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
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.
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.
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 In his ancestral palace, where, from morn 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
Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole theme
From ancient Rome, downwards through that bright dream
Commonwealths, each city a starlike seat rival glory; they-fallen ItalyNor must, nor will, nor can, despair of Thee!
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 Fulfilment; but, we trust, her upward track Stops not at this low point, nor wants the lure Of flowers 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
'Mid new-born blossoms that soft airs were wooing,
While all things present told of joy and love. But 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
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
This sea of life without a visible shore, Do neither promise ask nor grace implore In what alone is ours, the living Now.
FROM THE ALBAN HILLS, LOOKING TOWARDS ROME.
FORGIVE, illustrious Country! these deep sighs, Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills be
With monuments decayed or overthrown, For all that tottering stands or prostrate lies, Than for like scenes in moral vision shown, Ruin perceived for keener sympathies;
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 sign of deeds aloof From the true guidance of humanity, Thro' 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.
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.
THE CUCKOO AT LAVERNA.
MAY 25TH, 1837. LIST-'twas 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,
From vale to hill, from hill to vale led on, We have pursued, through various lands, a long
And pleasant course; flower after flower has blown,
Embellishing the ground that gave them birth 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--where Spring
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
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 By a few Monks, a stern society, In faith and hope, and dutiful obedience,
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, Bound him, nor, since he raised yon House, have ceased
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 For earth through heaven, for heaven, by By unsought means for gracious purposes; changeful earth, Illustrated, and mutually endeared.
Rapt though He were above the power of
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 bird (Stilled from afar-such marvel story tells-- By 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
Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy Crea-To that which our first Parents, ere the fall
From their high state darkened the Earth with
Held with all Kinds in Ed '' fore
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
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 Man- Nor 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,
Ah! not like me who walk in the world's ways,
On the great Prophet, styled the Voice of One Crying amid the wilderness, and given, Now that their snows must melt, their herbs
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 Still loftier, and to climes more near the Pole.
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, Thee gentle breezes waft-or airs that meet Thy course and sport around thee softly fan- Till 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 CAMALDOLI. 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
AT THE EREMITE OR UPPER CONVENT OF CAMALDOLI.
WHAT aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size Enormous, dragged, while side by side they sate, By panting steers up to this convent gate? How, with empurpled cheeks and pampered Dare they confront the lean austerities eyes, of Brethren who, here fixed, on Jesu wait In sackcloth, and God's anger deprecate Through all that humbles flesh and mortifies? Where mingle, as for mockery combined, Strange contrast !-verily the world of dreams, Things in their very essences at strife, Shows not a sight incongruous as the extremes That everywhere, before the thoughtful mind, Meet on the solid ground of waking life.
In the flower-besprent meadows his genius we
Turned to humbler delights, in which youth might confide,
That would yield him fit help while prefiguring that Place
Where, if Sin had not entered, Love never had died.
When with life lengthened out came a desolate time,
And darkness and danger had compassed him round,
With a thought he would flee to these haunts of his prime,
And here once again a kind shelter be found. And let me believe that when nightly the Muse Did waft him to Sion, the glorified hill, Here also, on some favoured height, he would choose
To wander, and drink inspiration at will
Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page Of that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mind
Had a musical charm, which the winter of age And the changes it brings had no power to unbind.
And now, ye Miltonian shades! under you I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to
While your leaves I behold and the brooks they will strew,
And the realised vision is clasped to my heart. Even so, and unblamed, we rejoice as we may In Forms that must perish, frail objects of
His Father served Jehovah; but how win Due audience, how for aught but scorn defy The obstinate pride and wanton revelry Of the Jerusalem below, her sin And folly, if they with united din Drown not at once mandate and prophecy? Therefore the Voice spake from the Desert, thence
To Her, as to her opposite in peace, Silence, and holiness, and innocence, To Her and to all Lands its warning sent, Crying with earnestness that might not cease, "Make straight a highway for the Lord-re- pent!
AT FLORENCE.-FROM MICHAEL ANGELO.
RAPT above earth by power of one fair face, Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights, I mingle with the blest on those pure heights Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place. With Him who made the Work that Work accords
So well, that by its help and through his grace I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words,
Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace. Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn, I feel how in their presence doth abide Light which to God is both the way and guide; And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn, My noble fire emits the joyful ray That through the realms of glory shines for
AT FLORENCE.-FROM M. ANGELO.
