Power must resolve to cleave to it through life,

Else it deserts him, surely as he lives. Saints would not grieve nor guardian angels frown

If one-while tossed, as was my lot to be, In a frail bark urged by two slender oars Over waves rough and deep, that, when

they broke,

Into my spirit, when I paced, enclosed
In Pisa's Campo Santo, the smooth floor
Of its Arcades paved with sepulchral slabs,
And through each window's open fretwork
looked

O'er the blank Area of sacred earth Fetched from Mount Calvary, or haply delved

walls

fought

For its deliverance-a capacious field
That to descendants of the dead it holds
And to all living mute memento breathes,
More touching far than ought which on the

walls

Is pictured, or their epitaphs can speak, Of the changed City's long-departed power, Glory, and wealth, which, perilous as they are,

Here did not kill, but nourished, Piety. And, high above that length of cloistra roof,

Peering in air and backed by azure sky,
To kindred contemplations ministers
The Baptistery's dome, and that which
swells

From the Cathedral pile; and with the twain

Conjoined in prospect mutable or fixed (As hurry on in eagerness the feet, Or pause) the summit of the Leaning

tower.

Nor less remuneration waits on him
Who having left the Cemetery stands
In the Tower's shadow, of decline and fall
Admonished not without some sense of
fear,

Fear that soon vanishes before the sight
Of splendour unextinguished, pomp un-
scathed,

And beauty unimpaired. Grand in itself, And for itself, the assemblage, grand and fair

To view, and for the mind's consenting

eye

A type of age in man, upon its front
Bearing the world-acknowledged evidence
Of past exploits, nor fondly after more
Struggling against the stream of destiny,
But with its peaceful majesty content.
-Oh what a spectacle at every turn
The Place unfolds, from pavement skinned
with moss

Out of her early struggles well inspired
To localize heroic acts-could look
Upon the spots with undelighted eye,
Though even to their last syllable the Lays
And very names of those who gave them
birth

Have perished?-Verily, to her utmost

depth,

Imagination feels what Reason fears not
To recognize, the lasting virtue lodged
In those bold fictions that, by deeds assigned
To the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race,
And others like in fame, created Powers
With attributes from History derived,
By Poesy irradiate, and yet graced,
Through marvellous felicity of skill,
With something more propitious to high
aims

Prefiguring his own impendent doom,
The Apostle of the Gentiles; both prepared
To suffer pains with heathen scorn and
hate
Inflicted;-blessèd Men, for so to Heaven
They follow their dear Lord!

Time flows-nor winds, Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course, But many a benefit borne upon his breast For human-kind sinks out of sight, is gone, No one knows how; nor seldom is put forth An angry arm that snatches good away, Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream Has to our generation brought and brings Innumerable gains; yet we, who now Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely To a chilled age, most pitiably shut out From that which is and actuates, by forms,

sphere,

Can oft with justice claim.

And not disdaining Union with those primeval energies To virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your height

Christian Traditions! at my Spirit's call
Descend, and, on the brow of ancient
Rome

As she survives in ruin, manifest
Your glories mingled with the brightest hues
Of her memorial halo, fading, fading,
But never to be extinct while Earth endures.
O come, if undishonoured by the prayer,
From all her Sanctuaries!--Open for my
feet

Ye Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse Of the Devout, as, 'mid your glooms convened

For safety, they of yore enclasped the Cross On knees that ceased from trembling, or intoned

Their orisons with voices half-suppressed, But sometimes heard, or fancied to be heard,

Even at this hour.

And thou Mamertine prison, Into that vault receive me from whose depth

Issues, revealed in no presumptuous vision, Albeit lifting human to divine,

Minutely linked with diligence uninspired,
Unrectified, unguided, unsustained,
By godlike insight. To this fate is doomed
Science, wide-spread and spreading still as

be

Her conquests, in the world of sense made known,

So with the internal mind it fares; and so
With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear
Of vital principle's controlling law,
To her purblind guide Expediency; and so
Suffers religious faith. Elate with view
Of what is won, we overlook or scorn
The best that should keep pace with it, and
must,

Else more and more the general mind will droop,

Even as if bent on perishing. There lives
No faculty within us which the Soul
Can spare, and humblest earthly Weal
demands,

For dignity not placed beyond her reach,
Zealous co-operation of all means
Given or acquired, to raise us from the mire,
And liberate our hearts from low pursuits.
By gross Utilities enslaved, we need
More of ennobling impulse from the past,
If to the future aught of good must come
Sounder and therefore holier than the ends
Which, in the giddiness of self-applause,
We covet as supreme. O grant the crown

Grasped in his hand; and lo! with upright

sword

ous staff

From Knowledge!-If the Muse, whom I

have served

This day, be mistress of a single pearl
Fit to be placed in that pure diadem ;
Then, not in vain, under these chestnut

boughs

Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul To transports from the secondary founts Flowing of time and place, and paid to both

Striving in peace each other to outshine. But when I learned the Tree was living there, Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's care,

Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine! The rescued Pine-Tree, with its sky so bright And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home,

flight,

verse

Accordant meditations, which in times Vexed and disordered, as our own, may shed

Influence, at least among a scattered few, To soberness of mind and peace of heart Friendly; as here to my repose hath been This flowering broom's dear neighbourhood, the light

And murmur issuing from yon pendent flood,

And all the varied landscape.
Let us now
Rise, and to-morrow greet magnificent
Rome. 1

Sir George Beaumont told me that, when he first visited Italy, pine-trees of this species abounded, but that on his return thither, which was more than thirty years after, they had disappeared from many places where he had been accustomed to admire them, and had become rare all over the country, especially in and about Rome. Several Roman villas have within these few years passed into the hands of foreigners, who, I observed with pleasure, have taken care to plant this tree, which in course of years will become a great ornament to the city and to the general landscape. May I venture to add here, that having ascended the Monte Mario, I could not resist embracing the trunk of this interesting monument of my departed friend's feelings for the beauties of nature, and the power of that art which he loved so much, and in the practice of which he was so distinguished.

I SAW far off the dark top of a Pine
Look like a cloud-a slender stem the tie
That bound it to its native earth-poised
high

'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, 1 See Note.

Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome."

III

AT ROME

Sight is at first a sad enemy to imagination and to those pleasures belonging to old times with which some exertions of that power will always mingle nothing perhaps brings this truth home to the feelings more than the city of Rome; not so much in respect to the impression made at the moment when it is first seen and looked at as a whole, for then the imagination may be invigorated and the mind eye's quickened; but when particular spots or objects are sought out, disappointment is I believe invariably felt. Ability to recover from this disappointment will exist in proportion to knowledge, and the power of the mind to reconstruct out of fragments and parts, and to make details in the present subservient to more adequate comprehension of the past.

Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?
Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock,
Tarpeian named of yore, and keeping still
That name, a local Phantom proud to mock
The Traveller's expectation?-Could our
Will

Destroy the ideal Power within, 'twere done
Thro' what men see and touch,-slaves

wandering on,

Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill.

Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh; Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn, From that depression raised, to mount on

high

With stronger wing, more clearly to discern Eternal things; and, if need be, defy Change, with a brow not insolent, though

stern.

2 See Note.