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 splendor unextinguished, pomp unscathed,
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,
Or grass-grown spaces, where the heaviest foot
Provokes no echoes but must softly tread;
Where Solitude with Silence paired stops short
Of Desolation, and to Ruin's scythe
Decay submits not.

But where'er my steps
Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care
Those images of genial beauty, oft
Too lovely to be pensive in themselves
But by reflexion made so, which do best

And fitliest serve to crown with fragrant wreaths
Life's cup when almost filled with years, like mine.
- How lovely robed in forenoon light and shade,
Each ministering to each, didst thou appear
Savona, Queen of territory fair

As aught that marvellous coast through all its length
Yields to the Stranger's eye. Remembrance holds
As a selected treasure thy one cliff,

That, while it wore for melancholy crest

A shattered Convent, yet rose proud to have
Clinging to its steep sides a thousand herbs

Mild -as the verdure, fresh-the sunshine, bright

Thy gentle Chiabrera! — not a stone,
Mural or level with the trodden floor,
In church or chapel, if my curious quest
Missed not the truth, retains a single name
Of young or old, warrior, of saint, or sage,
To whose dear memories his sepulchral verse
Paid simple tribute, such as might have flowed
From the clear spring of a plain English heart,
Say rather, one in native fellowship
With all who want not skill to couple grief
With praise, as genuine admiration prompts.
The grief, the praise, are severed from their dust,
Yet in his page the records of that worth
Survive, uninjured;-glory then to words,
Honour to word-preserving arts, and hail
Ye kindred local influences that still,
If Hope's familiar whispers merit faith,
Await my steps when they the breezy height
Shall range of philosophic Tusculum;
Or Sabine vales explored inspire a wish
To meet the shade of Horace by the side
Of his Bandusian fount; or I invoke
His presence to point out the spot where once
He sate, and eulogized with earnest pen
Peace, leisure, freedom, moderate desires;
And all the immunities of rural life
Extolled, behind Vacuna's crumbling fane.
Or let me loiter, soothed with what is given
Nor asking more on that delicious Bay,
Parthenope's Domain-Virgilian haunt,
Illustrated with never-dying verse,
And, by the Poet's laurel-shaded tomb,
Age after age to Pilgrim's from all lands
Endeared.

And who- if not a man as cold
In heart as dull in brain while pacing ground

The breath of air can be where earth had else
Seemed churlish, And behold, both far and near,
Garden and field all decked with orange bloom,
And peach and citron, in Spring's mildest breeze
Expanding; and along the smooth shore curved
Into a natural port, a tideless sea,

To that mild breeze with motion and with voice
Softly responsive; and, attuned to all

Those vernal charms of sight and sound, appeared
Smooth space of turf which from the guardian fort
Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April green,
In coolest climes too fugitive, might even here
Plead with the sovereign Sun for longer stay
Than his unmitigated beams allow,
Nor plead in vain, if beauty could preserve,
From mortal change, aught that is born on earth
Or doth on time depend.

While on the brink
Of that high Convent-crested cliff I stood,
Modest Savona! over all did brood

A pure poetic spirit- as the breeze,

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 recognise, the lasting virtue lodged
In those bold fictions that, by deeds assigned
To the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race,
And others like in fame, created Powers
With attributes from History derived,
By Poesy irradiate, and yet graced.
Through marvellous felicity of skill,
With something more propitious to high aims

Than either, pent within her separate sphere,
Can oft with justice claim.

And not disdaining
Ton with those primeval energies

Te virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your height
Caratian Traditions! at my Spirit's call
Descend, and on the brow of ancient Rome
As she survives in ruin, manifest

Yir 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
Fe Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse
O the Devout, as, mid your glooms convened
For safety, they of yore enclasped the Cross
On knees that ceased from trembling, or intoned
Their orsons 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
les, revealed in no presumptuous vision,
Albeit lifting human to divine,

A Saint, the Church's Rock, the mystic Keys
Grasped in his hand; and lo! with upright sword
Prefiguring his own impendent doom,
The Apostle of the Gentiles; both prepared
To suffer pains with heathen scorn and hate
Infected;-blessed Men, for so to Heaven
They follow their dear Lord.

