Crabbe (when thou hast done, 
 Late may it be . . it will, hke Pkospero's staff. 
 Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth) 
 I would portray the Italian — Now I cannot. 
 Subtle, discerning, eloquent, the slave 
 Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes ; 
 Gentle when unprovoked, easily won, 
 But quick in quarrel — through a thousand shades 
 His spirit flits, cameleon-like ; and mocks 
 The eye of the observer. 
 
 Gliding on, 
 At length we leave the river for the sea. 
 At length a voice aloft proclaims ' Venezia I'
 
 58 
 
 And, as called forth, she comes. 
 
 A few in fear, 
 Flying away from him whose hoast it was,* 
 That the grass grew not where his horse had trod, 
 Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl, 
 They built their nests among the ocean-waves ; 
 And where the sands were shifting, as the wind 
 Blew from the north or south — where they that came. 
 Had to make sure the ground they stood upon, 
 Rose, like an exhalation from the deep, 
 A vast Metropolisjf with glistering spires, 
 
 * Attila. 
 
 t " I love," says a traveller, " to contemplate, as I float along, 
 that multitude of palaces and churches, which are congregated 
 and pressed as on a vast raft." — " And who can forget his walk 
 through the Merceria, where the nightingales give you their 
 melody from shop to shop, so that, shutting your eyes, you would 
 think yourself in some forest-glade, when indeed you are all the 
 while in the middle of the sea? Who can forget his prospect 
 from the great tower, which once, when gilt, and when the sun 
 struck upon it, was to be descried by ships afar ofTj or his visit 
 to St. Mark's church, where you see nothing, tread on nothing, 
 but what is precious; the floor all agate, jasper; the roof 
 mosaic ; the aisle hung with the banners of the subject cities ; 
 the front and its five domes affecting you as the work of some 
 unknown people? Yet all this will presently pass away; the 
 waters will close over it ; and they, that come, row about in vriin 
 to determine exactly where it stood."
 
 59 
 
 With theatres, basilicas adorned ; 
 
 A scene of light and glory, a dominion, 
 
 That has endured the longest among men. 
 
 And whence the talisman, whereby she rose. 
 Towering? 'Twas found there in the barren sea. 
 Want led to Enterprise ; * and, far or near. 
 Who met not the Venetian ? — now among 
 The i^GEAN Isles, steering from port to port, 
 Landing and bartering ; now, no stranger there. 
 In Cairo, or without the eastern gate, 
 Ere yet the Cafilaf came, listening to hear 
 Its bells approaching from the Red- Sea coast ; 
 Then on the Euxine, and that smaller Sea 
 Of Azoph, in close converse with the Russ, 
 And Tartar ; on his lowly deck receiving 
 Pearls from the Persian Gulf, gems from Golcond ; 
 Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love, 
 From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round, 
 When in the rich bazaar he saw, displayed, 
 Treasures from climes unknown, he asked and leanit, 
 And, travelling slowly upward, drew ere long 
 
 * "II fallut subsister; ils tirereut leur subsist aiice de tout 
 runivers." Montksquii-U. 
 
 t A Caravan.
 
 60 
 
 From the well-head, supplying all below ; 
 
 Making the Imperial City of the East, 
 
 Herself, his tributary. — If we turn 
 
 To those black forests, where, through many an age, 
 
 Night without day, no axe the silence broke, 
 
 Or seldom, save where Rhine or Danube rolled ; 
 
 Where o'er the narrow glen a castle hangs, 
 
 And, like the wolf that himgered at his door, 
 
 ITie baron lived by rapine — there we meet. 
 
 In warlike guise, the Caravan from Venice; 
 
 When on its march, now lost and now beheld, 
 
 A glittering file (the trumpet heard, the scout 
 
 Sent and recalled) but at a city-gate 
 
 All gaiety, and looked for ere it comes ; 
 
 Winning regard with all that can attract, 
 
 Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert. 
 
 Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlemain, 
 
 And his brave peers, each with his visor up, 
 
 On their long lances lean and gaze awhile. 
 
 When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed 
 
 The wonders of the East ! Well might they then 
 
 Sigh for new Conquests ! 
 
 Thus did Venice rise, 
 Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came,
 
 61 
 
 That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet 
 From India, from the region of the Sun, 
 Fragrant with spices — that a way was found, 
 A channel opened, and the golden stream 
 Turned to enrich another. Then she felt 
 Her strength departing, yet awhile maintained 
 Her state, her splendour ; till a tempest shook 
 All things most held in honour among men, 
 All that the giant with the scythe had spared, 
 To their foundations, and at once she fell ; 
 She who had stood yet longer than the last 
 Of the Four Kingdoms — who, as in an Ark, 
 Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks, 
 Uninjured, from the Old World to the New, 
 From the last glimpse of civilized life — to where 
 Light shone again, and with the blaze of noon. 
 
 Through many an age in the mid-sea she dwelt, 
 From her retreat calmly contemplating 
 The changes of the Earth, herself unchanged. 
 Before her passed, as in an awful dream, 
 The mightiest of the mighty. What are these. 
 Clothed in their purple ? O'er the globe they fling 
 Their monstrous shadows ; and, while yet we speak, 
 Phantom-like, vanish with a dreadful scream I
 
 6:2 
 
 What — but the last that styled themselves the Caesars ? 
 
 And who in long array (look where they come ; 
 
 Their gestures menacing so far and wide) 
 
 Wear the green turban and the heron's plume ? 
 
 WTio — but the Caliphs ? followed fast by shapes 
 
 As new and strange — Emperor, and King, and Czar, 
 
 And Soldan, each, with a gigantic stride, 
 
 Trampling on all the flourishing works of peace 
 
 To make his greatness greater, and inscribe 
 
 His name in blood — some, men of steel, steel-clad ; 
 
 Others, nor long, alas, the interval, 
 
 In light and gay attire, with brow serene 
 
 Wielding Jove's thunder, scattering sulphurous fire 
 
 Mingled with darkness ; and, among the rest, 
 
 Lo, one by one, passing continually, 
 
 Those who assume a sway beyond them all ; 
 
 Men grey \vith age, each in a triple crown. 
 
 And in his tremulous hands grasping the keys 
 
 That can alone, as he would signify. 
 
 Unlock Heaven's gate.
 
 63 
 
 LUIGI. 
 
 Happy is he who loves companionship, 
 
 And lights on thee, LuiGi. Thee I found, 
 
 Playing at Mora* on the cabin-roof 
 
 With Punchinello. — 'Tis a game to strike 
 
 Fire from the coldest heart. What then from thine ? 
 
 And, ere the twentieth throw, I had resolved, 
 
 Won by thy looks. Thou wert an honest lad ; 
 
 Wert generous, grateful, not without ambition. 
 
 Had it depended on thy will alone, 
 
 Thou wouldst have numbered in thy family 
 
 At least six Doges and the first in fame. 
 
 But that was not to be. In thee I saw 
 
 The last, if not the least, of a long line, 
 
 W^ho in their forest, for three hundred years. 
 
 Had lived and laboured, cutting, charring wood ; 
 
 Discovering where they were, to those astray, 
 
 * A national game of great antiquity, and most [)robal)ly t!ie 
 ' micare digitis ' of the Romans.
 
 64 
 
 By the re-echoing stroke, the crash, the fall, 
 Or the blue wreath that travelled slowly up 
 Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies 
 Led thee away to justle in the crowd ; 
 And there I found thee — trying once again, 
 What for thyself thou hadst prescribed so oft, 
 A change of air and diet — once again 
 Crossing the sea, and springing to the shore 
 As though thou knewest where to dine and sleep. 
 
 First in Bologna didst thou plant thyself, 
 Serving behind a Cardinal's gouty chair, 
 Listening and oft replying, jest for jest ; 
 Then in Ferrara, every thing by turns, 
 So great thy genius and so Proteus-like ! 
 Now serenading in a lover's train, 
 And measuring swords with his antagonist ; 
 Now carving, cup -bearing in halls of state ; 
 And now a guide to the lorn traveller, 
 A very Cicerone — yet, alas. 
 How unlike him who fulmined in old Rome ! 
 Dealing out largely in exchange for pence 
 Thy scraps of Knowledge — thro' the grassy street 
 Leading, explaining — pointing to the bars 
 Of Tasso's dungeon, and the latin verse,
 
 65 
 
 Graven in the stone, that yet denotes the dooi- 
 Of Ariosto. 
 
 Many a year is gone 
 Since on the Rhine we parted ; yet, methinks, 
 I can recall thee to the life, LuiGi, 
 In our long journey ever by my side ; 
 Thy locks jet-black, and clustering round a face 
 Open as day and full of manly daring. 
 Thou hadst a hand, a heart for all that came. 
 Herdsman or pedlar, monk or muleteer ; 
 And few there were, that met thee not with smiles. 
 Mishap passed o'er thee like a summer-cloud. 
 Cares thou hadst none; and they, that stood to hear thee, 
 Caught the infection and forgot their own. 
 Nature conceived thee in her mcnnest mood, 
 Her happiest — not a speck was in the sky ; 
 And at thy birth the cricket chirped, LuiGi, 
 Thine a perpetual voice — at every turn 
 A larum to the echo. In a clime, 
 Where all were gay, none were so gay as thou ; 
 Thou, like a babe, hushed only by thy slund)ers ; 
 Up hill and down, morning and noon and night. 
 Singing or talking ; singing to thyself 
 When none gave ear, but to the listener talking. 
 
 F
 
 66 
 
 ST. MARK'S PLACE. 
 
 Over how many tracts, vast, measureless. 
 
 Ages on ages roll, and none appear 
 
 Save the wild hunter ranging for his prey ; 
 
 While on this spot of earth, the work of man, 
 
 How much has been transacted ! Emperors, Popes, 
 
 Warriors, from far and wide, laden with spoil. 
 
 Landing, have here perfomied their several parts, 
 
 Then left the stage to others. Not a stone 
 
 In the broad pavement, but to him who has 
 
 An eye, an ear for the Inanimate World, 
 
 Tells of Past Ages. 
 
 In that temple-porch 
 (The brass is gone, the porphyry remains,*) 
 
 * They were placed in the floor as memorials. The brass 
 was engraven with the words addressed by the Pope to the 
 Emperor, ' Super aspidem et basiliscum ambulabis,' &;c. Thou 
 shalt tread upon the asp and the basilisk: the lion and the 
 dragon shalt thou trample under foot.
 
 67 
 
 Did Barbarossa fling his mantle off, 
 
 And, kneeling, on his neck receive the foot 
 
 Of the proud Pontiff* — thus at last consoled 
 
 For flight, disguise, and many an aguish shake 
 
 On his stone pillow. In that temple-porch, 
 
 Old as he was, so near his hundredth year, 
 
 And blind — his eyes put out — did Dandolo 
 
 Stand forth, displaying on his crown the cross. 
 
 There did he stand, erect, invincible, 
 
 Though wan his cheeks, and wet with many tears. 
 
 For in his prayers he had been weeping much ; 
 
 And now the pilgrims and the people wept 
 
 With admiration, saying in their hearts, 
 
 ' Surely those aged limbs have need of rest Vj- 
 
 There did he stand, with his old armour on, 
 
 Ere, gonfalon in hand, that streamed aloft, 
 
 As conscious of its glorious destiny, 
 
 So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret. 
 
 * Alexander III. He fled in disguise to Venice, and is said 
 to have passed the first night on the steps of San Salvatore. 
 The entrance is from the Merceria, near the foot of the Rialto; 
 and it is tlius recorded, under his escutcheon, in a small tablet 
 at the door. ' Alexandro III. Pont. Max. pernoctanti.' 
 
 t See Geoffrey de Villehardouin.in Script. liipaiU. t. xx.
 
 68 
 
 He sailed away, five hundred gallant ships, 
 Their lofty sides hung with emblazoned shields, 
 Following his track to fame. He went to die ; 
 But of his trophies four arrived ere long, 
 Snatched from destruction — the four steeds divine, 
 That strike the ground, resounding with their feet,* 
 And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame 
 Over that very portal — in the place 
 WTiere in an after-time, beside the Doge, 
 Sat one yet greater, -j- one whose verse shall live, 
 When the wave rolls o'er Venice. High he sat, 
 High over all, close by the ducal chair. 
 At the right hand of his illustrious Host, 
 Amid the noblest daughters of the realm. 
 Their beauty shaded from the western ray 
 By many-coloured hangings ; while, beneath, 
 Knights of all nations,:j; some of fair renown 
 
 * See Petrarch's description of them and of the tournament. 
 Rer, Senil. 1. iv. ep. 'i. 
 
 t Petrabcii 
 
 I Not less splendid were the tournaments of Florence in the 
 Place of Santa Croce. To tliose which were held there in 
 February and June, 1468, we are indebted for two of the most 
 celebrated poems of that age, the Giostra of Lorenzo de' Medici, 
 by Luca Pulci, and the Giostra of Giuliaiio de' Medici, by 
 Politian.
 
 69 
 
 From England,* from victorious Edward's court, 
 Their lances in the rest, charged for the prize. 
 
 Here, among other pageants, and how oft 
 It met the eye, borne through the gazing crowd. 
 As if returning to console the least. 
 Instruct the greatest, did the Doge go round ; 
 Now in a chair of state, now on his bier. 
 They were his first appearance, and his last. 
 
 The sea, that emblem of uncertainty, 
 Changed not so fast for many and many an age, 
 As this small spot. To-day 'twas full of masks ; 
 And lo, the madness of the Carnival, -(- 
 The monk, the nun, the holy legate masked ! 
 To-morrow came the scaffold and the wheel ; 
 
 * " Kecenti victoria exultantes," says Petritrcli : alluding, 
 no doubt, to the favourable issue of the war in France. This 
 festival began on the 4th of August, 1,')(34. 
 
 ) Among those the most followed, there was always a mask 
 in a magnificent habit, relating marvellous adventures, and call- 
 ing himself Messer Marco Millioni. Millioni was the name 
 given by his fellow-ciiizens in his life-time to the groat traveller, 
 IMarco Polo. ' I have seen him so described,' says Ramusio, 
 ' in the Records of the Republic ; and his house has, from that 
 time to this, been called T.a Corte del Millioni,' the palace of 
 the rich man, the millionnaire. It is on the canal of S. Giovanni 
 Chrisostomo ; and, as long as he lived, was much resorted lo by 
 the curious and the learned.
 
 70 
 
 And he died there, by torch-Hght, bound and gagged, 
 
 Whose name and crime they knew not. Underneath 
 
 Where the Archangel,* as ahghted there, 
 
 Blesses the City from the topmost-tower, 
 
 His arms extended — there, in monstrous league, 
 
 Two phantom-shapes were sitting, side by side. 
 
 Or up, and, as in sport, chasing each other; 
 
 Horror and Mirth. Both vanished in one hour ! 
 
 But Ocean only, when again he claims 
 
 His ancient rule, shall wash away their footsteps. 
 
 Enter the Palace by the marble stairs f 
 Down which the grizzly head of old Falier, 
 Rolled from the block. Pass onward thro' the hall, 
 Where, among those drawn in their ducal robes, 
 But one is wanting — where, thrown off in heat, 
 A brief inscription on the Doge's chair 
 Led to another on the wall as brief ;| 
 
 * " In atto di dar la benedittione," says Sansovino; and 
 performing the same oflBce as the Triton on the tower of tlie 
 winds at Athens. 
 
 t Now called La Scala de' Giganti. The colossal statues 
 were placed there in 1566. 
 
 i ' Marin Faliero dalla bella raoglie : altri la gode ed egli la 
 mantiene.' 
 
 ' Locus Marini Faletri decapitati pro criminibus.'
 
 71 
 
 And thou wilt ti-ack them — wiU from rooms of state, 
 ^^'here kings have feasted, and the festal song- 
 Rung through the fretted roof, cedar and gold, 
 Step into darkness ; and be told, ' 'Twas here, 
 Trusting, deceived, assembled but to die. 
 To take a long embrace and part again, 
 Carrara and his valiant sons were slain ; 
 He first — then they, whose only crime had been 
 
 Struggling to save their Father. Thro' that door, 
 
 So soon to cry, smiting his brow, ' I am lost !' 
 Was with all courtesv, all honour, shewn 
 
 The great and noble captain, Carmagnola.* 
 
 That deep descent (thou canst not yet discern 
 
 Aught as it is) leads to the dripping vaults 
 
 Under the flood, where light and warmth were never ! 
 
 Leads to a covered Bridge, the Bridge of Sighs ; 
 
 And to that fatal closet at the foot. 
 
 Lurking for prey, which, when a victim came, 
 
 Grew less and less, contracting to a span ; 
 
 An iron-door, urged onward by a screw, 
 
 Forcing out life. But let us to the roof, 
 
 And, when thou hast surveyed the sea, the land, 
 
 * " II Conte, enlrando in prigione, disse: Vudo bene ch' io 
 son roorto, e trasse un grande sospiio." IM. Sanuto.
 
 72 
 
 Visit the narrow cells that cluster there, 
 As in a place of tombs, lliere burning suns, 
 Day after day, beat unrelentingly ; 
 Turning all things to dust, and scorching up 
 The brain, till Reason fled, and the wild yell 
 And wilder laugh burst out on every side. 
 Answering each other as in mockery ! 
 
 Few Houses of the size were better filled ; 
 Though many came and left it in an hour. 
 ' Most nights,' so said the good old Nicolo, 
 (For three-and-thirty years his uncle kept 
 The water-gate below, but seldom spoke. 
 Though much was on his mind,) ' most nights arrived 
 The prison-boat, that boat with many oars, 
 And bore away as to the Lower World, 
 Disburdening in the Canal Orfaxo,* 
 That drowning-place, where never net was thrown. 
 Summer or Winter, death the penalty ; , 
 
 And where a secret, once deposited. 
 Lay till the waters should give up their dead.' 
 
 Yet what so gay as Venice?! Every gale 
 
 * A deep channel behind the island of S. Giorgio Maggiore. 
 
 t ' How fares it with j'our world V says his Highness the 
 
 Devil to QuEVEDO, on their first interview in the lower regions.
 
 Breathedmusic ! and who flocked not, while she reigned, 
 
 To celehrate her Nuptials with the Sea ; 
 
 To wear the mask, and mingle in the crowd 
 
 With Greek, Armenian, Persian — night and day 
 
 (There, and there only, did the hour stand still) 
 
 Pursuing thro' her thousand labyrinths 
 
 The Enchantress Pleasure ; realizing dreams 
 
 The earliest, happiest — for a tale to catch 
 
 Credulous ears, and hold young hearts in chains. 
 
 Had only to begin, ' There lived in Venice' 
 
 ' Who were the Six we supped with Yesternight ?'* 
 ' Kings, one and all ! Thou couldst not but remark 
 The style and manner of the Six that served them.' 
 
 ' Who answered me just now ? -f- Who, when 1 said, 
 " 'Tis nine,' turned round and said so solemnly, 
 " Signor, he died at nine !" — ' 'Twas the Armenian ; 
 The mask that follows thee, go where thou wilt.' 
 
 ' But who moves there, alone among them all ?' 
 
 ' Do I prosper ibere?' — ' Much as usual, I believe.' — ' But tell 
 me truly. How is my good city of Venice? Flourishing.'' — 
 ' More than ever.' — 'Then I am under no apprehension. All 
 must go well.' 
 
 * An allusion to the Supper in Candide: c. x.wi. 
 
 t See Schiller's Gliost-seer, c. i.
 
 74 
 
 ' The Cypriot. Ministers from distant Courts 
 Beset his doors, long ere his rising-hour ; 
 His the Great Secret ! Not the golden house 
 Of Nero, nor those fabled in the East, 
 Rich though they were, so wondrous rich as his ! 
 Two dogs, coal-black, in collars of pure gold, 
 Walk in his footsteps — Who but his familiars ? 
 They walk, and cast no shadow in the sun ! 
 
 And mark Him speaking. They, that listen, stand 
 As if his tongue dropped honey ; yet his glance 
 None can endure ! He looks nor young nor old ; 
 And at a tourney, where I sat and saw, 
 A very child (full threescore years are gone) 
 Borne on my father's shoulder thro' the crowd, 
 He looked not otherwise. Where'er he stops, 
 Tho' short the sojourn, on his chamber-wall, 
 Mid many a treasure gleaned from many a clime. 
 His portrait hangs — but none must notice it ; 
 For Titian glows in every lineament, 
 (Where is it not inscribed. The work is his !) 
 And Titian died two hundred years ago.' 
 — Such their discourse. AssembUng in St. Mark's, 
 All nations met as on enchanted ground ! 
 
 What tho' a strange mysterious Power was there,
 
 75 
 
 Moving throughout, subtle, invisible, 
 
 And universal as the air they breathed ; 
 
 A Power that never slumbered, nor forgave, 
 
 All eye, all ear, no where and every where, 
 
 Entering the closet and the sanctuary. 
 
 No place of refuge for the Doge himself ; 
 
 Most present when least thought of — nothing dropt 
 
 In secret, when the heart was on the lips. 
 
 Nothing in feverish sleep, but instantly 
 
 Observed and judged — a Power, that if but named 
 
 In casual converse, be it where it might. 
 
 The speaker lowered at once his eyes, his voice, 
 
 And pointed upward as to God in Heaven 
 
 What tho' that Power was there, he who hved thus, 
 
 Pursuing Pleasure, lived as if it were not. 
 
 But let him in the midnight-air indulge 
 
 A word, a thought against the laws of Venice, 
 
 And in that hour he vanished from the earth !
 
 76' 
 
 THE GONDOLA. 
 
 Boy, call the Gondola; the sun is set.- 
 
 It came, and we embarked ; but instantly, 
 
 As at the waving of a magic wand, 
 
 Though she had stept on boai'd so light of foot. 
 
 So light of heart, laughing she knew not why, 
 
 .Sleep overcame her ; on my arm she slept. 
 
 From time to time I waked her ; but the boat 
 
 Rocked her to sleep again. The moon was now 
 
 Rising full-orbed, but broken by a cloud. 
 
 The wind was hushed, and the sea mirror-like. 
 
 A single zephyr, as enamoured, played 
 
 With her loose tresses, and drew more and more 
 
 Her veil across her bosom. Long I lay 
 
 Contemplating that face so beautiful, 
 
 That rosy mouth, that cheek dimpled with smiles, 
 
 That neck but half-concealed, whiter than snow. 
 
 'Twas the sweet slumber of her early age.
 
 77 
 
 I looked and looked, and felt a flush of joy 
 I would express but cannot. Oft I wished 
 Gently - - by stealth - - to drop asleep myself, 
 And to incline yet lower that sleep might come ; 
 Oft closed my eyes as in forgetfulness. 
 'Twas all in vain. Love would not let me rest. 
 
 But how delightful when at length she waked I 
 When, her light hair adjusting, and her veil 
 So rudely scattered, she resumed her place 
 Beside me ; and, as gaily as before, 
 Sitting unconsciously nearer and nearer, 
 Poured out her innocent mind ! 
 
 So, nor long since, 
 Sung a Venetian ; and his lay of love,* 
 Dangerous and sweet, charmed Venice. For myself, 
 (Less fortunate, if Love be Happiness) 
 No curtain drawn, no pulse beating alarm, 
 I went alone beneath the silent moon ; 
 Thy square, St. Mark, thy churches, palaces, 
 Glittering and frost-like, and, as day drew on. 
 Melting away, an emblem of themselves. 
 
 Those Porches passed, thro' which the water-breeze 
 
 * La Biondina in Gondoletia.
 
 78 
 
 Plays, though no longer on the noble forms * 
 That moved there, sable-vested — and the Quay, 
 Silent, grass-grown — adventurer-like I launched 
 Into the deep, ere long discovering 
 Isles such as cluster in the Southern seas, 
 All verdure. Every where, from bush and brake, 
 The musky odour of the serpents came ; 
 Their slimy track across the woodman's path 
 Bright in the moonshine ; and, as round I went. 
 Dreaming of Greece, whither the waves were gliding, 
 I listened to the venerable pines 
 Then in close converse,f and, if right I guessed, 
 Delivering many a message to the Winds, 
 In secret, for their kindred on Mount Ida. 
 Nor when again in Venice, when again 
 In that strange place, so stirring and so still, 
 WTiere nothing comes to drown the human voice 
 But music, or the dashing of the tide, 
 Ceased I to wander. Now a Jessica 
 
 * ' C'etait sous les portiques de Saint-Marc que les patriciens 
 se reunissaient tous les jours. Le nom de cette promenade 
 indiquait sa destination; on I'appellait il Broglio.' — Daru. 
 
 t I am indebted for this thought to some unpublished travels 
 by the Author of Vatbek.
 
 79 
 
 Sung to her lute, her signal as she sat 
 
 At her half-open window. Then, methought, 
 
 A serenade broke silence, breathing hope 
 
 Thro' walls of stone, and torturing the proud heart 
 
 Of some Priuli. Once, we could not err, 
 
 (It was before an old Palladian house, 
 
 As between night and day we floated by) 
 
 A Gondolier lay singing ; and he sung, 
 
 As in the time when Venice was herself,* 
 
 Of Tancred and Ermixia. On our oars 
 
 We rested ; and the verse was verse divine ! 
 
 We could not err — Perhaps he was the last — 
 
 For none took up the strain, none answered him ; 
 
 And, when he ceased, he left upon my ear 
 
 A something like the dying voice of Venice ! 
 
 * Goldoni, describing his excursion with the Passalacqua, lias 
 left us a lively picture of this class of men. 
 
 " We were no sooner in the middle of that great lagoon which 
 encircles the City, than our discreet Gondolier drew the curtain 
 behind us, and let us float at the will of the waves, — At length 
 night came on, and we could not tell where we were. ' What 
 is the hour?' said I to the Gondolier. — ' I cannot guess. Sir; 
 but, if I am not mistaken, it is the lover's hour.' — ' Let us go 
 home,' I replied; and he turned the prow homeward, singing, 
 as lie rowed, the twenty-sixth strophe of the sixteenth canto of 
 the Jerusalem Delivered."
 
 80 
 
 The moon went dov.n ; and nothing now was seen 
 Save where the lamp of a ]\'^" donna shone 
 Faintly — or heard, but when he spoke, who stood 
 Over the lantern at the prow and cried, 
 Turning the corner of some reverend pile. 
 Some school or hospital of old renown, 
 The' haply none were coming, none were near, 
 ' Hasten or slacken.' * But at length Night fled ; 
 And with her fled, scattering, the sons of Pleasure. 
 Star after star shot by, or, meteor-like, 
 Crossed me and vanished — lost at once among 
 Those hundred Isles that tower majestically, 
 That rise abruptly from the water-mark, 
 Not with rough crag, but marble, and the work 
 Of noblest architects. I lingered still ; 
 Nor sought my threshold, -j- till the hour was come 
 And past, when, flitting home in the grey light. 
 The young Bianca found her father's door,j. 
 
 * Premi o stali. 
 
 t At Venice, if you have la riva in casa, you step from your 
 boat into the hall. See Rose's Letters from the North of 
 Italy. 
 
 X Bianca Capello. It had been shut, if we may believe the 
 Novelist Malespini, by a baker's boy, as he passed by at day-
 
 81 
 
 That door so often with a trembUng hand, 
 So often — then so lately left ajar, 
 Shut ; and, all terror, all perjslexity, 
 Now by her lover urged, now by her love, 
 Fled o'er the waters to return no more. 
 
 break ; and in her despair sbe fled witli her lover to Florence, 
 where he fell by assassination. Her beauty, and her love- 
 adventure as here related, her marriage afterwards with the 
 Grand Duke, and that fatal banquet at which they were both 
 poisoned by the Cardinal, his brother, have rendered her 
 history a romance. ,
 
 THE BRIDES OF VENICE.* 
 
 It was St. Mary's Eve, and all poured forth 
 
 For some great festival. Tlie fisher came 
 
 From his green islet, bringing o'er the waves 
 
 His wife and little one ; the husbandman 
 
 From the Firm Land, -svith many a friar and nun. 
 
 And village-maiden, her first flight from home, 
 
 Crowding the common ferry. All arrived ; 
 
 And in his straw the prisoner turned and hstened, 
 
 So great the stir in Venice. Old and young 
 
 Thronged her three hundred bridges ; the grave Turk, 
 
 Turbaned, long-vested, and the cozening Jew, 
 
 In yellow hat and thread-bare gaberdine. 
 
 Hurrying along. For, as the custom was, 
 
 The noblest sons and daughters of the State, 
 
 * This circumstance took place at Venice on the first of 
 February, the eve of the feast of the Purification of the Virgin, 
 .4. D. 994, Pietro Candiano, Doge.
 
 83 
 
 Whose names are written in the Book of Gold, 
 Were on that day to solemnize their nuptials. 
 
 At noon a distant murmur through the crowd 
 Rising and rolling on, proclaimed them near ; 
 And never from their earliest hour was seen 
 Such splendour or such beaut3^* Two and two, 
 (The richest tapestry unrolled before them) 
 First came the Brides ; each in her virgin-veil, 
 Nor unattended by her bridal maids, 
 The two that, step by step, behind her bore 
 The small but precious caskets that contained 
 The dowry and the presents. On she moved. 
 Her eyes cast down, and holding in her hand 
 A fan, that gently waved, of ostrich-plumes. 
 Her veil, transparent as the gossamer, -j- 
 Fell from beneath a starry diadem ; 
 And on her dazzling neck a jewel shone, 
 
 * ' E '1 costume era, che tutte le novizze con tutta la dote 
 lore venissero alia detta chiesa, dov' era il vescovo con tutta la 
 chieresia.' — A. Navagiero. 
 
 t Among the Habiti Anlichi, in that admirable book of wood- 
 cuts ascribed to Titian (a. d. 1590), there is one entitled, 
 ' Sposa Venetiana ii Castello.' It was taken from an old paint- 
 ing in the Scuola di S. Giovanni Evangelista, and by the Writer 
 is believed to represent one of the Brides here described.
 
 84 
 
 Ruby or diamond or dark amethyst ; 
 
 A jewelled chain, in many a winding wreath, 
 
 Wreathing her gold brocade. 
 
 Before the Church, 
 That venerable structure now no more* 
 On the sea-brink, another train they met. 
 No strangers, nor unlooked for ere they came, 
 Brothers to some, still dearer to the rest ; 
 Each in his hand bearing his cap and plume. 
 And, as he walked, with modest dignity 
 Folding his scarlet mantle. At the gate 
 They join ; and slowly up the bannered aisle 
 Led by the choir, with due solemnity 
 Range round the altar. In his vestments there 
 The Patriarch stands ; and, while the anthem flows. 
 Who can look on unmoved — the dream of years 
 Just now fulfilling ! Here a mother weeps. 
 Rejoicing in her daughtei*. There a son 
 Blesses the day that is to make her his ; 
 While she shines forth through all her ornament, 
 Her beauty heightened by her hopes and fears. 
 At length the rite is ending. All fall down, 
 
 * San Pietro di Castello, the Patriarchal Church of \ enice.
 
 85 
 
 All of all ranks ; and, stretching out his hands, 
 Apostle-like, the holy man proceeds 
 To give the blessing — not a stir, a breath ; 
 WTien hark, a din of voices from without. 
 And shrieks and groans and outcries as in battle I 
 And lo, the door is burst, the curtain rent. 
 And armed ruffians, robbers from the deep, 
 Savage, uncouth, led on by Barbaro, 
 And his six brothers in their coats of steel. 
 Are standing on the threshold ! Statue-like 
 Awhile they gaze on the fallen multitude. 
 Each with his sabre up, in act to strike ; 
 Then, as at once recovering from the spell, 
 Rush forward to the altar, and as soon 
 Are gone again — amid no clash of arms 
 Bearing away the maidens and the treasures. 
 
 Where are they now ? — ploughing the distant waves. 
 Their sails out-spread and given to the wind, 
 They on their decks triumphant. On they speed, 
 Steering for Istria ; their accursed barks 
 (Well are they known,* the galliot and the galley) 
 Freighted, alas, with all that life endears ! 
 
 * ' Una galera e una galeotta.' — M. Sanuto.
 
 86 
 
 The richest argosies were poor to them ! 
 
 Now hadst thou seen along that crowded shore 
 The matrons running wild, their festal dress 
 A strange and moving contrast to their grief; 
 And through the city, wander where thou wouldst, 
 The men half armed and arming — every where 
 As roused from slumber by the stirring trump ; 
 One with a shield, one with a casque and spear ; 
 One with an axe severing in two the chain 
 Of some old pinnace. Not a raft, a plank. 
 But on that day was drifting. In an hour 
 Half Venice was afloat. But long before, 
 Frantic with grief and scorning all controul, 
 The Youths were gone in a light brigantine, 
 Lying at anchor near the Arsenal ; 
 Each having sworn, and by the holy rood, 
 To slay or to be slain. 
 
 And from the tower 
 The watchman gives the signal. In the East 
 A ship is seen, and making for the Port ; 
 Her flag St. Mark's. And now she turns the point, 
 Over the waters like a sea-bird flying ! 
 Ha, 'tis the same, 'tis theirs ! from stern to prow 
 Green with victorious wreaths, she comes to bring-
 
 87 
 
 All that was lost. 
 
 Coasting, with narrow search, 
 Friuli — like a tiger in his spring, 
 They had surprised the Corsairs where they lay * 
 Sharing the spoil in blind security 
 And casting lots — had slain them, one and all. 
 All to the last, and flung them far and wide 
 Into the sea, their proper element ; 
 Him first, as first in rank, whose name so long 
 Had hushed the babes of Venice, and who yet,- 
 Breathing a little, in his look retained 
 
 The fierceness of his soul.f 
 
 Thus were the Brides 
 
 Lost and recovered ; and what now remained 
 
 But to give Thanks ? Twelve breast-plates and twelve 
 crowns. 
 
 By the young Victors to their Patron-Saint 
 
 \'owed in the field, inestimable gifts 
 
 Flaming with gems and gold, were in due time 
 
 Laid at his feet ; :j; and ever to preserve 
 
 * In tlie lagoons of Caorlo. The creek is still called II Porln 
 delle Donzelle. 
 
 + ' Paululum etiam spirans,' (?)C.— Sai.i.ust. Bell. Calul. 59. 
 
 t They are described by Evelyn and La Lande ; and were to 
 be seen in the Treasury of St. Mark very lately.
 
 88 
 
 The memory of a day so full of change, 
 
 From joy to grief, from grief to joy again, 
 
 Through many an age, as oft as it came round, 
 
 'Twas held religiously. The Doge resigned 
 
 His crimson for pure ermine, visiting 
 
 At earliest dawn St. Mary's silver shrine ; 
 
 And through the city, in a stately barge * 
 
 Of gold, were borne with songs and symphonies 
 
 Twelve ladies young and noble. Clad they were 
 
 In bridal white with bridal ornaments, 
 
 Each in her glittering veil ; and on the deck. 
 
 As on a burnished throne, they ghded by ; 
 
 No window or balcony but adorned 
 
 With hangings of rich texture, not a roof 
 
 But covered with beholders, and the air 
 
 Vocal with joy. Onward they went, their oars 
 
 Moving in concert with the harmony, 
 
 Through the Rialtof to the Ducal Palace, 
 
 * ' Le quali con trionfo si conducessero sopra una piatta pe' 
 canali di Venezia con suoni e canti.' — M. Sanuto. 
 
 t An English abbreviation. Rialto is the name, not of the 
 bridge, but of the island from which it is called ; and the Vene- 
 tians say Il-ponte di Rialto, as we say Westminster-bridge. 
 
 In that island is the Exchange; and I have often walked 
 there as on classic ground. In the days of Antonio and Bassa-
 
 89 
 
 And at a banquet, served with honour there, 
 Sat representing, in the eyes of all, 
 Eyes not unwet, I ween, with grateful tears. 
 Their lovely ancestors, the Brides of Venice. 
 
 nio it was second to none. " I sottoportici," says Sansovino, 
 writing in 1580, " sono ogni giorno frequentati da i mercatanti 
 Fiorentini, Genovesi, Milanesi, Spagnuoli, Turchi, e d' altie 
 nationi diverse del mondo, i quali vi concorrono in tanta copia, 
 che questa piazza e anuoverata fra le prime dell' universe." It 
 was there that the Christian held discourse with the Jew ; and 
 Shylock refers to it, when he says, 
 
 " Signer Antonio, many a time and oft, 
 In the Rialto you have rated me — " 
 
 ' Andiamo a Rialto ' — ' L'ora di Rialto ' — were on every tongue ; 
 and continue so to the present day, as we learn from the come- 
 dies of Goldoni, and particularly from his Mercanti. 
 
