Chapter XXXVI: Preface (3)

Thy brave, thy learned have passed away: Thy beautiful!--ah, where are they? The forms, the faces that once shone, Models of grace, in Titian's eye, Where are they now, while flowers live on In ruined places, why, oh! why Must Beauty thus with Glory die? That maid whose lips would still have moved, Could art have breathed a spirit through them; Whose varying charms her artist loved More fondly every time he drew them, (So oft beneath his touch they past, Each semblance fairer than the last); Wearing each shape that Fancy's range Offers to Love--yet still the one Fair idol seen thro' every change, Like facets of some orient stone,-- In each the same bright image shown. Sometimes a Venus, unarrayed But in her beauty[1]--sometimes deckt In costly raiment, as a maid That kings might for a throne select.[2] Now high and proud, like one who thought The world should at her feet be brought; Now with a look reproachful sad,[3]-- Unwonted look from brow so glad,-- And telling of a pain too deep For tongue to speak or eyes to weep. Sometimes thro' allegory's veil, In double semblance seemed to shine, Telling a strange and mystic tale Of Love Profane and Love Divine[4]-- Akin in features, but in heart As far as earth and heaven apart. Or else (by quaint device to prove The frailty of all worldly love) Holding a globe of glass as thin As air-blown bubbles in her hand, With a young Love confined therein, Whose wings seem waiting to expand-- And telling by her anxious eyes That if that frail orb break he flies.[5]

Thou too with touch magnificent, PAUL of VERONA!--where are they? The oriental forms[6] that lent Thy canvas such a bright array? Noble and gorgeous dames whose dress Seems part of their own loveliness; Like the sun's drapery which at eve The floating clouds around him weave Of light they from himself receive! Where is there now the living face Like those that in thy nuptial throng[7] By their superb, voluptuous grace, Make us forget the time, the place, The holy guests they smile among,-- Till in that feast of heaven-sent wine We see no miracles but thine.

If e'er, except in Painting's dream, There bloomed such beauty here, 'tis gone,-- Gone like the face that in the stream Of Ocean for an instant shone, When Venus at that mirror gave A last look ere she left the wave. And tho', among the crowded ways, We oft are startled by the blaze Of eyes that pass with fitful light. Like fire-flies on the wing at night[8] 'Tis not that nobler beauty given To show how angels look in heaven. Even in its shape most pure and fair, 'Tis Beauty with but half her zone, All that can warm the sense is there, But the Soul's deeper charm has flown:-- 'Tis RAPHAEL's Fornarina,--warm, Luxuriant, arch, but unrefined; A flower round which the noontide swarm Of young Desires may buzz and wind, But where true Love no treasure meets Worth hoarding in his hive of sweets.

Ah no,--for this and for the hue
Upon the rounded cheek, which tells
How fresh within the heart this dew
Of love's unrifled sweetness dwells,
We must go back to our own Isles,
Where Modesty, which here but gives
A rare and transient grace to smiles,
In the heart's holy centre lives;
And thence as from her throne diffuses
O'er thoughts and looks so bland a reign,
That not a thought or feeling loses
Its freshness in that gentle chain.

[1] In the Tribune at Florence.

[2] In the Palazzo Pitti.

[3] Alludes particularly to the portrait of her in the Sciarra collection at Rome, where the look of mournful reproach in those full, shadowy eyes, as if she had been unjustly accused of something wrong, is exquisite.

[4] The fine picture in the Palazzo Borghese, called (it is not easy to say why) "Sacred and Profane Love," in which the two figures, sitting on the edge of the fountain, are evidently portraits of the same person.

[5] This fanciful allegory is the subject of a picture by Titian in the possession of the Marquis Cambian at Turin, whose collection, though small, contains some beautiful specimens of all the great masters.

[6] As Paul Veronese gave but little into the _beau idéal_, his women may be regarded as pretty close imitations of the living models which Venice afforded in his time.

[7] The Marriage of Cana.

[8] "Certain it is [as Arthur Young truly and feelingly says] one now and then meets with terrible eyes in Italy."

EXTRACT IX.

Venice.

_The English to be met with everywhere.--Alps and Threadneedle Street.--The Simplon and the Stocks.--Rage for travelling.--Blue Stockings among the Wahabees.--Parasols and Pyramids.--Mrs. Hopkins and the Wall of China_.