ETERNAL Lord! eased of a cumbrous load, And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee; Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee To thy protection for a safe abode.
The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree,
The meek, benign, and lacerated face, To a sincere repentance promise grace, To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine, My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear; Neither put forth that way thy arm severe; Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto incline More readily the more my years require Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire.
AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE APENNINES.
YE Trees! whose slender roots entwine Altars that piety neglects; Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine Which no devotion now respects; If not a straggler from the herd Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird, Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride In aught that ye would grace or hide- How sadly is your love misplaced, Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste! Ye, too, wild Flowers! that no one heeds, And ye-full often spurned as weeds- In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness From fractured arch and mouldering wall--
Do but more touchingly recal Man's headstrong violence and Time's fleetness, Making the precincts ye adorn Appear to sight still more forlorn
SEE, where his difficult way that Old Man wins Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves!-most hard Appears his lot, to the small Worm's compared, For whom his toil with early day begins. Acknowledging no task-master, at will (As if her labour and her ease were twins) She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still And softly sleeps within the thread she spins. So fare they-the Man serving as her Slave. Ere long their fates do each to each conform; Both pass into new being, but the Worm, Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave; His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend To bliss unbounded, glory without end.
As indignation mastered grief, my tongue Spake bitter words; words that did ill agree With those rich stores of Nature's imagery, And divine Art, that fast to memory clung- Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young In the sun's eye, and in his sister's sight How beautiful! how worthy to be sung In strains of rapture, or subdued delight! I feign not; witness that unwelcome shock That followed the first sound of German speech, Caught the far-winding barrier Alps among.
that announcement, greeting seemed to mock Parting; the casual word had power to reach My heart, and filled that heart with conflict strong.
OMPOSED AT RYDAL ON MAY MORNING, 1838. IF with old love of you, dear Hills! I share ew love of many a rival image brought rom far, forgive the wanderings of my thought: Nor art thou wronged, sweet May! when I compare
hy present birth-morn with thy last, so fair, o rich to me in favours. For my lot Then was, within the famed Egerian Grot To sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air
Mingling with thy soft breath! That morning
Warblers I heard their joy unbosoming Amid the sunny, shadowy, Coliseum; Heard them, unchecked by aught of saddening hue,
For victories there won by flower-crowned Spring,
Chant in full choir their innocent Te Deum.
THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN. WHERE towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds
O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds; And temples, doomed to milder change, unfold A new magnificence that vies with old; Firm in its pristine majesty hath stood A votive Column, spared by fire and flood:- And, though the passions of man's fretful race Have never ceased to eddy round its base, Not injured more by touch of meddling hands Than a lone obelisk, 'mid Nubian sands, Or aught in Syrian deserts left to save From death the memory of the good and brave. Historic figures round the shaft embost Ascend, with lineaments in air not lost: Still as he turns, the charmed spectator sees Group winding after group with dream-like ease Triumphs in sunbright gratitude displayed, Or softly stealing into modest shade.
-So, pleased with purple clusters to entwine Some lofty elm-tree, mounts the daring vine; The woodbine so, with spiral grace, and breathes Wide spreading odours from her flowery wreaths.
Borne by the Muse from rills in shepherds'
Murmuring but one smooth story for all years, I gladly commune with the mind and heart Of him who thus survives by classic art, His actions witness, venerate his mien, And study Trajan as by Pliny seen; Behold how fought the Chief whose conquering
Stretched far as earth might own a single lord: In the delight of moral prudence schooled, How feelingly at home the Sovereign ruled; Best of the good-in pagan faith allied To more than Man, by virtue deified.
Memorial Pillar! 'mid the wrecks of Time The exultations, pomps, and cares of Rome, Preserve thy charge with confidence sublime--Whence half the breathing world received its doom;
Things that recoil from language; that, if shown By apter pencil, from the light had flown. A Fontiff, Trajan here the Gods implores, There greets an Embassy from Indian shores : Lo! he harangues his cohorts-there the storm Of battle meets him in authentic form! Unharnessed, naked, troops of Moorish horse Sweep to the charge; more high, the Dacian force,
To hoof and finger mailed ;-yet, high or low, None bleed, and none lie prostrate but the foe; In every Roman, through all turns of fate, Is Roman dignity inviolate;
Spirit in him pre-eminent, who guides,
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