 There is a place adjoining, called Rialto Nuovo ; and so 
 called, according to Sansovino, " perche fu fabbricato dope il 
 vecchio."
 
 90 
 
 FOSCARI. 
 
 Let us lift up the curtain, and observe 
 
 What passes in that chamber. Now a sigh, 
 
 And now a groan is heard. Then all is still. 
 
 Twenty are sitting as in judgment there ;* 
 
 Men who have served their country, and grown grey 
 
 In governments and distant embassies, 
 
 Men eminent alike in war and peace ; 
 
 Such as in effigy shall long adorn 
 
 The walls of Venice — to shew what she was ! 
 
 Their garb is black, and black the arras is, 
 
 And sad the general aspect. Yet their looks 
 
 Are calm, are cheerful ; nothing there like grief, 
 
 Nothing or harsh or cruel. Still that noise, 
 
 * 'Che Council of Ten and the Giunta, " nel quale," says 
 Sanuto, " iu messer lo doge." The Giunta at the first exami- 
 nation consisted of ten Patricians, at the last of twenty. 
 
 This story and the Tragedy of the Two Foscari were pub- 
 lished, within a few days of each other, in jNovember 18'21.
 
 91 
 
 That low and dismal moaning. 
 
 Half withdrawn, 
 A little to the left, sits one in crimson, 
 A venerable man, fourscore and five. 
 Cold drops of sweat stand on his furrowed brow. 
 His hands are clenched ; his eyes half-shut and glazed ; 
 His shrunk and withered limbs rigid as marble. 
 'Tis FoscARi, the Doge. And there is one, 
 A young man, lying at his feet, stretched out 
 In torture. 'Tis his son. 'Tis Giacomo, 
 His only joy (and has he lived for this ?) 
 Accused of murder. Yesternight the proofs, 
 If proofs they be, were in the lion's mouth 
 Dropt by some hand unseen ; and he, himself, 
 Must sit and look on a beloved son 
 Suffering the Question. 
 
 Twice to die in peace, 
 To save, while yet he could, a falling house, 
 And turn the hearts of his fell Adversaries, 
 Those who had now, like hell-hounds in full cry, 
 Chased down his last of four, twice did he ask 
 To lay aside the Crown, and they refused, 
 An oath exacting, never more to ask ; 
 And there he sits, a spectacle of woe.
 
 92 
 
 Condemned in bitter mockery to wear 
 The bauble he had sighed for. 
 
 Once again 
 The screw is turned ; and, as it turns, the Son 
 Looks up, and, in a faint and broken tone. 
 Murmurs ' My Father I' The old man shrinks back, 
 And in his mantle muffles up his face. 
 ' Art thou not guilty ?' says a voice, that once 
 Would greet the Sufferer long before they met, 
 ' Art thou not guilty ?' — ' No ! Indeed I am not !' 
 But all is unavailing. In that Court 
 Groans are confessions ; Patience, Fortitude, 
 The work of Magic ; and, released, revived. 
 For Condemnation, from his Father's lips 
 He hears the sentence, ' Banishment to Candia. 
 Death, if he leaves it.' And the bark sets sail ; 
 And he is gone from all he loves in life ! 
 Gone in the dead of night — vmseen of any — 
 Without a word, a look of tenderness, 
 To be called up, when, in his lonely hours. 
 He would indulge in weeping. Like a ghost, 
 Day after day, year after year, he haxmts 
 An ancient rampart that o'erhangs the sea ; 
 Gazing on vacancy, and hourly there
 
 93 
 
 Starting as from some wild and micouth dream, 
 
 To answer to the watch. Alas, how changed 
 
 From him the miiTor of the Youth of Venice ; 
 Whom in the slightest thing, or whim or chance. 
 Did he but wear his doublet so and so, 
 All followed ; at whose nuptials, when he won 
 That maid at once the noblest, fairest, best,* 
 A daughter of the House that now among 
 Its ancestors in monumental brass 
 Numbers eight Doges — to convey her home, 
 The Bucentaur went forth ; and thrice the Sun 
 Shone on the Chivalry, that, front to front. 
 And blaze on blaze reflecting, met and ranged 
 To tourney at St. Mark's. — But lo, at last, 
 Messengers come. He is recalled : his heart 
 Leaps at the tidings. He embarks : the boat 
 
 * She was a Contarini ; a name coeval with the Republic, 
 and illustrated by eight Doges. On the occasion of their 
 marriage the Bucentaur came out in its splendour; and a 
 bridge of boats was thrown across the Canal Grande for the 
 Bridegroom and his retinue of three hundred horse. Sauuto 
 dwells with pleasure on the costliness of the dresses and the 
 magnificence of the processions by land and water. The tour- 
 naments in the place of St. Mark lasted three days, and wme 
 attended by thirty thousand people.
 
 94 
 
 Springs to the oar, and back again he goes — 
 
 Into that very Chamber ! there to lie 
 
 In his old resting-place, the bed of steel ; 
 
 And thence look up (Five long, long years of Grief 
 
 Have not killed either) on his wretched Sire, 
 
 Still in that seat — as though he had not stirred ; 
 
 Immovable, and muffled in his cloak. 
 
 But now he comes, convicted of a crime 
 Great by the laws of Venice. Night and day, 
 Brooding on what he had been, what he was, 
 'Twas more than he could bear. His longing-fits 
 Thickened upon him. His desire for home 
 Became a madness ; and, resolved to go. 
 If but to die, in his despair he writes 
 A letter to the sovereign-prince of Milan, 
 (To him whose name, among the greatest now,* 
 
 * Francesco Sforza. His father, when at work in the field, 
 was accosted by some soldiers and asked if he would enlist. 
 ' Let me throw my mattock on that oak,' he replied, ' and, if it 
 remains there, I will.' It remained there ; and the peasant, 
 regarding it as a sign, enlisted. He became soldier, general, 
 prince ; and his grandson, in the palace at INlilan, said to Paulus 
 Jovius, ' You behold these guards and this grandeur. I owe 
 every thing to the branch of an oak, the branch that held my 
 grandfather's mattock.'
 
 95 
 
 Had perished, blotted out at once and rased, 
 But for the rugged Hmb of an old oak) 
 Soliciting his influence with the State, 
 
 And drops it to be found. ' Would ye know all ? 
 
 I have transgressed, offended wilfully ; * 
 And am prepared to suffer as I ought. 
 But let me, let me, if but for an hour, 
 (Ye must consent — for all of you are sons. 
 Most of you husbands, fathers) let me first 
 Indulge the natural feelings of a man. 
 And, ere I die, if such my sentence be, 
 Press to my heart ('tis all I ask of you) 
 My wife, my children — and my aged mother — 
 Say, is she yet alive ?' He is condemned 
 To go ere set of sun, go whence he came, 
 A banished man ; and for a year to breathe 
 The vapour of a dungeon. But his prayer 
 (What could they less ?) is granted. 
 
 In a hall 
 Open and crowded by the common herd, 
 'Twas there a Wife and her four sons yet young, 
 A Mother borne along, life ebbing fast, 
 
 ' It was a high crime to solicit the intercession of any Foreign 
 Prince.
 
 96 
 
 And an old Doge, mustering his strength m vain, 
 Assembled now, sad privilege, to meet 
 One so long lost, one who for them had braved, 
 For them had sought — death and yet worse than death ! 
 To meet him, and to part with him for ever ! — 
 Time and their wrongs had changed them all, him most ! 
 Yet when the Wife, the Mother looked again, 
 'Twas he — 'twas he himself — 'twas Giacomo ! 
 And all clung round him, weeping bitterly ; 
 Weeping the more, because they wept in vain. 
 
 Unnerved, and now unsettled in his mind 
 From long and exquisite pain, he sobs and cries. 
 Kissing the old Man's cheek, ' Help me, my Father ! 
 Let me, I pray thee, live once more among ye : 
 
 Let me go home.' ' My Son,' returns the Doge, 
 
 Mastering his grief, ' if thou art indeed my Son, 
 Obey. Thy Country wills it.'* 
 
 Giacomo 
 That night embarked ; sent to an early grave 
 For one whose dying words, ' The deed was mine ! 
 He is most innocent ! 'Twas I who did it I' 
 Came when he slept in peace. The ship, that sailed 
 
 * ' Va e ubbidisci a quello clie vuole la terra, e noii terrar 
 piu oltre.'
 
 97 
 
 Swift as the winds with his dehverance, 
 
 Bore back a hfeless corse. Generous as brave, 
 
 Affection, kindness, the sweet offices 
 
 Of duty and love were from his tenderest years 
 
 To him as needful as his daily bread ; 
 
 And to become a by-word in the streets, 
 
 Bringing a stain on those who gave him life, 
 
 And those, alas, now worse than fatherless — 
 
 To be proclaimed a ruffian, a night-stabber. 
 
 He on whom none before had breathed reproach — 
 
 He lived but to disprove it. That hope lost, 
 
 Death followed. Oh, if Justice be in Heaven, 
 
 A day must come of ample Retribution ! 
 
 Then was thy cup, old Man, full to the brim. 
 But thou wert yet alive ; and there was one. 
 The soul and spring of all that Enmity, 
 Who would not leave thee ; fastening on thy flank. 
 Hungering and thirsting, still unsatisfied ; 
 One of a name illustrious as thine own ! 
 One of the Ten ! one of the Invisible Three ! * 
 'Twas LoREDANO. When the whelps were gone, 
 He would dislodge the Lion from his den ; 
 
 • The State-Inquisitors. For an account of their Autlioiit), 
 see page 75. 
 
 H
 
 98 
 
 And, leading on the pack he long had led, 
 The miserable pack that ever howled 
 Against fallen Greatness, moved that Foscari 
 Be Doge no longer ; urging his great age ; 
 Calling the loneliness of grief neglect 
 Of duty, suUenness against the laws. 
 
 ' I am most willing to retire,' said he : 
 
 ' But I have sworn, and cannot of myself. 
 
 Do with me as ye please.' He was deposed, 
 
 He, who had reigned so long and gloriously ; 
 His ducal bonnet taken from his brow, 
 His robes stript off, his seal and signet-ring 
 Broken before him. But now nothing moved 
 The meekness of his soul. All things alike ! 
 Among the six that came with the decree, 
 Foscari saw one he knew not, and inquired 
 His name. ' I am the son of Marco Memmo.' 
 ' Ah,' he rephed, ' thy father was my friend.' 
 And now he goes. ' It is the hour and past. 
 
 I have no business here.' ' But wilt thou not 
 
 Avoid the gazing crowd ? That way is private.' 
 ' No ! as I entered, so will I retire.' 
 And, leaning on his staff, he left the House, 
 His residence for five-and-thirty years,
 
 99 
 
 By the same stairs up which he came in state ; 
 Those where the giants stand, guarding the ascent, 
 Monstrous, terrific. At tlie foot he stopt, 
 And, on his staff still leaning, turned and said, 
 ' By mine own merits did I come. I go. 
 Driven by the malice of mine Enemies.' 
 Then to his boat withdrew, poor as he came, 
 Amid the sighs of them that dared not speak. 
 
 This journey was his last. When the bell rang 
 At dawn, announcing a new Doge to Venice, 
 It found him on his knees before the Cross, 
 Clasping his aged hands in earnest prayer ; 
 And there he died. Ere half its task was done, 
 It rang his knell. 
 
 But whence the deadly hate 
 That caused all this — the hate of Loredano? 
 It was a legacy his Father left, 
 ^Vho, but for Foscari, had reigned in Venice, 
 And, like the venom in the serpent's bag. 
 Gathered and grew ! Nothing hut turned to hate ! 
 In vain did Foscari supplicate for peace, 
 Offering in marriage his fair Isabel. 
 He changed not, with a dreadful piety 
 Studying revenge ; listening to those alone
 
 100 
 
 Who talked of vengeance ; grasping by the hand 
 Those in their zeal (and none were wanting there) 
 Who came to tell him of another Wrong, 
 Done or imagined. When his father died, 
 They whispered, ' 'Twas by poison !' and the words 
 Struck him as uttered from his father's grave. 
 He wrote it on the tomb* ('tis there in marble) 
 And with a brow of care, most merchant-like. 
 Among the debtors in his leger-book f 
 Entered at full (nor month, nor day forgot) 
 ' Francesco Foscari — for my Father's death.' 
 Leaving a blank — to be filled up hereafter. 
 When FoscARi's noble heart at length gave way. 
 He took the volume from the shelf again 
 Calmly, and with his pen filled up the blank, 
 Inscribing, ' He has paid me.' 
 
 Ye who sit 
 Brooding from day to day, from day to day 
 Chewing the bitter cud, and starting up 
 
 • " Veneno sublatus." The tomb is in the C'hurch of 
 St. Elena. 
 
 t A remarkable instance, among others in the annals of 
 Venice, that her princes were merchants; her merchants 
 princes,
 
 101 
 
 As tho' the hour was come to whet your fangs, 
 And, like the Pisan,* gnaw the hairy scalp 
 Of him who had offended — if ye must, 
 Sit and brood on ; but oh forbear to teach 
 The lesson to your childi-en. 
 
 * Count Ugolino. — Inferno, 32.
 
 102 
 
 MARCOLINI. 
 
 It was midnight ; the great clock had struck, and 
 was still echoing through every porch and gallery in 
 the quarter of St. Mark, when a young Citizen, 
 wrapped in his cloak, was hastening home under it 
 from an interview with his Mistress. His step was 
 light, for his heai't was so. Her parents had just 
 consented to their marriage ; and the very day was 
 named. ' Lovely Giulietta !' he ci'ied, ' And shall 
 I then call thee mine at last? Who was ever so 
 blest as thy Marcolini ?' But as he spoke, he 
 stopped ; for something glittered on the pavement 
 before him. It was a scabbard of rich workmanship ; 
 and the discovery, what was it but an earnest of good 
 fortune? ' Rest thou there!' he cried, thrusting it 
 gaily into his belt. ' If another claims thee not, thou 
 hast changed masters !' and on he went as before 
 humming the burden of a song which he and his 
 Giulietta had been singing together. But how
 
 103 
 
 little we know what the next minute will bring forth ! 
 He turned by the Church of St. Geminiano, and 
 in three steps he met the Watch. A murder had 
 just been committed. The Senator Renaldi had 
 been found dead at his door, the dagger left in his 
 heart; and the unfortunate Marcolini was dragged 
 away for examination. The place, the time, every 
 thing served to excite, to justify suspicion ; and no 
 sooner had he entered the guardhouse than a damning 
 witness appeared against him. The Bravo in his 
 flight had thrown away his scabbard ; and, smeared 
 with blood, with blood not yet dry, it was now in the 
 belt of Marcolini. Its Patrician ornaments struck 
 every eye ; and, when the fatal dagger was produced 
 and compared with it, not a doubt of his guilt remained. 
 Still there is in the innocent an energy and a com- 
 posure, an energy when they speak and a composure 
 when they are silent, to which none can be altogether 
 insensible ; and the Judge delayed for some time to 
 pronounce the sentence, though he was a iu>ar relation 
 of the dead. At length however it came; and Mar- 
 colini lost his life, Giulietta her reason. 
 
 Not many years afterwards the truth revealed itself, 
 the real criminal in his last moments confessing the
 
 104 
 
 crime : and hence the custom in Venice, a custom 
 that long prevailed, for a cryer to cry out in the 
 Court before a sentence was passed, ' Ricordatevi del 
 povero Marcolini I' * 
 
 Great indeed was the lamentation throughout the 
 City ; and the Judge, dying, directed that thenceforth 
 and for ever a Mass should be sung every night in a 
 chapel of the Ducal Church for his own soul and the 
 soul of Marcolini and the souls of all who had 
 suffered by an unjust judgment. Some land on the 
 Brenta was left by him for the purpose : and still is 
 the Mass sung in the chapel ; still every night, when 
 the great square is illuminating and the casinos are 
 filling fast with the gay and the dissipated, a bell is 
 rung as for a service, and a ray of light seen to issue 
 from a small gothic window that looks towards the 
 place of execution, the place where on a scaffold 
 Marcolini breathed his last. 
 
 * Remember ihe poor IMarcolim !
 
 105 
 
 ARQUA. 
 
 Three leagues from Padua stands, and long has stood 
 
 (The Paduan student knows it, honours it) 
 
 A lonely tomb beside a mountain-church ; 
 
 And I arrived there as the sun declined 
 
 Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe 
 
 Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds 
 
 Singing their farewell-song — the very song 
 
 They sung the night that tomb received a tenant ; 
 
 When, as alive, clothed in his Canon's stole, 
 
 And slowly winding down the narrow path. 
 
 He came to rest there. Nobles of the land, 
 
 Princes and prelates mingled in his train. 
 
 Anxious by any act, while yet they could. 
 
 To catch a ray of glory by reflection ; 
 
 And from that hour have kindred spirits flocked * 
 
 * ' I visited once more,' says Alfieri, ' tlie tomb of our
 
 106 
 
 From distant countries, from the north, the south, 
 To see where he is laid. 
 
 Twelve years ago, 
 Wlien I descended the impetuous Rhone, 
 Its vineyards of such great and old renown,* 
 Its castles, each with some romantic tale, 
 Vanishing fast — the pilot at the stern, 
 He who had steered so long, standing aloft, 
 His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands 
 On what was now his rudder, now his oar, 
 A huge misshapen plank — the bark itself 
 Frail and uncouth, launched to return no more. 
 Such as a shipwrecked man might hope to build, 
 
 master in love, the divine Petrarch ; and there, as at Ravenna, 
 consecrated a day to meditation and verse.' 
 
 He visited also the house ; and in the Album there wrote a 
 sonnet worthy of Petrarch himself. 
 
 " O Cameretta, die gia in te chiudesti 
 
 Quel Grande alia cui fama e angusto il moudo," &c. 
 
 Alfieri took great pleasure in what he called his poetical 
 pilgrimages. At the birth-place and the grave of Tasso he was 
 often to be found ; and in the library at Ferrara he has left this 
 memorial of himself on a blank leaf of the Orlando Furioso : 
 ' ViTTORio Alfieri vide e venero. 18 giugno, 178j.' 
 
 * The Cote Rotie, the Hermitage, S^c.
 
 107 
 
 Urged by the love of home — Twelve years ago, 
 When like an arrow from the cord we flew, 
 Two long, long days, silence, suspense on board, 
 It was to offer at thy fount, Vaucluse, 
 Entering the arched Cave, to wander where 
 Petrarch had wandered, to explore and sit 
 Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit. 
 Musing, reciting — on some rock moss-grown, 
 Or the fantastic root of some old beech, 
 That drinks the living waters as they stream 
 Over their emerald-bed ; and could I now 
 Neglect the place where, in a graver mood,* 
 When he had done and settled with the world, 
 When all the illusions of his Youth were fled, 
 Indulged perhaps too much, cherished too long, 
 He came for the conclusion ? Half-way up 
 He built his house, f whence as by stealth he caught, 
 
 * This village, says Boccaccio, hitlierto almost unknown even 
 at Padua, is soon to become famous through the World ; and 
 the sailor on the Adriatic will prostrate himself, when he 
 discovers the Euganean hills. ' Among them,' will he say, 
 ' sleeps the Poet who is our glory. Ah, unhappy Florence ! 
 You neglected him — You deserved him not.' 
 
 t ' I have built, among the Euganeqii hills, a small house,
 
 108 
 
 Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life 
 
 That soothed, not stirred. — But knock, and enter in. 
 
 This was his chamber. 'Tis as when he went ; 
 
 As if. he now were in his orchard-grove. 
 
 And this his closet. Here he sat and read. 
 
 This was his chair ; and in it, unobserved, 
 
 Reading, or thinking of his absent friends. 
 
 He passed away as in a quiet slumber. 
 
 Peace to this region ! Peace to each, to all ! 
 They know his value — every coming step, 
 That draws the gazing children from their play, 
 Would tell them if they knew not. — But could aught. 
 
 decent and proper ; in which I hope to pass the rest of my days, 
 thinking always of my dead or absent friends.' Among those 
 still living;, was Boccaccio ; who is thus mentioned by him in his 
 Will. ' To Don Giovanni of Certaldo, for a winter-gown at his 
 evening-studies, I leave fifty golden florins; truly little enough 
 for so great a man.' 
 
 When the Venetians over-ran the country, Petrarch prepared 
 for flight. ' Write your name over your door,' said one of his 
 friends, ' and you will be safe.' — ' I am not so sure of that,' 
 replied Petrarch, and fled with his books to Padua. His books 
 he left to the Republic of Venice, laying, as it were, a founda- 
 tion for the library of St. Mark ; but they exist no longer. His 
 legacy to Francis Carrara, a Madonna painted by Giotto, is still 
 preserved in the cathedral of Padua.
 
 109 
 
 Ungentle or ungenerous, spring up 
 Where he is sleeping ; where, and in an age 
 Of savage warfare and blind bigotry, 
 He cultured all that could refine, exalt ; 
 Leading to better things ?
 
 GINEVRA. 
 
 If thou sliouldst ever come by choice or chance 
 To Mod EN A, where still religiously 
 Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
 Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs* 
 Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine) 
 Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate, 
 Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 
 
 * Affirming itself to be the very bucket which Tassom in 
 his mock heroics has celebrated as the cause of war between 
 Bologna and Modena five hundred years ago.
 
 Ill 
 
 Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
 And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses. 
 Will long detain thee ; thro' their arched walks. 
 Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse 
 Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, 
 And lovers, such as in heroic song. 
 Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, 
 That in the spring-time, as alone they sat, 
 Venturing together on a tale of love. 
 
 Read only part that day.* A summer-sun 
 
 Sets ere one half is seen ; but, ere thou go. 
 Enter the house — prythee, forget it not — 
 And look awhile upon a picture there. 
 
 'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, 
 The very last of that illustrious race. 
 Done by ZAMPiEiiif — but by whom I care not. 
 He, who observes it — ere he passes on. 
 Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again. 
 That he may call it up, when far away. 
 
 She sits, inclining forward as to speak, 
 Her lips half-open, and her finger up. 
 As though she said ' Beware !' her vest of gold 
 Broiderod with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, 
 * Inferno, V. t Commonly called Domenichino,
 
 112 
 
 An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ; 
 
 And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
 
 A coronet of pearls. But then her face, 
 
 So lovely, yet so arch, so full of nairth, 
 
 The overflowings of an innocent heart — 
 
 It haunts me still, though many a year has fled. 
 
 Like some wild melody ! 
 
 Alone it hangs 
 Over a mouldering heir -loom, its companion. 
 An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm, 
 But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
 With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ ; 
 A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
 The ducal robes of some old Ancestor. 
 That by the way — it may be true or false — 
 But don't forget the picture ; and thou wilt not, 
 When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. 
 
 She was an only child ; from infancy 
 The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire. 
 Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, 
 That precious gift, what else remained to him ? 
 The young Ginevra was his all in life, 
 Still as she grew, for ever in his sight ; 
 And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
 
 113 
 
 Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
 Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 
 
 Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
 She was all gentleness, all gaiety, 
 Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. 
 But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; 
 Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundi'edth time. 
 The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; 
 And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
 Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 
 
 Great was the joy ; but at the Bridal feast. 
 When all sat down, the Bride was wanting there. 
 Nor was she to be found ! Her Father cried, 
 ' 'Tis but to make a trial of our love !' 
 And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook. 
 And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, 
 Laughing and looking back and flying still, 
 Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. 
 But now, alas, she was not to be foimd ; 
 Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed, 
 But that she was not ! — Weary of his life, 
 Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 
 Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
 
 I
 
 114 
 
 Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have seen 
 An old man wandering as in quest of something, 
 Something he could not find — he knew not what. 
 When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
 Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 
 
 Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, 
 When on an idle day, a day of search 
 Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, 
 That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said 
 By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 
 ' Why not remove it from its lurking place ?' 
 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way 
 It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton. 
 With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, 
 A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
 All else had perished — save a nuptial ring. 
 And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
 Engraven with a name, the name of both, 
 
 ' Ginevra.' There then had she found a grave ! 
 
 Within that chest had she concealed herself. 
 Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy ; 
 When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there. 
 Fastened her down for ever !
 
 BOLOGNA. 
 
 'TwAS night ; the noise and bustle of the day 
 Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought 
 Miraculous cures- — he and his stage were gone ; 
 And he who, when the crisis of his tale 
 Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear. 
 Sent round his cap ; and he who thrummed his wire 
 And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain
 
 116 
 
 Melting the passenger. Thy thousand Cries,* 
 
 So well pourtrayed, and by a son of thine, 
 
 Whose voice had swelled the hubbub in his youth, 
 
 Were hushed, Bologna, silence in the streets, 
 
 The squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs ; 
 
 And soon a Courier, posting as from far, 
 
 Housing and holster, boot and belted coat 
 
 And doublet, stained with many a various soil, 
 
 Stopt and alighted. 'Twas where hangs aloft 
 
 That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming 
 
 All who arrive there, all perhaps save those 
 
 Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell. 
 
 Those on a pilgrimage. And now approached 
 
 Wheels, through the lofty porticoes resounding, 
 
 Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade 
 
 As the sky changes. To the gate they came ; 
 
 And, ere the man had half his story done. 
 
 Mine host received the Master — one long used 
 
 To sojourn among strangers, every where 
 
 (Go where he would, along the wildest track) 
 
 * See the Cries of Bologna, as drawn by Annibal Carracci. 
 He was of very humble origin ; and, to correct his brother's 
 vanity, once sent him. a portrait of their father, the tailor, 
 threading his needle.
 
 117 
 
 Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, 
 And leaving footsteps to be traced by those 
 Who love the haunts of Genius ; one who saw, 
 Observed, nor shunned the busy scenes of life, 
 But mingled not, and mid the din, the stir. 
 Lived as a separate Spirit. 
 
 Much had passed 
 Since last we parted ; and those five short years — 
 Much had they told ! His clustering locks were turned 
 Grey ; nor did aught recall the Youth that swam 
 From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice. 
 Still it was sweet ; still from his eye the thought 
 Flashed lightning-like, nor lingered on the way, 
 Waiting for words. Far, far into the night 
 We sat, conversing — no unwelcome hour, 
 The hour we met ; and, when Aurora rose, 
 Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine. 
 
 Well I remember how the golden sun 
 Filled with its beams the unfathomable gulfs. 
 As on we travelled, and along the ridge, 
 Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild-fig, 
 His motley household came — Not last nor least, 
 Battista, who, upon the moonlight-sea 
 Of Venice, had so ably, zealously,
 
 118 
 
 Served, and, at parting, thrown his oar away 
 To follow through the world ; who without stain 
 Had worn so long that honourable badge,* 
 The gondolier's, in a Patrician House 
 Arguing unlimited trust. — Not last nor least. 
 Thou, tho' declining in thy beauty and strength, 
 Faithful MoRETTo, to the latest hour 
 Guarding his chamber-door, and now along 
 The silent, sullen strand of Missolonghi 
 Howling in grief. — He had just left that Place 
 Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea,+ 
 Ravenna ! where, from Dante's sacred tomb 
 He had so oft, as many a verse declares, '^ 
 Drawn inspiration ; where, at twilight-time. 
 Thro' the pine-forest wandering with loose rein, 
 Wandei'ing and lost, he had so oft beheld 
 (What is not visible to a Poet's eye ?) 
 The spectre -knight, the hell-hounds and their prey, 
 The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth 
 
 * The principal gondolier, il fante di poppa, was almost 
 always in the confidence of his master, and employed on occa- 
 sions that required judgment and address. 
 
 t ' Adrianum mare.' — Cic. t See the Prophecy of Danie.
 
 119 
 
 Suddenly blasted.* 'Twas a theme he loved, 
 But others claimed their turn ; and many a tower, 
 Shattered, uprooted from its native rock, 
 Its strength the pride of some heroic age. 
 Appeared and vanished (many a sturdy steer f 
 Yoked and unyoked) while as in happier days 
 He poured his spirit forth. The past forgot, 
 All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured 
 Present or future. 
 
 He is now at rest ; 
 And praise and blame fall on his ear alike, 
 Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone. 
 Gone like a star that through the firmament 
 Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course 
 Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks. 
 Was generous, noble — noble in its scorn 
 Of all things low or little ; nothing there 
 Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs 
 Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do 
 Things long regretted, oft, as many know, 
 None more than I, thy gratitude would build 
 
 * See the tale as told by Boccaccio and Diyd'-n. 
 t They wait for the traveller's carriage at the foot of every 
 hill.
 
 120 
 
 On slight foundations : and, if in thy hfe 
 Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert, 
 Thy wish accomplished ; dying in the land 
 Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire, 
 Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious ! 
 They in thy train — ah, little did they think, 
 As round we went, that they so soon should sit 
 Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourned, 
 Changing her festal for her funeral song ; 
 That they so soon should hear the minute-gun. 
 As morning gleamed on what remained of thee, 
 Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering 
 Thy years of joy and sorrow. 
 
 Thou art gone ; 
 And he who would assail thee in thy grave, 
 Oh, let him pause I For who among us all. 
 Tried as thou wert — even from thine earliest years. 
 When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland-boy — 
 Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame ; 
 Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek. 
 Uplifting, pressing, and to lips Hke thine, 
 Her charmed cup — ah, who among us all 
 Could say he had not erred as much, and more ?
 
 121 
 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 Of all the fairest Cities of the Earth 
 None is so fair as Florence. 'Tis a gem 
 Of purest ray ; and what a light broke forth,* 
 When it emerged from darkness ! Search within, 
 Without ; all is enchantment ! 'Tis the Past 
 Contending with the Present ; and in turn 
 Each has the mastery. 
 
 In this chapel wrought f 
 One of the Few, Nature's Interpreters, 
 The Few, whom Genius gives as Lights to shine. 
 
 * Among other instances of her ascendancy at the close of 
 the thirteenth century, it is related tliat Florence saw twelve 
 of her citizens assembled at the Court of Boniface the Eighth, 
 as Embassadors from different parts of J'^urope and Asia. Their 
 names are mentioned in Toscaiui Illuslrata. 
 
 A chapel of tiie Holy Virgin in the church of the Car- 
 melites. It is adorned with his paintings, and all the great
 
 122 
 
 Massaccio ; and he slumbers underneath. 
 Wouldst thou behold his monument ? Look round ! 
 And know that where we stand, stood oft and long, 
 Oft till the day was gone, Raphael himself, 
 He and his haughty Rival * — patiently. 
 Humbly, to learn of those who came before, 
 To steal a spark from their authentic fire. 
 Theirs who first broke the universal gloom. 
 
 Sons of the Morning. On that ancient seat,-|- 
 
 The seat of stone that runs along the wall,]; 
 
 artists of Florence studied there; Lionardo da Yinci, Fra 
 BartoloQieo, Andrea del Sarto, Michael Angelo, Raphael, ?<c. 
 
 He had no stone, no inscription, says one of his biographers, 
 for he was thought little of in his life-time. 
 
 " Se alcun cercasse il marmo, o il nome mio. 
 La chiesa e il marmo, una cappella e il nome." 
 
 It was there that Michael Angelo received the blow in his 
 face. — See Vasari, and Cellini. 
 
 * Michael Angelo. t A tradition. 
 
 I II sasso di Dante. It exists, I believe, no longer, the wall 
 having been taken down ; but enough of him remains else- 
 where. — Boccaccio delivered his lectures on the Divina Corn- 
 media in the church of S. Stefano ; and whoever happens to 
 eater it, when the light is favourable, may still, methinks, catch 
 a glimpse of him and his hearers.
 
 123 
 
 South of the Church, east of the helfry-tower, * 
 (Thou canst not miss it) in the sultry time 
 Would Dante sit conversing, and with those 
 Who little thought that in his hand he held 
 The balance, and assigned at his good pleasure 
 To each his place in the invisible world, 
 To some an upper region, some a lower ; 
 Many a transgressor sent to his account,f 
 Long ere in Florence numbered with the dead; 
 The body still as full of life and stir 
 At home, abroad ; still and as oft inclined 
 To eat, drink, sleep ; still clad as others were. 
 And at noon-day, where men were wont to meet, 
 Met as continually ; when the soul went. 
 Relinquished to a demon, and by him 
 
 * It was designed by Giotto; as we learn from his epitaph 
 in the cathedral. 
 
 t Inferno, 33. A more dreadful vehicle for satire cannot 
 well be conceived. Dante, according to Boccaccio, was passing 
 by a door in Verona, at which some women were sitting, when 
 he overheard one of them say in a low voice to the rest, Do you 
 see that man^ He it is, who visits Hell, wlienever he pleases ; 
 and who returns to give an account of those he finds there. — I 
 can believe it, replied another. Don't you observe his brown 
 skin, and his frizled beard?
 
 124 
 
 (So says the Bard, and who can read and doubt ?) 
 
 Dwelt in and governed. Sit thee down awhile ; 
 
 Then, by the gates so marvellously wrought, 
 
 That they might serve to be the gates of Heaven,* 
 
 Enter the Baptistery. That place he loved, 
 
 Loved as his own ; f and in his visits there 
 
 Well might he take delight ! For when a child, 
 
 Playing, as many are wont, with venturous feet 
 
 Near and yet nearer to the sacred font, 
 
 Slipped and fell in, he flew and rescued him, 
 
 Flew with an energy, a violence. 
 
 That broke the marble — a mishap ascribed 
 
 To evil motives ; his, alas, to lead 
 
 A life of trouble, and ere long to leave 
 
 All things most dear to him, ere long to know 
 
 How salt another's bread is, and the toil 
 
 Of going up and down another's stairs. J 
 
 Nor then forget that Chamber of the Dead, § 
 Where the gigantic shapes of Night and Day, 
 
 * A saving of Michael Angelo. They are tbe work of 
 Lorenzo GLiberti. 
 
 t ' Mia bel Giovanni.' — Inferno, 19. t Puradiso, 17. 
 
 § The Chapel de' Deposit! ; in which are the tombs of tlie 
 Medici, by Michael Angelo.
 
 125 
 
 Turned into stone, rest everlastingly ; 
 
 Yet still are breathing, and shed round at noon 
 
 A two-fold influence — only to be felt — 
 
 A light, a darkness, mingling each with each ; 
 
 Both and yet neither. There, from age to age, 
 
 Two Ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres. 
 
 That is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well.* 
 
 He meditates, his head upon his hand. 
 
 What from beneath his helm-like bonnet scowls ? 
 
 Is it a face, or but an eyeless skull ? 
 
 'Tis lost in shade ; yet, like the basilisk, 
 
 It fascinates, and is intolerable. 
 
 His mien is noble, most majestical ! 
 
 Then most so, when the distant choir is heard 
 
 At morn or eve — nor fail thou to attend 
 
 On that thrice-hallowed day, when all are there ; f 
 
 When all, propitiating with solemn songs. 
 
 Visit the Dead. Then wilt thou feel his Power ! 
 
 * He died early ; living ouly to become the father of Cathe- 
 rine de Wedicis. Had an Evil Spirit assumed the human shape 
 to propagate mischief, he could not have done better. 
 
 The statue is larger than the life, but not so large as to shock 
 belief. It is the most real and unreal thing that ever came from 
 the chisel. 
 
 t The day of All Souls : II di de' Morti.
 
 126 
 
 But let not Sculpture, Painting, Poesy, 
 Or They, the Masters of these mighty Spells, 
 Detain us. Our first homage is to Virtue. 
 Where, in what dungeon of the Citadel, 
 (It must be known — the writing on the wall* 
 Cannot be gone — 'twas with the blade cut in. 
 Ere, on his knees to God, he slew himself,) 
 Did he, the last, the noblest Citizen, -f 
 Breathe out his soul, lest in the torturing hour 
 
 He might accuse the Guiltless ? That debt paid, 
 
 But with a sigh, a tear for human frailty, 
 We may return, and once more give a loose 
 To the delighted spirit — worshipping. 
 In her small temple of rich workmanship, j: 
 Venus herself, who, when she left the skies, 
 Came hither. 
 
 * " Exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor !" 
 
 Perhaps there is nothing in language more affecting than his 
 
 last testament. It is addressed ' To God, the Deliverer,' and 
 
 was found steeped in his blood. 
 
 t FiLippo Stuozzi. t The Tribune.
 
 DON GARZIA. 
 
 Among those awful forms, in elder time 
 Assembled, and through many an after-age 
 Destined to stand as Genii of the Place 
 Where men most meet in Florence, may be seen 
 His who first played the Tyrant. Clad in mail, 
 But with his helmet off — in kingly state, 
 Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass ; * 
 And they, that read the legend underneath, 
 
 Cosmo, the first Grand Duke.
 
 128 
 
 Go and pronounce him happy. Yet, methinks, 
 
 There is a Chamber that, if walls could speak, 
 
 Would turn their admiration into pity. 
 
 Half of what passed, died with him ; but the rest. 
 