And is there then no earthly place,
Where we can rest in dream Elysian,
Without some curst, round English face,
Popping up near to break the vision?
Mid northern lakes, mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we're doomed to meet;
Nor highest Alps nor Apennines
Are sacred from Threadneedle Street!

If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As--"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear-- "The funds--(phew I curse this ugly hill)-- "Are lowering fast--(what, higher still?)-- "And--(zooks, we're mounting up to heaven!)-- "Will soon be down to sixty-seven."

Go where we may--rest where we will. Eternal London haunts us still. The trash of Almack's or Fleet Ditch-- And scarce a pin's head difference _which_-- Mixes, tho' even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon! And if this rage for travelling lasts, If Cockneys of all sects and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, _Will_ leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands; If Blues desert their coteries, To show off 'mong the Wahabees; If neither sex nor age controls, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies with pink parasols To glide among the Pyramids--

Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that's free from London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some _Blue_ "at home" Among the Blacks of Carolina-- Or flying to the Eastward see Some Mrs. HOPKINS taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China!

EXTRACT X.

Mantua.

_Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband_.

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest Of every fair and brilliant throng; No wit like thine to wake the jest, No voice like thine to breathe the song. And none could guess, so gay thou art, That thou and I are far apart. Alas, alas! how different flows, With thee and me the time away! Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows-- Still if thou canst, be light and gay; I only know that without thee The sun himself is dark for me.

Do I put on the jewels rare Thou'st always loved to see me wear? Do I perfume the locks that thou So oft hast braided o'er my brow, Thus deckt thro' festive crowds to run, And all the assembled world to see,-- All but the one, the absent one, Worth more than present worlds to me! No, nothing cheers this widowed heart-- My only joy from thee apart, From thee thyself, is sitting hours And days before thy pictured form-- That dream of thee, which Raphael's powers Have made with all but life-breath warm! And as I smile to it, and say The words I speak to thee in play, I fancy from their silent frame, Those eyes and lips give back the same: And still I gaze, and still they keep Smiling thus on me--till I weep! Our little boy too knows it well, For there I lead him every day And teach his lisping lips to tell The name of one that's far away. Forgive me, love, but thus alone My time is cheered while thou art gone.

EXTRACT XI.

Florence.

No--'tis not the region where Love's to be found--
They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove,
They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,
When she warbled her best--but they've nothing like Love.

Nor is't that pure _sentiment_ only they want,
Which Heaven for the mild and the tranquil hath made--
Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant
Which sweetens seclusion and smiles in the shade;

That feeling which, after long years have gone by,
Remains like a portrait we've sat for in youth,
Where, even tho' the flush of the colors may fly,
The features still live in their first smiling truth;

That union where all that in Woman is kind,
With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers,
Grow wreathed into one--like the column, combined
Of the _strength_ of the shaft and the capital's _flowers_.

Of this--bear ye witness, ye wives, everywhere,
By the ARNO, the PO, by all ITALY'S streams--
Of this heart-wedded love, so delicious to share,
Not a husband hath even one glimpse in his dreams.

But it _is_ not this only;--born full of the light
Of a sun from whose fount the luxuriant festoons
Of these beautiful valleys drink lustre so bright
That beside him our suns of the north are but moons,--

We might fancy at least, like their climate they burned;
And that Love tho' unused in this region of spring
To be thus to a tame Household Deity turned,
Would yet be all soul when abroad on the wing.

And there _may_ be, there _are_ those explosions of heart
Which burst when the senses have first caught the flame;
Such fits of the blood as those climates impart,
Where Love is a sun-stroke that maddens the frame.

But that Passion which springs in the depth of the soul;
Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source
Of some small mountain rivulet destined to roll
As a torrent ere long, losing peace in its course--

A course to which Modesty's struggle but lends
A more headlong descent without chance of recall;
But which Modesty even to the last edge attends,
And then throws a halo of tears round its fall!

This exquisite Passion--ay, exquisite, even
Mid the ruin its madness too often hath made,
As it keeps even then a bright trace of the heaven,
That heaven of Virtue from which it has strayed--

This entireness of love which can only be found, Where Woman like something that's holy, watched over, And fenced from her childhood with purity round, Comes body and soul fresh as Spring to a lover!

