There lie the Stuarts !-There lingers Walter Scott!
Strange congress of illustrious thoughts and things!
A plain old moral, still too oft forgot,—
The power of Genius and the fall of Kings.
The curse on lawless Will high-planted there,
A beacon to the world, shines not for him ;
He is with those who felt their life was sere,
When the full light of loyalty grew dim.
He rests his chin upon a sturdy staff,
Historic as that sceptre, theirs no more;
His gaze is fixed; his thirsty heart can quaff,
For a short hour the spirit-draughts of yore.
Each figure in its pictured place is seen,
Each fancied shape his actual vision fills,
From the long-pining, death-delivered, Queen,
To the worn Outlaw of the heathe'ry hills.
O grace of life, which shame could never mar!
O dignity, that circumstance defied!
Pure is the neck that wears the deathly scar,
And sorrow has baptised the front of pride.
But purpled mantle, and blood-crimson'd shroud,
Exiles to suffer and returns to woo,
Are gone, like dreams by daylight disallow'd;
And their historian,--he is sinking too!
A few more moments and that labou'ring brow
Cold as those royal busts and calm will lie;
And, as on them his thoughts are resting now,
His marbled form will meet the attentive eye.
Thus, face to face, the dying and the dead,
Bound in one solemn ever-living bond,
Communed; and I was sad that ancient head
Ever should pass those holy walls beyond.
THE ILLUMINATIONS OF ST. PETER'S.
TEMPLE! where Time has wed Eternity,
How beautiful Thou art, beyond compare,
Now emptied of thy massive majesty,
And made so faery-frail, so faery-fair:
The lineaments that thou art wont to wear
Augustly traced in ponderous masonry,
Lie faint as in a woof of filmy air,
Within their frames of mellow jewelry.-
But yet how sweet the hardly-waking sense,
That when the strength of hours has quenched those gems,
Disparted all those soft-bright diadems,—
Still in the Sun thy form will rise supreme
In its own solid clear magnificence,
Divinest substance then, as now divinest dream.
My heart was resting with a peaceful gaze,
So peaceful that it seemed I well could die
Entranced before such Beauty,—when a cry
Burst from me, and I sunk in dumb amaze :
The molten stars before a withering blaze
Paled to annihilation, and my eye,
Stunned by the splendour, saw against the sky
Nothing but light,—sheer light,—and light's own haze.
At last that giddying Sight took form,-and then
Appeared the stable Vision of a Crown,
From the black vault by unseen Power let down,
Cross-topped, thrice girt with flame :-
Queens of the Earth! bow low,—was ever brow
Of mortal birth adorned as Rome is now?
PAST is the first dear phantom of our sight,
A loadstar of calm loveliness to draw
All souls from out this world of fault and flaw,
To a most perfect centre of delight,
Merged in deep fire ;-our joy is turned to awe,
Delight to wonder. This is just and right;—
A greater light puts out the lesser light,—
So be it ever, such is God's high law.
The self-same Sun that calls the flowers from earth
Withers them soon, to give the fruit free birth ;—
The nobler Spirit to whom much is given
Must take still more, though in that more there lie
The risk of losing All ;-to gaze at Heaven,
We blind our earthly eyes;—to live we die.
FROM THE CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO.
PLAY on, play on, I share your gorgeous glee,
Creatures of elemental mirth! play on,-
Let each fulfil his marvellous destiny,
My heart leaps up and falls in unison.
The Tower round which ye weave, with elfin grace,
The modulations of your burning dance,
Looks through your gambols with a grandsire's face,
A grave but not reproachful countenance;
Ye are the children of a festive night,
He is the mate of many an hundred years,—
Ye but attest men's innocent delight,
He is the comrade of their crimes and tears,-
Ye in your joys' pure prime will flare away,
He waits his end in still and slow decay.
MARRIAGE OF THE LADY GWENDOLIN TALBOT
ELDEST SON OF THE PRINCE BORGHESE.
LADY! to decorate thy marriage-morn,
Rare gems, and flowers, and lofty songs are brought;
Thou the plain utter'ance of a Poet's thought,
Thyself at heart a Poet, wilt not scorn:
The name, into whose splendour thou wert born,
Thou art about to change for that which stands
Writ on the proudest work* that mortal hands
Have raised from earth, Religion to adorn.
Take it rejoicing,—take with thee thy dower,
Britain's best blood, and Beauty ever new,
Being of mind; may the cool northern dew
Still rest upon thy leaves, transplanted flower!
Mingling thy English nature, pure and true,
With the bright growth of each Italian hour.
ROME, May 11th, 1835.
ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS BORGHESE,
ONCE, and but once again I dare to raise
A voice which thou in spirit still may'st hear,
Now that thy bridal bed becomes a bier,
Now that thou canst not blush at thine own praise!
The ways of God are not as our best ways,
And thus we ask, with a convulsive tear,
Why is this northern blossom low and sere?
Why has it blest the south but these few days?
Another Basilic,† decked otherwise
Than that which hailed thee as a princely bride,
Receives thee and three little ones beside;
While the young lord of that late glorious home
Stands 'mid these ruins and these agonies,
Like some lone column of his native Rome!
† S. Maria Maggiore, where the Borghese family are interred.
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