 All he discovered when the fit was on. 
 
 All that, by those who listened, could be gleaned 
 
 From broken sentences and starts in sleep, 
 
 Is told, and by an honest Chronicler.* 
 
 Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia, 
 (The eldest had not seen his nineteenth summer) 
 Went to the chase ; but only one returned. 
 Giovanni, when the huntsman blew his horn 
 O'er the last stag that started from the brake. 
 And in the heather turned to stand at bay. 
 Appeared not ; and at close of day was found 
 Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas, 
 The trembling Cosmo guessed the deed, the doer ; 
 And, having caused the body to be borne 
 In secret to that Chamber — at an hour 
 When all slept sound, save ^e who bore them both,f 
 
 * De Thou. 
 
 t Eleonora di Toledo. Of the Children that survived her, 
 one fell by a brother, one by a husband, and a third murdered 
 his wife. But that family was soon to become extinct. It is
 
 ]29 
 
 Who little thoug-ht of what was yet to come, 
 
 And lived but to be told— he bade Garzia 
 
 Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand 
 
 A winking lamp, and in the other a key 
 
 Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led ; 
 
 And, having entered in and locked the door, 
 
 The father fixed his eyes upon the son. 
 
 And closely questioned him. No change beti'ayed 
 
 Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up 
 
 The bloody sheet. 'Look there! Look there!' he cried. 
 
 ' Blood calls for blood — and from a father's hand ! 
 
 — Unless thyself wilt save him that sad office. 
 
 What !' he exclaimed, when, shuddering at the sight, 
 
 The boy breathed out, ' I stood but on my guard.' 
 
 ' Dai''st thou then black(!n one who never wronged thee. 
 
 Who would not set his foot upon a worm ? 
 
 Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee. 
 
 And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all.' 
 
 Then from Garzia's belt he drew the blade, 
 
 That fatal one which spilt his brother's blood ; 
 
 some consolation to reflect that tlieir Country did not go unre- 
 venj,'ed for tlie calamities wliicli tliey had brought u[ion her. 
 How many of them died by the l)ands of eacli other!— See 
 p. 149. 
 
 K
 
 130 
 
 And, kneeling on the ground, ' Gi'eat God !' he cried, 
 ' Grant me the strength to do an act of Justice. 
 Thou knowest what it costs me ; but, alas, 
 How can I spare myself, sparing none else ? 
 Grant me the strength, the will — and oh forgive 
 The sinful soul of a most wretched son. 
 'Tis a most wretched father that implores it.' 
 Long on Garzia's neck he hung and wept, 
 Long pressed him to his bosom tenderly ; 
 And then, but while he held him by the arm, 
 Thrusting him backward, turned away his face, 
 And stabbed him to the heart. 
 
 Well might a Youth,* 
 Studious of men, anxious to learn and know. 
 When in the train of some great embassy 
 He came, a visitant, to Cosmo's court, 
 Think on the past ; and, as he wandered through 
 The ample spaces of an ancient house,f 
 Silent, deserted — stop awhile to dwell 
 Upon two porti'aits there, drawn on the wall ^ 
 
 * De Thou. 
 
 t The Palazzo Veccbio. Cos:mo had left it several years before. 
 I By Vasari, who attended him on this occasion. — Thuanus, 
 de Vita sua, i.
 
 131 
 
 Together, as of Two in bonds of love, 
 Those of the unhappy brothers, and conclude 
 From the sad looks of him who could have told,* 
 
 The terrible truth. Well might he heave a sio-h 
 
 For poor humanity, when he beheld 
 
 That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire, 
 
 Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate, 
 
 Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's mess. 
 
 In the last stage — death-struck and deadly pale ; 
 
 His wife, another, not his Eleanor, 
 
 At once his nurse and his interpreter. 
 
 * It was given out that they had died of a contagious fever : 
 and funeral orations were publicly pronounced in their honour. 
 
 Alfieri has written a tragedy on (he subject ; if it may be 
 said so, when he has altered so entirely the story and the 
 characters.
 
 132 
 
 THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE. 
 
 'Tis morning. Let us wander through the fields, 
 Where Cimabue* found a shepherd-boy 
 Trachig his idle fancies on the ground ; 
 And let us from the top of Fiesole, 
 Whence Galileo's glass by night observed 
 The phases of the moon, look round below 
 
 * He was the father of modern painting, and the master of 
 Giotto, whose talent he discovered in the way here alluded to. 
 
 " Cimabue stood still, and, having considered the boy and 
 his work, he asked him, if he would go and live with him at 
 Florence 1 To which the boy answered that, if his father was 
 willing, he would go with all his heart." — Vasari, 
 
 Of Cimabue little now remains at Florence, except his cele- 
 brated Madonna, larger than the life, in Santa JMaria Novella. 
 It was painted, according to Vasari, in a garden near Porta 
 S. Piero, and, when finished, was carried to tlie church in folemn 
 procession with trumpets before it. The garden lay without the 
 walls; and such was the rejoicing there on the occasion, that 
 the suburb received the name of Borgo Allegri, a name it still 
 bears, though now a part of the city.
 
 133 
 
 On Arno's vale, where the dove-coloured steer 
 Is ploughing up and down among the vmes, 
 While many a careless note is sung aloud, 
 Filling the air with sweetness — and on thee, 
 Beautiful Florence, all within thy walls. 
 Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers, 
 Drawn to our feet. 
 
 From that small spire, just caught 
 By the bright ray, that church among the rest 
 By One of Old distinguished as The Bride, * 
 Let us in thought pursue (what can we better ?) 
 Those who assembled there at matin-time ; f 
 Who, when Vice revelled and along the street 
 Tables were set, what time the bearer's bell 
 Hang to demand the dead at every door. 
 Came out into the meadows ; J and, awhile 
 Wandering in idleness, but not in folly, 
 
 * Santa Maria Novella. For its grace and beauty it was 
 called by Micbael Anyolo ' La Sposa.' 
 
 t In the year of the Great Plague. See the Decameron. 
 
 I Once, on a bright November-morning, I set out and traced 
 them, as I conceived, step by step; beginning and ending in 
 the Church of Santa Maria Novella. It was a walk dclightlnl 
 in itself, and in its associations.
 
 134 
 
 Sat down in the high grass and in the shade 
 Of many a tree sun -proof — day after day, 
 WTien all was still and nothing to be heard 
 But the cicala's voice among the olives, 
 Relating in a ring, to banish care. 
 Their hundred tales. 
 
 Round the green hill they went, 
 Round underneath — first to a splendid house, 
 Gherardi, as an old tradition runs, 
 That on the left, just rising from the vale ; 
 A place for Luxury — the painted rooms, 
 The open galleries and middle court 
 Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers. 
 Then westward to another, nobler yet ; 
 That on the right, now known as the Palmieri, 
 ^Vhere Art with Nature vied — a Paradise 
 With verdurous walls, and many a trellissed walk 
 All rose and jasmine, many a twilight -glade 
 Crossed by the deer. Then to the Ladies' Vale ; 
 And the clear lake, that as by magic seemed 
 To lift up to the surface every stone 
 Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish 
 Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold, 
 Now motionless, now glancing to the sun.
 
 135 
 
 Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day ? 
 The morning-banquet by the fountain-side,* 
 While the small birds rejoiced on every bough ; 
 The dance that followed, and the noon-tide slumber; 
 Then the tales told in tm*n, as round they lay 
 On carpets, the fresh waters murmuring ; 
 And the short interval of pleasant talk 
 Till supper-time, when many a siren-voice 
 Sung down the stars ; and, as they left the sky. 
 The torches, planted in the sparkling grass, 
 And every where among the glowing flowers. 
 Burnt bright and brighter. — He,f whose dream it was, 
 (It was no more) sleeps in a neighbouring vale ; 
 Sleeps in the church, where, in his ear, I ween, 
 The Friar poured out his wondrous catalogue ; :j: 
 A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone 
 To the Wise Men ; a vial-ful of soimds. 
 The musical chimes of the great bells that hung 
 In Solomon's Temple; and, though last not least, 
 A feather from the Angel Gabriel's wing, 
 Dropt in the Virgin's chamber. That dark ridge, 
 
 * At three o'clock. Three hours after suii-risi', according to 
 the old manner of reckoning. 
 
 t Boccaccio. ^ Decameron, vi. 10.
 
 136 
 
 Stretching south-east, conceals it from our sight ; 
 
 Not so his lowly roof and scanty farm, 
 
 His copse and rill, if yet a trace be left, 
 
 Who lived in Val di Pesa, suffering long 
 
 Want and neglect and (far, far worse) reproach, 
 
 With calm, unclouded mind.* The glimmering tower 
 
 On the grey rock beneath, his land-mark once. 
 
 Now serves for ours, and points out where he ate 
 
 His bread with cheerfulness. W^io sees him not 
 
 ('Tis his. own sketch — he drew it from himself-]-) 
 
 Laden witn cages from his shoulder slung. 
 
 And sallying forth, while yet the morn is grey. 
 
 To catch a thrush on everv lime-twig there ; 
 
 Or in the wood among his wood-cutters ; 
 
 Or in the tavern by the highway-side 
 
 At tric-trac with the miller ; or at night, 
 
 Doffing his rustic suit, and, duly clad, 
 
 Entering his closet, and, among his books, 
 
 Among the Great of every age and clime, 
 
 A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased, 
 
 Questioning each why he did this or that, 
 
 * Macchiavil. 
 
 t See a verv interesting letter from Maccbiavel to Francesco 
 Vettori, dated the 10th of December, 13lo.
 
 137 
 
 And learning how to overcome the fear 
 Of poverty and death. 
 
 Nearer we hail 
 Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of Old 
 For its green wine ; * dearer to me, to most, 
 As dwelt on by that great Astronomer, 
 Seven years a prisoner at the city -gate. 
 Let in but in his grave-clothes. Sacred be 
 His villa (justly was it called The Gem ! f) 
 Sacred the lawn, where many a cypi'ess threw 
 Its length of shadow, while he watched the stars ! 
 
 * La A'erdea. 
 
 // Giojelh
 
 138 
 
 Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight 
 
 Ghmmered, at blush of morn he dressed his vines, 
 
 Chanting aloud in gaiety of heart 
 
 Some verse of Ariosto ! There, unseen, * 
 
 In manly beauty Milton stood before him, 
 
 Gazing with reverent awe — Milton, his guest, 
 
 Just then come forth, all life and enterprize ; 
 
 He in his old age and extremity. 
 
 Blind, at noon-day exploring with his staff; 
 
 His eyes upturned as to the golden sun, 
 
 His eye-balls idly rolling. Little then 
 
 Did Galileo think whom he received; 
 
 That in his hand he held the hand of one 
 
 Who could requite him — who would spread his name 
 
 O'er lauds and seas — great as himself, nay greater ; 
 
 Milton as little that in him he saw> 
 
 As in a glass, what he himself should be. 
 
 Destined so soon to fall on evil days 
 
 * Milton went to Italy in 16.'?8. " There it was," says he, 
 " that I found and visiied the famous Galileo grown old, a 
 prisoner to the Inquisition." ' Old and blind,' he might have 
 said. Galileo, by his own account, became blind in December, 
 1637. Milton, as we learn from the date of Sir Henry Wotton's 
 letter to him, had not left England on the 18th of April follow- 
 ing. — See Tiraboschi, and Woiimii Remains.
 
 139 
 
 And evil tongues — so soon, alas, to live 
 
 In darkness, and with dangers compassed round, 
 
 And solitude. 
 
 Well-pleased, could we pursue 
 The Arno, from his birth-place in the clouds, 
 So near the yellow Tiber's — springing up* 
 From his four fountains on the Apennine, 
 That mountain-ridge a sea-mark to the ships 
 Sailing on either sea. Downward he runs, 
 Scattering fresh verdure through the desolate wild, 
 Down by the City of Hermits, f and the woods 
 That only echo to the choral hymn ; 
 Then through these gardens to the Tuscan sea. 
 Reflecting castles, convents, villages. 
 And those great Rivals in an elder day, 
 Florence and Pisa — who have given him fame. 
 Fame everlasting, but who stained so oft 
 His troubled waters. Oft, alas, were seen. 
 When flight, pursuit, and hideous rout were there, 
 Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring ; ^ 
 
 * riiey rise witliia thirteen miles of eiich other. 
 t 11 Sagro Kreino. 
 
 i It was in this manner that the lirst St'orza went clown when 
 he perished in the Pescara.
 
 140 
 
 The man, the hero, on his foaming steed 
 Borne underneath, ah'eady in the realms 
 Of Darkness. — Nor did night or burning noon 
 Bring respite. Oft, as that great Artist saw, * 
 Whose pencil had a voice, the cry ' To arms V 
 And the shrill trumpet, hurried up the bank 
 Those who had stolen an hour to breast the tide, 
 And wash from their unharnessed limbs the blood 
 And sweat of battle. Sudden was the rush, f 
 Molent the tumult ; for, already in sight, 
 Nearer and nearer yet the danger drew ; 
 Each every sinew straining, every nerve, 
 Each snatching up, and girding, buckling on 
 Morion and greave and shirt of twisted mail, 
 As for his life — no more perchance to taste, 
 Arno, the grateful freshness of thy glades, 
 Thy waters — where, exulting, he had felt 
 A swimmer's transport, there, alas, to float 
 And welter. — Nor between the gusts of War, 
 When flocks were feeding, and the shepherd's pipe 
 Gladdened the valley, when, but not unarmed, 
 
 * Michael Ancelo. 
 
 t A descripiioa of the Cartoon of Pisa.
 
 141 
 
 The sower came forth, and following him that ploughed, 
 
 Threw in the seed — did thy indignant waves 
 
 Escape pollution. Sullen was the splash, 
 
 Heavy and swift the plunge, when they received 
 
 The key that just had grated on the ear 
 
 Of Ugolino, evei'-closing up 
 
 That dismal dungeon thenceforth to be named 
 
 The Tower of Famine. — Once indeed 'twas thine. 
 
 When many a winter-flood, thy tributary. 
 
 Was through its rocky glen rushing, resounding, 
 
 And thou wert in thy might, to save, restore 
 
 A charge most precious. To the nearest ford, 
 
 Hastening, a horseman from Arczzo came, 
 
 Careless, impatient of delay, a babe 
 
 Slung in a basket to the knotty staff 
 
 That lay athwart his saddle-bow. He spurs. 
 
 He enters ; and his horse, alarmed, perplexed, 
 
 Halts in the midst. Great is the stir, the strife ; 
 
 And lo, an atom on that dangerous sea. 
 
 The babe is floating ! Fast and far he flies ; 
 
 Now tempest-rocked, now whirling round and round, 
 
 But not to perish. By thy willing waves 
 
 Borne to the shore, among the bulrushes 
 
 The ark has rested; ai;d uiiburt, secure.
 
 142 
 
 As on his mother's breast he sleeps within, 
 All peace ! or never had the nations heard 
 That voice so sweet, which still enchants, inspires ; 
 That voice, which sung of love, of liberty. 
 Petrarch lay there ! — And such the images 
 That here spring up for ever, in the Young 
 Kindling poetic fire ! Such they that came 
 And clustered round our Milton, when at eve, 
 Reclined beside thee, Arno ; * when at eve, 
 Led on by thee, he wandered with delight. 
 Framing Ovidian verse, and through thy groves 
 Gathering wild myrtle. Such the Poet's dreams : 
 Yet not such only. For look round and say. 
 Where is the ground that did not drink warm blood. 
 The echo that had learnt not to articulate 
 The cry of murder? — Fatal was the day 
 To Florence, when ('twas in a narrow street 
 North of that temple, where the truly great 
 Sleep, not unhonoured, not unvisited ; 
 That temple sacred to the Holy Cross — 
 There is the house — that house of the Donati, 
 
 ' O ego quantus eram, gelidi cum stratus ad Arni 
 Murmura,' i^c. Ejiituphium Damonis.
 
 143 
 
 Towerless,* and left long since, but to the last 
 
 Braving assault — all rugged, all embossed 
 
 Below, and still distinguished by the rings 
 
 Of brass, that held in war and festival-time 
 
 Their family-standards) fatal was the day 
 
 To Florence, when, at morn, at the ninth hour, 
 
 A noble Dame in weeds of widowhood, 
 
 Weeds by so many to be worn so soon. 
 
 Stood at her door ; and, like a sorceress, flung 
 
 Her dazzling spell. Subtle she was, and rich. 
 
 Rich in a hidden pearl of heavenly light, 
 
 Her daughter's beauty ; and too well she knew 
 
 Its virtue ! Patiently she stood and watched; 
 
 Nor stood alone — ])ut spoke not — In her breast 
 
 Her purpose lay ; and, as a Youth passed by, 
 
 Clad for the nuptial rite, she smiled and said, 
 
 Lifting a corner of the maiden's veil, 
 
 ' This had I treasured up in secret for thee. 
 
 This hast thou lost !' He gazed and was undone ! 
 
 Forgetting — not forgot — he broke the bond. 
 
 And paid the penalty, losing his life 
 
 * There were the ' Noliili di Tone ' and the ' Xobili di 
 Loggia.'
 
 144 
 
 At the bridge-foot ; * and hence a world of woe ! 
 
 Vengeance for vengeance crying, blood for blood ; 
 
 No intermission ! Law, that slumbers not, 
 
 And, like the Angel with the flaming sword. 
 
 Sits over all, at once chastising, healing. 
 
 Himself the Avenger, went ; and every street 
 
 Ran red with mutual slaughter — though sometimes 
 
 The young forgot the lesson they had learnt. 
 
 And loved when they should hate — like thee, Lmelda, 
 
 Thee and thy Paolo. When last ye met 
 
 In that still hour (the heat, the glare was gone. 
 
 Not so the splendour — through the cedar-grove 
 
 A radiance streamed like a consuming fire, 
 
 As though the glorious orb, in its descent, 
 
 Had come and rested there) when last ye met, 
 
 And thy relentless brothers dragged him forth, 
 
 * Giovanni Buondelraonte was on tlie point of marrying an 
 Aniidei, when a widow of the Donati family made him break 
 his engagement iu the manner here described. 
 
 The Amidei washed away the aftront with his blood, attack- 
 ing him, says G. Villani, at the foot of the Ponte \'ecchio, as he 
 was coming leisurely along in his white mantle on his white 
 palfrey ; and hence many years of slaughter. 
 
 " O Buondelmonte, quanto mal fuggisti 
 
 Le nozze sue, per gli altrui conforti." — Dante.
 
 145 
 
 It had been well, hadst thou slept on, Imelda,* 
 Nor from thy trance of fear awaked, as night 
 Fell on that fatal spot, to wish thee dead, 
 To track him by his blood, to search, to find, 
 Then fling thee down to catch a word, a look, 
 A sigh, if yet thou couldst (alas, thou couldst not) 
 And die, unseen, unthought of — from the wound 
 Sucking the poison, f 
 
 Yet, when Slavery came. 
 Worse followed. Genius, Valour left the land. 
 Indignant — all that had from age to age 
 Adorned, ennobled ; and head-long they fell 
 
 * The story is Bolognese, and is told by Clierubino Gliira- 
 dacci in his history of Bologna. Her lover was of the Guelphic- 
 party, her brothers of tiie Ghibelline ; and no sooner was tliis 
 act of violence made known than an enmity, hitherto but half- 
 suppressed, broke out into open war. The Great Place was a 
 scene of battle and blood->hed for forty successive days ; nor 
 was a reconciliation accompli>hed till six years afterwards, when 
 the families and their adherents met there once again, and 
 exchanged the kiss of peace before the Cardinal Legate; as the 
 rival families of Florence had already done in the J'lace ol' 
 S. Maria Xovella. Every house on the occasion was hung with 
 tapestry and garlands of flowers. 
 
 t The Saracens had introduced among them the practice oi 
 poisoning their daggers. 
 
 L
 
 146 
 
 Tyrant and slave. For deeds of violence, 
 
 Done in broad day and more than half redeemed 
 
 By many a great and generous sacrifice 
 
 Of self to others, came the unpledged bowl, 
 
 The stab of the stiletto. Gliding by 
 
 Unnoticed, in slouched hat and muffling cloak, 
 
 That just discovered, Caravaggio-like, 
 
 A swarthy cheek, black brow, and eye of tlame, 
 
 The Bravo stole, and o'er the shoulder plunged 
 
 To the heart's core, or from beneath the ribs 
 
 Slanting (a surer path, as some averred) 
 
 Struck upward — 'then slunk oiF, or, if pursued, 
 
 Made for the Sanctuary, and there along 
 
 The glimmering aisle among the worshippers 
 
 Wandered with restless step and jealous look, 
 
 Dropping thick blood. Misnamed to lull alarm, 
 
 In every Palace was The Laboratory,* 
 
 Where he within brewed poisons swift and slow. 
 
 That scattered terror 'till all things seemed poisonous, 
 
 And brave men trembled if a hand held out 
 
 A nosegay or a letter ; while the Great 
 
 Drank only from the Venice-glass, that broke, 
 
 * As in those of Cosmo 1. and his son, Francis. — Sismondi, 
 xvi. 205.
 
 147 
 
 That shivered, scattering round it as in scorn, 
 If aught malignant, aught of thine was there, 
 Cruel ToPHANA ; * and pawned provinces 
 For that miraculous gem, the gem that gave 
 A sign infallible of coming ill,f 
 That clouded though the vehicle of death 
 Were an invisible perfume. Happy then 
 The guest to whom at sleeping-time 'twas said, 
 But in an under-voice (a lady's page 
 Speaks in no louder) ' Pass not on. That door 
 Leads to another which awaits thy coming. 
 One in the floor — now left, alas, unlocked.^; 
 No eye detects it — lying under-foot, 
 Just as thou enterest, at the threshold-stone ; 
 Ready to fall and plunge thee into night 
 And lonjT oblivion I' — In that Evil Hour 
 
 * A Sicilian, the inventress of many poisons ; the most 
 celebrated of which, from its transparency, was called Accjueita, 
 or Acqua Tophana. 
 
 t The Cardinal, Ferdinand de' Medici, is said to have been 
 preserved in this manner by a ring wliich he wore on his finger ; 
 as also Andrea, the husband of Giovanna, Queen of Naples. 
 
 I II Trabocchetto. — See Vocah, degli Acniciem. della Cnnra. 
 See also Did. de I' Acadtmie Franfoise: art. Uiildieltea.
 
 148 
 
 Where lurked not danger ? Through the fairy-land 
 No seat of pleasure glittering half-way down, 
 No hunting-place — but with some damning spot 
 That mil not be washed out ! There, at Ca'iano,* 
 Where, when the hawks were mewed and Evening came, 
 PuLCi would set the table in a roar 
 With his wild layf — there, where the Sun descends, 
 And hill and dale are lost, veiled with his beams, 
 The fair Venetian J died, she and her lord — 
 Died of a posset drugged by him who sat 
 And saw them suffer, flinging back the charge; 
 The murderer on the murdered. — Sobs of Grief, 
 Sounds inarticulate - - suddenly stopt, 
 And followed by a struggle and a gasp, 
 A gasp in death, are heard yet in Cerreto, 
 Along the marble halls and staircases. 
 Nightly at twelve ; and, at the self-same hour, 
 
 * Poggio-CaVano, the favourite villa of Lorenzo ; where he 
 often took the diversion of hawking. Pulci sometimes went 
 out with him ; though, it seems, with little ardour. See Lu 
 Caccia col Falcone, where he is described as missing; and as 
 gone into a wood, to rhyme there. 
 
 t The Morgante Maggiore. He used to recite at the table of 
 Lorenzo in the manner of the ancient Rliapsodists. 
 I BiANCA Capello.
 
 149 
 
 Shrieks, such as penetrate the inmost soul, 
 Such as awake the innocent babe to long, 
 Long wailing, echo through the emptiness 
 Of that old den far up among the hills,* 
 Frowning on him who comes from Pietra-Mala : 
 In them, alas, within five days and less, 
 
 * CafFaggiolo, the favourite retreat of Cosmo, ' the father of 
 his country.' Eleonora di Toledo was stabbed there on tlie 
 11th of July, lo7ti, by her husband, Pietro de' Medici; and 
 only five days afterwards, on the 16th of the same month, 
 Isabella de' Medici was strangled by hers, Paolo Giordano 
 Orsini, at his villa of Cerreto. They were at Florence, when 
 they were sent for, each in her turn, Isabella under the pretext 
 of a hunting-party ; and each in her turn went to die. 
 
 Isabella was one of the most beautiful and accomplished 
 women of the Age. In the Latin, French, and Spanish lan- 
 guages she spoke not only with fluency, but elegance ; and in 
 her own she excelled as an Improvisatrice, accompanying her- 
 self on the lute. On her arrival at dusk, Paolo presented her 
 with two beautiful greyhounds, that she might make a trial of 
 their speed in the morning ; and at supper he was gay beyond 
 measure. When he retired, he sent for her into his apartment ; 
 and, pressing her tenderly to his bosom, slipped a cord round 
 her neck. She was buried in Florence with great pomp ; but at 
 her burial, says Varchi, the crime divulged itself. Iler face 
 was black on the bier. 
 
 Eleonora appears to have had a presentiment of lier fate. 
 She went when required ; but, before she set out, took leave of 
 her son, then a child ; weeping long and bitterly over him.
 
 ]50 
 
 Two unsuspecting victims, passing fair, 
 Welcomed with kisses, and slain cruelly, 
 One with the knife, one with the fatal noose. 
 But lo, the Sun is setting ; * earth and sky 
 One blaze of glory — What we saw but now. 
 As though it were not, though it had not been ! 
 He lingers yet ; and, lessening to a point. 
 Shines like the eye of Heaven — then withdraws ; 
 And from the zenith to the utmost skirts 
 All is celestial red ! The hour is come, 
 When they that sail along the distant seas, 
 Languish for home ; and they that in the morn 
 Said to sweet friends ' farewell,' melt as at parting ; 
 WTien, just gone forth, the pilgrim, if he hears. 
 As now we hear it — echoing round the hill. 
 The bell that seems to mourn the dying day. 
 Slackens his pace and sighs, and those he loved 
 Loves more than ever. But who feels it not ? 
 And well may we, for we are far away. 
 
 * I have here endeavoured to describe an Italian sun-set as I 
 have often seen it. The conclusion is borrowed from that cele- 
 brated passage in Dante, " Era gia I'ora," 6)C.
 
 THE PILGRIM. 
 
 It was an hour of universal joy. 
 The lark was up and at the gate of heaven, 
 Singing, as sure to enter when he came ; 
 The butterfly was basking in my path, 
 His radiant wings unfolded. From IjcIow 
 The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively ; 
 And odours, such as welcome in the day. 
 Such as salute the early traveller,
 
 152 
 
 And come and go, each sweeter than the last, 
 \Vere rising. Hill and valley breathed delight ; 
 And not a living thing but blessed the hour ! 
 In every bush and brake there was a voice 
 Responsive ! 
 
 From the Thrasymene, that now 
 Slept in the sun, a lake of molten gold, 
 And from the shore that once, when armies met,* 
 Rocked to and fro unfelt, so terrible 
 The rage, the slaughter, I had turned away ; 
 The path, that led me, leading through a wood, 
 A fairy-wilderness of fruits and flowers, 
 And by a brook that, in the day of strife, f 
 Ran blood, but now runs amber — when a glade, 
 Far, far within, sunned only at noon-day, 
 Suddenly opened. Many a bench was there, 
 Each round its ancient elm ; and many a track, 
 Well-known to them that from the high-way loved 
 
 * The Roman and the Carthaginian. Such was the ani- 
 mosity, says Livy, that an earthquake, which turned tlie course 
 of rivers and overthrew cities and mountains, was felt by none 
 of the combatants, xxii. 5. 
 
 t A tradition. It has been called from time immemorial, II 
 Sanguinetto.
 
 153 
 
 Awhile to deviate. In the midst a cross 
 
 Of mouldering stone as in a temple stood, 
 
 Solemn, severe ; coeval with the trees 
 
 That round it in majestic order rose ; 
 
 And on the lowest step a Pilgrim knelt 
 
 In fervent prayer. He was the first I saw, 
 
 (Save in the tumult of a midnight-masque, 
 
 A revel, where none cares to play his part. 
 
 And they, that speak, at once dissolve the charm) 
 
 The first in sober truth, no counterfeit ; 
 
 And, when his orisons were duly paid, 
 
 He rose, and we exchanged, as all are wont, 
 
 A traveller's greeting. 
 
 Young, and of an age 
 When Youth is most attractive, when a light 
 Plays round and round, reflected, while it lasts. 
 From some attendant Spirit, that ere long 
 (His charge relinquished with a sigh, a tear) . 
 Wings his flight upward — with a look he won 
 My favour ; and, the spell of silence broke, 
 
 I could not but continue. ' Whence,' I asked, 
 
 ' Whence art thou ?' — ' From Mont' alto,' he replied, 
 
 ' My native village in the Apennines.' — 
 
 ' And whither journeying?' — ' To the holy shrine
 
 154 
 
 Of Saint Antonio in the City of Padua. 
 
 Perhaps, if thou hast ever gone so far, 
 
 Thou wilt direct my course.' — ' Most wilhngly ; 
 
 But thou hast much to do, much to endure, 
 
 Ere thou hast entered where the silver lamps 
 
 Burn ever. Tell me ... I would not transgress, 
 
 Yet ask I must . . . what could have brought thee forth. 
 
 Nothing in act or thought to be atoned for ?' — 
 
 ' It was a vow I made in my distress. 
 
 We were so blest, none were so blest as we, 
 
 Till Sickness came. First, as death-struck, I fell ; 
 
 Then my beloved Sister ; and ere long. 
 
 Worn with continual watchings, night and day. 
 
 Our saint-like mother. Worse and worse she grew ; 
 
 And in mj^ anguish, my despair, I vowed. 
 
 That if she lived, if Heaven restored her to us, 
 
 I would forthwith, and in a Pilgrim's weeds. 
 
 Visit that holy shrine. Mv vow was heard ; 
 
 And therefore am I come.' — ' Blest be thy steps ; 
 
 And may those weeds, so reverenced of old. 
 
 Guard thee in danger !' — ' They are nothing worth. 
 
 But they are worn in humble confidence ; 
 
 Nor would I for the richest robe resign them. 
 
 Wrought, as they were, by those I love so well,
 
 155 
 
 Lauretta and my sister ; theirs the task, 
 
 But none to them, a pleasure, a dehght, 
 
 To ply their utmost skill, and send me forth 
 
 As best became this service. Their last words, 
 
 " Fai'e thee well. Carlo. We shall count the hours I" 
 
 Will not go from me.' — ' Health and strength be thine 
 
 In thy long travel ! May no sun-beam strike ; 
 
 No vapour cling and wither ! May'st thou be, 
 
 Sleeping or waking, sacred and secure ; 
 
 And, when again thou com'st, thy labour done, 
 
 .Toy be among ye ! In that happy hour 
 
 All will pour forth to bid thee welcome. Carlo ; 
 
 And there is one, or I am much deceived, 
 
 One thou hast named, who will not be the last." — 
 
 ' Oh, she is true as Truth itself can be I 
 
 But ah, thou know'st her not. Would that thou couldst I 
 
 My steps I quicken when I think of her ; 
 
 I'or, though they take me further from her door, 
 
 1 shall return the sooner.'
 
 AN INTERVIEW. 
 
 Pleasure, that comes unlooked-for, is thrice welcome ; 
 And, if it stir the heart, if aught be there. 
 That may hereafter in a thoughtful hour 
 Wake but a sigh, 'tis treasured up among 
 The things most precious ! and the day it came 
 Is noted as a white day in our lives. 
 
 The sun was wheeling westward, and the cliffs 
 And nodding woods, that everlastingly
 
 157 
 
 (Such the dominion of thy mighty voice,* 
 Thy voice, Velino, uttered in the mist) 
 Hear thee and answer thee, were left at length 
 For others still as noon ; and on we strayed 
 From wild to wilder, nothing hospitable 
 Seen up or down, no bush or green or dry, 
 That ancient symbol at the cottage-door, 
 OlFering refreshment — when LuiGi cried, 
 ' Well, of a thousand tracks we chose the best!' 
 And, turning round an oak, oracular once, 
 Now lightning-struck, a cave, a thorough-fare 
 For all that came, each entrance a broad arch, 
 Whence many a deer, rustling his velvet coat, 
 Had issued, many a gipsy and her brood 
 Peered forth, then housed again — the floor yet gre}' 
 With ashes, and the sides, where roughest, hung 
 Loosely with locks of hair — I looked and saw 
 What, seen in such an hour by Sancho Panza, 
 Had given his honest countenance a breadth. 
 His cheeks a flush of pleasure and surprise 
 Unknown before, had chained him to the spot. 
 And thou, Sir Knight, hadst traversed hill and dale, 
 
 * An allusion to the Cascata mhu-: JMakmoiie, a celebrated 
 fall of the Velino near Tehm.
 
 15S 
 
 Squire-less. Below and winding far away, 
 
 A narrow glade unfolded, such as Spring* 
 
 Broiders with flowers, and, when the moon is high. 
 
 The hare delights to race in, scattering round 
 
 The silvery dews. Cedar and cj-press threw 
 
 Singly their depth of shadow, chequering 
 
 The greensward, and, what grew in frequent tufts. 
 
 An underwood of myrtle, that by fits 
 
 Sent up a gale of fragrance. Through the midst, 
 
 Reflecting, as it ran, purple and gold, 
 
 A rain-bow's splendour (somewhere in the east 
 
 Rain-drops were falling fast) a I'ivulet 
 
 Sported as loth to go ; and on the bank 
 
 Stood (in the eyes of one, if not of both. 
 
 Worth all the rest and more) a sumpter-mule 
 
 Well-laden, while two menials as in haste 
 
 Drew from his ample panniers, ranging round 
 
 Viands and fruits on many a shining salver. 
 
 And plunging in the cool translucent wave 
 
 Flasks of delicious wine. — Anon a horn 
 
 * This upper region, a country of dews and dewy lights, as 
 described by \ iruil and Pliny, and still, 1 believe, called La 
 Rom, is full of beautiful scenery. \\ ho does not wish to follow 
 the footsteps of Cicero there, to visit the Reatiue Tempe and 
 the Seven Waters ?
 
 159 
 
 Blew, through the champain bidding to the feast, 
 
 Its jocund note to other ears addressed, 
 
 Not ours ; and, slowly coming by a path, 
 
 That, ere it issued from an ilex-grove, 
 
 Was seen far inward, though along the glade 
 
 Distinguished only by a fresher verdure, 
 
 Peasants approached, one leading in a leash 
 
 Beagles yet panting, one with various game. 
 
 In rich confusion slung, before, behind. 
 
 Leveret and quail and pheasant. All announced 
 
 The chase as over ; and ere long appeared. 
 
 Their horses full of fire, champing the curb. 
 
 For the white foam was dry upon the flank. 
 
 Two in close converse, each in each delighting, 
 
 Their plumage waving as instinct with life ; 
 
 A Lady young and graceful, and a Youth, 
 
 Yet younger, bearing on a falconer's glove, 
 
 As in the golden, the romantic time. 
 
 His falcon hooded. Like some spirit of air, 
 
 Or fairy-vision, such as feigned of old. 
 
 The Lady, while her courser pawed the ground, 
 
 Alighted ; and her beauty, as she trod 
 
 The enamelled bank, bruising nor herb nor flower. 
 
 That place illumined. Ah, who should she be.
 
 160 
 
 And with her brother, as when last we met, 
 (When the first lark had sung ere half was said, 
 And as she stood, bidding adieu, her voice, 
 So sweet it was, recalled me like a spell) 
 
 Who but Angelica? That day we gave 
 
 To pleasure, and, unconscious of their flight, 
 
 Another and another ! hers a home 
 
 Dropt from the sky amid the wild and rude, 
 
 Loretto-like ; where all was as a dream, 
 
 A dream spun out of some Arabian tale 
 
 Read or related in a roseate bower. 
 
 Some balmy eve. The rising moon we hailed. 
 
 Duly, devoutly, from a vestibule 
 
 Of many an arch, o'er-wrought and lavishly 
 
 With many a labyrinth of sylphs and flowers. 
 
 When Raphael and his school from Florence came, 
 
 Filling the land with splendour* — nor less oft 
 
 Watched her, declining, from a silent dell, 
 
 Not silent once, what time in rivalry 
 
 * Perhaps the most heautiful villa of that day was the Villa 
 Madama. It is now a ruin ; but enough remains of the plan and 
 the grotesque-work to justifj' Vasari's account of it. 
 
 The Pastor Fido, if not the Aminta, used to be often repre- 
 sented there ; and a theatre, such as is here described, was to 
 be seen in the gardens very lately.
 