Time flows-nor winds,

Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course,
By many a benefit borne upon his breast
Fur human-kind siriks out of sight, is gone,
No one knows how; nor seldom is put forth
to angry arm that snatches good away,
Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream
Has to our generation brought and brings
fanumerable gains; yet we, who now
Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely
To actalled age, most pitiably shut out
From that which is and actuates, by forms,
Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact
Vately linked with diligence uninspired,
l'arectified, unguided, unsustained,

Scence,

By godlike insight. To this fate is doomed 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 vital principle's controlling law, To her purblind guide Expediency; and so &fers religious faith. Elate with view

what is won, we overlook or scorn

The best that should keep pace with it, and must,
Fe 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 froin low pursuits.
By gross utilities enslaved we need
More of ennobling impulse from the past,
'If to the future aught of good must come
Sounder and therefore holier than the ends
Which, in the giddiness of self-applause,
We covet as supreme. O grant the crown
That Wisdom wears, or take his treacherous staff
From Knowledge! - If the Muse, whom I have served
This day, be mistress of a single pearl

Fit to be placed in that pure diadem;

| Then, not in vain, under these chesnut boughs
Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul
To transports from the secondary founts
Flowing of time and place, and paid to both
Due homage; nor shall fruitlessly have striven,
By love of beauty moved, to enshrine in verse
Accordant meditations, which in times
Vexed and disordered, as our own, may shed
Influence, at least among a scattered few,
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.*

THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO AT ROME.

I SAW far off the dark top of a Pine
Look like a cloud—a slender stem the tie
That bound it to its native earth poised high
'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line,
Striving in peace each other to outshine.
But when I learned the Tree was living there,
Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's care,
Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine!
The rescued Pine-tree, with its sky so bright
And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home,
Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight,
Supplanted the whole majesty of Rome

(Then first apparent from the Pincian Height)
Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome.†

The Traveller's expectation? - Could our Will
Destroy the ideal Power within, 't were 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.

Such was her office while she walked with men,
A Muse, who, not unmindful of her sire
All-ruling Jove, whate'er the theme might be
Revered her Mother, sage Mnemosyne,
And taught her faithful servants how the lyre
Should animate, but not mislead the pen.*

AT ROME.

THEY-who have seen the noble Roman's scorn Break forth at thought of laying down his head, When the blank day is over, garreted

OTHER MODERN HISTORIANS.

THOSE old credulities, to nature dear,

Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock
Of History, stript naked as a rock
'Mid a dry desert? What is it we hear?
The glory of Infant Rome must disappear,
Her morning splendors vanish, and their place
Know them no more. If Truth, who veiled her face
With those bright beams yet hid it not, must steer
Henceforth a humbler course perplexed and slow;
One solace yet remains for us who came
Into this world in days when story lacked
Severe research, that in our hearts we know
How, for exciting youth's heroic flame,
Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.

CONTINUED.

COMPLACENT Fictions were they, yet the same
Involved a history of no doubtful sense,
History that proves by inward evidence
From what a precious source of truth it came.
Ne'er could the boldest eulogist have dared
Such deeds to paint, such characters to frame,
But for coeval sympathy prepared

To greet with instant faith their loftiest claim.
None but a noble people could have loved
Flattery in Ancient Rome's pure-minded style:
Not in like sort the Runic Scald was moved;
He, nursed 'mid savage passions that defile
Humanity, sang feats that well might call

For the blood-thirsty mead of Odin's riotous Hall.

PLEA FOR THE HISTORIAN.

FORBEAR to deem the Chronicler unwise,
Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth,
Who, gathering up all that Time's envious tooth
'Has spared of sound and grave realities,
Firmly rejects those dazzling flatteries,
Dear as they are to unsuspecting youth,

That might have drawn down Clio from the skies
To vindicate the majesty of truth.

To night, the desecrated floors are worn

By feet of purse-proud strangers; they-who have read
In one meek smile, beneath a peasant's shed,
How patiently the weight of wrong is borne;
They who have heard some learned patriot treat
Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole theme
From ancient Rome, downwards through that bright
dream

Of Commonwealths, each city a starlike seat
Of rival glory; they-fallen Italy

Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of Thee!