Where not an eye answers, where not a hand presses, Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move; And the Senses asleep in their sacred recesses Can only be reached thro' the temple of Love!--

This perfection of Passion-how can it be found, Where the mystery Nature hath hung round the tie By which souls are together attracted and bound, Is laid open for ever to heart, ear and eye;--

Where naught of that innocent doubt can exist, That ignorance even than knowledge more bright, Which circles the young like the morn's sunny mist, And curtains them round in their own native light;--

Where Experience leaves nothing for Love to reveal, Or for Fancy in visions to gleam o'er the thought: But the truths which alone we would die to conceal From the maiden's young heart are the only ones taught.

No, no, 'tis not here, howsoever we sigh, Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray, Or adore, like Sabaeans, each light of Love's sky, Here is not the region to fix or to stray.

For faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross, Without honor to guard, to reserve, to restrain, What have they a husband can mourn as a loss? What have they a lover can prize as a gain?

EXTRACT XII.

Florence.

_Music in Italy.--Disappointed by it.--Recollections or other Times and Friends.--Dalton.--Sir John Stevenson.--His Daughter.--Musical Evenings together_.

If it be true that Music reigns, Supreme, in ITALY'S soft shades, 'Tis like that Harmony so famous, Among the spheres, which He of SAMOS Declared had such transcendent merit That not a soul on earth could hear it; For, far as I have come--from Lakes, Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks, Thro' MILAN and that land which gave The Hero of the rainbow vest[1]-- By MINCIO'S banks, and by that wave, Which made VERONA'S bard so blest-- Places that (like the Attic shore, Which rung back music when the sea Struck on its marge) should be all o'er Thrilling alive with melody-- I've heard no music--not a note Of such sweet native airs as float In my own land among the throng And speak our nation's soul for song.

Nay, even in higher walks, where Art Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part, And richer if not sweeter makes The flowers she from the wild-hedge takes-- Even there, no voice hath charmed my ear, No taste hath won my perfect praise, Like thine, dear friend[2]--long, truly dear-- Thine, and thy loved OLIVIA'S lays. She, always beautiful, and growing Still more so every note she sings-- Like an inspired young Sibyl,[3] glowing With her own bright imaginings! And thou, most worthy to be tied In music to her, as in love, Breathing that language by her side, All other language far above, Eloquent Song--whose tones and words In every heart find answering chords!

How happy once the hours we past, Singing or listening all daylong, Till Time itself seemed changed at last To music, and we lived in song! Turning the leaves of HAYDN o'er, As quick beneath her master hand They opened all their brilliant store, Like chambers, touched by fairy wand; Or o'er the page of MOZART bending, Now by his airy warblings cheered, Now in his mournful _Requiem_ blending Voices thro' which the heart was heard. And still, to lead our evening choir, Was He invoked, thy loved-one's Sire[4]-- He who if aught of grace there be In the wild notes I write or sing, First smoothed their links of harmony, And lent them charms they did not bring;-- He, of the gentlest, simplest heart, With whom, employed in his sweet art, (That art which gives this world of ours A notion how they speak in heaven.) I've past more bright and charmed hours Than all earth's wisdom could have given. Oh happy days, oh early friends, How Life since then hath lost its flowers! But yet--tho' Time _some_ foliage rends, The stem, the Friendship, still is ours; And long may it endure, as green And fresh as it hath always been!

How I have wandered from my theme!
But where is he, that could return
To such cold subjects from a dream,
Thro' which these best of feelings burn?--
Not all the works of Science, Art,
Or Genius in this world are worth
One genuine sigh that from the heart
Friendship or Love draws freshly forth.

[1] Bermago--the birthplace, it is said, of Harlequin.

[2] Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Stevenson's daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort.

[3] Such as those of Domenichino in the Palazza Borghese, at the Capitol, etc.

[4] Sir John Stevenson.

EXTRACT XIII.

Rome.

_Reflections on reading Du Cerceau's Account of the Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1347.--The Meeting of the Conspirators on the Night of the 19th of May.--Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.--Rienzi's Speech_.

'Twas a proud moment--even to hear the words
Of Truth and Freedom mid these temples breathed,
And see once more the Forum shine with swords
In the Republic's sacred name unsheathed--
That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day
For his dear ROME, must to a Roman be,
Short as it was, worth ages past away
In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery.