 161 
 
 Tasso, GuARiNi, waved their wizard-wands, 
 
 Peopling the groves from Arcady, and lo, 
 
 Fair forms appeared, murmuring melodious verse,* 
 
 — Then, in their day, a sylvan theatre, 
 
 Mossy the seats, the stage a verdurous floor, 
 
 The scenery rock and shrub-wood, Nature's own ; 
 
 Nature the Architect. 
 
 * A fashion for ever reviving in such a climate. In the year 
 1783, the Nina of Paesiello was performed in a small wood near 
 Caseria. 
 
 W^^: 
 
 jr^''^-^
 
 162 
 
 MONTORIO. 
 
 Generous, and ardent, and as I'omantic as he could 
 be, MoNTORio was in his earUest youth, when, on a 
 summer-evening, not many years ago, he arrived at 
 the Baths of * * *, With a heavy heart, and with 
 many a blessing on his head, he had set out on his 
 travels at day-break. It was his first flight from 
 home ; but he was now to enter the world ; and the 
 moon was up and in the zenith, when he alighted at the 
 Three Moors,* a venerable house of vast dimensions, 
 and anciently a palace of the Albertini family, whose 
 arms were emblazoned on the walls. 
 
 Every window was full of light, and great was the 
 stir, above and below ; but his thoughts were on those 
 he had left so lately ; and retiring early to rest, and 
 to a couch, the very first for which he had ever 
 
 * I Tre Mauri.
 
 163 
 
 exchanged his own, he was soon among them once 
 more ; und'sturbed in his sleep by the music that 
 came at intervals from a pavilion in the garden, where 
 some of the company had assembled to dance. 
 
 But, secluded as he was, he was not secure from 
 intrusion ; and Fortune resolved on that night to play 
 a frolic in his chamber, a frolic that was to determine 
 the colour of his life. Boccaccio himself has not 
 recorded a wilder ; nor would he, if he had known it, 
 have left the story untold. 
 
 At the first glimmering of day he awaked ; and, 
 looking round, he beheld — it could not be an illusion ; 
 yet any thing so lovely, so angelical, he had never 
 seen before — no, not even in his dreams — a Lady 
 still younger than himself, and in the profoundest, the 
 sweetest slumber by his side. But while he gazed, 
 she was gone, and through a door that had escaped 
 his notice. Like a Zephyr she trod the floor with 
 her dazzling and beautiful feet, and, while he gazed,' 
 she was gone. Yet still he gazed ; and, snatching up 
 a bracelet which she had dropt in her flight, ' Then 
 she is earthly !' he cried. ' But whence could she 
 come ? All innocence, all purity, she must have wan- 
 dered in her sleep.'
 
 164 
 
 When he rose, his anxious eyes sought her every 
 where ; but in vain. Many of the young and the gay 
 were abroad, and moving as usual in the hght of the 
 morning; but, among them all, there was nothing 
 like Her. Within or without, she was nowhere to be 
 seen ; and, at length, in his despair he resolved to 
 address himself to his Hostess. 
 
 ' Who were my nearest neighbours in that turret ?' 
 
 ' The Marchioness de * * * * and her two daugh- 
 ters, the Ladies Clara and Violetta; the youngest 
 beautiful as the day !' • 
 
 ' And where are they now ?' 
 
 ' They are gone ; but we cannot say whither. They 
 set out soon after sun-rise.' 
 
 At a late hour they had left the pavilion, and had 
 retired to their toilet-chamber, a chamber of oak 
 richly carved, that had once been an oratory, and 
 afterwards, what was no less essential to a house of 
 that antiquity, a place of resort for two or three 
 ghosts of the family. But, having long lost its 
 sanctity, it had now lost its terrors ; and, gloomy as 
 its aspect was, Violetta was soon sitting there alone. 
 ' Go,' said she to her sister, when her mother with- 
 drew for the night, and her sister was preparing to
 
 165 
 
 follow, ' Go, Clara. I will not be long' — and down 
 she sat to a chapter of the Promessi Sposi.* 
 
 But she might well forget her promise, forgetting 
 where she was. She was now under the wand of an 
 enchanter ; and she read and read till the clock struck 
 three, and the taper flickered in the socket. She 
 started up as from a trance ; she threw off her wreath 
 of roses; she gathered her tresses into a net;f and 
 snatching a last look in the mirror, her eye-lids heavy 
 with sleep, and the light glimmering and dying, she 
 opened a wrong door, a door that had been left unlocked ; 
 and, stealing along on tip-toe, (how often may Inno- 
 cence wear the semblance of Guilt !) she lay down as 
 by her sleeping sister ; and instantly, almost before 
 the pillow on which she reclined her head had done 
 sinking, her sleep was as the sleep of childhood. 
 
 When morning came, a murmur strange to her ear 
 alai-med her. — What could it be ? — Where was she ? — 
 She looked not ; she listened not ; but like a fawn 
 from the covert, up she sprung and was gone. 
 
 It was she then that he sought; it was she who, so 
 
 * A Milanese story of the xviith century, by Alessaiidro 
 Manzoni. 
 
 t See the Hecuba of Euripides, v. 911, &c.
 
 166 
 
 unconsciously, had taught him to love ; and, night and 
 day, he pursued her, till in the Cathedral of Perugia 
 he discovered her at a solemn service, as she knelt 
 between her mother and her sister among the rich 
 and the poor. 
 
 From that hour did he endeavour to win her regard 
 by every attention, every assiduity that Love could 
 dictate ; nor did he cease till he had won it and till 
 she had consented to be his; but never did the secret 
 escape from his lips ; nor was it till some years after- 
 wards that he said to her, on an anniversary of their 
 nuptials, ' Violetta, it was a joyftil day to me, a day 
 from which I date the happiness of my life ; but, if 
 marriages are written in heaven,' and, as he spoke, he 
 restored to her arm the bracelet which he had treasured 
 up so long, ' how strange are the circumstances by 
 which they are sometimes brought about ; for, if You 
 had not lost yourself, Violetta, I might never have 
 found you.'
 
 167 
 
 ROME. 
 
 I AM in Rome ! Oft as the morning-ray 
 
 Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry, 
 
 Whence this excess of joy ? What has befallen me \ 
 
 And from within a thrilling voice replies. 
 
 Thou art in Rome ! A thousand busy thoughts 
 
 Rush on my mind, a thousand images ; 
 
 And I spring up as girt to run a race ! 
 
 Thou art in Rome ! the City that so long 
 Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world ; . 
 The mighty vision that the prophets saw, 
 And trembled ; that from nothing, from the least, 
 The lowliest village (What but here and there 
 A reed-roofed cabin by a river-side ?) 
 Grew into every thing ; and, year by year, 
 Patiently, fearlessly, working her way 
 O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea, 
 Not like the merchant with his merchandize. 
 Or traveller with statF and scrip exploring.
 
 168 
 
 But ever hand to hand and foot to foot, 
 Through nations numberless in battle-array, 
 Each behind each, each, when the other fell. 
 Up and in arms, at length subdued them All. 
 
 Thou art in Rome ! the City, where the Gauls, 
 Entering at sun-rise through her open gates. 
 And, through her streets silent and desolate, 
 Marching to slay, thought they saw Gods, not men ; 
 The City, that, by temperance, fortitude, 
 And love of glory, towered above the clouds, 
 Then fell — ^but, falling, kept the highest seat. 
 And in her loneliness, her pomp of woe. 
 Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild, 
 Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age, 
 
 Her empire undiminished. There, as though 
 
 Grandeur attracted Grandeur, are beheld 
 
 All things that strike, ennoble — from the depths 
 
 Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece, 
 
 Her groves, her temples — all things that inspire 
 
 Wonder, delight ! Who would not say the Forms 
 
 Most perfect, most divine, had by consent 
 
 Flocked thither to abide eternally, 
 
 Within those silent chambers where they dwell. 
 
 In happy intercourse ? -And I am there !
 
 169 
 
 Ah, little thought I, when m school I sate, 
 A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn 
 Glowing with Roman story, I should live 
 To tread the Appian,* once an avenue 
 Of monuments most glorious, palaces, 
 Their doors sealed up and silent as the night, 
 The dwellings of the illustrious dead — to turn 
 Toward Tibur, and, beyond the City-gate, 
 Pour out my unpremeditated verse, 
 Where on his mule I might have met so oft 
 Horace himselff — or climb the Palatine, 
 Dreaming of old Evander and his guest. 
 Dreaming and lost on that proud eminence, 
 Long while the seat of Rome, hereafter found 
 Less than enough (so monstrous was the brood 
 Engendered there, so Titan-like) to lodge 
 
 * The street of the tombs in Pompeii may serve to give us 
 some idea of the Via Appia, that Ilegina Viarum, in its 
 splendour. It is perhaps the most striking vestige of antiquity 
 that remains to us. 
 
 t And Augustus in his litter, coming at a still slower rate. 
 He was borne along by slaves; and the gentle motion allowed 
 him to read, write, and employ himself as in his cabinet. 
 'I'hough Tivoli is only sixteen miles from the City, he was 
 always two nights on the road. — Suetonius.
 
 170 
 
 One in his madness ; * and inscribe my name, 
 My name and date, on some broad aloe-leaf, 
 That shoots and spreads within those very walls 
 Where Virgil read aloud his tale divine. 
 Where his voice faltered f and a mother wept 
 Tears of delight ! 
 
 But what the narrow space 
 Just underneath ? In many a heap the ground 
 Heaves, as if Ruin in a frantic mood 
 Had done his utmost. Here and there appears. 
 As left to show his handy-work not ours, 
 An idle column, a half-buried arch, 
 
 A wall of some great temple. It was once, 
 
 And long, the centre of their Universe, ;{: 
 The Forum — whence a mandate, eagle-winged. 
 Went to the ends of the earth. Let us descend 
 Slowly. At every step much may be lost. 
 The very dust we tread, stirs as with life ; 
 And not a breath but from the ground sends up 
 
 * Nero. 
 
 t At the words ' 'J'u Marcellus eiis.' The story is so beauti- 
 ful, that every reader must wish it to be true, 
 
 i From the golden pillar in the Forum the ways ran to the 
 gates, and from the gates to the extremities of the Empire.
 
 171 
 
 Something of human grandeur. 
 
 We are come, 
 Are now where once the mightiest spirits met 
 In terrible conflict; this, while Rome was free, 
 The noblest theatre on this side Heaven I 
 
 Here the first Brutus stood, when o'er the corse 
 
 Of her so chaste all mourned, and from his cloud 
 
 Burst like a God. Here, holding up the knife 
 
 That ran with blood, the blood of his own child, 
 
 ViRGiNius called down vengeance. — But whence spoke 
 
 They who harangued the people ; turning now 
 
 To the twelve tables,* now with lifted hands 
 
 To the Capitoline Jove, whose fulgent shape 
 
 In the unclouded azure shone far off". 
 
 And to the shepherd on the Alban mount 
 
 Seemed like a star new-risen ? -j- Where were ranged 
 
 In rough array as on their element. 
 
 The beaks of those old galleys, destined still :j; 
 
 * The laws of the twelve tables were inscribed on pillars of 
 brass, and placed in the most conspicuous jjart of the Forum. — 
 Dion. Hal. 
 
 t ' Ampliiudo tanta est, ut conspiciatur a Latiario Jove.' — 
 C. Plin. 
 
 i I'he Rostra.
 
 172 
 
 To brave the brunt of war — at last to know 
 A calm far worse, a silence as in death ? 
 All spiritless ; from that disastrous hour 
 When he, the bravest, gentlest of them all,* 
 Scorning the chains he could not hope to break, 
 Fell on his sword ! 
 
 Along the Sacred Way f 
 Hither the triumph came, and, winding round 
 With acclamation, and the martial clang 
 Of instruments, and cars laden with spoil, 
 Stopped at the sacred stair that then appeared. 
 Then thro' the darkness broke, ample, star-bright. 
 As tho' it led to heaven. 'Twas night ; but now 
 A thousand torches, turning night to day;);, 
 Blazed, and the victor, springing from his seat. 
 Went up, and kneeling as in fervent prayer, 
 
 * Marcus Junius Brutus. 
 
 t It was in the Via Sacra that Horace, when musing along'as 
 usual, was so cruelly assailed ; and how well has he described 
 an animal that preys on its kind. — It was there also that Cicero 
 was assailed ; but he bore his sufferings with less composure, 
 as well indeed he might ; taking refuge in the vestibule of the 
 nearest house. Ad Att. iv. 3. 
 
 I An allusion to Caesar in his Gallic triumph. " Adscendit 
 Capitolium ad lumina," &;c. — Suetonius,
 
 173 
 
 Entered the Capitol. But what are they 
 
 Who at the foot withdraw, a mournful train 
 
 In fetters ? And who, yet incredulous. 
 
 Now gazing wildly round, now on his sons. 
 
 On those so young, well-pleased with all they see,* 
 
 Staggers along, the last ? — They are the fallen, 
 
 Those who were spared to grace the chariot-wheels ; 
 
 And there they parted, where the road divides, 
 
 The victor and the vanquished — there withdrew ; 
 
 He to the festal board, and they to die. 
 
 Well might the great, the mighty of the world, 
 They who were wont to fare deliciously. 
 And war but for a kingdom more or less, 
 Shrink back, nor from their thrones endure to look, 
 To think that way ! Well might they in their state 
 Humble themselves, and kneel and supphcate 
 To be dehvered from a dream like this ! 
 
 Here Cincinnatus passed, his plough the while 
 Left in the furrow ; and how many more, 
 Whose laurels fade not, who still walk the earth, 
 
 * In the triumph of /Emilius, nothing affoctod tlie Koman 
 people like the children of Perseus. Many wept ; nor could 
 any thing else attract notice, till they were gone by. 
 
 I'l-UTAIIGII.
 
 174 
 
 Consuls, Dictators, still in Curule pomp 
 Sit and decide ; and, as of old in Rome, 
 Name but their names, set every heart on fire ! 
 
 Here, in his bonds, he whom the phalanx saved not.* 
 The last on Philip's throne ; and the Numidian -f, 
 So soon to say, stript of his cumbrous robe, 
 Stript to the skin, and in his nakedness 
 Thrust under-ground, ' How cold this bath of yours !' 
 And thy proud queen. Palmyra, thro' the sands |. 
 Pursued, o'ertaken on her dromedary ; 
 Whose temples, palaces, a wondrous dream 
 That passes not away, for many a league 
 Illumine yet the desert. Some invoked 
 Death and escaped ; the Egyptian, when her asp 
 Came from his covert under the green leaf ; § 
 And Hannibal himself; and she who said, 
 Taking the fatal cup between her hands, || 
 ' Tell him I would it had come yesterday ; 
 For then it had not been his nuptial gift.' 
 
 Now all is changed ; and here, as in the wild, 
 
 * Perseus. t Jugurtha. t Zenobia. 
 
 j Cleopatra. 
 
 II Sophonisba. The story of the marriage and the poisou is 
 well-known to every reader.
 
 175 
 
 The day is silent, dreary as the night ; 
 
 None stirring, save the herdsman and his herd, 
 
 Savage alike ; or they that would explore, 
 
 Discuss and learnedly ; or they that come, 
 
 (And there are many who have crossed the earth) 
 
 That they may give the hours to meditation, 
 
 And wander, often saying to themselves, 
 
 ' This was the Roman Forum !'
 
 176 
 
 A FUNERAL. 
 
 ' Whence this delay?' — ' Along the crowded street 
 
 A Funeral comes, and with unusual pomp.' 
 
 So I withdrew a little and stood still, 
 
 While it went by. ' She died as she deserved," 
 
 Said an Abate, gathering up his cloak, 
 
 And with a shrug retreating as the tide 
 
 Flowed more and more. — ' But she was beautiful !' 
 
 Replied a soldier of the Pontiff's guard. 
 
 ' And innocent as beautiful !' exclaimed 
 
 A Matron sitting in her stall, hung round 
 
 With garlands, holy pictures, and what not ? 
 
 Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs displayed 
 
 In rich profusion. From her heart she spoke ; 
 
 And I accosted her to hear her story. 
 
 ' The stab,' she cried, ' was given in jealousy ; 
 
 But never fled a purer spirit to heaven. 
 
 As thou wilt say, or much my mind misleads, 
 
 When thou hast seen her face. Last night at dusk,
 
 177 
 
 When on her way from vespers — None were near, 
 None save her serving-boy, who knelt and wept. 
 But what could tears avail him, when she fell — 
 Last night at dusk, the clock then striking nine, 
 Just by the fountain — that before the church, 
 The church she always used, St. Isidore's — 
 Alas, I knew her from her earliest youth, 
 That excellent lady. Ever would she say. 
 Good even, as she passed, and with a voice 
 Gentle as theirs in heaven !' — But now by fits 
 A dull and dismal noise assailed the ear, 
 A wail, a chant, louder and louder yet ; 
 And now a strange fantastic troop appeared ! 
 Thronging, they came — as from the shades below ; 
 All of a ghostly white ! ' O say,' I cried, 
 ' Do not the living here bury the dead ? 
 Do Spirits come and fetch them ? What are these. 
 That seem not of this World, and mock the Day ; 
 Each with a burning taper in his hand ?' — 
 ' It is an ancient Brotherhood thou seest. 
 Such their apparel. Through the long, long line, 
 Look where thou wilt, no likeness of a man ; 
 The living masked, the dead alone uncovered. 
 But mark' — And, lying on her funeral-couch, 
 
 N
 
 178 
 
 Like one asleep, her eyelids closed, her hands 
 
 Folded together on her modest breast, 
 
 As 'twere her nightly posture, through the crowd 
 
 She came at last— and richly, gaily clad, 
 
 As for a birth-day feast ! But breathes she not ? 
 
 A glow is on her cheek — and her lips move ! 
 
 And now a smile is there — how heavenly sweet ! 
 
 ' Oh no ! ' replied the Dame, wiping her tears, 
 
 But with an accent less of grief than anger, 
 
 ' No, she will never, never wake again !' 
 
 Death, when we meet the Spectre in our walks, 
 As we did yesterday and shall to-morrow, 
 Soon grows familiar — like most other things. 
 Seen, not observed ; but in a foreign clime. 
 Changing his shape to something new and strange, 
 (And through the world he changes as in sport, 
 Affect he gi*eatness or humility) 
 Knocks at the heart. His form and fashion here 
 To me, I do confess, reflect a gloom, 
 A sadness round ; yet one I would not lose ; 
 Being in unison with all things else 
 In this, this land of shadows, where we live 
 More in past time than present, where the ground, 
 League beyond league, like one great cemetery.
 
 179 
 
 Is covered o'er with mouldering monuments ; 
 And, let the living wander where they will, 
 They cannot leave the footsteps of the dead. 
 
 Oft, where the burial-rite follows so fast 
 The agony, oft coming, nor from far, 
 Must a fond father meet his darling child, 
 (Him who at parting climbed his knees and clung) 
 Clay-cold and wan, and to the bearers cry, 
 ' Stand, I conjure ye !' — Seen thus destitute, 
 WTiat are the greatest ? They must speak beyond 
 A thousand homilies. When Raphael went. 
 His heavenly face the mirror of his mind. 
 His mind a temple for all lovely things 
 To flock to and inhabit — when He went. 
 Wrapt in his sable cloak, the cloak he wore, 
 To sleep beneath the venerable Dome,* 
 By those attended, who in life had loved, 
 Had worshipped, following in his steps to Fame, 
 ('Twas on an April-day, when Nature smiles) 
 All Rome was there. But, ere the march began, 
 Ere to receive their charge the bearers came, 
 Who had not sought him ? And when all beheld 
 Him, where he lay, how changed from yesterday, 
 * The Pantheon.
 
 180 
 
 Him in that hour cut off, and at his head 
 
 His last great work ; * when, entering in, the}' looked 
 
 Now on the dead, then on that master-piece, 
 
 Now on his face, lifeless and colourless, 
 
 Then on those forms divine that lived and breathed, 
 
 And would live on for ages — all were moved ; 
 
 And sighs burst forth, and loudest lamentations. 
 
 * The Transfiguration ; ' la quale opera, nel vedere il corpo 
 morto, e quella viva, faceva scoppiare I'aninia di dolore a ogni 
 uno che quivi guaidava.' — Vasari.
 
 181 
 
 NATIONAL PREJUDICES. 
 
 ' Another Assassination ! * This venerable City,' 
 I exclaimed, ' what is it, but as it began, a nest of 
 robbers and murderers ? We must away at sun-rise, 
 Luigi.' — But before sun-rise I had reflected a little, 
 and in the soberest prose. My indignation was gone ; 
 and, when Luigi undrew my curtain, crying, ' Up, 
 Signor, up ! The horses are at the gate.' ' Luigi,' I 
 replied, ' if thou lovest me, di-aw the curtain.' f 
 
 It would lessen very much the severity with which 
 men judge of each other, if they would but trace 
 effects to their causes, and observe the progress of 
 
 * How noble is tliat burst of eloquence in Hooker ! " Of Law 
 there can be no less acknowledged, than that her seat is the 
 bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world. All things 
 in heaven and earth do her homage ; the very least as feeling 
 her care, and the greatest as not exempted from her power." 
 
 t A dialogue, which is said to have passed many years ago at 
 Lyons (Mem. de Grammont. i. 3.) and which may still be heard 
 in almost every hotellerie at day-break.
 
 182 
 
 things in the moral as accurately as in the physical 
 world. When we condemn millions in the mass as 
 vindictive and sanguinary, we should remember that, 
 wherever Justice is ill-administered, the injured will 
 redress themselves. Robbery provokes to robbery ; 
 murder to assassination. Resentments become here- 
 ditary ; and what began in disorder, ends as if all Hell 
 had broke loose. 
 
 Laws create a habit of self-restraint, not only by 
 the influence of fear, but by regulating in its exercise 
 the passion of revenge. If they overawe the bad by 
 the prospect of a punishment certain and well-defined, 
 they console the injured by the infliction of that 
 punishment ; and, as the infliction is a public act, it 
 excites and entails no enmity. The laws are off"ended ; 
 and the community for its own sake pursues and over- 
 takes the offender; often without the concurrence of 
 the sufferer, sometimes against his wishes. 
 
 Now those who were not born, like ourselves, to 
 such advantages, we should surely rather pity than 
 hate ; and, when at length they venture to turn against 
 their rulers,* we should lament, not wonder at their 
 
 ** As the descendants of an illustrious people have lately 
 done. Can it be believed that there are many among us, who,
 
 » 183 
 
 excesses ; remembering that nations are naturally 
 patient and long-suffering, and seldom rise in rebellion 
 till they are so degraded by a bad government as to 
 be almost incapable of a good one. 
 
 ' Hate them, perhaps,' you may say, ' we should 
 not ; but despise them we must, if enslaved, like the 
 people of Rome, in mind as well as body ; if their 
 religion be a gross and barbarous superstition.' — I 
 respect knowledge ; but I do not despise ignorance. 
 They think only as their fathers thought, worship as 
 they worshipped. They do no more ; and, if ours 
 had not burst their bondage, braving imprisonment 
 and death, might not we at this very moment have 
 been exhibiting, in our streets and our churches, the 
 same processions, ceremonials, and mortifications ? 
 
 Nor should we require from those who are in an 
 earlier stage of society, what belongs to a later. They 
 are only where we once were ; and why hold them 
 
 from a desire to be thought superior to common-jilace sentiments 
 and vulgar feelings, affect an indifference to their cause? ' It 
 the Greeks,' they say, ' had the probity of other nations — but 
 they are false to a proverb !' And is not falsehood the charac- 
 teristic of slaves? Man is the creature of circumstances. Free, 
 he has the qualities of a freeman ; enslaved, those of a slave.
 
 184 
 
 in derision ? It is their business to cultivate the 
 inferior arts before they think of the more refined ; 
 and in many of the last what are we as a nation, 
 when compared to others that have passed away ? 
 Unfortunately it is too much the practice of govern- 
 ments to nurse and keep alive in the governed their 
 national prejudices. It withdraws their attention from 
 what is passing at home, and makes them better tools 
 in the hands of Ambition. Hence next-door neigh- 
 bours are held up to us from our childhood as nahiral 
 enemies; and we are urged on hke curs to worry 
 each other.* 
 
 In like manner we should learn to be just to 
 individuals. Who can say, ' In such circumstances I 
 should have done otherwise?' Who, did he but 
 reflect by what slow gradations, often by how many 
 strange concurrences, we are led astray ; with how 
 
 * Candour, generosity, how rare are they in tlie world ; and 
 bow much is to be deplored the want of them ! When a 
 minister in our parliament consents at last to a measure, which, 
 for many reasons perhaps existing no longer, he had before 
 refused to adopt, there should be no exultation as over the fallen, 
 no taunt, no jeer. How often may the resistance be continued 
 lest an enemy should triumph, and the result of conviction be 
 received as a symptom of fear !
 
 185 
 
 much reluctance, how much agony, how many efforts 
 to escape, how many self-accusations, how many sighs, 
 how many tears — Who, did he but reflect for a moment, 
 would have the heart to cast a stone ? Fortunately 
 these things are known to Him, from whom no secrets 
 are hidden ; and let us rest in the assurance that His 
 judgments are not as ours are.* 
 
 * Are we not also unjust to ourselves ; and are not the best 
 among us the most so ? Many a good deed is done by us and 
 forgotten. Our benevolent feelings are indulged, and we 
 think no more of it. But is it so when we err? And when 
 we wrong another and cannot redress the wrong, where are 
 we then ? — Yet so it is and so no doubt it should he, to urge 
 us on without ceasing, in this place of trial and discipline. 
 
 From good to better and to better still.
 
 186 
 
 THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME. 
 
 Have none appeared as tillers of the ground, 
 None since They went — as though it still were theirs, 
 And they might come and claim their own again ? 
 Was the last plough a Roman's ? 
 
 From this Seat,* 
 Sacred for ages, whence, as Virgil sings, 
 The Queen of Heaven, alighting from the sky. 
 Looked down and saw the armies in array, f 
 Let us contemplate ; and, where dreams from Jove 
 Descended on the sleeper, where perhaps 
 Some inspirations may be lingering still, 
 Some glimmerings of the future or the past, 
 Let us await their influence ; silently 
 Revolving, as we rest on the green turf, 
 
 * Mons. Albanus, now called Monte Cavo. On the summit 
 stood for many centuries the temple of Jupiter Latiaris. " Tuque 
 ex tuo edito monte Latiaris, sancte Jupiter," &c. — Cicero. 
 
 t ^neid, xii. 134.
 
 187 
 
 The changes from that hour, when He from Troy 
 
 Went up the Tiber ; when refulgent shields, 
 
 No strangers to the iron-hail of war. 
 
 Streamed far and wide, and dashing oars were heard 
 
 Among those woods where Silvia's stag was lying. 
 
 His antlers gay with flowers ; among those woods 
 
 Where, by the Moon, that saw and yet withdrew not, 
 
 Two were so soon to wander and be slain, * 
 
 Two lovely in their lives, nor in their death 
 
 Divided. 
 
 Then, and hence to be discerned, 
 How many realms, pastoral and warlike, lay-j- 
 Along this plain, each with its schemes of power, 
 Its little rivalships ! What various turns 
 Of fortune there ; what moving accidents 
 From ambuscade and open violence ! 
 Mingling, the sounds came up ; and hence how oft 
 We might have caught among the trees below. 
 Glittering with helm and shield, the men of Tibur ; J; 
 Or in Greek vesture, Greek their origin, 
 
 * Nisus and Euryalus. " La scene des six derniers livresde 
 Virgile ne comprend qu'une lieue de terrain." — Bonstetten. 
 t Forty-seven, according to Dionys. Halicar. I. i. 
 t Tivoli.
 
 188 
 
 Some embassy, ascending to Pr^neste;* 
 How oft descried, without thy gates, Aricia, -j- 
 Entering the solemn grove for sacrifice, , 
 
 Senate and People ! — Each a busy hive. 
 Glowing with life ! 
 
 But all ere long are lost 
 In one. We look, and where the river rolls 
 Southward its shining labyrinth, in her strength 
 A City, girt with battlements and towers, 
 On seven small hills is rising. Round about. 
 At rural work, the Citizens are seen. 
 None unemployed ; the noblest of them all 
 Binding their sheaves or on their threshing-floors. 
 As though they had not conquered. Every where 
 Some trace of valour or heroic toil ! 
 Here is the sacred field of the Horatii. j 
 There are the Quintian meadows. § Here the hill j] 
 How holy, where a generous people, twice. 
 Twice going forth, in terrible anger sate 
 Armed ; and, their wrongs re(h-essed, at once gave way, 
 
 * Palestrina. t La Riccia. 
 
 t " Horatiorum qua viret sacer campus." — Mart. 
 
 § " Quae prata Quintia vocantur." — Lu-w 
 
 il Mons Sacer.
 
 189 
 
 Helmet and shield, and sword and spear thrown down, 
 And every hand uplifted, every heart 
 Pouted out in thanks to heaven. 
 
 Once again 
 We look ; and lo, the sea is white with sails 
 Innumerable, wafting to the shore 
 Treasures untold ; the vale, the promontories, 
 A dream of glory ; temples, palaces. 
 Called up as by enchantment ; aqueducts 
 Among the groves and glades rolling along 
 Rivers, on many an arch high over-head ; 
 And in the centre, like a burning sun, 
 The Imperial City ! They have now subdued 
 All nations. But where they who led them forth ; 
 Who, when at length released by victory, 
 (Buckler and spear hung uj) — but not to rust) 
 Held poverty no evil, no reproach. 
 Living on little with a cheerful mind. 
 The Decii, the Fabricii ? Where the spade. 
 And reaping-hook, among their household-things 
 Duly transmitted ? In the hands of men 
 Made captive ; while the master and his guests, 
 Reclining, qualF in gold, and roses swim, 
 Summer and winter, through the circling year.
 
 190 
 
 On their Falernian — in the hands of men 
 Dragged into slavery, with how many more 
 Spared but to die, a pubUc spectacle, 
 In combat with each other, and required 
 To fall with grace, with dignity — to sink 
 While life is gushing, and the plaudits ring 
 Faint and yet fainter on their failing ear, 
 As models for the sculptor. 
 
 But their days, 
 Their hours are numbered. Hark, a yell, a shriek, 
 A barbarous out-cry, loud and louder yet, 
 That echoes from the mountains to the sea ! 
 And mark, beneath us, like a bursting cloud. 
 The battle moving onward ! Had they slain 
 All, that the Earth should from her womb bring forth 
 New nations to destroy them ? From the depth 
 Of forests, from what none had dared explore, 
 Regions of thrilling ice, as though in ice 
 Engendered, multiplied, they pour along, 
 Shaggy and huge ! Host after host, they come ; 
 The Goth, the Vandal ; and again the Goth ! 
 Once more we look, and all is still as night, 
 All desolate ! Groves, temples, palaces, 
 Swept from the sight ; and nothing visible,
 
 191 
 
 Amid the sulphurous vapours that exhale 
 As from a land accurst, save here and there 
 An empty tomb, a fragment like the limb 
 Of some dismembered giant. In the midst 
 A City stands, her domes and turrets crowned 
 With many a cross ; but they, that issue forth, 
 Wander like strangers who had built among 
 The mighty ruins, silent, spiritless ; 
 And on the road, where once we might have met 
 C^SAR and Cato, and men more than kings, 
 We meet, none else, the pilgrim and the beggar. 

 
 192 
 
 THE ROMAN PONTIFFS. 
 
 Those ancient men, what were they, who achieved 
 A sway beyond the greatest conquerors ; 
 Setting their feet upon the necks of kings, 
 And, through the world, subduing, chaining down 
 The free, immortal spirit ? Were they not 
 Mighty magicians ? Theirs a wondrous spell, , 
 Where true and false were with infernal art. 
 Close-interwoven ; where together met 
 Blessings and curses, threats and promises ; 
 And with the terrors of Futurity 
 Mingled whate'er enchants and fascinates. 
 Music and painting, sculpture, rhetoric, 
 And dazzling light and darkness visible, * 
 And architectui'al pomp, such as none else ! 
 
 * Whoever has entered the church of St. Peter's or the 
 Pauliue chapel, during the Exposition of the Holy Sacrament 
 there, will not soon forget the blaze of the altar, or the dark 
 circle of worshippers kneeling- in silence before it.
 
 193 
 
 What in his day the Syracusan sought, * 
 
 Another world to plant his engines on, 
 
 They had ; and, having it, like gods not men 
 
 Moved this world at their pleasure. Ere they came,f 
 
 Their shadows, stretching far and wide, were known ; 
 
 And Two, that looked beyond the visible sphere, 
 
 Gave notice of their coming — he who saw 
 
 The Apocalypse ; and he of elder time, 
 
 Who in an awful vision of the night 
 
 Saw the Four Kingdoms. Distant as they were, 
 
 Those holy men, well might they faint with fear ! 
 
 * An allusion to the saying of Archimedes, ' Give me a ))lace 
 to stand upon, and I will move the earth.' 
 
 t An allusion to the Prophecies concerning Antichrist. See 
 the interpretations of Mede, Newton, Clarke, 6)C, ; not to mention 
 those of Dante and Petrarch.
 
 194 
 
 CAIUS CESTIUS. 
 
 When I am inclined to be serious, I love to wander 
 up and down before the tomb of Caius Cestius. 
 The Protestant burial-ground is there ; and most of 
 the little monuments are erected to the young ; young 
 men of promise, cut off when on their travels, full of 
 enthusiasm, full of enjoyment ; brides, in the bloom 
 of their beauty, on their first journey ; or children 
 borne from home in search of health. This stone 
 was placed by his fellow-travellers, youn^ as himself, 
 who will return to the house of his parents without 
 him ! that, by a husband or a father, now in his native 
 country. His heart is buried in that grave. 
 
 It is a quiet and sheltered nook, covered in the 
 winter with violets ; and the Pyramid, that over- 
 shadows it, gives it a classical and singularly solemn 
 air. You feel an interest there, a sympathy you were 
 not prepared for. You are yourself in a foreign 
 land ; and they are for the most part your country-
 
 195 
 
 men. They call upon you in your mother-tongue — 
 in English — in words unknown to a native, known 
 only to yourselves : and the tomb of Cestius, that 
 old majestic pile, has this also in common with them. 
 It is itself a stranger, among strangers. It has stood 
 there till the language spoken round about it has 
 changed ; and the shepherd, born at the foot, can 
 read its inscription no longer.
 
 196 
 
 THE NUN. 
 
 'Tis over ; and her lovely cheek is now 
 
 On her hard pillow — there, alas, to be 
 
 Nightly, through many and many a dreary hour, 
 
 Wan, often wet with tears, and (ere at length 
 
 Her place is empty, and another comes) 
 
 In anguish, in the ghastliness of death ; 
 
 Hers never more to leave those mournful walls. 
 
 Even on her bier. 
 
 'Tis over ; and the rite. 
 With all its pomp and harmony, is now 
 Floating before her. She arose at home, 
 To be the show, the idol of the day ; 
 Her vesture gorgeous, and her starry head — 
 No rocket, bursting in the midnight-sky, 
 So dazzling. When to-morrow she awakes, 
 She will awake as though she still was there. 
 Still in her father's house ; and lo, a cell 
 Narrow and dark, nought thro' the gloom discerned.
 
 197 
 
 Nought save the crucifix, the rosary, 
 And the grey habit lying by to shroud 
 Her beauty and grace. 
 
 When on her knees she fell. 
 Entering the solemn place of consecration. 
 And from the latticed gallery came a chant 
 Of psalms, most saint-like, most angelical. 
 Verse after verse sung out how holily, 
 The strain returning, and still, still returning, 
 Methought it acted like a spell upon her, 
 And she was casting off her earthly dross ; 
 Yet was it sad as sweet, and, ere it closed. 
 Came like a dirge. When her fair head was shorn, 
 And the long tresses in her hands were laid, 
 That she might fling them from her, saying, ' Thus, 
 Thus I renounce the world and worldly things !'* 
 When, as she stood, her bridal ornaments 
 Were, one by one, removed, even to the last, 
 That she might say, flinging them from her, ' Thus, 
 
 * It was at such a moment, when contemplating the young 
 and the beautiful, that Tasso conceived his sonnets, beginning 
 ' Vergine pia' and ' Vergine bella.' Those to wliom he ad- 
 dressed them, have long been forgotten ; though they were as 
 much, perhaps, to be loved, and as much also to be pitied.
 