NEAR ROME, IN SIGHT OF ST. PETER'S. LONG has the dew been dried on tree and lawn; O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon Is shed, the languor of approaching noon; To shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn Mute are all creatures, as this couchant fawn, Save insect-swarms that hum in air afloat, Save that the Cock is crowing, a shrill note, Startling and shrill as that which roused the dawn. -Heard in that hour, or when, as now, the nerve Shrinks from the note as from a mis-timed thing, Oft for a holy warning may it serve, Charged with remembrance of his sudden sting, His bitter tears, whose name the Papal Chair And yon resplendent Church are proud to bear.

AT ALBANO.

DAYS passed-and Monte Calvo would not clear
His head from mist; and, as the wind sobbed through
Albano's dripping Ilex avenue,

My dull forebodings in a Peasant's ear

Found casual vent. She said, "Be of good cheer;
Our yesterday's procession did not sue

In vain; the sky will change to sunny blue,
Thanks to our Lady's grace." I smiled to hear,
But not in scorn:- - the Matron's Faith may
lack
The heavenly sanction needed to ensure

Quem virum — lyra

sumes celebrare Cliol

Fo'filment; but, we trust, her upward track
pe not at this low point, nor wants the lure
Bowers the Virgin without fear may own,
For by her Son's blest hand the seed was sown.

NEAR Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove
Perched on an olive branch, and heard her cooing
'Mad new-born blossoms that soft airs were wooing,
While all things present told of joy and love.
Bat restless Fancy left that olive grove
To hail the exploratory Bird renewing
Hope for the few, who, at the world's undoing,
On the great flood were spared to live and move.
O bounteous Heaven! signs true as dove and bough
Brought to the ark are coming evermore,

Given though we seek them not, but, while we plough
Thus sea of life without a visible shore,
Do neither promise ask nor grace implore
In what alone is ours, the living Now.

NEAR THE SAME LAKE.

For action born, existing to be tried,
Powers manifold we have that intervene
To stir the heart that would too closely screen
Her peace from images allied.

What wonder if at midnight, by the side
Of Sanguinetto or broad Thrasymene,
The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms glide,
Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen;
And singly thine, O vanquished Chief! whose corse,
Unburied, lay hid under heaps of slain :

But who is He? - the Conqueror. Would he force
His way to Rome? Ah, no,-round hill and plain
Wandering, he haunts, at fancy's strong command,
This spot-his shadowy death-cup in his hand.

FROM THE ALBAN HILLS LOOKING TOWARDS ROME

FORGIVE, illustrious Country! these deep sighs, Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills bestrown With monuments decayed or overthrown,

For all that tottering stands or prostrate lies,

Than for like scenes in moral vision shown,

Rain perceived for keener sympathies;

Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her gaudy crown;

Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies.

THE CUCKOO AT LAVERNA.
MAY 25TH, 1837.

LIST't was the Cuckoo. - O with what delight
Heard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint,
Far off and faint, and melting into air,
Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again!
Those louder cries give notice that the Bird,
Although invisible as Echo's self,

Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy Creature,
For this unthought-of greeting!

While allured

Thy fetunes, twice exalted, might provoke
Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour
When thon, uprisen, shalt break thy double yoke,
And enter, with prompt aid from the Most High,
On the third stage of thy great destiny.

NEAR THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE.
WHEN here with Carthage Rome to conflict came,
An earthquake, mingling with the battle's shock,
Checked not its rage; unfelt the ground did rock,
Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly aim.—
Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's shame,
Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure,
Save in this rill that took from blood the name
Which yet it bears, sweet Stream! as crystal pure.
So may all trace and signs of deeds aloof
From the true guidance of humanity,
Tro' Time and Nature's influence, purify
Their spirit; or, unless they for reproof

Or warning serve, thus let them all, on ground
That
gave them being, vanish to a sound.

⚫ Sanguinetto.

where Spring

With aspects novel to my sight; but still
Most fair, most welcome, when they drank the dew
In a sweet fellowship with kinds beloved,
For old remembrance sake. And oft
Display'd her richest blossoms among files
Of orange-trees bedecked with glowing fruit
Ripe for the hand, or under a thick shade
Of Ilex, or, if better suited to the hour,
The lightsome Olive's twinkling canopy-
Oft have I heard the Nightingale and Thrush
Blending as in a common English grove
Their love-songs; but, where'er my feet might roam,
Whate'er assemblages of new and old,
Strange and familiar, might beguile the way,
A gratulation from that vagrant voice
Was wanting; and most happily till now.