'Twas on a night of May, beneath that moon Which had thro' many an age seen Time untune The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell-- The sound of the church clock near ADRIAN'S Tomb Summoned the warriors who had risen for ROME, To meet unarmed,--with none to watch them there, But God's own eye,--and pass the night in prayer. Holy beginning of a holy cause, When heroes girt for Freedom's combat pause Before high Heaven, and humble in their might Call down its blessing on that coming fight.

At dawn, in arms went forth the patriot band; And as the breeze, fresh from the TIBER, fanned Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see The palm-tree there, the sword, the keys of Heaven-- Types of the justice, peace and liberty, That were to bless them when their chains were riven. On to the Capitol the pageant moved, While many a Shade of other times, that still Around that grave of grandeur sighing roved, Hung o'er their footsteps up the Sacred Hill And heard its mournful echoes as the last High-minded heirs of the Republic past. 'Twas then that thou, their Tribune,[1] (name which brought Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,) Didst, with a spirit Rome in vain shall seek To wake up in her sons again, thus speak:-- "ROMANS, look round you--on this sacred place "There once stood shrines and gods and godlike men. "What see you now? what solitary trace "Is left of all that made ROME'S glory then? "The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft "Even of its name--and nothing now remains "But the deep memory of that glory, left "To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains! "But _shall_ this be?--our sun and sky the same,-- "Treading the very soil our fathers trod,-- "What withering curse hath fallen on soul and frame, "What visitation hath there come from God "To blast our strength and rot us into slaves, "_Here_ on our great forefathers' glorious graves? "It cannot be--rise up, ye Mighty Dead,-- "If we, the living, are too weak to crush "These tyrant priests that o'er your empire tread, "Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush!

"Happy, PALMYRA, in thy desert domes "Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss; "And thou whose pillars are but silent homes "For the stork's brood, superb PERSEPOLIS! "Thrice happy both, that your extinguisht race "Have left no embers--no half-living trace-- "No slaves to crawl around the once proud spot, "Till past renown in present shame's forgot. "While ROME, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks, "If lone and lifeless thro' a desert hurled, "Would wear more true magnificence than decks "The assembled thrones of all the existing world-- "ROME, ROME alone, is haunted, stained and curst, "Thro' every spot her princely TIBER laves, "By living human things--the deadliest, worst, "This earth engenders--tyrants and their slaves! "And we--oh shame!--we who have pondered o'er "The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay;[2] "Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore, "Tracking our country's glories all the way-- "Even _we_ have tamely, basely kist the ground "Before that Papal Power,--that Ghost of Her, "The World's Imperial Mistress--sitting crowned "And ghastly on her mouldering sepulchre![3] "But this is past:--too long have lordly priests "And priestly lords led us, with all our pride "Withering about us--like devoted beasts, "Dragged to the shrine, with faded garlands tied. "'Tis o'er--the dawn of our deliverance breaks! "Up from his sleep of centuries awakes "The Genius of the Old Republic, free "As first he stood, in chainless majesty, "And sends his voice thro' ages yet to come, "Proclaiming ROME, ROME, ROME, Eternal ROME!"

[1] Rienzi.

[2] The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning _"Spirto gentil,"_ is supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have been addressed to Rienzi; but there is much more evidence of its having been written, as Ginguené asserts, to the young Stephen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome.

[3] This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words are, as near as I can recollect:--"For what is the Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman Empire, sitting crowned on the grave thereof?"

EXTRACT XIV.

Rome.

_Fragment of a Dream.--The great Painters supposed to be Magicians.--The Beginnings of the Art.--Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.-- Improvements under Giotto, etc.--The first Dawn of the true Style in Masaccio.--Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.--Leonardo da Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.--His Knowledge of Mathematics and of Music.--His female heads all like each other.-- Triangular Faces.--Portraits of Mona Lisa, etc.--Picture of Vanity and Modesty.--His_ chef-d'oeuvre, _the Last Supper.--Faded and almost effaced_.

Filled with the wonders I had seen In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls, I felt the veil of sleep serene Come o'er the memory of each scene, As twilight o'er the landscape falls. Nor was it slumber, sound and deep, But such as suits a poet's rest-- That sort of thin, transparent sleep, Thro' which his day-dreams shine the best. Methought upon a plain I stood, Where certain wondrous men, 'twas said, With strange, miraculous power endued, Were coming each in turn to shed His art's illusions o'er the sight And call up miracles of light. The sky above this lonely place, Was of that cold, uncertain hue, The canvas wears ere, warmed apace, Its bright creation dawns to view.