 198 
 
 Thus I renounce the world !' when all was changed, 
 And, as a nun, m homeliest guise she knelt. 
 Veiled in her veil, crowned with her silver crown, 
 Her crown of lilies as the spouse of Christ, 
 Well might her strength forsake her, and her knees 
 Fail in that hour ! Well might the holy man, 
 He, at whose feet she knelt, give as by stealth 
 ('Twas in her utmost need ; nor, while she lives,* 
 Will it go from her, fleeting as it was) 
 That faint but fatherly smile, that smile of love 
 And pity ! 
 
 Like a dream the whole is fled ; 
 And they, that came in idleness to gaze 
 Upon the victim di-essed for sacrifice, 
 Are mingling in the world ; thou in thy cell 
 Forgot, Teresa. Yet, among them all, 
 None were so formed to love and to be loved, 
 None to delight, adorn ; and on thee now 
 A curtain, blacker than the night, is dropped 
 For ever ! In thy gentle bosom sleep 
 Feelings, affections, destined now to die, 
 
 * Her back was at that time turned to the people; but in his 
 countenance might be read all that was passing. The Cardinal, 
 who officiated, was a venerable old man, evidently unused to 
 the service and much affected by it.
 
 199 
 
 To wither like the blossom in the bud, 
 
 Those of a wife, a mother ; leaving there 
 
 A cheerless void, a chill as of the grave, 
 
 A languor and a lethargy of soul. 
 
 Death-like, and gathering more and more, till Death 
 
 Comes to release thee. Ah, what now to thee, 
 
 What now to thee the treasure of thy Youth ? 
 
 As nothing ! 
 
 But thou canst not yet reflect 
 Calmly ; so many things, strange and perverse. 
 That meet, recoil, and go but to return, 
 The monstrous birth of one eventful day. 
 Troubling thy spirit — from the first at dawn, 
 The rich arraying for the nuptial feast. 
 To the black pall, the requiem. All in turn 
 Revisit thoo, and round thy lowly bed 
 IIov(>r, uncalled. Thy young and innocent heart, 
 How is it beating ? Has it no regrets ? 
 Discoverest thou no weakness lurking there ? 
 But thine exhausted frame has sunk to rest. 
 Peace to thy slumbers !
 
 200 
 
 THE FIRE-FLY. 
 
 There is an Insect, that, when Evening- comes, 
 
 Small though he be, scarcely distinguishable. 
 
 Like Evening clad in soberest livery, 
 
 Unsheaths his wings * and thro' the woods and glades 
 
 Scatters a marvellous splendour. On he wheels. 
 
 Blazing by fits as from excess of joy, f 
 
 Each gush of light a gush of ecstasy ; 
 
 Nor unaccompanied ; thousands that fling 
 
 A radiance all their own, not of the day, 
 
 Thousands as bright as he, from dusk till dawn, 
 
 Soaring, descending. 
 
 In the mother's lap 
 Well may the child put forth his little hands, 
 
 * He is of the beetle-tribe. 
 
 t " For, in that upper clime, effulgence conies 
 Of gladness." — Gary's Dante.
 
 201 
 
 Singing the nursery-song he learnt so soon ; * 
 And the young nymph, preparing for the dance 
 By brook or fountain-side, in many a braid 
 Wreathing her golden hair, well may she cry, 
 ' Come hither ; and the shepherds, gathering round, 
 Shall say, Floretta emulates the Night, 
 Spangling her head with stars.' 
 
 Oft have I met 
 This shining race, when in the Tusculan groves 
 My path no longer glimmered ; oft among 
 Those trees, religious once and always green, 
 That yet dream out their stories of old Rome 
 Over the Alban lake ; oft met and hailed. 
 Where the precipitate Anio thunders down. 
 And through the surging mist a Poet's house 
 (So some aver, and who would not believe ?)f 
 
 * There is a song to the luccinla in every dialect of Italy ; as 
 for instance in the Genoese. 
 
 " Cabela, vegni a baso ; 
 Ti ilajo un cuge de lette." 
 
 The Roman is in a higher strain. 
 " Bella ret^ina," i^c. 
 
 t " I did not tell you that just below the first fall, on the side 
 ot the rock, and hanging over that torrent, are little ruius
 
 202 
 
 Reveals itself. Yet cannot I forget 
 
 Him, who rejoiced me in those walks at eve,* 
 My earliest, pleasantest ; who dwells unseen, 
 And in our northern clime, when all is still. 
 Nightly keeps watch, nightly in bush or brake 
 His lonely lamp rekindling. Unlike theirs. 
 His, if less dazzling, through the darkness knows 
 No intermission ; sending forth its ray 
 Through the green leaves, a ray serene and clear 
 As Virtue's own. 
 
 which they show you for Horace's house, a curious situation to 
 observe the 
 
 ' Prteceps Anio, et Tiburni lucus, et uda 
 Mobilibus pomaria rivis.'" Gkav's Letters, 
 
 * The glow womi.
 
 203 
 
 FOREIGN TRAVEL. 
 
 It was in a splenetic humour that I sat me down to 
 my scanty fare at Terracina ; and how long I 
 should have contemplated the lean thrushes in array 
 before me, I cannot say, if a cloud of smoke, that 
 drew the tears into my eyes, had not burst from the 
 green and leafy boughs on the hearth-stone. ' Why,' 
 I exclaimed, starting up from the table, ' why did I 
 leave my own chimney-corner? — But am I not on 
 the road to Brundusium? And are not these the 
 very calamities that bcfcl Horace and Virgil, and 
 M^CENAs, and Plotius, and Varius? Horace 
 laughed at them — Then why should not I ? Horace 
 resolved to turn them to account; and Virgil — 
 cannot we hear him observing, that to remember 
 them will, by and by, be a pleasure ?' My soliloquy 
 reconciled me at once to my fate ; and when for the 
 twentieth time I had looked through the window on a 
 sea sparkling with innumerable brilliants, a sea on
 
 204 
 
 which the heroes of the Odyssey and the i^neid had 
 sailed, I sat down as to a splendid banquet. My 
 thrushes had the flavour of ortolans ; and I ate with 
 an appetite I had not known before. ' Who,' I cried, 
 as I poured out my last glass of Falernian, * (for 
 Falernian it was said to be, and in my eyes it ran 
 bright and clear as a topaz-stone) ' Who would 
 remain at home, could he do otherwise ? Who would 
 submit to tread that dull, but daily round ; his hours 
 forgotten as soon as spent ?' and, opening my journal- 
 book and dipping my pen in my ink-horn, I deter- 
 mined, as far as I could to justify myself and my 
 countrymen in wandering over the face of the earth. 
 ' It may serve me,' said I, ' as a remedy in some 
 future fit of the spleen.' 
 
 Ours is a nation of travellers ;f and no wonder, 
 when the elements, air, water, and fire, attend at our 
 bidding, to transport us from shore to shore ; when 
 
 * We were now within a few hours of the Campania Felix. 
 On the colour and flavour of Falernian consult Galen and 
 Dioscorides. 
 
 t As indeed it always was, contrihuting those of every
 
 205 
 
 the ship rushes into the deep, her track the foam as 
 of some mighty torrent ; and, in three hours or less, 
 we stand gazing and gazed at among a foreign people. 
 None want an excuse. If rich, they go to enjoy ; if 
 poor, to retrench ; if sick, to recover ; if studious, to 
 learn ; if learned, to relax from their studies. But 
 whatever they may say and whatever they may 
 beUeve, they go for the most part on the same 
 errand ; nor will those who reflect, think that errand 
 an idle one. 
 
 Almost all men are over-anxious. No sooner do 
 they enter the world, than they lose that taste for 
 natural and simple pleasures, so remarkable in early 
 life. Every hour do they ask themselves what pro- 
 gress they have made in the pursuit of wealth or 
 honour ; and on they go as their fathers went before 
 them, till, weary and sick at heart, they look back 
 
 degree, from a milord with his suite to him whose only attendant 
 is his shadow. Cory ate in 1608 performed his journey on 
 foot ; and, returning, hung up his shoes in his village-church 
 as an ex-voto. Goldsmith, a century and a half afterwards, 
 followed in nearly the same path; playing a tune on his flute 
 to procure admittance, whenever he approached a cottage at 
 night-fall.
 
 206 
 
 with a sigh of regret to the golden time of their 
 childhood. 
 
 Now travel, and foreign travel more particularly, 
 restores to us in a great degree what we have lost. 
 When the anchor is heaved, we double down the 
 leaf; and for a while at least all effort is over. The 
 old cares are left clustering round the old objects ; 
 and at every step, as we proceed, the shghtest circum- 
 stance amuses and interests. All is new and strange.* 
 We surrender ourselves, and feel once again as chil- 
 dren. Like them, we enjoy eagerly ; like them, when 
 we fret, we fret only for the moment ; and here 
 indeed the resemblance is very remarkable ; for, if a 
 jom-ney has its pains as well as its pleasures (and 
 there is nothing unmixed in this world) the pains are 
 no sooner over than they are forgotten, while the 
 pleasures live long in the memory. 
 
 * We cross a narrow sea ; we land on a shore which we 
 have contemplated from our own ; and we awake, as it were, in 
 another planet. The very child that lisps there, lisps in words 
 which we have yet to learn. 
 
 Nor is it less interesting, if less striking, to observe the 
 gradations in language, and feature, and character, as we travel 
 on from kingdom to kingdom. The French peasant becomes 
 more and more an Italian as we approach Italy, and a Spaniard 
 as we approach Spain.
 
 207 
 
 Nor is it surely without another advantage. If life 
 be short, not so to many of us are its days and its 
 hours. When the blood slumbers in the veins, how 
 often do we wish that the earth would turn faster on 
 its axis, that the sun would rise and set before it does ; 
 and, to escape from the weight of time, how many 
 foUies, how many crimes are committed ! Men rusli 
 on danger, and even on death. Intrigue, play, foreign 
 and domestic broil, such are their resources ; and, 
 when these things fail, they destroy themselves. 
 
 Now in travelling we multiply events, and inno- 
 cently. We set out, as it were, on our adventures ; 
 and many are those that occur to us, morning, noon, 
 and night. The day we come to a place which we 
 have long heard and read of, and in Italy we do so 
 continually, it is an era in our lives ; and from that 
 moment the very name calls up a picture. How 
 delightfully too does the knowledge flow in upon us, 
 and how fast ! *. Would he who sat in a corner of his 
 library, poring over books and maps, learn more or so 
 
 * To judge at once of a nation, we have only lo throw our 
 eyes on the markets and the fields. If the markets are well- 
 supplied, the fields well-cultivated, all is right. If otherwise, 
 we may say, and say truly, these pcopU^ arc larharous or 
 oppressed.
 
 20§ 
 
 much in the time, as he who, with his ej'es and his 
 heart open, is receiving impressions all day long from 
 the things themselves ? * How accurately do they 
 arrange themselves in our memory, towns, rivers, 
 mountains ; and in what living colours do we recall 
 the dresses, manners, and customs of the people ! 
 Our sight is the noblest of all our senses. ' It fills 
 the mind with most ideas, converses with its objects at 
 the greatest distance, and continues longest in action 
 without being tired.' Our sight is on the alert when 
 we travel ; and its exercise is then so delightful, that 
 we forget the profit in the pleasure. 
 
 Like a river, that gathers, that refines as it runs, 
 like a spring that takes its course through some rich 
 vein of mineral, we improve and imperceptibly — nor 
 in the head only, but in the heart. Our prejudices 
 leave us, one by one. Sefts and mountains are no 
 longer our boundaries. We learn to love, and esteem, 
 and admire beyond them. Our benevolence extends 
 itself with our knowledge. And must we not return 
 better citizens than we went? For the more we 
 
 * Assuredly not, if the last has laid a proper foundation 
 Knowledge makes knowledge as money makes money, nor ever 
 perhaps so fast as on a journey.
 
 209 
 
 become acquainted with the institutions of other coun- 
 tries, the more highly must we vahie our own. 
 
 I threw down my pen in triumph. ' The question,' 
 said I, ' is set to rest for ever. And yet — ' 
 
 ' And yet — ' I must still say.* The Wisest of 
 MEN seldom went out of the walls of Athens ; and 
 for that worst of evils, that sickness of the soul, to 
 which we are most liable when most at our ease, is 
 there not after all a surer and yet pleasanter remedy, 
 a remedy for which we have only to cross the threshold ? 
 A PiEDMONTESE nobleman, into whose company I 
 fell at Turin, had not long before experienced its 
 efficacy ; and his story, which he told me without 
 reserve, was as follows. 
 
 ' I was weary of life, and, after a day, such as few 
 have known and none would wish to remember, was 
 hurrying along the street to the river, when I felt a 
 
 * For that knowledge, indeed, which is tlie most precious, 
 we have not far to go; and how often is it to be found wliere 
 least it is looked for? 
 
 ' I have learned more,' said a dying man on the scaflbld, ' in 
 one little dark corner of yonder tower, than by any travel in so 
 many places as I have seen.' — Holinshfd. 
 
 P
 
 210 
 
 sudden check. I turned and beheld a little boy, who 
 had caught the skirt of my cloak in his anxiety to 
 solicit my notice. His look and manner were irre- 
 sistible. Not less so was the lesson he had learnt. 
 " There are six of us, and we are dying for want of 
 food." — " Why should I not," said I to myself, " relieve 
 this wretched family ? I have the means ; and it ^\'ill 
 not delay me many minutes. But what, if it does ?" 
 The scene of misery he conducted me to, I cannot 
 describe. I threw them my purse ; and their burst of 
 gratitude overcame me. It filled my eyes . . it went 
 as a cordial to my heart. " I will call again to-mor- 
 row," I cried. " Fool that I was, to think of leaving 
 a world, where such pleasure was to be had, and so 
 cheaply !"'
 
 •211 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 It was a well 
 Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry ; 
 And richly wrought with many a high relief, 
 Greek sculpture — in some earlier day perhaps 
 A tomb, and honoured with a hero's ashes. 
 The water from the rock filled and o'erflowed ; 
 Then dashed away, playing the prodigal. 
 And soon was lost — stealing unseen, unheard. 
 Thro' the long grass, and round the twisted roots 
 Of aged trees ; discovering where it ran 
 By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat, 
 I threw me down ; admiring, as I lay, 
 'That shady nook, a singing-place for birds. 
 That grove so intricate, so full of flowers, 
 More than enough to please a child a-Maying. 
 
 The sun had set, a distant convent-bell 
 Ringing the Angelus ; and now approached 
 The hour for stir and village-gossip there. 
 The hour Uebekah came, when from the well
 
 212 
 
 She drew with such alacrity to serve 
 The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard 
 Footsteps ; and lo, descending by a path 
 Trodden for ages, many a nymph appeared, 
 Appeared and vanished, bearing on her head 
 Her earthen pitcher. It called up the day 
 Ulysses landed there ; and long I gazed. 
 Like one awaking in a distant time.* 
 
 At length there came the loveliest of them all. 
 Her little brother dancing down before her ; 
 And ever as he spoke, which he did ever. 
 Turning and looking up in warmth of heart 
 And brotherly affection. Stopping there, 
 She joined her rosy hands, and, filling them 
 With the pure element, gave him to drink ; 
 And, while he quenched his thirst, standing on tiptoe, 
 Looked down upon him with a sister's smile, 
 Nor stirred till he had done, fixed as a statue. 
 
 Then hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova, 
 Thou hadst endowed them with immortal youth ; 
 And they had ever more lived undivided, 
 Winning all hearts — of all thy works the fairest. 
 
 * The place here described is near Mola di Gaeta in the 
 kingdom of Naples.
 
 213 
 
 BANDITTI. 
 
 'Tis a wild life, fearful and full of change, 
 The mountain-robber's. On the watch he lies, 
 Levelling his carbine at the passenger ; 
 And, when his work is done, he dares not sleep. 
 Time was, the trade was nobler, if not honest ; 
 When they that robbed, were men of better faith * 
 Than kings or pontiifs ; when, such reverence 
 The Poet drew among the woods and wilds, 
 A voice was heard, that never bade to spare, f 
 Crying aloud, ' Hence to the distant hills ! 
 
 * Alluding to Alfonso Piccolomini. " Stupiva ciascuno clie, 
 ineutre un bandito osservava rigorosaraente la sua parola, il 
 Papa non avesse ribrezzo di mancare alia propria." — Galluzzi, 
 ii. 364. He was hanged at Florence, March 16, 1 591. 
 
 t Tasso was returning from Naples to Rome, and had arrived 
 at Mola di Gaiita, when he received this tribute of respect. 
 The captain of the troop was Marco di Sciarra. See Manso, 
 Vita del Tasso. Ariosto had a similar adventure with Filippo 
 I'acchioue. See Gakoialo.
 
 •214 
 
 Tasso approaches ; he, whose song beguiles 
 The day of half its hours ; whose sorcery 
 Dazzles the sense, turning our forest-glades 
 To lists that blaze with gorgeous armoury, 
 Our mountain-caves to regal palaces. 
 Hence, nor descend till he and his are gone. 
 Let him fear nothing.' — When along the shore, 
 And by the path that, wandering on its way. 
 Leads through the fatal grove where Tully fell, 
 (Grey and o'ergrown, an ancient tomb is there), 

 
 215 
 
 He came and they withdrew, they were a race 
 
 Careless of life in others and themselves, 
 
 For they had learnt their lesson in a camp ; 
 
 But not ungenerous. 'Tis no longer so. 
 
 Now crafty, cruel, torturing ere they slay 
 
 The unhappy captive, and with bitter jests 
 
 Mocking Misfortune ; vain, fantastical, 
 
 Wearing whatever glitters in the spoil ; 
 
 And most devout, though, when they kneel and pray, 
 
 With every bead they could recount a murder, 
 
 As by a spell they start up in array,* 
 
 As by a spell they vanish — theirs a band. 
 
 Not as elsewhere of outlaws, but of such 
 
 As sow and reap, and at the cottage-door 
 
 Sit to receive, return the traveller's greeting ; 
 
 Now in the garb of peace, now silently 
 
 Arming and issuing forth, led on by men 
 
 Whose names on innocent lips are words of fear. 
 
 Whose lives have long been forfeit. — Some there are 
 
 That, ere they rise to this bad eminence. 
 
 Lurk, night and day, the plague-spot visible, 
 
 * ' Cette race de bandits a ses racines dans la population 
 meme du pays. La police ne sail ou les trouver.' — Lettres de 
 
 Cliiiteunvieiix.
 
 216 
 
 The guilt that says, Beware ; and mark we now 
 Him, where he Ues, who couches for his prey 
 At the bridge-foot in some dark cavity 
 Scooped by the waters, or some gaping tomb, 
 Nameless and tenantless, whence the red fox 
 Slunk as he entered. 
 
 There he broods, in spleen 
 Gnawing his beard ; his rough and sinewy frame 
 O'erwritten with the story of his life : 
 On his wan cheek a sabre-cut, well earned 
 In foreign warfare ; on his breast the brand 
 Indelible, burnt in when to the port 
 He clanked his chain, among a hundred more 
 Dragged ignominiously ; on every limb 
 Memorials of his gloi-y and his shame, 
 Stripes of the lash and honourable scars, 
 And channels here and there worn to the bone 
 By galling fetters. 
 
 He comes slowly forth, 
 Unkennelling, and up that savage dell 
 Anxiously looks ; his cruise, an ample gourd, 
 (Duly replenished from the vintner's cask) 
 Slung from his shoulder ; in his breadth of belt 
 Two pistols and a dagger yet uncleansed,
 
 217 
 
 A parchment scrawled with uncouth characters, 
 And a small vial, his last remedy, 
 His cure, when all things fail. 
 
 No noise is heard. 
 Save when the rugged bear and the gaunt wolf 
 Howl in the upper region, or a fish 
 Leaps in the gulf beneath. But now he kneels ; 
 And (like a scout, when listening to the tramp 
 Of horse or foot) lays his experienced ear 
 Close to the ground, then rises and explores, 
 Then kneels again, and, his short rifle-gun 
 Against his cheek, waits patiently. 
 
 Two Monks, 
 Portly, grey-headed, on their gallant steeds, 
 Descend where yet a mouldering cross o'erhangs 
 The grave of one that from the precipice 
 Fell in an evil hour. Their bridle-bells 
 Ring merrily ; and many a loud, long laugh 
 Re-echoes ; but at once the sounds are lost. 
 Unconscious of the good in store below. 
 The holy fathers have turned off, and now 
 Cross the brown heath, ere long to wag tlieir beards 
 Before my lady-abbess, and discuss 
 Things only known to the devout and pure
 
 218 
 
 O'er her spiced bowl — then shrive the sister-hood, 
 Sitting by turns with an inchning ear 
 In the confessional. 
 
 He moves his lips 
 As with a curse — then paces up and down, 
 Now fast, now slow, brooding and muttering on ; 
 Gloomy alike to him the past, the future. 
 
 But hark, the nimble tread of numerous feet I 
 'Tis but a dappled herd, come down to slake 
 Their thirst in the cool wave. 
 

 
 219 
 
 He turns and aims ; 
 Then checks himself, unwilling to disturb 
 The sleeping echoes. — Once again he earths ; 
 Slipping away to house with them beneath, 
 His old companions in that hiding-place. 
 The bat, the toad, the blind-worm, and the newt ; 
 And hark, a footstep, firm and confident. 
 As of a man in haste. Nearer it draws ; 
 And now is at the entrance of the den. 
 Ha ! 'tis a comrade, sent to gather in 
 The band for some great enterprize. 
 
 Who wants 
 A sequel, may read on. The unvarnished tale, 
 That follows, will supply the place of one. 
 'Twas told me by the Count St. Angelo, 
 When in a blustering night he sheltered me 
 In that brave castle of his ancestors 
 O'er Garigliano, and is such indeed 
 As every day brings with it — in a land 
 Where laws are trampled on, and lawless men 
 Walk in the sun ; but it should not be lost, 
 For it may serve to bind us to our Country.
 
 •220 
 
 AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 Three days they lay in ambush at my gate, 
 
 Then sprmig and led me captive. Many a wild 
 
 We traversed ; but Rusconi, 'twas no less, 
 
 Marched by my side, and, when I thirsted, climbed 
 
 The cliifs for water ; though, whene'er he spoke, 
 
 'Twas briefly, sullenly ; and on he led. 
 
 Distinguished only by an amulet. 
 
 That in a golden chain hung from his neck, 
 
 A crystal of rare virtue. Night fell fast, 
 
 When on a heath, black and immeasurable, 
 
 He turned and bade them halt. 'Twas where the earth 
 
 Heaves o'er the dead — where erst some Alaric 
 
 Fought his last fight, and every warrior threw 
 
 A stone to tell for ages where he lay. 
 
 Then all advanced, and, ranging in a square, 
 Stretched forth their arms as on the holy cross. 
 From each to each their sable cloaks extending, 
 That, like the solemn hangings of a tent.
 
 221 
 
 Covered us round ; and in the midst I stood, 
 Weary and faint, and face to face with one. 
 Whose voice, whose look dispenses life and death, 
 Whose heart knows no relentings. Instantly 
 A light was kindled, and the Bandit spoke. 
 ' I know thee. Thou hast sought us, for the sport 
 Slipping thy blood-hounds with a hunter's cry ; 
 And thou hast found at last. Were I as thou, 
 I in thy grasp as thou art now in ours, 
 Soon should I make a midnight-spectacle, 
 Soon, limb by limb, be mangled on a wheel. 
 Then gibbetted to blacken for the vultures. 
 
 But I would teach thee better how to spare. 
 
 Write as I dictate. If thy ransom comes, 
 Thou liv'st. If not — but answer not, I pray, 
 Lest thou provoke me. I may strike thee dead ; 
 And know, young man, it is an easier thing 
 To do it than to say it. Write, and thus.' — 
 
 I wrote. ' 'Tis well,' he cried. ' A peasant-boy, 
 Trusty and swift of foot, shall bear it hence, 
 Meanwhile lie down and rest. This cloak of mine 
 Will serve thee ; it has weathered many a storm.' 
 The watch was set ; and twice it had been changed, 
 When morning broke, and a wild bird, a hawk,
 
 222 
 
 Flew in a circle, screaming. I looked up, 
 
 And all were gone, save him who now kept guard, 
 
 And on his arms lay musing. Young he seemed, 
 
 And sad, as though he could indulge at will 
 
 Some secret sorrow. ' Thou shrink'st back,' he said. 
 
 * Well may'st thou, \ying, as thou dost, so near 
 
 A Ruffian — one for ever linked and bound 
 
 To guilt and infamy. There was a time 
 
 When he had not perhaps been deemed unworthy, 
 
 When he had watched that planet to its setting, 
 
 And dwelt with pleasure on the meanest thing 
 
 That Nature has given birth to. Now 'tis past. 
 
 Wouldst thou know more ? My story is an old one. 
 I loved, was scorned ; I trusted, was betrayed ; 
 And in my anguish, my necessity. 
 Met with the fiend, the tempter — in Ruscoxi. 
 " Why thus ?" he cried. " Thou wouldst be free and 
 
 dar'st not. 
 Come and assert thy birth-right while thou canst. 
 A robber's cave is better than a dungeon ; 
 And death itself, what is it at the worst. 
 What, but a harlequin's leap ?" Him I had known. 
 Had served with, suffered with ; and on the walls 
 Of Capua, while the moon went down, I swore 
 Allegiance on his dagger. Dost thou ask
 
 223 
 
 How I have kept my oath ? — Thou shalt be told, 
 Cost what it may. But grant me, I implore. 
 Grant me a passport to some distant land. 
 That I may never, never more be named. 
 Thou wilt, I know thou wilt. 
 
 Two months ago, 
 \Vhen on a vineyard-hill we lay concealed 
 And scattered up and dowTi as we were wont, 
 I heard a damsel singing to herself, 
 And soon espied her, coming all alone, 
 In her first beauty. Up a path she came. 
 Leafy and intricate, singing her song, 
 A song of love, by snatches ; breaking off 
 If but a flower, an insect in the sun 
 Pleased for an instant ; then as carelessly 
 The strain resuming, and, where'er she stopt, 
 Rising on tiptoe underneath the boughs 
 To pluck a grape in very wantonness. 
 Her look, her mien and maiden-ornaments 
 Shewed gentle birth ; and, step by step, she came, 
 Nearer and nearer, to the dreadful snare. 
 None else were by ; and, as I gazed unseen, 
 Her youth, her innocence and gaiety 
 Went to my heart ! and, starting up, I brc^athed, 
 " Fly — for your life !" Alas, she shrieked, she fell ;
 
 224 
 
 And, as I caught her falling, all rushed forth. 
 
 " A Wood-nymph !" cried Rusconi. " By the light, 
 
 Lovely as Hebe ! Lay her in the shade." 
 
 I heard him not. I stood as in a trance. 
 
 " What," he exclaimed with a malicious smile, 
 
 " Wouldst thou rebel ?" I did as he required. 
 
 " Now bear her hence to the well-head below ; 
 
 A few cold drops will animate this marble. 
 
 Go ! 'Tis an office all will envy thee ; 
 
 But thou hast earned it." As I staggered down. 
 
 Unwilling to surrender her sweet body ; 
 
 Her golden hair dishevelled on a neck 
 
 Of snow, and her fair eyes closed as in sleep. 
 
 Frantic with love, with hate, " Great God !" I cried, 
 
 (I had almost forgotten how to pray ; 
 
 But there are moments when the courage comes) 
 
 " Why may I not, while yet — while yet I can. 
 
 Release her from a thraldom worse than death ?" 
 
 'Twas done as soon as said. I kissed her brow. 
 
 And smote her with my dagger. A short cry 
 
 She uttered, but she stirred not ; and to heaven 
 
 Her gentle spirit fled. 'Twas where the path 
 
 In its descent turned suddenly. No eye 
 
 Observed me, tho' their steps were following fast. 
 
 But soon a yell broke forth, and all at once
 
 225 
 
 Levelled their deadly aim. Then I had ceased 
 
 To trouble or be troubled, and had now 
 
 (Would I were there !) been slumbering in my grave, 
 
 Had not Rusconi with a terrible shout 
 
 Thrown himself in between us, and exclaimed, 
 
 Grasping my arm, " 'Tis bravely, nobly done ! 
 
 Is it for deeds like these thou wear'st a sword ? 
 
 Was this the business that thou cam'st upon ? 
 
 — But 'tis his first offence, and let it pass. 
 
 Like the young tiger he has tasted blood. 
 
 And may do much hereafter. He can strike 
 
 Home to the hilt." Then in an under-tone, 
 
 " Thus would'st thou justify the pledge I gave, 
 
 When in the eyes of all I read distrust ? 
 
 For once," and on his cheek, methought, I saw 
 
 The blush of virtue, " I will save thee, Albert ; 
 
 Again I cannot." ' 
 
 Ere his tale was told. 
 As on the heath we lay, my ransom came ; 
 And in six days, with no ungrateful mind, 
 Albert was sailing on a quiet sea. 
 — But the night wears, and thou art much in need 
 Of rest. The young Antonio, with his torch, 
 Is waiting to conduct thee to thy chamber. 
 
 Q
 
 v^^ 
 
 NAPLES. 
 
 This region, surely, is not of the earth.* 
 Was it not dropt from heaven ? Not a grove. 
 Citron or pine or cedar, not a grot 
 Sea- worn and mantled with the gadding vine, 
 But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings 
 On the clear wave some image of delight. 
 Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers. 
 
 Un pezzo di cielo caduto in terra.— Sannazaro.
 
 227 
 
 Some ruined temple or fallen monument, 
 To muse on as the bark is gliding by. 
 And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide, 
 From day -break, when the mountain pales his fire 
 Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top, 
 Till then invisible, a smoke ascends, 
 Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat, 
 When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood, 
 Was with his house-hold sacrificing there — 
 From day-break to that hour, the last and best, 
 When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth, 
 Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow. 
 And, when the nets are thrown, the evening-hymn 
 Steals o'er the trembling waters. 
 
 Every where 
 Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry, 
 Each her peculiar influence. Fable came, 
 And laughed and sung, arraying Truth in flowers. 
 Like a young child her grandam. Fable came ; 
 Earth, sea and sky reflecting, as she flew, 
 A thousand, thousand colours not their own ; 
 And at her bidding, lo ! a dark descent 
 To Tartarus, and those thrice happy fields, 
 Those fields with ether pure and purple light
 
 228 
 
 Ever invested, scenes by Him pourtraj'ed, * 
 Who here was wont to wander, here invoke 
 The sacred Muses, -j- here receive, record 
 Whai they revealed, and on the western shore 
 Sleeps in a silent grove, o'erlooking thee, 
 Beloved Parthenope. 
 
 Yet here, methinks, 
 Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape 
 Filling the mind by turns with awe and love. 
 By turns inclining to wild ecstasy. 
 And soberest meditation. Here the vines 
 Wed, each her elm, and o'er the golden grain 
 Hang their luxuriant clusters, chequering 
 The sunshine ; where, when cooler shadows fall, 
 And the mild moon her fairy net-work weaves, 
 The lute, or mandoline, accompanied 
 By many a voice yet sweeter than their own, 
 Kindles, nor slowly ; and the dance X displays 
 The gentle arts and witcheries of love. 
 Its hopes and fears and feignings, till the youth 
 Drops on his knee as vanquished, and the maid, 
 
 * Virgil. 
 
 t Quarum sacra fero, ingenti percussus amore. 
 
 i The Tarantella.
 
 229 
 
 Her tambourine uplifting with a grace, 
 Nature's and Nature's only, bids him rise. 
 
 But here the mighty Monarch underneath, 
 He in his palace of fire, diffuses round 
 A dazzling splendour. Here, unseen, unheard, 
 Opening another Eden in the wild, 
 His gifts he scatters ; save, when issuing forth 
 In thunder, he blots out the sun, the sky. 
 And, mingling all things earthly as in scorn. 
 Exalts the valley, lays the mountain low. 
 Pours many a torrent from his burning lake. 
 And in an hour of universal mirth. 
 What time the trump proclaims the festival. 
 Buries some capital city, there to sleoj) 
 The sleep of ages — till a plough, a spade 
 Disclose the secret, and the eye of day 
 Glares coldly on the streets, the skeletons ; 
 Each in his place, each in his gay attire. 
 And eager to enjoy. 
 
 Let us go round ; 
 And let the sail be slack, the course be slow, 
 That at our leisure, as we coast along. 
 We may contemplate, and from every scene
 
 230 
 
 Receive its influence. The CuMiEAN towers, 
 There did they rise, sun-gilt ; and here thy groves, 
 Dehcious Bai^. Here (what would they not?) 
 The masters of the earth, unsatisfied. 
 Built in the sea ; and now the boatman steers 
 O'er many a crypt and vault yet glimmering. 
 O'er many a broad and indestructible arch. 
 The deep foundations of their palaces ; 
 Nothing now heard ashore, so great the change, 
 Save when the sea-mew clamours, or the owl 
 Hoots in the temple. 
 
 What the mountainous Isle,* 
 Seen in the South ? 'Tis where a Monster dwelt,f 
 Hurling his \'ictims from the topmost cliff; 
 Then and then only merciful, so slow. 
 So subtle were the tortures they endured. 
 Fearing and feared he lived, cursing and cursed 
 And still the dungeons in the rock breathe out 
 Darkness, distemper. Strange, that one so vile;}: 
 
 * Caprea^. t Tiberius. 
 
 i ' How often, to demonstrate his power, does He employ the 
 meanest of his instruments ; as in Egypt, when he called forth 
 — not the serpents and the monsters of Airica — but vermin 
 from the very dust !'
 
 231 
 
 Should from his den strike terror thro' the world ; 
 
 Should, where withdrawn in his decrepitude, 
 
 Say to the noblest, be they where they might, 
 
 ' Go from the earth !' and from the earth they went. 
 
 Yet such things were — and will be, when mankind. 
 
 Losing all virtue, lose all energy ; 
 
 And for the loss incur the penalty, 
 
 Trodden down and trampled. 
 
 Let us turn the prow, 
 And in the track of him who went to die, * 
 Traverse this valley of waters, landing where 
 A waking dream awaits us. At a step 
 Two thousand years roll backward, and we stand. 
 Like those so long within that awful Place, f 
 Immovable, nor asking. Can it be ? 
 
 * The Elder Pliny, See the letter in which his Nephew 
 relates to Tacitus the circumstances of his death. — In the morn- 
 ing of that day Vesuvius was covered with the most luxuriant 
 vegetation ; every elm had its vine, every vine (for it was in 
 the month of August) its clusters; nor in the cities below was 
 there a thought of danger, though their interment was so soon 
 to take place. In Pompeii, if we may believe Dion Cassius, 
 the people were sitting in the Theatre, when the work of 
 destruction began. 
 
 t Pompeii.
 
 232 
 
 Once did I linger there alone, till day 
 Closed, and at length the calm of twilight came, 
 So grateful, yet so solemn ! At the fount. 
 Just where the three ways meet, I stood and looked, 
 ('Twas near a noble house, the house of Pansa) 
 And all was still as in the long, long night 
 That followed, when the shower of ashes fell, 
 When they that sought Pompeii, sought in vain ; 
 It was not to be found. But now a ray, 
 Bright and yet brighter, on the pavement glanced, 
 And on the wheel-track worn for centuries, 
 And on the stepping-stones from side to side. 
 O'er which the maidens, with their water-urns, 
 Were wont to trip so lightly. Full and clear, 
 The moon was rising, and at once revealed 
 The name of every dweller, and his craft ; 
 Shining throughout with an unusual lustre, 
 And lighting up this City of the Dead. 
 
 Mark, where within, as though the embers lived. 
 The ample chimney-vault is dun with smoke. 
 There dwelt a miller ; silent and at rest 
 His mill-stones now. In old companionship 
 Still do they stand as on the day he went, 
 Each ready for its office — ^but he comes not.
 
 233 
 
 And there, hard by (where one in idleness 
 
 Has stopt to scrawl a ship, an armed man ; 
 
 And in a tablet on the wall we read 
 
 Of shews ere long to be) a sculptor wrought, 
 
 Nor meanly ; blocks, half-chiselled into life, 
 
 Waiting his call. Here long, as yet attests 
 
 The trodden floor, an olive-merchant drew 
 
 From many an earthen jar, no more supplied ; 
 
 And here from his a vintner served his guests 
 
 Largely, the stain of his o'erflowing cups 
 
 Fresh on the marble. On the bench, beneath, 
 
 They sate and quaffed and looked on them that passed, 
 
 Gravely discussing the last news from Rome. 
 