For see, Laverna! mark the far-famed Pile,
High on the brink of that precipitous rock,
Implanted like a Fortress, as in truth
It is, a Christian Fortress, garrisoned
In faith and hope, and dutiful obedience,
By a few Monks, a stern society,

Dead to the world and scorning earth-born joys.
Nay-though the hopes that drew, the fears that drove,

St. Francis, far from Man's resort, to abide Among these sterile heights of Apennine,

Ah! not like me who walk in the world's ways,

On the great Prophet, styled the Voice of One

To bind his spiritual Progeny, with rules Stringent as flesh can tolerate and live; His milder Genius (thanks to the good God That made us) over those severe restraints

Of mind, that dread heart-freezing discipline, Doth sometimes here predominate, and works By unsought means for gracious purposes;

Now that their snows must melt, their herbs and flowers
Revive, their obstinate winter pass away,

That awful name to Thee, thee, simple Cuckoo,
Wandering in solitude, and evermore
Foretelling and proclaiming, ere thou leave
This thy last haunt beneath Italian skies
To carry thy glad tidings over heights

earth,

Illustrated, and mutually endeared.

Rapt though He were above the power of sense, Familiarly, yet out of the cleansed heart Of that once sinful Being overflowed On sun, moon, stars, the nether elements, And every shape of creature they sustain, Divine affections; and with beast and bi (Stilled from afar - such marvel story tellsBy casual outbreak of his passionate words, And from their own pursuits in field or grove Drawn to his side by look or act of love Humane, and virtue of his innocent life) He wont to hold companionship so free, So pure, so fraught with knowledge and delight As to be likened in his followers' minds To that which our first Parents, ere the fall From their high state darkened the Earth with fear, Held with all Kinds in Eden's blissful bowers.

Then question not that, 'mid the austere Band,
Who breathe the air he breathed, tread where he trod,
Some true partakers of his loving spirit

Do still survive, and, with those gentle hearts
Consorted, others, in the power, the faith,
Of a baptized imagination, prompt

To catch from Nature's humblest monitors
Whate'er they bring of impulses sublime.

Thus sensitive must be the Monk, though pale With fasts, with vigils worn, depressed by years, Whom in a sunny glade I chanced to see, Upon a pine-tree's storm uprooted trunk, Seated alone, with forehead sky-ward raised, Hands clasped above the crucifix he wore Appended to his bosom, and lips closed By the joint pressure of his musing mood And habit of his vow. That ancient ManNor haply less the brother whom I marked, As we approached the Convent gate, aloft Looking far forth from his aerial cell, A young Ascetic-Poet, Hero, Sage, He might have been, Lover belike he was — If they received into a conscious ear The notes whose first faint greeting startled me, Whose sedulous iteration thrilled with joy

My heart may have been moved like me to think,

Voice of the desert, fare-thee-well; sweet Bird! If that substantial title please thee more, Farewell!-but go thy way, no need hast thou Of a good wish sent after thee; from bower To bower as green, from sky to sky as clear, The gentle breezes waft—or airs that meet Thy course and sport around the softly fanTill Night, descending upon hill and vale, Grants to thy mission a brief term of silence, And folds thy pinions up in blest repose.

AT THE CONVENT OF CAMALDOLL GRIEVE for the Man who hither came bereft, And seeking consolation from above; Nor grieve the less that skill to him was left To paint this picture of his lady-love: Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve! And O, good Brethren of the cowl, a thing So fair, to which with peril he must cling, Destroy in pity, or with care remove. That bloom-those eyes- can they assist to bind Thoughts that would stray from Heaven? The d

must cease

To be; by Faith, not sight, his soul must live; Else will the enamoured Monk too surely find How wide a space can part from inward peace The most profound repose his cell can give.

CONTINUED.

THE world forsaken, all its busy cares

And stirring interests shunned with desperate flight,
All trust abandoned in the healing might
Of virtuous action; all that courage dares,
Labour accomplishes, or patience bears-
Those helps rejected, they, whose minds perceive
How subtly works man's weakness, sighs may heave
For such a one beset with cloistral snares.
Father of Mercy! rectify his view,
If with his vows this object ill agree;
Shed over it thy grace, and thus subdue
Imperious passion in a heart set free:-
That earthly love may to herself be true,
Give him a soul that cleaveth unto thee.

* See Note.