But soon a glimmer from the east Proclaimed the first enchantments nigh;[1] And as the feeble light increased, Strange figures moved across the sky, With golden glories deckt and streaks Of gold among their garments' dyes;[2] And life's resemblance tinged their cheeks, But naught of life was in their eyes;-- Like the fresh-painted Dead one meets, Borne slow along Rome's mournful streets.

But soon these figures past away; And forms succeeded to their place With less of gold in their array, But shining with more natural grace, And all could see the charming wands Had past into more gifted hands. Among these visions there was one,[3] Surpassing fair, on which the sun, That instant risen, a beam let fall, Which thro' the dusky twilight trembled. And reached at length the spot where all Those great magicians stood assembled. And as they turned their heads to view The shining lustre, I could trace The bright varieties it threw On each uplifted studying face:[4] While many a voice with loud acclaim Called forth, "Masaccio" as the name Of him, the Enchanter, who had raised This miracle on which all gazed.

'Twas daylight now--the sun had risen From out the dungeon of old Night.-- Like the Apostle from his prison Led by the Angel's hand of light; And--as the fetters, when that ray Of glory reached them, dropt away.[5] So fled the clouds at touch of day! Just then a bearded sage came forth,[6] Who oft in thoughtful dream would stand, To trace upon the dusky earth Strange learned figures with his wand; And oft he took the silver lute His little page behind him bore, And waked such music as, when mute, Left in the soul a thirst for more!

Meanwhile his potent spells went on, And forms and faces that from out A depth of shadow mildly shone Were in the soft air seen about. Tho' thick as midnight stars they beamed, Yet all like living sisters seemed, So close in every point resembling Each other's beauties--from the eyes Lucid as if thro' crystal trembling, Yet soft as if suffused with sighs, To the long, fawn-like mouth, and chin, Lovelily tapering, less and less, Till by this very charm's excess, Like virtue on the verge of sin, It touched the bounds of ugliness. Here lookt as when they lived the shades Of some of Arno's dark-eyed maids-- Such maids as should alone live on In dreams thus when their charms are gone: Some Mona Lisa on whose eyes A painter for whole years might gaze,[7] Nor find in all his pallet's dyes One that could even approach their blaze! Here float two spirit shapes,[8] the one, With her white fingers to the sun Outspread as if to ask his ray Whether it e'er had chanced to play On lilies half so fair as they! This self-pleased nymph was Vanity-- And by her side another smiled, In form as beautiful as she, But with that air subdued and mild, That still reserve of purity, Which is to beauty like the haze Of evening to some sunny view, Softening such charms as it displays And veiling others in that hue, Which fancy only can see thro'! This phantom nymph, who could she be, But the bright Spirit, Modesty?

Long did the learned enchanter stay To weave his spells and still there past, As in the lantern's shifting play Group after group in close array, Each fairer, grander, than the last. But the great triumph of his power Was yet to come:--gradual and slow, (As all that is ordained to tower Among the works of man must grow,) The sacred vision stole to view, In that half light, half shadow shown, Which gives to even the gayest hue A sobered, melancholy tone. It was a vision of that last,[9] Sorrowful night which Jesus past With his disciples when he said Mournfully to them--"I shall be "Betrayed by one who here hath fed "This night at the same board with me." And tho' the Saviour in the dream Spoke not these words, we saw them beam Legibly in his eyes (so well The great magician workt his spell), And read in every thoughtful line Imprinted on that brow divine.

The meek, the tender nature, grieved, Not angered to be thus deceived-- Celestial love requited ill For all its care, yet loving still-- Deep, deep regret that there should fall From man's deceit so foul a blight Upon that parting hour--and all _His_ Spirit must have felt that night. Who, soon to die for human-kind, Thought only, mid his mortal pain, How many a soul was left behind For whom he died that death in vain!

Such was the heavenly scene--alas! That scene so bright so soon should pass But pictured on the humid air, Its tints, ere long, grew languid there;[10] And storms came on, that, cold and rough, Scattered its gentlest glories all-- As when the baffling winds blow off The hues that hang o'er Terni's fall,-- Till one by one the vision's beams Faded away and soon it fled. To join those other vanisht dreams That now flit palely 'mong the dead,-- The shadows of those shades that go. Around Oblivion's lake below!

[1] The paintings of those artists who were introduced into Venice and Florence from Greece.