 But lo, engraven on a threshold-stone, 
 That word of courtesy, so sacred once, 
 Hail ! At a master's greeting we may enter. 
 And lo, a fairy-palace ! every where, 
 As through the courts and chambers we advance, 
 Floors of mosaic, walls of arabesque. 
 And columns clustering in Patrician splendour. 
 But hark, a footstep ! May we not intrude ? 
 And now, methinks, I hear a gentle laugh, 
 And gentle voices mingling as in converse ! 
 — And now a harp-string as struck carelessly,
 
 234 
 
 And now — along the corridor it comes — 
 I cannot err, a filling as of baths ! 
 — Ah, no, 'tis but a mockery of the sense, 
 Idle and vain ! We are but where we were ; 
 Still wandering in a City of the Dead I 
 
 v^r
 
 THE BAG OF GOLD. 
 
 I DINE very often with the good old Cardinal * * 
 and, I should add, with his cats ; for they always sit 
 at his table, and are much the gravest of the company. 
 His V)eaming countenance makes us forget his age ; f 
 iior did I ever see it clouded till yesterday, when, as 
 
 t 111 a time of revolution lie could not escape unhurt ; hut to 
 the last he preserved his gaiety of ininj through every change 
 of fortune; living right hospitably when he had the means to do 
 so, and, when he could not entertain, dining as lie is here 
 represented — en famille.
 
 236 
 
 we were contemplating the sun-set from his terrace, he 
 happened, in the course of our conversation, to alhide 
 to an affecting circumstance in his early life. 
 
 He had just left the University of Palermo and 
 was entering the army, when he became acquainted 
 with a young lady of great beauty and merit, a Sicilian 
 of a family as illustrious as his own. Living near 
 each other, they were often together; and, at an age 
 like theirs, friendship soon turns to love. But his 
 father, for what reason I forget, refused his consent to 
 their union ; till, alarmed at the declining health of 
 his son, he promised to oppose it no longer, if, after a 
 separation of three years, they continued as much in 
 love as ever. 
 
 Relying on that promise, he said, I set out on a 
 long journey ; but in my absence the usual arts were 
 resorted to. Our letters were intercepted ; and false 
 rumours were spread — first of my indifference, then of 
 my inconstancy, then of my marriage with a rich 
 heiress of Sienna ; and, when at length I returned 
 to make her my own, I found her in a convent of 
 Ursuline Nuns. She had taken the veil ; and I, said 
 he with a sigh — what else remained for me ? — I went 
 into the church.
 
 237 
 
 Yet many, he continued, as if to turn the conver- 
 sation, very many have been happy though we were 
 not ; and, if I am not abusing an old man's privilege, 
 let me tell you a story with a better catastrophe. It 
 was told to me when a boy ; and you may not be 
 unwilling to hear it, for it bears some resemblance to 
 that of the Merchant of Venice. 
 
 We were now arrived at a pavilion that com- 
 manded one of the noblest prospects imaginable ; the 
 mountains, the sea, and the islands illuminated by the 
 last beams of day , and, sitting down there, he pro- 
 ceeded with his usual vivacity ; for the sadness, that 
 had come across him, was gone. 
 
 There lived, in the fourteenth century, near Bo- 
 logna, a Widow-lady of the Lambei'tini Family, 
 calle(i Madonna Lucrezia, who in a revolution of 
 the State had known the bitterness of poverty, and 
 had even begged her bread ; kneeling day after day 
 like a statue at the gate of the Cathedral ; her rosary 
 in her left hand and her right held out for charity ; 
 her long black veil concealing a face that had once 
 adorned a Court, and had received the homage of as 
 many sonnets as Petrakcii has written on Lauka. 
 
 But Fortune had at last relented ; a legacy from a
 
 •238 
 
 distant relation had come to her rehef ; and she was 
 now the mistress of a small inn at the foot of the 
 Apennines ; where she entertained as well as she 
 could, and where those only stopped who were con- 
 tented with a little. The house was still standing, 
 when in my youth I passed that way ; though the 
 sign of the White Cross,* the Cross of the Hospital- 
 lers, was no longer to be seen over the door ; a sign 
 which she had taken, if we may believe the tradition 
 there, in honour of a maternal uncle, a grand-master 
 of that Order, whose achievements in Palestine 
 she would sometimes relate. A mountain-stream ran 
 through the garden ; and at no great distance, where 
 the road turned on its way to Bologna, stood a 
 little chapel, in which a lamp was always burning 
 before a picture of the Virgin, a picture of great 
 antiquity, the work of some Greek artist. 
 
 Here she was dwelling, respected by all who knew 
 her ; when an event took place, which threw her into 
 the deepest affliction. It was at noon-day in Septem- 
 ber that three foot-travellers arrived, and, seating 
 themselves on a bench under her vine-trellis, were 
 
 * La Croce Bianca.
 
 239 
 
 supplied with a flagon of Aleatico by a lovely girl, 
 her only child, the image of her former self. The 
 eldest spoke like a Venetian, and his beard was short 
 and pointed after the fashion of Venice. In his 
 demeanour he affected great courtesy, but his look 
 inspired Uttle confidence ; for when he smiled, which 
 he did continually, it was with his lips only, not with 
 his eyes ; and they were always turned from yours. 
 His companions were bluff and frank in their manner, 
 and on their tongues had many a soldier's oath. In 
 their hats they wore a medal, such as in that age was 
 often distributed in war ; and they were evidently 
 subalterns in one of those Free Bands which were 
 always ready to serve in any quarrel, if a service it 
 could be called, where a battle was little more than a 
 mockery ; and the slain, as on an opera-stage, were 
 up and fighting to-morrow. Overcome with the heat, 
 they threw aside their cloaks ; and, with their gloves 
 tucked under their belts, continued for some time in 
 earnest conversation. 
 
 At length they rose to go ; and the Venetian thus 
 addressed their Hostess. ' Excellent Lady, may we 
 leave under your roof, for a day or two, this bag of 
 gold?' ' You may,' she replied gaily. ' But remem-.
 
 240 
 
 ber, we fasten only with a latch. Bars and bolts we 
 have none in our village ; and, if we had, where would 
 be your security ?' ' In your word, Lady.' 
 
 ' But what if I died to-night ? Where would it be 
 then ?' said she, laughing. ' The money would go to 
 the Church ; for none could claim it.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you will favour us with an acknowledg- 
 ment.' ' If you will write it.' 
 
 An acknowledgment was written accordinglj-, and 
 she signed it before Master Bartolo the Village- 
 physician, who had just called on his mule to learn 
 the news of the day ; the gold to be delivered when 
 applied for, but to be delivered (these were the words) 
 not to one — nor to two — but to the three ; words wisely 
 introduced by those to whom it belonged, knowing 
 what they knew of each other. The gold they had 
 just released from a miser's chest in Perugia ; and 
 they were now on a scent that promised more. 
 
 They and their shadows were no sooner departed, 
 than the Venetian returned, saying, ' Give me leave 
 to set my seal on the bag, as the others have done ;' 
 and she placed it on a table before him. But in that 
 moment she was called away to receive a Cavalier, 
 .who had just dismounted from his horse ; and, when
 
 241 
 
 she came back, it was gone. The temptation had 
 proved irresistible ; and the man and the money had 
 vanished together. 
 
 ' Wretched woman that I am !' she cried, as in an 
 agony of grief she threw herself on her daughter's 
 neck, ' What will become of us ? Are we again to be 
 cast out into the wide world ? . . Unhappy child, would 
 that thou hadst never been born !' and all day long 
 she lamented ; but her tears availed her little. The 
 others were not slow in returning to claim their due ; 
 and there were no tidings of the thief ; he had fled far 
 away with his plunder. A Process against her was 
 instantly begun in Bologna ; and what defence could 
 she make ; how release herself from the obligation of 
 the bond ? Wilfully or in negligence she had parted 
 with the gold ; she had parted with it to one, when 
 she should have kept it for all ; and inevitable ruin 
 awaited her! 'Go, Gianetta,' said she to her 
 daughter, ' take this veil which your mother has worn 
 and wept under so often, and implore the Counsellor 
 Calderino to plead for us on the day of trial. He is 
 generous, and will listen to the Unfortunate. But, if 
 he will not, go from door to door ; Monaldi cannot 
 refuse us. Make haste, my child ; but remember the 
 
 R
 
 242 
 
 chapel as you pass by it. Nothing prospers without 
 a prayer.' 
 
 Alas, she went, but in vain. These were retained 
 against them ; those demanded more than they had to 
 give ; and all bad them despair. What was to be done ? 
 No advocate ; and the Cause to come on to-morrow ! 
 
 Now GiANETTA had a lover ; and he was a student 
 of the law, a young man of great promise, Lorenzo 
 Martelli. He had studied long and diligently under 
 that learned lawyer, Giovanni Andreas, who, though 
 Uttle of stature, was great in renown, and by his con- 
 temporaries was called the Arch-doctor, the Rabbi of 
 Doctors, the Light of the World. Under him he had 
 studied, sitting on the same bench with Petrarch ; and 
 also under his daughter Novella, who would often 
 lecture to the scholars, when her father was otherwise 
 engaged, placing herself behind a small curtain, lest 
 her beauty should divert their thoughts ; a precaution 
 in this instance at least unnecessary, Lorenzo having 
 lost his heart to another.* 
 
 * ' Ce pourroit etre,' savs Bavie, ' la matieie d'un joli pro- 
 bleme : on pourroit examiner si cette filie avan^oit, ou si elle 
 retardoit le profit de ses auditeurs, en leur cachant son beau 
 visage. II y auroit cent choses u dire pour et contre la-dessus.'
 
 243 
 
 To him she flies in her necessity ; but of what assist- 
 ance can he be ? He has just taken his place at the 
 bar, but he has never spoken ; and how stand up 
 alone, unpractised and unprepared as he is, against an 
 array that would alarm the most experienced ? — ' Were 
 I as mighty as I am weak,' said he, ' my fears for you 
 would make me as nothing. But I will be there, 
 GiANETTA ; and may the Friend of the Friendless 
 give me strength in that hour ! Even now my heart 
 fails me ; but, come what will, while I have a loaf to 
 share, you and your Mother shall never want. I will 
 beg through the world for you.' 
 
 The day arrives, and the court assembles. The 
 claim is stated, and the evidence given. And now the 
 defence is called for — but none is made ; not a syllable 
 is uttered ; and, after a pause and a consultation of 
 some minutes, the Judges are proceeding to give 
 judgment, silence having been proclaimed in the court, 
 when Lorenzo rises and thus addresses them. ' Ile- 
 verend Signers. Young as I am, may I venture to 
 speak before you ? I would speak in behalf of one 
 who has none else to help her; and 1 will not keep 
 you long. Much has been said ; much on the sacred 
 nature of the obligation — and we acknowledge it in its
 
 244 
 
 full force. Let it be fulfilled, and to the last letter. 
 It is what we solicit, what we require. But to whom 
 is the bag of gold to be delivered? What says the 
 bond? Not to one — not to two — but to the three. 
 Let the three stand forth and claim it.' 
 
 From that day, (for who can doubt the issue?) 
 none were sought, none employed, but the subtle, the 
 eloquent Lorenzo. Wealth followed Fame ; nor need 
 I say how soon he sat at his marriage-feast, or who 
 sat beside him.
 
 245 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 One of two things Montr ioli may have, 
 
 My envy or compassion. Both he cannot. 
 
 Yet on he goes, numbering as miseries. 
 
 What least of all he would consent to lose. 
 
 What most indeed he prides himself upon, 
 
 And, for not having, most despises me. 
 
 ' At morn the minister exacts an hour ; 
 
 At noon the king. Then comes the council-board ; 
 
 And then the chase, the supper. When, ah when, 
 
 The leisure and the liberty I sigh for ? 
 
 Not when at home ; at home u niiscroant-crew, 
 
 'ITiat now no longer serve me, mine the service. 
 
 And then that old hereditary bore, 
 
 The steward, his stories longer than his rent-roll. 
 
 Who enters, quill in ear, and, one by one. 
 
 As though I lived to write, and wrote to live. 
 
 Unrolls his leases for my signature.' 
 
 He clanks his fetters to disturb my peace.
 
 246 
 
 Yet who would wear them, and become the slave 
 
 Of wealth and power, I'enouncing- willingly 
 
 His freedom, and the hours that fly so fast, 
 
 A burden or a curse when misemployed, 
 
 But to the wise how precious — every day 
 
 A little life, a blank to be inscribed 
 
 With gentle deeds, such as in after-time 
 
 Console, rejoice, whene'er we turn the leaf 
 
 To read them ? All, wherever in the scale. 
 
 Have, be they high or low, or rich or poor. 
 
 Inherit they a sheep-hook or a sceptre, 
 
 Much to be grateful for ; but most has he. 
 
 Born in that middle sphere, that temperate zone, 
 
 WTiere Knowledge lights his lamp, there most secure, 
 
 And Wisdom comes, if ever, she who dwells 
 
 Above the clouds, above the firmament. 
 
 That Seraph sitting in the heaven of heavens. 
 
 What men most covet, wealth, distinction, power. 
 Are baubles nothing worth, that only serve 
 To rouse us up, as children in the schools 
 Are roused up to exertion. The reward 
 Is in the race we run, not in the prize ; 
 And they, the few, that have it ere they earn it. 
 Having, by favour or inheritance.
 
 247 
 
 These dangerous gifts placed in their idle hands, 
 And all that should await on worth well-tried, 
 All in the glorious days of old reserved 
 For manhood most mature or reverend age, 
 Know not, nor ever can, the generous pride 
 That glows in him who on himself relies, 
 Entering the lists of life. 

 
 248 
 
 P.^STUM. 
 
 They stand between the mountains and the sea ; * 
 Awful memorials, but of whom we know not ! 
 The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck. 
 The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak, 
 Points to the work of magic and moves on. 
 Time was they stood along the crowded street, 
 Temples of Gods I and on their ample steps 
 What various habits, various tongues beset 
 The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice I 
 Time was perhaps the third was sought for Justice ; 
 And here the accuser stood, and there the accused ; 
 And here the judges sate, and heard, and judged. 
 All silent now ! — as in the ages past. 
 Trodden under foot and mingled, dust with dust. 
 How many centuries did the sun go round 
 
 * The temples of PEestum are three in number; and have 
 survived, nearlv nine centuries, the total destruction of the 
 city. Tradition is silent concerning them ; but they must have 
 existed now between two and three thousand years.
 
 249 
 
 From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea, 
 
 While, by some spell rendered invisible, 
 
 Or, if approached, approached by him alone 
 
 Who saw as though he saw not, they remained 
 
 As in the darkness of a sepulchre, 
 
 Waiting the appointed time ! All, all within 
 
 Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right. 
 
 And taken to herself what man renounced ; 
 
 No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus. 
 
 But with thick ivy hung or branching fern ; 
 
 Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure ! 
 
 From my youth upward have I longed to tread 
 This classic ground — And am I here at last ? 
 Wandering at will through the long porticoes. 
 And catching, as through some majestic grove, 
 Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like. 
 Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up. 
 Towns like the living rock from which they grew ? 
 A cloudy region, black and desolate, 
 Where once a slave withstood a world in arms.* 
 
 The air is sweet with violets, running wildf 
 
 * Spartacus. See Plutarcli in the Life of C'rassus. 
 t 'I'he violets of PiEstum were as proverbial as the roses. 
 Martial mentions them with the honey of Hybla.
 
 250 
 
 Mid broken friezes and fallen capitals ; 
 
 Sweet as when Tully, writing down his thoughts, 
 
 Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost, * 
 
 (Turning to thee, divine Philosophy, 
 
 Ever at hand to calm his troubled soul) 
 
 Sailed slowly by, two thousand years ago, 
 
 For Athens ; when a ship, if north-east winds 
 
 Blew from the P^stan gardens, slacked her course. 
 
 On as he moved along the level shore. 
 These temples, in their splendour eminent 
 Mid arcs and obeUsks, and domes and towers. 
 Reflecting back the radiance of the west, 
 Well might he dream of Glory ! — Now, coiled up. 
 The serpent sleeps within them ; the she-wolf 
 Suckles her young : and, as alone I stand 
 In this, the nobler pile, the elements 
 Of earth and air its only floor and covering, 
 How solemn is the stillness ? Nothing stirs 
 Save the shrill-voiced cicala flitting round 
 On the rough pediment to sit and sing ; 
 Or the green lizard rustling through the grass, 
 
 * The introJuctiou to liis treatise on Glory, Cic. ad Att. 
 xvi. 6. For aa account of the loss of that treatise, see Petrarch, 
 Epist. Rer. Senilium, xv. 1. and liayle, Diet,, in Alcyonius.
 
 251 
 
 And up the fluted shaft with short quick spring, 
 To vanish in the chinks that Time has made. 
 
 In such an hour as this, the sun's broad disk 
 Seen at his setting, and a flood of Hght 
 Filhng the courts of these old sanctuaries, 
 (Gigantic shadows, broken and confused, 
 Athwart the innumerable columns flung) 
 In such an hour he came, who saw and told, 
 Led by the mighty Genius of the Place.* 
 
 Walls of some capital city first appeared, 
 Half razed, half sunk, or scattered as in scorn ; 
 — And what within them ? what but in the midst 
 These Three in more than their original grandeur, 
 And, round about, no stone upon another ? 
 As if the spoiler had fallen back in fear. 
 And, turning, left them to the elements. 
 
 'Tis said a stranger in the days of old 
 (Some say a Dorian, some a Sybarite ; 
 But distant things are ever lost in clouds) 
 'Tis said a stranger came, and, with his plough. 
 Traced out the site; and Po.sidonia rose, f 
 
 * They are said to have been discovered by accident about 
 the middle of the last century. 
 
 t Originally a Greek City under that name, and afterwards a
 
 252 
 
 Severely great, Neptune the tutelar God; 
 
 A Homer's language murmuring in her streets, 
 
 And in her haven many a mast from Tyre. 
 
 Then came another, an unbidden guest. 
 
 He knocked and entered with a train in arms ; 
 
 And all was changed, her very name and language ! 
 
 The Tyrian merchant, shipping at his door 
 
 Ivory and gold, and silk, and frankincense. 
 
 Sailed as before, but, sailing, cried ' For P^stum !' 
 
 And now a Virgil, now an Ovid sung 
 
 PjESTUm's twice-blowing roses ; while, within, 
 
 Parents and children mourned — and, every year, 
 
 (*Twas on the day of some old festival) 
 
 Met to give way to tears, and once again, 
 
 Talk in the ancient tongue of things gone by. * 
 
 At length an Arab climbed the battlements. 
 
 Slaying the sleepers in the dead of night ; 
 
 And from all eyes the glorious vision fled ! 
 
 Leaving a place lonely and dangerous, 
 
 Where whom the robber spares, a deadlier foe f 
 
 Roman City under the name of Peestum. See Mitford's Hist, 
 of Greece, chap. x. sect. 2. It was surprised and destroyed by 
 the Saracens at the beginning of the tentli century. 
 * Athenaeus, xiv. t The Mararja.
 
 253 
 
 Strikes at unseen — and at a time when joy 
 Opens the heart, when summer-skies are blue, 
 And the clear air is soft and delicate ; 
 For then the demon works — then with that air 
 The thoughtless wretch drinks in a subtle poison 
 Lulling to sleep ; and, when he sleeps, he dies. 
 
 But what are These still standing in the midst ? 
 The Earth has rocked beneath ; the Thunder-stone 
 Passed thro' and thro', and left its traces there ; 
 Yet still they stand as by some Unknown Charter ! 
 Oh, they are Nature's own ! and, as allied 
 To the vast Mountains and the eternal Sea, 
 They want no written history ; theirs a voice 
 For ever speaking to the heart of Man !
 
 254 
 
 AMALFI. 
 
 He who sets sail from Naples, when the wind 
 Blows fragrance from PosiLiPO, may soon, 
 Crossing from side to side that beautiful lake, 
 Land underneath the cliif, where once among 
 The children gathering shells along the shore, 
 One laughed and played, unconscious of his fate ; * 
 His to drink deep of sorrow, and, through life. 
 To be the scorn of them that knew him not. 
 Trampling alike the giver and his gift. 
 The gift a pearl precious, inestimable, 
 A lay divine, a lay of love and war. 
 To charm, ennoble, and, from age to age. 
 Sweeten the labour, when the oar was plied 
 Or on the Adrian or the Tuscan sea. 
 
 There would I linger — then go forth again, 
 And hover round that region unexplored. 
 Where to Salvator (when, as some relate, 
 
 * Tasso. Sorrenlo, bis birth-place, is on the south side of the 
 gulf of Naples.
 
 255 
 
 By chance or choice he led a bandit's Hfe, 
 Yet oft withdrew, alone and unobserved, 
 To wander through those awful solitudes) 
 Nature revealed herself. Unveiled she stood. 
 In all her wildness, all her majesty, 
 As in that elder time, ere Man was made. 
 
 There would I linger — then go forth again ; 
 And he who steers due east, doubling the cape, 
 Discovers, in a crevice of the rock. 
 The fishing-town, Amalfi. Hajjly there 
 A heaving bark, an anchor on the strand. 
 May tell him what it is ; but what it was, 
 Cannot be told so soon.* 
 
 The time has been. 
 When on the quays along the Syrian coast, 
 'Twas asked and eagerly, at break of dawn, 
 ' What ships are from Amalfi ?' when her coins, 
 Silver and gold, circled from clime to clime ; 
 From Alexandria southward to Senna a r. 
 And eastward, through Damascus and Cabul 
 
 * ' Amalfi fell afler three hundred years of prosjierity; but 
 the poverty of one thousand fisiiermen is yet dignified t>y tlie 
 remains of an arsenal, a cathedral, and the palaces of royal 
 merchants.' — (Jiuuon.
 
 256 
 
 And Samarcand, to thy great wall, Cathay. 
 
 Then were the nations by her wisdom swayed ; 
 And every crime on every sea was judged 
 According to her judgments. In her port 
 Prows, strange, uncouth, from Nile and Niger met, 
 People of various feature, various speech ; 
 And in their countries many a house of prayer. 
 And many a shelter, where no shelter was, 
 And many a well, like Jacob's in the wild, 
 Rose at her bidding. Then in Palestine, 
 By the way-side, in sober grandeur stood 
 A Hospital, that, night and day, received 
 The pilgrims of the west ; and, when 'twas asked, 
 ' Who are the noble founders ?' every tongue 
 At once replied, ' The merchants of Amalfi.' 
 That Hospital, when Godfrey scaled the walls, 
 Sent forth its holy men in complete steel ; 
 And hence, the cowl relinquished for the helm. 
 That chosen band, valiant, invincible. 
 So long renowned as champions of the Cross, 
 In Rhodes, in Malta. 
 
 For three hundred years 
 There, unapproached but from the deep, they dwelt ; 
 Assailed for ever, yet from age to age
 
 257 
 
 Acknowledging no master. From the deep 
 They gathered in their harvests ; bringing home, 
 In the same ship, relics of ancient Greece, 
 That land of glory where their fathers lay, 
 Grain from the golden vales of Sicily,* 
 And Indian spices. When at length they fell. 
 Losing their liberty, they left mankind 
 A legacy, compared with which the wealth 
 Of Eastern kings — what is it in the scale ? 
 The mariner's compass. 
 
 They are now forgot. 
 And with them all they did, all they endured, 
 Struggling with fortune. When Sicardi stood 
 On his high deck, his falchion in his hand. 
 And, with a shout like thunder, cried, ' Come forth. 
 And serve me in Salerno !' forth they came. 
 Covering the sea, a mournful spectacle ; 
 The women wailing, and the heavy oar 
 Falling unheard. Not thus did they return, f 
 The tyrant slain ; though then the grass of years 
 
 * There is at this day in Syracuse a street called La Strada 
 (iegli Amalfitani. 
 
 + In the year 839. See MuuAToni : Art. Chronici Amalphi- 
 tani Fragmenta, 
 
 S
 
 258 
 
 Grew in their streets. 
 
 There now to him who sails 
 Under the shore, a few white villages, 
 Scattered above, below, some in the clouds, 
 Some on the margin of the dark blue sea, 
 And glittering thro' their lemon-groves, announce 
 The region of Amalfi. Then, half-fallen, 
 A lonely watch-tower on the precipice, 
 Their ancient land-mark, comes. Long may it last ; 
 And to the seaman in a distant age. 
 Though now he little thinks how large his debt. 
 Serve for their monument ! * 
 
 * By degrees, says Giannone, they made themselves famous 
 through the world. The Tarini Amalfi tani were a coin familiar 
 to all nations ; and their maritime code regulated every where 
 the commerce of the sea. Many churches in the East were by 
 them built and endowed ; by them was founded in Palestine that 
 most renowned military Order of St. John of Jerusalem ; and 
 who does not know thai the mariner's compass was invented by 
 a citizen of Amalfi ?
 
 259 
 
 MONTE CASSINO.* 
 
 * What hangs behind that curtain ?' — ' Wouldst thou 
 
 learn ? 
 If thou art wise, thou wouldst not. 'Tis by some 
 Believed to be His master-work, who looked 
 Beyond the grave, and on the chapel-wall, 
 As tho' the day were come, were come and past, 
 Drew the Last Judgment.-t" But the Wisest err. 
 He who in secret wrought, and gave it life, 
 For life is surely there and visible change, J 
 
 * The abbey of Monte Cassiao is the most ancient and venerable 
 iiouse of tlie Benedictine Order. It is situated witliin fifteen 
 leagues of Naples on the inland-road to Home; and no house is 
 more hospitable. 
 
 t Michael Angelo. 
 
 f There are many miraculous pictures in Italy; but none, 1 
 believe, were ever before described as malignant in their influ- 
 ence. — At Arezzo in the church of St. Angelo there is indeed over 
 the great altar a fresco-painting of the Fall of the Angels, which 
 has a singular story belonging to it. It was j)ainted in the four- 
 teenth century by Spinello Aretino, who has there represented
 
 260 
 
 Life, such as none could of himself impart, 
 
 (They who behold it, go not as they came, 
 
 But meditate for many and many a day) 
 
 Sleeps in the vault beneath. We know not much ; 
 
 But what we know, we will communicate. 
 
 'Tis in an ancient record of the House ; 
 
 And may it make thee tremble, lest thou fall ! 
 
 Once — on a Christmas-eve — ere yet the roof 
 Rung with the hymn of the Nativity, 
 There came a stranger to the convent-gate, 
 And asked admittance ; ever and anon, 
 As if he sought what most he feared to find, 
 Looking behind him. When within the walls, 
 These walls so sacred and inviolate, 
 Still did he look behind him ; oft and long, 
 With curling, quivering lip and haggard eye, 
 Catching at vacancy. Between the fits, 
 For here, 'tis said, he lingered while he lived, 
 
 Lucifer as changed into a shape so monstrous and terrible, that 
 it is said to have haunted the Artist in his dreams, and to have 
 hastened his death, deranging him in mind and body. In the 
 upper part St. Michael is seen in combat with the dragon : 
 the fatal transformation is in the lower part of the picture.— 
 — Vasari.
 
 261 
 
 He would discourse and with a mastery, 
 A charm by none resisted, none explained, 
 Unfelt before ; but when his cheek grew pale, 
 (Nor was the respite longer, if so long, 
 Than while a shepherd in the vale below 
 Counts, as he folds, five hundred of his flock) 
 All was forgotten. Then, howe'er employed. 
 He would break oS", and start as if he caught 
 A glimpse of something that would not be gone ; 
 And turn and gaze and shrink into himself. 
 As though the Fiend was there, and, face to face, 
 Scowled o'er his shoulder. 
 
 Most devout he was ; 
 Most unremitting in the Services ; 
 Then, only then, untroubled, unassailed ; 
 And, to beguile a melancholy hour, 
 Would sometimes exercise that noble art 
 He learnt in Florence; with a master's hand, 
 As to this day the Sacristy attests. 
 Painting the wonders of the Apocalypse. 
 At length he sunk to rest, and in his cell 
 Left, when he went, a work in secret done, 
 The portrait, for a portrait it must be, 
 That hangs behind the curtain. Whence he drew.
 
 262 
 
 None here can doubt ; for they that come to catch 
 The faintest glimpse — to catch it and be gone, 
 Gaze as he gazed, then shrink into themselves, 
 Acting the self-same part. But why "twas drawn, 
 Whether, in penance, to atone for Guilt, 
 Or to record the anguish Guilt inflicts, 
 Or haply to familiarize his mind 
 With what he could not fly from, none can say, 
 For none could learn the bui'den of his soul.'
 
 263 
 
 THE HARPER. 
 
 It was a Harper, wandering with his harp, 
 His only treasure ; a majestic man. 
 By time and grief ennobled, not subdued ; 
 Though from his height descending, day by day, 
 And, as his upward look at once betrayed, 
 Blind as old Homer. At a fount he sate, 
 Well-known to many a weary traveller ; 
 His little guide, a boy not seven years old, 
 But grave, considerate beyond his years, 
 Sitting beside him. Each had ate his crust 
 In silence, drinking of the virgin-spring ; 
 And now in silence, as their custom was. 
 The sun's decline awaited. 
 
 But the child 
 Was worn with travel. Heavy sleep weighed down 
 His eye-lids ; and the grandsire, when we came, 
 Emboldened by his love and by his fear, 
 His fear lest night o'ertake them on the road,
 
 264 
 
 Humbly besought me to convey them both 
 
 A Uttle onward. Such small services 
 
 Who can refuse — Not I ; and him who can, 
 
 Blest though he be with every earthly gift, 
 
 I cannot envy. He, if wealth be his, 
 
 Knows not its uses. So from noon till night. 
 
 Within a crazed and tattered vehicle, * 
 
 That yet displayed, in old emblazonry, 
 
 A shield as splendid as the Bardi wear,-|- 
 
 We lumbered on together ; the old man 
 
 Beguiling many a league of half its length, 
 
 When questioned the adventures of his life. 
 
 And ail the dangers he had undergone ; 
 
 His ship-wrecks on inhospitable coasts, 
 
 And his long warfare. — They were bound, he said, 
 
 To a great fair at Reggio ; and the boy. 
 
 Believing all the world were to be there, 
 
 ^■' Then degraded, and belonging to a Vettuiino. 
 
 t A Florentine family of great antiquity. In the sixty-third 
 novel of Franco Saccbetti we read, tliat a stranger, suddenly 
 entering Giotto's study, threw down a shield, and departed, 
 saying, ' Paint me my arms in that shield ;' and that Giotto, 
 looking after him, exclaimed, ' Who is he? What is he? He 
 says. Paint me my arms, as if lie was one of the Bardi ! What 
 arms does he hear !'
 
 265 
 
 And I among the rest, let loose his tongue, 
 
 And promised me much pleasure. His short trance, 
 
 Short as it was, had, like a charmed cup, 
 
 Restored his spirit, and, as on we crawled, 
 
 Slow as the snail (my muleteer dismounting. 
 
 And now his mules addressing, now his pipe, 
 
 And now Luigi) he poured out his heart, 
 
 Largely repaying me. At length the sun 
 
 Departed, setting in a sea of gold ; 
 
 And, as we gazed, he bade me rest assured 
 
 That like the setting would the rising be. 
 
 Their harp — it had a voice oracular, 
 And in the desert, in the crowded street. 
 Spoke when consulted. If the treble chord 
 Twanged shrill and clear, o'er hill and dale they went, 
 The grandsire, step by step, led by the child ; 
 And not a rain-drop from a passing cloud 
 Fell on their garments. Thus it spoke to-day ; 
 Inspiring joy, and, in the young one's mind. 
 Brightening a path already full of sunshine.
 
 266 
 
 THE FELUCA.* 
 
 Day glimmered ; and beyond the precipice 
 (Which my mule followed as in love with fear, 
 Or as in scorn, yet more and more inclining 
 To tempt the danger where it menaced most) 
 A sea of vapour rolled. Methought we went 
 Along the utmost edge of this, our world ; 
 But soon the surges fled, and we descried 
 Nor dimly, though the lark was silent yet. 
 Thy gulf, La Spezzia. Ere the morning-gun, 
 Ere the first day-streak, we alighted there ; 
 And not a breath, a murmur ! Every sail 
 Slept in the offing. Yet along the shore 
 Great was the stir ; as at the noontide hour, 
 None unemployed. Where from its native rock 
 A streamlet, clear and full, ran to the sea, 
 The maidens knelt and sung as they were wont, 
 
 * A large boat for rowing and sailing, much used in the 
 Mediterranean.
 
 267 
 
 Washing their garments. Where it met the tide, 
 Sparkhng and lost, an ancient pinnace lay 
 Keel upward, and the faggot blazed, the tar 
 Fumed from the cauldron ; while, beyond the fort, 
 Whither I wandered, step by step led on. 
 The fishers dragged their net, the fish within 
 At every heave fluttering and full of life, 
 At every heave striking their silver fins 
 'Gainst the dark meshes. 
 
 Soon a boatman's shout 
 Ke-echoed ; and red bonnets on the beach, 
 Waving, recalled me. We embarked and left 
 That noble haven, where, when Genoa reigned, 
 A hundred galleys sheltered — in the day. 
 When lofty spirits met, and, deck to deck, 
 DoRiA, PisANi* fought; that narrow field 
 Ample enough for glory. On we went 
 Ihiffling with many an oar the crystalline sea, 
 On from the rising to the setting sun 
 in silence — underneath a mountain-ridge, 
 I utaincd, untanieable, reflecting round 
 The saddest purple ; nothing to be seen 
 
 * Paganiuo Doria, Aicolo J'isani; those great seamen, wlio 
 balanced for so many years the fortunes of (Jeiioa and \'enice.
 
 268 
 
 Of life or culture, save where, at the foot, 
 Some village and its church, a scanty line, 
 Athwart the w^ave gleamed faintly. Fear of 111 
 Narrowed oui- course, fear of the hurricane, 
 And that still greater scourge, the crafty Moor, 
 Who, like a tiger prowling for his prey, 
 Springs and is gone, and on the adverse coast, 
 (Where Tripoli and Tunis and Algiers 
 Forge fetters, and white turbans on the mole 
 Gather, whene'er the Crescent comes displayed 
 Over the Cross) his human merchandise 
 To many a curious, many a cruel eye 
 Exposes. Ah, how oft, where now the sun 
 Slept on the shore, have ruthless scimitars 
 Flashed through the lattice, and a swarthy crew 
 Dragged forth, ere long to number them for sale. 
 Ere long to part them in their agony. 
 Parent and child I How oft, where now we rode 
 Over the billow, has a wretched son, 
 Or yet more wretched sire, grown grey in chains. 
 Laboured, his hands upon the oar, his eyes 
 Upon the land — the land, that gave him birth ; 
 And, as he gazed, his homestall through his tears 
 Fondly imagined ; when a Christian ship
 
 269 
 
 Of wax appearing in her bravery, 
 
 A voice in anger cried, ' Use all your strength I' 
 
 But when, ah when, do they that can, forbear 
 To crush the unresisting ? Strange, that men, 
 Creatures so frail, so soon, alas, to die. 
 Should have the power, the will to make this world 
 A dismal prison-house, and life itself. 
 Life in its prime, a burden and a curse 
 To him who never wronged them ? Who that breathes 
 Would not, when first he heard it, turn away 
 As from a tale monstrous, incredible ? 
 Surely a sense of our mortality, 
 A consciousness how soon we shall be gone, 
 Or, if we linger — but a few short years — 
 How sure to look upon our brother's grave. 
 Should of itself incline to pity and love. 
 And prompt us rather to assist, relieve. 
 Than aggravate the evils each is heir to. 
 
 At length the day departed, and the moon 
 Rose like another sun, illumining 
 Waters and woods and cloud-capt promontories, 
 Glades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bower. 
 Scenes of Elysium, such as Night alone 
 Reveals below, nor often — scenes that fled
 
 270 
 
 \ 
 
 As at the waving of a wizard's wand, 
 
 And left behind them, as their parting gift, 
 
 A thousand nameless odours. All was still ; 
 
 And now the nightingale her song poured forth 
 
 In such a torrent of heart-felt delight, 
 
 So fast it flowed, her tongue so voluble, 
 
 As if she thought her hearers would be gone 
 
 Ere half was told. 'Twas where in the north-west, 
 
 Still unassailed and unassailable. 
 
 Thy pharos, Genoa, first displayed itself, 
 
 Burning in stillness on its craggy seat ; 
 
 That guiding star so oft the only one. 
 
 When those now glowing in the azure vault. 
 
 Are dark and silent. 'Twas where o'er the sea. 
 
 For we were now within a cable's length, 
 
 Delicious gardens hung ; green galleries, 
 
 And marble terraces in many a flight. 
 
 And fairy -arches flung from cliff to clifl", 
 
 Wildering, enchanting ; and, above them all, 
 
 A Palace, such as somewhere in the East, 
 
 In Zenastan or Araby the blest, 
 
 Among its golden groves, and fruits of gold, 
 
 And fountains scattering rainbows in the sky. 
 
