less art As if the Star of Bitterness which fell | Of generous aid, given with that noiseOn earth of old, and touched them with its beams, Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change Of scene and clime-the adventures, bold and strange The griefs-the frailties, but too frankly told The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold; If truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks His virtues as his failings, we shall find The record there of friendships, held like rocks, And enmities, like sun touched snow, resigned Of fealty, cherished without change or chill, In those who served him young, and serve him still Which wakes not pride, to many wounded heart Of acts-but, no-not from himself must aught Of the bright features of his life be While they who court the world, like "Turn forth their silver lining' on the This gifted Being wraps himself in night, And, keeping all that softens, and adorns, And gilds his social nature, hid from sight, Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns. EXTRACT IV. 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 cursed, 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! Fancying we leave this world behind, If up the Simplon's path we wind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As-'Baddish news from 'Change, my dear The Funds-(phew, curse this ugly hill !) Are lowering fast-(what! higher still?) 1 Did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night ?'- Comus. 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-DitchAnd scarce a pin's head difference which Mixes, though even to Greece we run, And, if this rage for travelling lasts, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids To glide among the pyramids1— 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 CarolinaOr, flying to the Eastward, see Some Mrs. Hopkins, taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China ! EXTRACT V. 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 it that sentiment only they want, Which Heaven for the pure and the tranquil hath made Calm, wedded affection, that homerooted plant, Which sweetens seclusion, and smiles in the shade; 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, though 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 sunstroke that maddens the frame. It was pink spencers, I believe, that the imagination of the French traveller conjured up. But that Passion, which springs in the | Where nought of those innocent doubts depth of the soul, Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source Of some mountainous 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, at length, throws a halo of tears round its fall! This exquisite Passion-ay, exquisite, even In the ruin its madness too often hath made, can exist, From the maiden's young heart, are the only ones taught― Oh no-'tis not here, howsoever we're given, Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray, As it keeps, even then, a bright trace Or adore, like Sabæans, each light of of the heaven, The 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, Love's heaven, Till spirit with spirit in sympathy Reflections on reading Du move; Rome. 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 | And heard its mournful echoes, as the day last For his dear Rome, must to a Roman High-minded heirs of the Republic be, Short as it was, worth ages past away passed. 'Twas then that thou, their Tribune (name which brought Dreams of lost glory to each patriot' thought), Didst, from a spirit Rome in vain shall bereft Even 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 It cannot be-rise up, ye Mighty If we, the living, are too weak to These tyrant priests, that o'er your empire tread, Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush! dix-neuvième, dans l'église du château de SaintAnge au son de la cloche, afin de pourvoir au Bon Etat.' 'Happy Palmyra! in thy desert domes, | But this is past-too long have lordly 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 extinguished 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 through 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 cursed, Through every spot her princely 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; Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore, Tracking our country's glories all the 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 through ages yet to come, Proclaiming Rome, Rome, Rome Eternal Rome!' EXTRACT VII. Rome. Mary Magdalen.-Her Story.-Numerous Pictures of her.-Correggio.-Guido.-. Raphel, 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 The soul's corruption and its glory, Its death and life, combined in thee, From the first moment, when we find Thy spirit, haunted by a swarm Of dark desires, which had enshrined Themselves, like demons, in thy form, Till when, by touch of Heaven set free, Thou cam'st, with those bright locks of gold (So oft the gaze of Bethany), And, covering in their precious fold Thy Saviour's feet, did shed such tears As paid, each drop, the sins of years!— Thence on, through all thy course of love To Him, thy Heavenly Master,-Hi high and patriotic hopes by the first measures of this extraordinary man, appears from one of his letters, quoted by Du Cerceau, where he says Pour tout dire, en un mot, j'atteste, non comme lecteur, mais comme témoin oculaire, qu'il nous à ramené la justice, la paix, la bonne foi, la sécurité, et toutes les autres vestiges de l'âge d'or." |