[2] Margaritone of Orezzo, who was a pupil and imitator of the Greeks, is said to have invented this art of gilding the ornaments of pictures, a practice which, though it gave way to a purer taste at the beginning of the 16th century, was still occasionally used by many of the great masters: as by Raphael in the ornaments of the Fornarina, and by Rubens not unfrequently in glories and flames.

[3] The works of Masaccio.--For the character of this powerful and original genius, see Sir Joshua Reynolds's twelfth discourse. His celebrated frescoes are in the church of St. Pietro del Carmine, at Florence.

[4] All the great artists studies, and many of them borrowed from Masaccio. Several figures in the Cartoons of Raphael are taken, with but little alteration, from his frescoes.

[5] "And a light shined in the prison ... and his chains fell off from his hands."--_Acts_.

[6] Leonardo da Vinci.

[7] He is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of this fair Florentine, without being able, after all, to come up to his idea of her beauty.

[8] Vanity and Modesty in the collection of Cardinal Fesch, at Rome. The composition of the four hands here is rather awkward, but the picture, altogether, is very delightful. There is a repetition of the subject in the possession of Lucien Bonaparte.

[9] The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, which is in the Refectory of the Convent delle Grazie at Milan.

[10] Leonardo appears to have used a mixture of oil and varnish for this picture, which alone, without the various other causes of its ruin, would have prevented any long duration of its beauties. It is now almost entirely effaced.

EXTRACT XV.

Rome.

_Mary Magdalen.--Her Story.--Numerous Pictures of her.--Correggio--Guido --Raphael, etc.--Canova's two exquisite Statues.--The Somariva Magdalen. --Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works_.

No wonder, MARY, that thy story
Touches all hearts--for there we see thee.
The soul's corruption and its glory,
Its death and life combine in thee.

From the first moment when we find Thy spirit haunted by a swarm Of dark desires,--like demons shrined Unholily in that fair form,-- Till when by touch of Heaven set free, Thou camest, with those bright locks of gold (So oft the gaze of BETHANY), And covering in their precious fold Thy Saviour's feet didst shed such tears As paid, each drop, the sins of years!-- Thence on thro' all thy course of love To Him, thy Heavenly Master,--Him Whose bitter death-cup from above Had yet this cordial round the brim, That woman's faith and love stood fast And fearless by Him to the last:-- Till, oh! blest boon for truth like thine! Thou wert of all the chosen one, Before whose eyes that Face Divine When risen from the dead first shone; That thou might'st see how, like a cloud, Had past away its mortal shroud, And make that bright revealment known To hearts less trusting than thy own. All is affecting, cheering, grand; The kindliest record ever given, Even under God's own kindly hand, Of what repentance wins from Heaven!

No wonder, MARY, that thy face, In all its touching light of tears, Should meet us in each holy place, Where Man before his God appears, Hopeless--were he not taught to see All hope in Him who pardoned thee! No wonder that the painter's skill Should oft have triumpht in the power Of keeping thee all lovely still Even in thy sorrow's bitterest hour; That soft CORREGGIO should diffuse His melting shadows round thy form; That GUIDO'S pale, unearthly hues Should in portraying thee grow warm; That all--from the ideal, grand, Inimitable Roman hand, Down to the small, enameling touch Of smooth CARLINO--should delight In picturing her, "who loved so much," And was, in spite of sin, so bright!

But MARY, 'mong these bold essays Of Genius and of Art to raise A semblance of those weeping eyes-- A vision worthy of the sphere Thy faith has earned thee in the skies, And in the hearts of all men here,-- None e'er hath matched, in grief or grace, CANOVA'S day-dream of thy face, In those bright sculptured forms, more bright With true expression's breathing light, Than ever yet beneath the stroke Of chisel into life awoke. The one,[1] portraying what thou wert In thy first grief,--while yet the flower Of those young beauties was unhurt By sorrow's slow, consuming power; And mingling earth's seductive grace With heaven's subliming thoughts so well, We doubt, while gazing, in _which_ place Such beauty was most formed to dwell!-- The other, as thou look'dst, when years Of fasting, penitence and tears Had worn thy frame;--and ne'er did Art With half such speaking power express The ruin which a breaking heart Spreads by degrees o'er loveliness. Those wasting arms, that keep the trace, Even still, of all their youthful grace, That loosened hair of which thy brow Was once so proud,--neglected now!-- Those features even in fading worth The freshest bloom to others given, And those sunk eyes now lost to earth But to the last still full of heaven!