 Rose, when Aladdin rubbed the wondrous lamp ;
 
 271 
 
 Such, if not fairer ; and, when we shot by, 
 
 A scene of revehy, in long array 
 
 As with the radiance of a setting sun, 
 
 The windows blazing. But we now approached 
 
 A City far-renowned ; * and wonder ceased. 
 
 * Genoa. 

 
 272 
 
 GENOA. 
 
 This house was Andrea Doria's. Here he lived ; * 
 And here at eve relaxing, when ashore, 
 Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse f 
 With them that sought him, walking to and fro 
 As on his deck. 'Tis less in length and breadth 
 Than many a cabin in a ship of war ; 
 But 'tis of marble, and at once inspires 
 The reverence due to ancient dignity. 
 He left it for a better ; and 'tis now 
 
 * The Piazza Doria, or, as it is now called, the PiazEa di 
 San Matteo, insignificant as it may be thought, is to me the 
 most interesting place in Genoa. It was there that Doria 
 assembled the people, when he gave them their liberty (Sigonii 
 Vita DoriiE) ; and on one side of it is the church he lies buried 
 in, on the other a house, originally of very small dimensions, 
 with this inscription : S. C. Andreee de Auria Patrise Liberatori 
 Munus Publicum. 
 
 The streets of old Genoa, like those of Venice, were constructed 
 only for foot-passengers. 
 
 t See his Life by Sigonio.
 
 273 
 
 A house of trade, * the meanest merchandise 
 Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is, 
 'Tis still the noblest dwelling — even in Genoa ! 
 And hadst thou, Andrea, Hved there to the last, 
 Thou hadst done well ; for there is that without, 
 That in the wall, which monarchs could not give. 
 Nor thou take with thee, that which says aloud. 
 It was thy Country's gift to her Deliverer. 
 
 'Tis in the heart of Genoa (he who comes, 
 Must come on foot) and in a place of stir ; 
 Men on their daily business, early and late, 
 Thronging thy very threshold. But, when there, 
 Thou wert among thy fellow-citizens. 
 Thy children, for they hailed thee as their sire ; 
 And on a spot thou must have loved, for there, 
 Calling them round, thou gav'st them more than life. 
 Giving what, lost, makes life not worth the keeping. 
 There thou didst do indeed an act divine ; 
 Nor couldst thou leave thy door or enter in. 
 Without a blessing on thee. 
 
 Thou art now 
 Again among them. Thy brave mariners, 
 
 " When I saw it in 1822, a basket-maker lived on tlie ground 
 floor, and over him a seller of chocolate.
 
 274 
 
 They who had fought so often by thy side, 
 Staining the mountain-billows, bore thee back ; 
 And thou art sleeping in thy funeral-chamber. 
 
 Thine was a glorious course ; but couldst thou there, 
 Clad in thy cere-cloth — in that silent vault, 
 Where thou art gathered to thy ancestors — 
 Open thy secret heart and tell us all, 
 Then should we hear thee with a sigh confess, 
 A sigh how heavy, that thy happiest hours 
 Were passed before these sacred walls were left, 
 Before the ocean -wave thy wealth reflected,* 
 And pomp and power drew envy, stirring up 
 The ambitious man, f that in a perilous hour 
 Fell from the plank. 
 
 * Alluding to the Palace which be built afterwards, and in 
 which he twice entertained the Emperor Charles tlie Fifth. It 
 is the most magnificent edifice on the bay of Genoa. 
 
 t Fiesco. For an account of his Conspiracy, see Robertson's 
 History of Charles the Fifth.
 
 275 
 
 MARCO GRIFFONI. 
 
 War is a game at which all are sure to lose, sooner 
 or later, play they how they will ; yet every nation 
 has delighted in war, and none more in their day than 
 the little republic of Genoa, whose galleys, while she 
 had any, were always burning and sinking those of 
 the Pisans, the Venetians, the Greeks, or the Turks ; 
 Christian and Infidel alike to her. 
 
 But experience, when dearly bought, is seldom 
 thrown away altogether. A moment of sober reflec- 
 tion came at last ; and after a victory the most 
 splendid and ruinous of any in her annals, she resolved 
 from that day and for ever to live at peace with all 
 mankind ; having in her long career acquired nothing 
 but glory, and a tax on every article of life. 
 
 Peace came, but with none of its blessings. No 
 stir in the harbour, no merchandize in the mart or on 
 the quay ; no song as the shuttle was thrown or the 
 ploughshare broke the furrow. The frenzy had left a
 
 276 
 
 languor more alarming than itself. Yet the burden 
 must be borne, the taxes be gathered ; and, year after 
 year, they lay like a curse on the land, the prospect 
 on every side growing darker and darker, till an old 
 man entered the senate-house on his crutches and all 
 was changed. 
 
 Marco Griffoni was the last of an ancient 
 family, a family of royal merchants ; and the richest 
 citizen in Genoa, perhaps in Europe. His parents 
 dying while yet he lay in the cradle, his wealth had 
 accumulated from the year of his birth ; and so noble 
 a use did he make of it when he ari'ived at manhood, 
 that wherever he went, he was followed by the blessings 
 of the people. He would often say, ' I hold it only in 
 trust for others ;' but Genoa was then at her old 
 amusement, and the work grew on his hands. Strong 
 as he was, the evil he had to struggle with, was 
 stronger than he. His cheerfulness, his alacrity left 
 him ; and, having lifted up his voice for Peace, he 
 withdrew at once from the sphere of life he had 
 moved in — to become, as it were, another man. 
 
 From that time and for full fifty years he was to be 
 seen sitting, like one of the founders of his House, at 
 his desk among his money-bags, in a narrow street near
 
 277 
 
 the Porto Franco ; and he, who in a famine had 
 filled the granaries of the State, sending to Sicily and 
 even to Egypt, now lived only as for his heirs, though 
 there were none to inherit ; giving no longer to any 
 — but lending to all — to the rich on their bonds and 
 the poor on their pledges ; lending at the highest 
 rate and exacting with the utmost rigour. No longer 
 relieving the miserable, he sought only to enrich 
 himself by their misery ; and there he sate in his 
 gown of frieze, till every finger was pointed at him 
 in passing and every tongue exclaimed, ' There sits 
 the Miser !' 
 
 But in that character and amidst all that obloquy 
 he was still the same as ever, still acting to the best 
 of his judgment for the good of his fellow-citizens ; 
 and when the measure of their calamities was full, 
 when Peace had come, but had come to no purpose, 
 and the lesson, as he flattered himself, was graven 
 deep in their minds, then, but not till then, though 
 his hair had long grown grey, he threw oif the mask 
 and gave up all he had, to annihilate at a blow his 
 great and cruel adversaries, * those taxes which, when 
 
 * Such as the Gabelles formerly in France; " ou le droit," 
 says Montesquieu, " excedoit de dix-sept foi;> hi valcur de la
 
 278 
 
 excessive, break the hearts of the people ; a glorious 
 achievement for an individual, though a bloodless one, 
 and such as only can be conceived possible in a small 
 community like theirs. 
 
 Alas, how little did he know of human nature I 
 How little had he reflected on the ruling passion of 
 his countrymen, so injurious to others and at length 
 so fatal to themselves ! Almost instantly they grew 
 arrogant and quarrelsome ; almost instantly they were 
 in arms again ; and, before the statue was up, that 
 had been voted to his memory, every tax, if we may 
 believe the historian,* was laid on as before, to awaken 
 vain regrets and wise resolutions. 
 
 raarchandise." Salt is an article, of which none know the 
 value, who have not known the want of it. 
 
 * Who he is, I have yet to learn. The story was told to me 
 many years ago by a great reader of the old annalists ; but 1 
 have searched every where for it in vain.
 
 H-'r 
 
 'i.iD 
 
 A FAREWELL.* 
 
 Akd now farewell to Italy — perhaps 
 
 For ever ! Yet, methinks I could not go, 
 
 I coild not leave it, were it mine to say, 
 
 ' Farewell for ever I' Many a courtesy. 
 
 That sought no recompense, and met with none 
 
 But in the swell of heart with which it came, 
 
 Written at Susa, .May 1, 1822.
 
 280 
 
 Have I experienced ; not a cabin-door, 
 Go where I would, but opened with a smile ; 
 From the first hour, when, in my long descent, 
 Strange perfumes rose, rose as to welcome me, 
 From flowers that ministered like unseen spirits ; 
 From the first hour, when vintage-songs broke forth, 
 A grateful earnest, and the Southern lakes, 
 Dazzlingly bright, unfolded at my feet ; • 
 
 They that receive the cataracts, and ere long 
 Dismiss them, but how changed — onward to roll 
 From age to age in silent majesty. 
 Blessing the nations, and reflecting round 
 The gladness they inspire. 
 
 Gentle or rude, 
 No scene of life but has contributed 
 Much to remember — from the Folesine, 
 WTiere, when the south-wind blows, and clouds on 
 
 clouds 
 Gather and fall, the peasant freights his boat, 
 A sacred ark, slung in his orchard-grove ; 
 Mindful to migrate when the king of floods * 
 Visits his humble dwelling, and the keel, 
 
 " The Po. ' Cbaque maison est pourvue de bateaux, et 
 lorsqae I'inondation s'annonce,' ^c.— Lettres de Chateauvieux.
 
 281 
 
 Slowly uplifted over field and fence, 
 
 Floats on a world of waters — from that low, 
 
 That level region, where no Echo dwells, 
 
 Or, if she comes, comes in her saddest plight, 
 
 Hoarse, inarticulate — on to where the path 
 
 Is lost in rank luxuriance, and to breathe 
 
 Is to inhale distemper, if not death ;* 
 
 Where the wild-boar retreats, when hunters chafe. 
 
 And, when the day-star flames, the buffalo-herd, 
 
 Afflicted, plunge into the stagnant pool, 
 
 '* It was somewhere in the Maremma, a region so fatal to so 
 many, that the unhappy Pia, a Siennese lady of the family of 
 Tolommei, fell a sacrifice to the jealousy of her husband. 
 Thither he conveyed her in the sultry time, 
 " tra'l Luglio e'l Settembre;" 
 
 having resolved in his heart that she should perish tliere, even 
 though he perished there with her. Not a word escaped from 
 him on the way, not a syllable in answer to her remonstrances 
 or her tears; and in sullen silence he watched patiently by her 
 till she died. 
 
 " Siena mi fe ; disfecemi Maremma. 
 Salsi colui, cbe'nnanellata pria, 
 Disposando, m'avea con la sua gemma." 
 
 The Maremma is continually in the mind of Uante; now as 
 swarming with serpents, and now as employed in its great work 
 of destruction.
 
 282 
 
 Nothing discerned amid the water-leaves, 
 Save here and there the likeness of a head, 
 Savage, uncouth ; where none in human shape 
 Come, save the herdsman, levelling his length 
 Of lance with many a cry, or, Tartar-like, 
 Urging his steed along the distant hill 
 As from a danger. There, but not to rest, 
 I travelled many a dreary league, nor turned 
 (Ah then least v^^illing, as who had not been ?) 
 When in the South, against the azure sky. 
 Three temples rose in soberest majesty, 
 The wondrous work of some heroic race.* 
 
 But now a long farewell ! Oft, while I live. 
 If once again in England, once again -j- 
 In my own chimney-nook, as Night steals on, 
 With half-shut eyes reclining, oft, methinks, 
 While the wind blusters and the pelting rain 
 Clatters without, shall I recall to mind 
 
 * The temples of Pjestum. 
 
 t Who has travelled and cannot say with Catullus, 
 
 " quid solutis est beatius curis "! 
 Quum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino 
 Labore fessi venimus laiem ad nostrum, 
 Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto."
 
 283 
 
 The scenes, occurrences, I met with here 
 And wander in Elysium; many a note 
 Of wildest melody, magician-like 
 Awakening, such as the Calarrian horn, 
 Along the mountain-side, when all is still. 
 Pours forth at folding-time ; and many a chant, 
 Solemn, sublime, such as at midnight flows 
 From the full choir, when richest harmonies 
 Break the deep silence of thy glens. La Cava ; 
 To him who lingers there with listening ear 
 Now lost and now descending- as from Heaven I
 
 284 
 
 And now a parting word is due from him 
 
 Who, in the classic fields of Italy, 
 
 (If haply thou hast borne with him so long,) 
 
 Through many a grove by many a fount has led thee, 
 
 By many a temple half as old as Time ; 
 
 Where all was still awakening them that slept, 
 
 And conjuring up where all was desolate, 
 
 Where kings were mouldering in their funeral urns, 
 
 And oft and long the vulture flapped his wing — 
 
 Triumphs and masques. 
 
 Nature denied him much, 
 But gave him at his birth what most he values ; 
 A passionate love for music, sculpture, painting, 
 For poetry, the language of the gods, 
 For all things here, or grand or beautiful, 
 A setting sun, a lake among the mountains. 
 The light of an ingenuous countenance, 
 And what transcends them all, a noble action. 
 
 Nature denied him much, but gave him more ; 
 And ever, ever grateful should he be,
 
 285 
 
 Though from his cheek, ere yet the down was there, 
 Health fled ; for in his heaviest hours would come 
 Gleams such as come not now ; nor failed he then, 
 (Then and through life his happiest privilege) 
 Full oft to wander where the Muses haunt, 
 Smit with the love of song. 
 
 'Tis now long since ; 
 And now, while yet 'tis day, would he withdraw. 
 Who, when in youth he strung his lyre, addressed 
 A former generation. Many an eye 
 Bright as the brightest now, is closed in night. 
 And many a voice how eloquent, is mute, 
 That, when he came, disdained not to receive 
 His lays with favour. * * * * *
 
 ADDITIONAL NOTES. 
 
 Page 2, line 13. 
 'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it. 
 
 " Lines of eleven syllables occur almost in every page 
 of Milton ; but though they are not unpleasing, they 
 ought not to be admitted into heroic poetry ; since the 
 narrow limits of our language allow us no other distinc- 
 tion of epic and tragic measures." Johnson. 
 
 It is remarkable that he used them most at last. In 
 the Paradise Regained they occur oftener than in the 
 Paradise Lost in tlie proportion of ten to one ; and let it 
 be remembered that they supply us with another close, 
 another cadence ; that they add, as it were, a string to 
 the instrument; and, by enabling the Poet to relax at 
 pleasure, to rise and fall with his subject, contribute 
 what is most wanted, compass, variety. 
 
 Shakspeare seems to have delighted in them, and in 
 some of his soliloquies lias used them four and five times 
 in succession ; an example I have not followed in mine. 
 As in the following instance, where the subject is solemn 
 beyond all others. 
 
 To be, or not to be, ifc. 
 
 They come nearest to the flow of an unstudied
 
 288 
 
 eloquence, and should therefore be used in the drama ; 
 but why exclusively ? Horace, as we learn from liim- 
 self, admitted the Musa Pedestris in his happiest hours, 
 in those when he was most at his ease ; and we cannot 
 regret her visits. To her we are indebted for more than 
 half he has left us ; nor was she ever at his elbow in 
 greater dishabille, than when he wrote the celebrated 
 Journey to Brundusium. 
 
 Page 4, line 10. 
 That winds beside the miiTor of all beauty, 
 
 There is no describing in words ; but the following 
 lines were written on the spot, and may serve perhaps to 
 recall to some of my readers what they have seen iji this 
 enchanting country. 
 
 I love to watch in silence till the Sun 
 Sets; and Mont Blanc, arrayed in crimson and gold. 
 Flings his broad shadow half across the Lake ; 
 That shadow, though it comes through pathless tracts 
 Of Ether, and o'er Alp and desert drear, 
 Only less bright, less glorious than himself. 
 But, while we gaze, 'tis gone ! And now he shines 
 Like burnished silver; all, below, the Night's. 
 
 Such moments are most precious. Yet there are 
 Others, that follow fast, more precious still ; 
 When once again he changes, once again 
 Clothing himself in grandeur all his own ; 
 When, like a Ghost, shadowless, colourless,
 
 289 
 
 He melts away into the Heaven of Heavens ; 
 Himself alone revealed, all lesser things 
 As though they were not ! 
 
 Page 5, line G. 
 7iever to be named, 
 
 See the Odyssey, lib. xix. v. 597, and lib. xxiii. 
 V. 19. 
 
 Page 17, line 14. 
 St. Bkuno's once — 
 
 The Grande Chartreuse. It was indebted for its 
 foundation to a miracle ; as every guest may learn there 
 from a little book that lies on the table in his cell, the 
 cell allotted to him by the fathers. 
 
 " In this year the Canon died, and, as all believed, 
 in tlie odour of sanctity : for wlio in liis life liad been so 
 holy, in his death so happy? But false are the judg- 
 ments of men, as the event shewetli. For when the 
 liour of his funeral had arrived, when the mourners had 
 entered the church, the bearers set down tlie bier, and 
 every voice was lifted up in the Miserere, suddenly and 
 as none knew how, the lights were extinguished, the 
 antliem stopt ! A darkness succeeded, a silence as of 
 the grave ; and these words came in sorrowful accents 
 from the li{)s of tlic dead. ' I am siimnioiied before a 
 
 Just God ! A .Just God jiidgetli me ! 1 am 
 
 condemned by a Just God !'" 
 
 " In the cliurch," says tlie legend, " there stood a 
 
 U
 
 290 
 
 young man ^vith liis hands clasped in prayer, who from 
 that time resolved to withdraw into the desert. It wa 
 he whom we now invoke as St. Bruno." 
 
 Page 20, line 2. 
 He was nor dull nor contradictory. 
 
 Not that I felt the confidence of Erasmus, when, on 
 his way from Paris to Turin, he encountered the dangers 
 of Mont Cenis in 1507; when, regardless of torrent and 
 precipice, he versified as he went ; composing a poem 
 on horseback,* and writing it down at intervals as he 
 sat in the saddle ; f an example, I imagine, followed by 
 few. 
 
 Much indeed of Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, as the 
 Author assured me, was conceived and executed in like 
 manner on his journey through Greece ; but the work 
 Avas performed in less imfavourable circumstances ; for, 
 if liis fits of inspiration were stronger, he travelled on 
 surer ground. 
 
 Page 23, line 14. 
 And gathered from above, below, aroimd. 
 
 The Author of Lalla Rookh, a Poet of siich singular 
 felicity as to give a lustre to all he touches, has written 
 I a song on this subject, called the Crystal-hunters. 
 
 * ' Carmen equestre, vel potius Alpestie.' — ERASMUS 
 t ' Notans in cliarta super sellam.' — Ibid.
 
 291 
 
 Page 38, line 1. 
 / love to sail along the Larian Lake 
 Originally thus : 
 
 I love to sail aloug the Larian Lake 
 Under the shore — though not, where'er he dwelt, 
 To visit Pliny — not, where'er he dwelt, 
 Whate'er his humour ; for from cliff to cliff, 
 From glade to glade, adorning as he went, 
 He moved at pleasure, many a marble porch, 
 Dorian, Corinthian, rising at his call. 
 
 Page 47, line 4. 
 
 My omelet, and ajlagon of hill-wine, 
 t 
 Originally thus : 
 
 My omelet, and a trout, that, as tlie sun 
 Shot his last ray througli Zaiiga's leafy grove. 
 Leaped at a golden fly, had happily 
 Fled from all eyes ; 
 
 Zanga is the name of a beautiful villa near Bergamo, 
 in which Tasso finished his tragedy of Torrismondo. It 
 still belongs to his family. 
 
 Page 47, line 9. 
 
 Bartering my bread and salt for ew]iti/ praise. 
 
 After line 9, in the MS. 
 
 That evening, tended on with verse and song, 
 I closed my eyes in heaven, but not to sleep ;
 
 292 
 
 A. Columbine, my nearest neighbour there, 
 In her great bounty, at the midnight-hour 
 Bestowing on the world two Harlequins. 
 
 Chapelle and Bachaiimont fared no better at Salon, 
 " a cause d'une comedienne, qui s'avisa d'accoucher de 
 deux petits comediens." 
 
 Page 48, line 3. 
 
 And shall I sup where JuLlET at the Masque 
 
 Originally tlius : 
 
 And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque 
 First saw and loved, and now, by him who came 
 That night a stranger, sleeps from age to age ? 
 
 An old Palace of the Cappelletti, with its uncouth 
 balcony and irregular windows, is still standing in a 
 lane near the Market-place ; and what Englishman can 
 behold it with indifference ? 
 
 When we enter Verona, we forget ourselves, and are 
 almost inclined to say with Dante, 
 
 " Vieni a veder Montecchi, e Cappelletti." 
 
 Page 48, line 5. 
 Such questions hourly do I ask myself ; 
 
 It has been observed that in Italy the memory sees 
 more than the eye. Scarcely a stone is turned up that 
 has not some historical association, ancient or modern ; 
 that may not be said to have gold under it.
 
 293 
 
 Page 48, line 7. 
 ' To Ferrara' — 
 Fallen as she is, she is still, as in the days of Tassoni, 
 " La gran donna del Po." 
 
 Page 48, line 17. 
 Would they had loved thee less, or feared thee more! 
 From the sonnet of Filicaja, " Italia ! Italia!" <5"c. 
 
 Page 48, line 18. 
 
 Tivice hast thou lived already ; 
 Twice shone among the nations of the rvorld, 
 
 All our travellers, from Addison downward, have 
 diligently explored the monuments of her former exist- 
 ence ; while those of her latter have, comj)aratively 
 speaking, escaped observation. If I cannot supply the 
 deficiency, I will not follow their example ; and happy 
 should I be, if by an intermixture of verse and prose, of 
 prose illustrating the verse and verse embellishing the 
 prose, I could furnish my countrymen on their travels 
 with a pocket-companion. 
 
 Page 55, line 9. 
 
 Still glowing with the richest hues of art, 
 
 Several were painted by Giorgione and Titian ; as, 
 for instance, the Ca' Soranzo, the Ca' (irimani, and 
 the Fondaco de' Tedeschi. Great was their emulation.
 
 294 
 
 great their rivalry, if we may judge from an anecdote 
 related by Vasari ; and with what interest must they 
 have been contemplated in their progress, as they stood 
 at work on their scaffolds, by those who were passing 
 under them by land and by water ! * 
 
 Page 57, line 4. 
 That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino. 
 
 A pleasant instance of his wit and agility was exhibited 
 some years ago on the stage at Venice. 
 
 " The stutterer was in an agony ; the word was inex- 
 orable. It was to no purpose that Harlequin suggested 
 another and another. At length, in a fit of despair, he 
 pitched his head full in the dying man's stomach, and 
 the word bolted out of his mouth to the most distant 
 part of the house." — See Moore's View of Societif in 
 Italy. 
 
 He is well described by Marmontelle in the Ency- 
 clopedic. 
 
 *' Personnage de la comedie italienne. Le caractere 
 distinctif de I'ancienne comedie italienne est de jouer 
 des ridicules, non pas personnels, mais nationaux. C'est 
 une imitation grotesque des moeurs des differentes villes 
 d'ltalie ; et chacune d'elles est representee par un per- 
 sonnage qui est toujours le meme. Pantalon est venitien, 
 
 * Frederic Zucchero, in a drawing which I have seen, has 
 introduced his brother Taddeo as so employed at Rome on the 
 Palace Mattel, and Raphael and Michael Angelo as standing 
 among the spectators below.
 
 295 
 
 le Docteur est bolonois, Scapin est napolitain, et Arle- 
 quin est bergamasque. Celui-ci est d'une singularite 
 qui merite d'etre observee ; et il a fait longteraps les 
 plaisirs de Paris, joue par trois acteurs celebres, Domi- 
 nique, Thomassin, et Carlin. II est vraisemblable qu'un 
 esclave africain fut le premier module de ce personnage. 
 Son caractere est un melange d'ignorance, de naivete, 
 d'esprit, de betise et de grace : c'est une espece d'homme 
 ebauche, un grand enfant, qui a des lueurs de raison et 
 d 'intelligence, et dont toutes les meprises ou les mal- 
 adresses ont quelque cbose de piquant. Le vrai modele 
 de son jeu est la souplesse, I'agilite, la gentillesse d'un 
 jeune chat, avec un ecorce de grossierete qui rend son 
 action plus plaisante ; son role est celui d'un valet 
 patient, fidele, credule, gourmand, toujours amoureux, 
 toujours dans I'embarras, ou pour son maitre, ou pour 
 lui-meme, qui s'afflige, qui se console avec la facilite 
 d'un enfant, et dont la douleur est aussi amusante que 
 la joie." 
 
 Page 59, line 2. 
 
 A scene of lig/it and glori/, a domhdoii. 
 That has endured the longest among men. 
 
 A Poet of our own Country, Mr. Wordsworth, has 
 written a noble sonnet on the extinction of the Venetian 
 Republic. 
 
 " Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee," &c.
 
 296 
 
 Page 61, line 10. 
 and at once she fell; 
 
 There was, in my time, another republic, a place of 
 refuge for the unfortunate, and, not only at its birth, 
 but to the last hour of its existence, which had established 
 itself in like manner among the waters and which shared 
 the same fate ; — a republic, the citizens of which, if not 
 moi"e enterprising, were far more virtuous,* and could 
 say also to the great nations of the world, ' Your coun- 
 tries were acquired by conquest or by inheritance ; but 
 ours is the work of our own hands. We renew it, day 
 by day ; and, but for us, it might cease to be to-morrow !' 
 — a republic, in its progress, for ever warred on by the 
 elements, and how often by men more cruel than they ; 
 yet constantly cultivating the arts of peace, and, short 
 as was the course allotted to it (only three times the life 
 of man, according to the Psalmist) producing, amidst 
 all its difficulties, not only the greatest sea-men, but 
 the greatest lawyers, the greatest physicians, the most 
 
 * It is related that Spinola and Richardot, when on their way 
 to negotiate a treaty at the Hague in 1608, saw eight or ten 
 persons land from a little boat and, sitting down on the grass, 
 make a meal of bread and cheese and beer. ' Who are these 
 travellers?' said the Ambassadors to a peasant. — ' They are the 
 deputies from the states,' he answered, ' our sovereign lords and 
 masters.' — ' We must make peace,' they cried. ' These are not 
 men to be conquered.' ^'OLTAIRE.
 
 297 
 
 accomplished scholars, the most skilful painters, and 
 statesmen as wise as they were just.* 
 
 Page 65, line 12. ■ 
 
 Mishap passed o'er tliee like a summer-cloud. 
 
 When we wisli to know if a man may be accounted 
 liapj)y, we should perliaps inquire, not whether he is 
 prosperous or unprosperous, but how much he is afl'ected 
 by little things — by such as hourly assail us in the 
 commerce of life, and are no more to be regarded than 
 tlie buzzings and stingings of a summer-fly. 
 
 Page 73, line 18. 
 ' But who moves there, alone among them all?" 
 
 See the history of Bragadino, the Alchymist, as 
 related by Daru. Hist, de Venise, c. 28. 
 
 The person tliat follows, was yet more extraordinary, 
 and is said to have appeared there in 1687. See Her- 
 mippns Redivivus. 
 
 " Those, who have experienced the advantages which 
 
 * What names, for instance, are more illustrious tlian those of 
 |{>irnevei(lt and De Witt ? But when there were such mothers, 
 there rnijjlit well be sucli sons. 
 
 When Reinier Barneveldt was condemned to die for an 
 attempt to avenp;e his father's death hy assassination, his mother 
 threw herself at the feet of Prince Maurice. ' You did not 
 deign,' said he, ' to ask for your husband's life ; and why ask for 
 yourson'sl' — ' My husband,' she replied, ' was innocent; but 
 my son is guilty.'
 
 298 
 
 all strangers enjoy in that City, will not be surprised that 
 one who went by the name of Signor Guakli was admitted 
 into the best company, though none knew who or what 
 he was. He remained there some months ; and three 
 things were remarked concerning him — that he had a 
 small but inestimable collection of pictures, which he 
 eadily showed to any body — that he spoke on every 
 subject with such a mastery as astonished all who heard 
 him — and that he never wrote or received any letter, 
 never required any credit or used any bills of exchange, 
 but paid for every thing in ready money, and lived 
 respectably, though not splendidly. 
 
 " This gentleman being one day at the coffee-house, 
 a Venetian nobleman, who was an excellent judge of 
 pictures, and who had heard of Signor Gualdi's collec- 
 tion, expressed a desire to see them ; and his request 
 was instantly granted. After contemplating and admiring 
 them for some time, he happened to cast his eyes over 
 the chamber-door, where hung a portrait of the Stranger. 
 The Venetian looked upon it, and then upon him. ' This 
 is your portrait, Sir,' said he to Signor Gualdi. The 
 other made no answer but by a low bow. ' Yet you 
 look,' he continued, ' like a man of fifty ; and I know 
 this picture to be of the hand of Titian, who has been 
 dead one hundred and thirty years. How is this possi- 
 ble ?' ' It is not easy,' said Signor Gualdi gravely, " to 
 know all things that are possible ; but there is certainly 
 no crime in my being like a picture of Titian's.' The 
 Venetian perceived that he had given offence, and took 
 his leave.
 
 299 
 
 " In the evening- he could not forbear mentioning 
 what had passed to some of his friends, who resolved to 
 satisfy themselves the next day by seeing the picture. 
 For this purpose they went to the coflee-house about 
 tlie time that Signor Gualdi was accustomed to come 
 there ; and, not meeting with him, inquired at his lodg- 
 ings, where they learnt that he had set out an hour 
 before for Vienna. This atl'air made a great stir at the 
 time." 
 
 Page 75, line 4. 
 All eye, all ear, no where and every where, 
 
 A Frenchman of high rank, who had been robbed at 
 Venice and had complained in conversation of the 
 negligence of the Police, saying that they were vigilant 
 only as spies on the stranger, was on his way back to 
 the Terra Firma, when his gondola stopped suddenly in 
 tlie midst of the waves. He inquired tlie reason ; and 
 liis gondoliers pointed to a boat with a red flag, that had 
 just made them a signal. It arrived ; and he was called 
 on board. ' You are the Prince de Craon? Were you 
 not robbed on Friday-evening ? — I was. — Of what ? — 
 Of five hundred ducats. — And where were they? — In a 
 green purse. — Do you suspect any body? — I do, a 
 servant. — Would you know him again? — Certainly.' 
 The Interrogator witli his foot turned aside an old cloak 
 tliat lay tliere ; and tlie Prince beheld his purse in the 
 liand of a dead man. 'Take it; and remember tliat 
 none set their feet again in a country where tlicy have 
 presumed to doubt the wisdom of tlie government.'
 
 300 
 
 -Page 78, line 3. 
 Sileiit, gTass-g7-ow7i — 
 When a Despot lays his hand on a Free City, how 
 soon must he make the discovery of the Eustic, who 
 bought Punch of the Puppet-show man, and complained 
 that he would not speak ! 
 
 Page 99, line 11. 
 It found him on his knees before the Cross, 
 He was at mass. — M. Sanuto. 
 
 Page 109, line 4. 
 He cnltured all that could refine, exalt; 
 Thrice happy is he who acquires the habit of looking 
 every where for excellencies and not for faults — whether 
 iu art or in nature — whether in a picture, a poem, or a 
 character. Like the bee in its flight, he extracts the 
 sweet and not the bitter wherever he goes ; till his mind 
 becomes a dwelling-place for all that is beautiful, re- 
 ceiving as it were by instinct, what is congenial to itself, 
 and rejecting every thing else almost as. unconsciously 
 as if it was not there. 
 
 Page 111, line 14. 
 ^Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth, 
 This story is, I believe, founded on fact ; though the 
 time and place are uncertain. Many old houses in 
 England lay claim to it. 
 
 Except in this instance and another (p. 259) I have 
 every where followed history or tradition ; and I would
 
 301 
 
 here disburden my conscience in pointing out these 
 exceptions, lest the reader should be misled by them. 
 
 Page 119, line 2. 
 and many a toicer, 
 Such, perhaps, as suggested to Petrocchi the sonnet, 
 " lo chiesi al Tempo," S,-c. 
 
 I said to Time, ' This venerable pile, 
 Its floor the earth, its roof the firmament, 
 Whose was it once V He answered not, but fled 
 Fast as before. I turned to Fame, and asked. 
 ' Names such as his, to thee they must be known. 
 Speak !' But she answered only with a sigh. 
 And, musing mournfully, looked on the ground. 
 Then to Oblivion I addressed myself, 
 A dismal pliantom, sitting at the gate ; 
 And, with a voice as from the grave, she cried, 
 ' Whose it was once I care not ; now 'tis mine.' * 
 
 The same turn of thought is in an ancient inscription 
 which Sir Walter Scott repeated to me many years ago, 
 and which he had met with, I believe, in the cemetery 
 of Melrose Abbey, when wandering, like Old Mortality, 
 among the tomb-stones tliere. 
 
 The Earth walks on the Earth, glistering witli gold ; 
 The Earth goes to the Eartli, sooner than it wold. 
 The Earth builds on the Earth temi)Ies and towers ; 
 The Earth says to the Earth, ' AH will Ix; ours.' 
 
 * For tlie last line I am indebted to a translation ij^- the 
 Rev. Charles Strong;.
 
 302 
 
 Page 124, line 2. 
 
 Sit thee down awhile ; 
 Then, by thy gates, ^t. 
 
 " Movemur enim nescio quo pacto locis ipsis, in 
 quibus eorum, quos diligimus, aut adrairamnr, adsunt 
 vestigia. Me quidem ipsae illae nostne Atlienas non tarn 
 operibus magnificis exquisitisque antiquorum artibus 
 delectant, quam recordatione summorum virorum, ubi 
 quisque habitare, ubi sedere, ubi dispntare sit solitus : 
 studioseque eorum etiam sepulcra contemplor." — Ci- 
 cero de Legibus, ii. 2. 
 
 Page 132, line 5. 
 
 Wlience Galileo's glass; Sfc. 
 
 His first instrument was presented by liim to the 
 Doge of Venice ; * his second, which discovered the 
 satellites of Jupiter, f and was endeared to Jiim, as he 
 
 * There is a tradition at Venice that he exhibited its wonders 
 to the nobles there, on the top of the tower of St. Mark. 
 
 t Kepler's letter to him on that event is very characteristic of 
 the writer. ' I was sitting idle at home, thinking of you and 
 your letters, most excellent Galileo, when Wachenfels stopped 
 his carriage at my door to tell me the news ; and such was my 
 wonder when I heard it, such my agitation (for at once it decided 
 an old controversy of ours) that, what with his joy and my 
 surprise, and the laughter of both, we were for some lime unable, 
 he to speak, and I to listen. — At last I began to consider how 
 they could be there, without overturning my Mysterium Cosmo- 
 graphicum, published thirteen years ago. Not that I doubt
 
 303 
 
 says, by much fatigue and by many a midnight-watch, 
 remained entire, I believe, till very lately, in the 
 Museum at Florence. 
 
 Page 133, line 5. 
 Beautiful Florence, 
 
 It is somewhere mentioned that Michael Angelo, when 
 he set out from Florence to build the dome of St. Peter's, 
 turned his horse round in the road to contemplate once 
 more that of the cathedral, as it rose in the grey of the 
 morning from among the pines and cypresses of the city, 
 and that he said after a pause, ' Come te non voglio ! 
 Meglio di te non posso !'* He never indeed spoke of it 
 but with admiration ; and, if we may believe tradition, 
 his tomb by his own desire was to be so placed in the 
 Santa Croce as that from it might be seen, when the 
 doors of tlie church stood open, that noble work of 
 Bruneleschi. 
 
 their existence. So far from it, I am longing for a glass, that I 
 may, if possible, get the start of )ou, and (ind two for Mars, six 
 or eight for Saturn,' Sfc. 
 
 In Jupiter and his satellites, seen as they now are, ' we behold, 
 at a single glance of the eye, a beautiful miniature of the planetary 
 system,' and perhaps of every system of worlds through the 
 regions of space. 
 
 * Like thee I will not build one. Better than thee I cannot.
 
 504 
 
 Page 134, line 7. 
 
 Round the green hill they iveiit, 
 
 I have here followed Baklelli. It has been said that 
 Boccaccio drew from his imagination. But is it likely, 
 when he and his readers were living within a mile or 
 two of the spot ? Truth or fiction, it furnishes a pleasant 
 picture of the manners and amusements of the Floren- 
 tines in that day. 
 
 Page 137, line 4. 
 
 sung- of Old 
 For its green wine ; 
 
 La Verdea. It is celebrated by Rinuccini, Redi, and 
 most of the Tuscan Poets ; nor is it unnoticed by some 
 of ours. 
 
 " Say, he had been at Rome, and seen the relics. 
 Drunk your Verdea-wine," Vc. 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Page 137, line 6. 
 that great Astronomer, 
 
 It is difficult to conceive what Galileo must have felt, 
 when, having constructed his telescope, he turned it to 
 the heavens, and saw the mountains and valleys in the 
 moon. — Then the moon was another earth ; the earth 
 another planet ; and all were subject to the same laws. 
 What an evidence of the simplicity and the magnificence 
 of nature !
 
 305 
 
 But at length lie turned it again, still directing it 
 upward, and again he was lost ; for he was now among 
 tlie fixed stars ; and, if not magnified as he expected 
 them to be, they were multiplied beyond measure. 
 
 What a moment of exultation for such a mind as his ! 
 But as yet it was only the dawn of a day that was 
 coming ; nor was he destined to live till that day was in 
 its splendour. The great law of gravitation was not 
 yet to be made known ; and how little did he think, as 
 he held the instrument in his hand, that we should 
 travel by it so far as we have done ; that its revelations 
 would ere long be so glorious ! * 
 
 * Among the innumerable stars now discovered, and at every 
 improvement of the telescope vie discover more and more, there 
 are many at such a distance from this little planet of ours, that 
 ' their light must have taken at least a thousand years to reach 
 us.' The intelligence, which they may be said to convey to us, 
 night after niglit, must therefore, when we receive it, be a 
 thousand years old; for every ray, that conies, must have set 
 out as long ago ; and, * when we observe their places and note 
 their changes,' they may have ceased to exist for a thousand 
 years. 
 
 Nor can their dimensions be less wonderful than their dis- 
 tances; if Sirius, as it is more than conjectured, be nearly 
 equal to fourteen suns, and there be others that surpass Sirius. 
 — Yet all of them must be as nothing in the immensity of space, 
 and amidst the ' numbers without number ' that may never become 
 visilde here, though they were created in the heijliining. — 
 lleischel. Wollaston.
 
 306 
 
 Page 137, line 7. 
 
 Seven years a prisoner at the city-gate, 
 
 Galileo came to Arcetri at the close of the year 1633; 
 and remained there, while he lived, by an order of the 
 Inquisition.* It is without the walls, near the Porta 
 Romana. 
 
 Page 138, line 4. 
 
 Some verse o/'Ariosto ! 
 
 Ariosto himself employed much of his time in garden- 
 ing ; and to his garden at Ferrara we owe many a 
 verse. 
 
 Page 139, line 16. 
 Florence and Pisa — 
 
 I cannot dismiss Pisa without a line or two ; for 
 much do I owe to her. If Time has levelled her ten 
 thousand towers (for, like Lucca, she was ' torreggiata 
 a guisa d'un boschetto') she has still her cathedral 
 and her baptistery, her belfry and her cemetery ; and 
 from Time they have acquired more thaa they have 
 lost. 
 
 If many a noble monument is gone, 
 
 That said how glorious in her day she was, 
 
 * For believing in the motion of the earth. ' They may 
 issue tlieir decrees,' says Pascal ; ' it is to no purpose. If the 
 earth is really turning round, all mankind together could not 
 keep it from turning, or keep themselves from turning with it.' 
 — Les Provinciales, xviii.
 
 307 
 
 There is a sacred place within her walls, 
 Sacred and silent, save when they that die. 
 Come there to rest, and tliey that live, to pray. 
 For then are voices heard, crying to God, 
 Where yet remain, apart from all things else, 
 Four, such as no where on the earth are seen 
 Assembled ; and at even, when the sun 
 Sinks in the west, and in the east the moon 
 As slowly rises, her great round displaying 
 Over a City now so desolate — 
 Such is the grandeur, such the solitude, 
 Such their dominion in tliat solemn hour. 
 We stand and gaze and wonder wJiere we are 
 In this world or anotlier. 
 
 Page 141, line 19. 
 And lo, an atom on that dangerous sen, 
 
 Petrarch, as we learn from himself, was on his way 
 to Incisa ; whither his mother was retiring. He was 
 seven montlis old at the time. 
 
 A most extraordinary deluge, accompanied by signs 
 and prodigies, liajjpened a few years afterwards. " On 
 that night," says Giovanni Villani, " a hermit, being at 
 prayer in his liermitage above Vallombrosa, heard a 
 I'lirioiis trampling as of many horses; jind, crossing 
 liimself and liurrying to the wicket, saw a multitude of 
 infernal liorsemen, all black and terrible, riding by at 
 full speed. When in the name of God he conjured 
 some of them to reveal their purpose, they replied,
 
 308 
 
 ' We are going, if it be His pleasure, to drown the city 
 of Florence for its wickedness.' " — " This account," says 
 he, " was given me by the Abbot of Vallombrosa, who 
 had questioned the holy man himself." — xi. 2. 
 
 Page 144, line 1. 
 and hence a world of woe ! 
 
 If War is a calamity, what a calamity must be Civil 
 War ; for how cruel are the circumstances which it 
 gives birth to ! 
 
 ' I had served long in foreign countries,' says an old 
 soldier, ' and had borne my part in the sack of many a 
 town ; but there I had only to deal with strangers ; and 
 T shall never, no never forget what I felt to-day, when 
 a voice in my own language cried out to me for quar- 
 ter.' 
 
 Page 145, line 9. 
 
 Yet, when Slavery came, 
 Worse followed. 
 
 It is remarkable that the noblest works of human 
 genius have been produced in times of tumult ; when 
 every man was his own master, and all tilings were 
 open to all. Homer, Dante, and Milton appeared in 
 such times ; and we may add Virgil.* 
 
 * The Angustan Age, as it is called, what was it but a dying 
 blaze of the Commonwealth ? When Augustus began to reign, 
 Cicero and Lucretius were dead, Catullus had written bis satires 
 against Caesar, and Horace and Virgil were no longer in their
 
 309 
 
 Page 151, line 1. 
 
 It was an hour of universal joy. 
 
 Before line 1, in the MS. 
 
 The sun ascended, and the eastern sky 
 
 Flamed like a furnace, while the western glowed 
 
 As if another day was dawning there. 
 
 Page 157, line 6. 
 no hush, or green or dry, 
 
 A sign in our country as old as Shakspeare, and 
 still used in Italy. " Une branche d'arbre, attachee 
 k une maison rusticjue, nous annonce les moyens de 
 nous refraichir. Nous y trouvons du lait et des oeufs 
 frais ; nous voila contens." — Mkm, de Goldoni. 
 
 There is, or was very lately, in Florence a small 
 wine-house with this inscription over the door, ' Al buon 
 vino non bisogna frasca.' Good wine needs no bush. 
 It was much frequented by Salvator Rosa, who drew 
 a portrait of his hostess. 
 i 
 
 Page 1.58, line 15. 
 
 a sumpter-mule 
 Many of these circurtistances were suggested by a 
 landscape of Annibal Carracci, now in the F^ouvre. 
 
 first youth. Horace had served under Hiutiis; anil Virgil ha<l 
 been pronounced to be 
 
 " Magna' spes altera Uoiiiii'."
 
 310 
 
 Page 168, line 17. 
 All things that strike, ennoble — 
 
 Such was the enthusiasm there at the revival of Art, 
 that the discovery of a precious marble was an event for 
 celebration; and, in the instance of the Laocoon, it was 
 recorded on the tomb of the discoverer. ' Felici de 
 Fredis, qui ob proprias virtutes, et repertum Laocoontis 
 divinum quod in Vaticano cemes fere respirans simula- 
 crum, immortalitatera meruit, a. d. 1528.'* 
 
 The Laocoon was found in the baths of Titus, and, as 
 we may conclude, in the very same chamber in which it 
 was seen by the Elder Pliny. It stood alone there in a 
 niche that is still pointed out to the traveller ; f and 
 well might it be hailed by the Poets of that day ! What 
 a moment for the imagination, when, on the entrance of 
 a torch, it emerged at once from the darkness of so long 
 a night ! % 
 
 * In the church of Ara Coeli. 
 
 t The walls and the niche are of a bright ve^jmilion. See 
 Observations on the colours of the Ancients, by Sir Humphry 
 Davy, with whom I visited this chamber in 1814. 
 
 X There is a letter on the subject, written by Francesco da 
 S. Gallo, in 1567. 
 
 ' Some statues being discovered in a vineyard near S. Maria 
 Maggiore, the Pope said to a groom of the stables, " Tell 
 Giuliano da S. Gallo to go and see them ;" and my Father, when 
 he received the message, went directly to Michael Angelo 
 Buonarrotti, who was always to be found at home (being at thai 
 time employed on the Mausoleum), and they set out together on
 
 311 
 
 Page 172, line 5. 
 Scondng the chains he could not hope to break. 
 
 We are told that Cfesar passed the Rubicon and 
 overthrew the Commonwealth ; but the seeds of destruc- 
 tion were already in the Seuate-house, the Forum, and 
 the Camp. When Ctesar fell, was liberty restored? 
 
 History, as well as Poetry, delights in a hero, and is 
 for ever ascribing to one what was the work of many ; 
 for, as men, we are flattered by such representations of 
 human greatness; forgetting how often leaders are led, 
 and overlooking the thousand tliousand springs of action 
 by which the events of tlie world are brought to pass. 
 
 Page 173, line 11. 
 Well might the great, the mighty of the world, 
 
 " Rien nc servit mieux Rome, que le respect qu'elle 
 imprima a la terre. Elle mit d'abord les rois dans le 
 silence, et les rendit comme stupides. II ne s'agissoit 
 pas du degr^ de leur puissance ; mais leur personne 
 propre Hoii attaqu6e. Risquer une guerre, c'etoit 
 s'exposer ;\ la captivite, ii la mort, jY I'infamie du tri- 
 omphe." Montesquieu. 
 
 liorsehack ; I, wlio was yet a child, riding on llie criippiT bi-liiiid 
 my Fatlier. 
 
 ' Wlien tliey arrived tliere and went down, they exchiiriicd, 
 " This is the Laocooii of whidi I'liny makes mention !" and tlie 
 opening was enlarged that the marble might be taken out and 
 inspected ; and they returned to dinner, discoursing of ancient 
 llii;igs.'
 
 312 
 
 Page 174, line 13. 
 
 Some invoked 
 Death, and escaped ; 
 
 ' Spare me, I pray, this indignity,' said Perseus to 
 jEmilius. ' Make me not a public spectacle ; drag me 
 not through your streets.' — ' What you ask for,' replied 
 the Roman, ' is in your own power.' Plutarch. 
 
 Page 180, line 3. 
 
 then on that master-piece, 
 
 ' You admire that picture,' said an old Dominican to 
 me at Padua, as I stood contemplating a Last Supper in 
 the Refectory of his Convent, the figures as large as the 
 life. ' I have sat at my meals before it for seven and 
 forty years ; and such are the changes that have taken 
 place among us — so many have come and gone in the 
 time — that, when I look upon the company there — upon 
 those who are sitting at that table, silent as they are — I 
 am sometimes inclined to think that we, and not they, 
 are the shadows.'* 
 
 * The celebrated fresco of Lionardo da ^'iIlci in the monastery 
 of Santa Maria delle Grazie at Milan must again and again have 
 suggested the same reflection. Opposite to it stood the Prior's 
 table, the monks sitting down the chamber on the right and left : 
 and the Artist, throughout his picture, has evidently endeavoured 
 to make it correspond with what he saw when they were assem- 
 bled there. The table-cloth, with the corners tied up, and with 
 its regular folds as from the press, must have been faithfully
 
 313 
 
 Page 186, line 1. 
 Have none appeared as tillers of the ground. 
 
 The Author of the Letters to Julia has written 
 admirably on this subject. 
 
 " All sad, all silent ! O'er the ear 
 No sound of cheerful toil is swelling-. 
 
 Earth has no quickening spirit here, 
 
 Nature no charm, and Man no dwelling !" 
 
 Not less admirably has he described a Roman Beauty ; 
 such as ' weaves her spells beyond the Tiber.' 
 
 " Methinks the Furies with their snakes. 
 Or Venus with her zone miglit gird her ; 
 
 Of fiend and goddess she partakes, 
 
 And looks at once both Love and Murder." 
 
 Page 191, line 7. 
 Wander like strangers 
 
 It was not always so. There were once within her 
 walls ' more erected spirits.' 
 
 " Let me recall to your mind," says Petrarch, in ;i 
 letter to old Stephen Colonna, " the walk we took 
 together at a late lionr in the broad street tliat h-ads 
 
 copied ; and the dishes and drinking-cups are, no doubt, snch as 
 were used hy the fatliers in tliat day. .See (Joetlie, v. \x\i\. 
 p. 94.
 
 314 
 
 from your palace to the Capitol. To me it seems as 
 yesterday, though it was ten years ago. When we 
 arrived where the four ways meet, we stopped ; and, 
 none interrupting us, discoursed long on the fallen 
 fortunes of your House. Fixing your eyes steadfastly 
 upon me and then turning them away full of tears, ' I 
 have nothing now,' you said, ' to leave my children. 
 But a still greater calamity awaits me — I shall inherit 
 from them all.' You remember the words, no doubt ; 
 words so fully accomplished. I certainly do ; and as 
 distinctly as the old sepulchre in the corner, on which 
 we were leaning with our elbows at the time." — Epist. 
 Famil. viii. 1. 
 
 The sepulchre here alluded to must have been that of 
 Bibulus ; and what an interest it derives from this 
 anecdote ! Stephen Colonna was a hero worthy of 
 antiquity ; and in his distress was an object, not of 
 pity, but of reverence. When overtaken by his pur- 
 suers and questioned by those who knew him not, ' I am 
 Stephen Colonna,' he replied, ' a citizen of Rome!' 
 and, when in the last extremity of battle a voice cried 
 out to him, ' Where is now your fortress, Colonna?' 
 ' Here!' he answered gaily, laying his hand on his 
 heart. 
 
 Page 192, line 12. 
 
 3Tusic ami painting, sculpture, rhetoric. 
 
 Music ; and from the loftiest strain to the lowliest, 
 from a Miserere in the Holy Week to the Shepherd's 
 luimble offering in Advent ; the last, if we may judge
 
 315 
 
 from its effects, not the least subduing, perhaps the 
 most so. 
 
 Once, as I was approaching Frescati in the sunshine 
 of a cloudless December-morning, I observed a rustic- 
 group by the road-side, before an image of the Virgin, 
 that claimed the devotions of the passenger from a niche 
 in a vineyard-wall. Two young men from the moun- 
 tains of the Abruzzi, in their long brown cloaks, were 
 playing a Cliristmas-carol. Their instruments were a 
 hautboy and a bagpipe ; and the air, wild and simple as 
 it was, was such as she might accept with pleasure. 
 The ingenuous and smiling coimtenances of these riule 
 minstrels, who seemed so sure that she heard them, and 
 the unaffected delight of their little audience, all younger 
 than themselves, all standing uncovered and moving 
 their lips in prayer, would have arrested the most care- 
 less traveller. 
 
 Page 197, line G. 
 
 And from the latticed (^allerij came a chant 
 Of psalms, most saint-Uhe, most angelical, 
 
 There was said to be in the choir, among others of 
 the Sisterhood, a dauglitcr of Cimarosa. 
 
 Page 201, line 2. 
 
 And the young mpnpli, jitijtarni'j; for llic dance 
 
 " lo piglio, (juando 11 di giungc al coiifiiu', 
 
 Le liicciole no' ])rati anipj ridottc, 
 
 E, come gemme, le comparto al criiie ;
 
 316 
 
 Poi fra I'ombre da' rai vivi interrotte 
 Mi presento ai Pastori, e ognun mi dice ; 
 Clori ha le stelle al crin come ha la Notte." 
 
 Varano, 
 
 Page 201, line 11. 
 Those trees, religious once and always green, 
 
 Pliny mentions an extraordinary instance of longevity 
 in the ilex. ' There is one,' says he, ' in the Vatican, 
 older than the City itself. An Etruscan inscription in 
 letters of brass attests that even in those days the tree 
 was held sacred :' and it is remarkable that there is at 
 this time on the Vatican mount an ilex of great antiquity. 
 It is in a gTOve just above the palace-garden. 
 
 Page 220, line 1. 
 
 Three days they lay in ambnsh at my gate. 
 
 This story was written in the year 1820, and is 
 founded on the many narratives which at that time were 
 circulating in Rome and Naples. 
 
 Page 227, line 3. 
 And he it mine to muse there, mine to glide. 
 
 If the bay of Naples is still beautiful, if it still deserves 
 the epithet of pulcherrimns, what must it not once have 
 been ; * and who, as he sails round it, can imagine it to 
 
 * ' Antequam Vesuvius mons, ardescens, faciem loci verteret.' 
 — Tacit. Annal. iv. 67.
 
 317 
 
 liiniself as it was — when not only the villas of the 
 Romans were in their splendour,* but the temples ; 
 when those of Herculaneum and Pompeii and Baiae and 
 Puteoli, and how many more, were standing, each on 
 its eminence or on the margin of the sea ; while, with 
 choral music and with a magnificence that had exhausted 
 the wealth of kingdoms, f the galleys of the Imperial 
 Court were anchoring in the shade or moving up and 
 down in the sunshine. 
 
 Page 232, line 5. 
 the house of Pansa, 
 
 Pansa, the .Edile ; according to some of the inter- 
 preters ; but tlie inscription at the entrance is very 
 obscure. 
 
 It is remarkable that Cicero, when on liis way to 
 Cilicia, was the bearer of a letter to Atticus ' ex Pansae 
 Pompeiano. I (Ad Att. v. 3.) That this was the house 
 in question ; and that in the street, as we passed along. 
 
 * 
 
 • With their groves and porticoes they were every where 
 along the shore, ' erat eniin freque ns anineuitas or;c ;' and what 
 a neigiihourhood must have been there in the last days of (he 
 Commonwealth, when such men as Caesar and Pompey and 
 Lucullus, and Cicero and Hortensius and JJrulus, were con- 
 tinually retiring thither from the cares of public life ! 
 
 t ' Geramatis puppiiius, versioolr)ribus velis,' S;v. — .Sl'ETOS. 
 Caliy. 37. 
 
 i According to Grctvius. The manuscripts disagree.
 
 318 
 
 we might have met him, coming or going, every pilgrim 
 to Pompeii must wish to believe. 
 
 But delighting in the coast and in his pwn Pompeia- 
 num, (Ad Att. ii. 1) he could be no stranger in that 
 City ; and often must he have received there such 
 homage as ours. 
 
 Page 259, line 1. 
 ' What hangs behind that curtain ?' 
 
 This story, if a story it may be called, is fictitious ; 
 and I have done little more than give it as I received it. 
 
 Page 268, line 18. 
 
 How oft, where now we rode 
 
 Every reader of Spanish poetry is acquainted with 
 that atfecting romance of Gongora, 
 
 " Amarrado al duro banco," S^c. 
 
 Lord Holland has translated it in his excellent life of 
 Lope de Vega. 
 
 Page 272, line 1. 
 This house was Andrea Doria's. 
 
 There is a custom on the Continent well worthy of 
 notice. In Boulogne we read, as we ramble through it, 
 ' Ici est mort I'Auteur de Gil Bias;' in Rouen, ' Ici est 
 ne Pierre Corneille ;' in Geneva, ' Ici est ne Jean 
 Jacques Rousseau :' and in Dijon there is the Maison
 
 319 
 
 Bossuet ; in Paris, the Quai Voltaire. Very rare are 
 such memorials among ns ; and yet, wherever we met 
 with them, in wliatever country they were or of what- 
 ever age, we should surely say that they were evidences 
 of refinement and sensibility in the people. The house 
 of Pindar was spared 
 
 when temple and tower 
 Went to the ground ; 
 
 and its ruins were held sacred to the last. According 
 to Pausanias, they were still to be seen in the second 
 century. .
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Abbot of St. Maurice, his 
 fall from a precipice, 37. 
 
 Actors on board a passage 
 boat, 55, 50. 
 
 Aqueducts in the Campagna 
 of Home, 189. 
 
 Alban lake, 201. 
 
 Albert the bandit, 222. 
 
 Alfieri, his visit to the tombs 
 of Petrarch and Tasso, 
 note, 105. 
 
 Alfonso Piccolomini the ban- 
 dit, note, 213. 
 
 Alps, the hunters of, 20. 
 
 Aniadeus, first Duke of Sa- 
 voy, note, 6. 
 
 Amalfi, now a fishing town, 
 lier ancient jjrosjjerity, her 
 commerce, her maritime 
 laws, her hospitals in the 
 East, one of her citizens 
 the discoverer of the com- 
 pass, 254. 
 
 Angelica, 42. 100. 
 
 Anio, falls of, 201. 
 
 Antony of Trent, 112. 
 
 Appian way, lO'J. 
 
 Arcetri, the residence of Ga- 
 lileo, 137. 
 
 Archimedes, his saying, note, 
 193. 
 
 Aricia, 188. 
 
 Ariosto, his house at Fer- 
 rara, 05 ; his garden, note, 
 300. 
 
 Arlecchino on board the pas- 
 sage boat, 57 ; anecdote of 
 one, 7i(ite, 294. 
 
 Arno, the vale of, 133. 
 
 Arno, its source, 139. 
 
 Arquii, 105. 
 
 Augustus, in his litter, note, 
 109. 
 
 Avalanche, fall of, 23. 
 
 liag of gold, story of, 235. 
 
 Baiir, 230. 
 
 Banditti, 213 ; their charac- 
 ter in former times and at 
 present, 215; a modern 
 bandit, 210 ; story of one, 
 220. 
 
 Barbara, the landlord's 
 daughter at Bergamo, 43'. 
 
 Y
 
 322 
 
 Barbarossa in the porch of 
 Saint Mark's church, 67. 
 
 Battista, Lord Byron's gon- 
 dolier, 118. 
 
 Bellaggio, a birth-night fes- 
 tival there, 41. 
 
 Benacus, the lake of Catul- 
 lus, 44. 
 
 Bergamo, occurrences at, 43. 
 
 Bernard, Saint, Abbot of 
 Clairvaux, 4. 
 
 Bianca Capello, her story, 
 80, SI. 148. 
 
 Boccaccio, his burial place, 
 135. 
 
 Bologna, a night-scene in, 
 115 ; arrival of a traveller 
 there, 116. 
 
 Bonatti, the astrologer, note, 
 55. 
 
 Boren, Christian, adventure 
 of, note, 23. 
 
 Bravo, description of, 146. 
 
 Brides of Venice, 82. 
 
 Bridge of sighs, 71. 
 
 Brothers, the, 31. 
 
 Brundusium, 203. 288. 
 
 Bruneleschi, note, 303. 
 
 Brutus, Marcus Junius, 172. 
 
 Buondelmonte Giovanni, 143, 
 144. 
 
 Byron at Bologna, 117; his 
 journey over the Apen- 
 nines, 119, 120. 
 
 Caffaggiolo, villa of Cosmo 
 de' Medici, note, 149. 
 
 Caius Cestius, reflections at 
 Ihe tomb of, 194, 195. 
 
 Campagna of Rome, 186. 
 
 Cappelletti, palace of the, 
 
 note, 292. 
 Capreae, 230. 
 Carracci, Annibal, Cries of 
 
 Bologna by, 116. 
 Cardinal * *, and his cats, 
 
 235. 
 Carmagnola, F. B., 71. 
 Carnival in St. Mark's Place, 
 
 69. 
 Carrara, Francesco II., death 
 
 of, 71. 
 Catullus, his lake, 39. 44. 
 Cerreto, villa of, murder of 
 
 Isabella de' Medici there 
 
 by her husband, 148 ; and 
 
 note, 149. 
 Chatterton entering London, 
 
 2. 
 Chillon, Chateau de, 7. 
 Cicero assailed in the Via 
 
 Sacra, 172; his lost trea- 
 tise on Glory, 250. 
 Cimabue, 132. 
 Cincinnatus, 173. 
 City of Hermits, 139. 
 Civil war, note, 308. 
 Clarens, 8. 
 Cleopatra, 174. 
 Coll'alto, 50. 
 Columbine, accoucliement of 
 
 a, note, 292. 
 Como, Lake of, 38. 
 Composition on horseback, 
 
 note, 290. 
 Coppet, 7. 
 
 Cristine, her story, 51, 
 Crystal hunters, 290. 
 Cuma?, 230.
 
 523 
 
 Dante, his seat at Florence, 
 123 ; his Inferno, 123, and 
 7iote ; his adventure in the 
 Baptistery, 124. 
 
 Decameron, scene of, 133. 
 
 Desaix, his tomb, 21. 
 
 De Thou, 130. 
 
 Do^s of St. Bernard, 13 ; 
 Barri, 17. 
 
 Dominican Monk, his reflec- 
 tion on a Last Supper at 
 Padua, 312. 
 
 Doria, Andrea, 272. 
 
 Doria, Paganino, note, 267. 
 
 Drance, 37. 
 
 Eagle and child, 33. 
 Eleanora di Toledo, wife of 
 
 Cosmo de' Medici, 128, 
 
 and 7iote, 131. 
 Erasmus, his journey over 
 
 Mont Cenis, note, 290. 
 Eremo, II Sagro, a city of 
 
 hermits, 139. 
 Evander, l(i9. 
 Ezzelino, Ills tower at Padua, 
 
 .55. 
 
 Falernian wine, 204. 
 l-'aliero, Marino, 70. 
 Farewell to Italy, 279; to 
 
 the reader, 284. 
 Feluca, 207. 
 Ferrara, 48 ; note, 293. 
 I'erney, 6. 
 Fiesco, 274. 
 Fiesole, 132. 
 Fire-fly, 200. 
 Florence, her splendour and 
 
 beauty, chapel of Massac- 
 
 cio, seat of Dante, baptis- 
 tery, chapel of the Medici, 
 citadel, &c. 121. 
 
 Florence, campagna of, Ci- 
 niabu^, Giotto, Boccaccio, 
 Macchiavel, Galileo, Pe- 
 trarch, &c. 132. 
 
 Foreign travel, 203. 
 
 Forum at Rome, 170. 
 
 Foscari, 90. 
 
 Fountain near Moladi Gaeta, 
 211. 
 
 Funeral in Rome, 176 ; Ra- 
 phael's, 179. 
 
 Galileo, 132; his villa at 
 Arcetri, his interview with 
 Milton, 138; his telescope, 
 note, 302 ; his discoveries, 
 304, 305 ; his imprison- 
 ment, 306. 
 
 Garda, il lago di, note, 44. 
 
 Garrick entering London, 
 3. 
 
 Geneva, departure from at 
 day-break, 1, 
 
 Genoa, 270. 
 
 Gibbon at Lausanne, 7, and 
 7iote, 
 
 Ginevra, 111 ; note, 300. 
 
 Giotto, a Madonna of iiis be- 
 longing to Petrarch, note, 
 lOH; found, when a siiep- 
 herd-boy, by Ciniabu^, 
 132. 
 
 Glow-worm, 202. 
 
 Gon(h)Ia, 70. 
 
 Gondolier, his song, 79. 
 
 Gongora, romance of, note, 
 318.
 
 324 
 
 Grande Chartreuse, 17, 18 ; 
 
 its origin, note, 289. 
 Great St. Bernard, 13. 
 Guirlandina. 110. 
 
 Hannibal, crossing the Alps, 
 37. 
 
 Hofer, his embarkation on 
 the lago di Garda,his death 
 and tomb, note, 44. 
 
 Holland, history of the re- 
 public of, note, 296. 
 
 Horace, 109. 172. 201. 203. 
 
 Horatii, sacred field of, 188. 
 
 lies, its longevity, note, 316. 
 Imelda, her story, 144, 145. 
 Italian character, 57. 
 
 Johnson entering London, 3. 
 Jorasse, a chamois hunter, 
 
 22; his adventure, 24. 
 Joux, the castle of, in 
 
 Franche-Comt^, 5. 
 Jugurtha, 174. 
 Juliet at Verona, 48. 
 Jura, 5. 
 
 Kepler, his letter to Galileo, 
 note, 302. 
 
 La Riccia, 188. 
 
 Lake of the Four Cantons, 
 8. 
 
 Laocoon, group of, disco- 
 vered, note, 310. 
 
 Larian Lake, 38. 
 
 Lausanne, 7. 
 
 Leman Lake, 3. 11. 
 
 Lionardo da Vinci, his fresco 
 
 of the Last Supper, 7iote, 
 
 312. 
 Loredano, his hatred, 97. 
 Lorenzo de' Medici, Duke 
 
 of t' rbino, his statue called 
 
 II Pensiero, 125. 
 Lucrezia, Madonna, 237. 
 Ludlow, note, 7. 
 Luigi, a carbonajo, a valet, 
 
 a guide, &c. 63. 
 
 Macchiavel in Val di Pesa, 
 136. 
 
 Mal'aria, 252. 
 
 Malta, knights of, their ori- 
 gin, 256. 
 
 Mantua, 39. 
 
 Marco di Sciarra, the ban- 
 dit, his conduct to Tasso, 
 213. 
 
 Marco Griffoni, 275. 
 
 Marco Polo, 69. 
 
 IMarcolini, story of, 102. 
 
 Maremraa, 281 ; anecdote of 
 Pi&,note, 281. 
 
 Marguerite de Tours, story 
 of, 28. 
 
 Martigny, 30. 
 
 Massaccio, his chapel, 121 ; 
 Raphael and Michael An- 
 gelo studying there, 122. 
 
 Mastino de la Scala, his hos- 
 pitality, 45, and note. 
 
 jNIedici, Lorenzo de', his sta- 
 tue, 125 ; Cosmo and his 
 sons GarzM and Giovanni, 
 128. 
 
 Meillerie, 6. 
 
 Michael Angelo, studying 
 at Florence, 122 ; his
 
 P.9/ 
 
 sculptures in the chapel of 
 the Medici, 125 ; his Car- 
 toon of Pisa, 140 ; his 
 speech on his road to Rome, 
 S03 ; his visit to the Lao- 
 coou, 310. 
 
 jNIiltOD, his interview with 
 Galileo, 138 ; reclining by 
 the Arno, 142. 
 
 Modena, palace of the Or- 
 sini at, 110. 
 
 Mons Albanus, 186. 
 
 Mons Sacer, 188. 
 
 Mont-Blanc, in the morning, 
 4 ; in the evening, 288. 
 
 Monte Cassino, a Benedic- 
 tine Abbey, 259. 
 
 Monte Cavo, 186. 
 
 Montorio, story of, 102. 
 
 Mora, the game of, 63. 
 
 Morgante Maggiorc, sung by 
 Puici at the table of Lo- 
 renzo the Magnificent, 148. 
 
 Mount Alburnus, 249. 
 
 Naples, her bay sailed round, 
 the Elysian Fields, tomb 
 of Virgil, Vesuvius, Cu- 
 mae, Baiaj, Capreac, J'om- 
 peii, 226. 
 
 Napoleon, his conduct to 
 Toussaint, 5 ; his march 
 over the Alps, 21. 37 ; 
 turns aside to see the 
 peninsula of Catullus, 39. 
 
 Necker, tomb of, 7. 
 
 Nisus and Euryalus, 187. 
 
 Nun taking the veil, 196. 
 
 Orfano, Canal, 72. 
 
 Padua, 55. 154. 
 
 Paestura, her temples, their 
 long obscurity, the Greek 
 city, the Roman city, 248. 
 
 Palatine, 169. 
 
 Palazzo Vecchio, 130. 
 
 Paleslrina, 188. 
 
 Pansa, his house at Pompeii, 
 232; note, 317. 
 
 Parthenope, 228. 
 
 Pauline chapel, note, 192. 
 
 Perseus and his sons led in 
 triumpii, 173 ; his suppli- 
 cation to jEmilius, note, 
 312. 
 
 Petrarch, his verses sung by 
 the minstrels, 46 ; present 
 at a tournament, 68; his 
 funeral attended by F. Car- 
 rara, note, 45 ; his tomb, 
 105 ; his visits to Vau- 
 cluse and his seclusion at 
 Arqua, 107, 108; nearly 
 lost, wlien a child, in the 
 Arno, 141 ; in liis youth a 
 stud(,'nt of tiie law under 
 Andreas, 242; his walk 
 with Steplien Colonna, 
 note, 313. 
 
 Petrocchi, his sonnet, 301. 
 
 Piedinontese nobleman, his 
 story, 209, 210. 
 
 Pisa, 139; lines on, note, 
 306. 
 
 I'isani, Nicolo, note, 267. 
 
 Pliny the Younger, his villas 
 on the Larian Lake, 38. 
 
 Pliny the I'.lder, his deatii, 
 note, 23 1 . 
 
 Poggio Caiano, villa of Lo-
 
 326 
 
 renzo de' Medici, murder 
 of Bianca Capello and the 
 Grand Duke there, 148. 
 
 Pompeii, 231. 
 
 Posidonia, 251. 
 
 Posilipo, 254. 
 
 Poussin, Gaspar, 39. 
 
 Preeneste, 188. 
 
 Pulci, singing his verses at 
 the table of Lorenzo, note, 
 148. 
 
 Quintian meadows, 188. 
 
 Raphael, his funeral, 179. 
 
 Rhone, the, its descent from 
 the Alps, 11 ; its rapiditj', 
 and its vineyards, castles, 
 &c. 106. 
 
 Rialto, 88. 
 
 Ripaille, G. 
 
 Rome, her solitude, her gran- 
 deur, the Palatine, Forum, 
 &c. 1G7 ; her origin and her 
 progress from the landing 
 of iEneas to the irruption 
 of the Goths, 186. 
 
 Rousseau, 2 ; note, 37. 
 
 Runnemede, 10. 
 
 Rusconi, the bandit, 220. 
 
 Sacred way, 172. 
 
 St. Bruno, note, 289. 
 
 St. Mark's Place, the church, 
 campanile, ducal palace, 
 the bridge of sighs, a scene 
 of revelry and masking, 66. 
 
 St. Peter's church, exposi- 
 tion of the holy sacrament 
 there, note, 192. 
 
 St. Preus, 8. 
 
 Salvator Rosa, his life as a 
 bandit, 255 ; his portrait 
 of his hostess, note, 309. 
 
 Scala de' Giganti, 70. 
 
 Scala, Mastino de la, his hos- 
 pitality, 45. 
 
 Sforza, Francesco, 94, and 
 note. 
 
 Sforza, G., his death de- 
 scribed, 139, and note. 
 
 Sicardi, 257. 
 
 Song of the sky-lark, 1. 151 ; 
 of the nightingale, 270. 
 
 Sophonisba, 174. 
 
 Sorrento, the birth-place of 
 Tasso, 254. 
 
 Spartacus, 249. 
 
 Spezzia, Gulf of, 266. 
 
 Strozzi, Filippo, his writing 
 on the wall, 126. 
 
 Sun-rise in Italy, note, 309. 
 
 Sun-set in Italy, 144. 150. 
 
 Tarantella, the dance de- 
 scribed, 228. 
 
 Tartarus, 227. 
 
 Tasso, his dungeon, 64; his 
 adventure with the ban- 
 ditti, 213; his birthplace, 
 254; his villa, 291. 
 
 Tassoni, 110. 
 
 Tell, William, 9. 34. 
 
 Terracina, 203. 
 
 Theatre, in the gardens of 
 the villa Madama, 161. 
 
 Thermopylae, 10. 
 
 Thrasymene, 152. 
 
 Tiber, its source, 139. 
 
 Tiberius at Capreae, 230.
 
 327 " 
 
 Tibur, now Tivoli, 169. 187. 
 
 201. 
 Tophana, 147, and note. 
 Tournament in St. Mark's 
 
 Place, 68. 
 Toussaint, his dungeon, 5. 
 Trabocchetto, il, 147, and 
 
 note. 
 Tramezzina, Bay of, 41. 
 
 Ugolino, 101. 141. 
 
 Val d' Aosta, 29. 
 
 Val di Pesa, 136. 
 
 Vallombrosa, 18. 
 
 Varano, note, 315. 
 
 Velino, the falls of, 157. 
 
 Venice, her birth, her enter- 
 prize, her commerce in the 
 East, her caravans in Eu- 
 rope, her decline and fall, 
 54. 
 
 Verdea, La, 137; and note, 
 
 304. 
 Vevay, 4. 6, 7. 
 Villa Gherardi, villa Palmi- 
 
 eri, 134; villa Madama, 
 
 160. 
 Violets of Poestum, 249, and 
 
 note. 
 Virgil reading the jEneid, 
 
 170 ; travelling to Bruu- 
 
 dusium, 203. 
 Virgil's farm, 39. 
 Virginius, 171. 
 
 Wandering Jew, 73 ; and 
 note, 297. 
 
 Zanga, Tasso's villa near 
 
 Bergamo, note, 291. 
 Zenobia, 174. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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