Wonderful artist! praise, like mine-- Tho' springing from a soul that feels Deep worship of those works divine Where Genius all his light reveals-- How weak 'tis to the words that came From him, thy peer in art and fame,[2] Whom I have known, by day, by night, Hang o'er thy marble with delight; And while his lingering hand would steal O'er every grace the taper's rays[3] Give thee with all the generous zeal Such master spirits only feel, That best of fame, a rival's prize!

[1] This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression of the intensest kind is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Somariva at Paris.

[2] Chantrey.

[3] Canova always shows his fine statue, the Venere Vincitrice, by the light of a small candle.

EXTRACT XVI.

Les Charmettes.

_A Visit to the house where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens.-- Their Menage.--Its Grossness.--Claude Anet.--Reverence with which the spot is now visited.--Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.--Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.--Impostures of Men of Genius.--Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc_.

Strange power of Genius, that can throw Round all that's vicious, weak, and low, Such magic lights, such rainbows dyes As dazzle even the steadiest eyes.

* * * * *

'Tis worse than weak--'tis wrong, 'tis shame, This mean prostration before Fame; This casting down beneath the car Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are, Life's purest, holiest decencies, To be careered o'er as they please. No--give triumphant Genius all For which his loftiest wish can call: If he be worshipt, let it be For attributes, his noblest, first; Not with that base idolatry Which sanctifies his last and worst.

I may be cold;--may want that glow Of high romance which bards should know; That holy homage which is felt In treading where the great have dwelt; This reverence, whatsoe'er it be, I fear, I feel, I have it _not_:-- For here at this still hour, to me The charms of this delightful spot, Its calm seclusion from the throng, From all the heart would fain forget, This narrow valley and the song Of its small murmuring rivulet, The flitting to and fro of birds, Tranquil and tame as they were once In Eden ere the startling words Of man disturbed their orisons, Those little, shadowy paths that wind Up the hillside, with fruit-trees lined And lighted only by the breaks The gay wind in the foliage makes, Or vistas here and there that ope Thro' weeping willows, like the snatches Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope Even tho' the shade of sadness catches!-- All this, which--could I once but lose The memory of those vulgar ties Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues Of Genius can no more disguise Than the sun's beams can do away The filth of fens o'er which they play-- This scene which would have filled my heart With thoughts of all that happiest is;-- Of Love where self hath only part, As echoing back another's bliss; Of solitude secure and sweet. Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet. Which while it shelters never chills Our sympathies with human woe, But keeps them like sequestered rills Purer and fresher in their flow; Of happy days that share their beams 'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ; Of tranquil nights that give in dreams The moonlight of the morning's joy!-- All this my heart could dwell on here, But for those gross mementoes near; Those sullying truths that cross the track Of each sweet thought and drive them back Full into all the mire and strife And vanities of that man's life, Who more than all that e'er have glowed With fancy's flame (and it was _his_, In fullest warmth and radiance) showed What an impostor Genius is; How with that strong, mimetic art Which forms its life and soul, it takes All shapes of thought, all hues of heart, Nor feels itself one throb it wakes; How like a gem its light may smile O'er the dark path by mortals trod, Itself as mean a worm the while As crawls at midnight o'er the sod; What gentle words and thoughts may fall From its false lip, what zeal to bless, While home, friends, kindred, country, all, Lie waste beneath its selfishness; How with the pencil hardly dry From coloring up such scenes of love And beauty as make young hearts sigh And dream and think thro' heaven they rove, They who can thus describe and move, The very workers of these charms, Nor seek nor know a joy above Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!

How all in short that makes the boast Of their false tongues they want the most; And while with freedom on their lips, Sounding their timbrels, to set free This bright world, laboring in the eclipse Of priestcraft and of slavery,-- They may themselves be slaves as low As ever Lord or Patron made To blossom in his smile or grow Like stunted brushwood in his shade. Out on the craft!--I'd rather be One of those hinds that round me tread, With just enough of sense to see The noonday sun that's o'er his head, Than thus with high-built genius curst, That hath no heart for its foundation, Be all at once that's brightest, worst, Sublimest, meanest in creation!

CORRUPTION,

AND

INTOLERANCE.

TWO POEMS.

ADDRESSED TO AN ENGLISHMAN BY AN IRISHMAN.