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Keel upward, and the fagot blazed, the tar
Fumed from the caldron; while, beyond the fort,
Whither I wandered, step by step led on,
The fishers dragged their net, the fish within
At every heave fluttering and full of life,
At every heave striking their silver fins
'Gainst the dark meshes.

Soon a boatman's shout
Reëchoed ; and red bonnets on the beach,
Waving, recalled me. We embarked and left
That noble haven, where, when GENOA reigned,
A hundred galleys sheltered — in the day
When lofty spirits met, and, deck to deck,
DORIA, PISANI 321 fought: that narrow field
Ample enough for glory. On we went,
Ruffling with many an oar the crystalline sea,
On from the rising to the setting sun
In silence – underneath a mountain-ridge,
Untamed, untamable, reflecting round
The saddest purple; nothing to be seen
Of life or culture, save where, at the foot,
Some village and its church, a scanty line,
Athwart the wave gleamed faintly. Fear of ill
Narrowed our course, fear of the hurricane,
And that still greater scourge, the crafty Moor,
Who, like a tiger prowling for his prey,
Springs and is gone, and on the adverse coast
(Where TRIPOLI and TUNIS and ALGIERS
Forge fetters, and white turbans on the mole
Gather whene'er the crescent comes displayed
Over the cross) his human merchandise
To many a curious, many a cruel eye

Exposes. Ah ! how oft, where now the sun
Slept on the shore, have ruthless scimitars
Flashed through the lattice, and a swarthy crew
Dragged forth, ere long to number them for sale,
Ere long to part them in their agony,
Parent and child! How oft, where now we rode 322
Over the billow, has a wretched son,
Or yet more wretched sire, grown gray in chains, ,
Labored, his hands upon the oar, his eyes
Upon the land — the land that gave him birth;
And, as he gazed, his homestall through his tears
Fondly imagined; when a Christian ship
Of war appearing in her bravery,
A voice in anger cried, “Use all your strength!”

But when, ah! when do they that can, forbear
To crush the unresisting? Strange, that men,
Creatures so frail, so soon, alas ! to die,
Should have the power, the will to make this world
A dismal prison-house, and life itself,
Life in its prime, a burden and a curse
To him who never wronged them! Who that breathes
Would not, when first he heard it, turn away
As from a tale monstrous, incredible ?
Surely a sense of our mortality,
A consciousness how soon we shall be gone,
Or, if we linger - but a few short years -
How sure to look upon our brother's grave,
Should of itself incline to pity and love,
And prompt us rather to assist, relieve,
Than aggravate the evils each is heir to.

At length the day departed, and the moon Rose like another sun, illumining

Waters and woods and cloud-capt promontories,
Glades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bower,
Scenes of Elysium, such as Night alone
Reveals below, nor often

scenes that fled
As at the waving of a wizard's wand,
And left behind them, as their parting gift,
A thousand nameless odors. All was still ;
And now the nightingale her song poured forth
In such a torrent of heart-felt delight,
So fast it flowed, her tongue so voluble,
As if she thought her hearers would be gone
Ere half was told. 'Twas where in the north-west,
Still unassailed and unassailable,
Thy pharos, Genoa, first displayed itself,
Burning in stillness on its craggy seat;
That guiding star so oft the only one,
When those now glowing in the azure vault
Are dark and silent. T was where o'er the sea
(For we were now within a cable's length)
Delicious gardens hung; green galleries,
And marble terraces in many a flight,
And fairy arches flung from cliff to cliff,
Wildering, enchanting; and, above them all,
A palace, such as somewhere in the East,
In Zenastan or Araby the blest,
Among its golden groves and fruits of gold,
And fountains scattering rainbows in the sky,
Rose, when ALADDIN rubbed the wondrous lamp;
Such, if not fairer; and, when we shot by,
A scene of revelry, in long array
As with the radiance of a setting sun,
The windows blazing. But we now approached
A city far-renowned ; and wonder ceased.

GENOA.

This house was ANDREA DORIA'S.323 Here he lived 1824
And here at eve relaxing, when ashore,
Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse
With them that sought him, walking to and fro
As on his deck. 'Tis less in length and breadth
Than many a cabin in a ship of war;
But 't is of marble, and at once inspires
The reverence due to ancient dignity.

He left it for a better; and 't is now
A house of trade, 325 the meanest merchandise
Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is,
'Tis still the noblest dwelling -- even in GENOA!
And hadst thou, ANDREA, lived there to the last,
Thou hadst done well; for there is that without,
That in the wall, which monarchs could not give,
Nor thou take with thee, -- that which says aloud,
It was thy country's gift to her deliverer.

'Tis in the heart of GENOA (he who comes,
Must come on foot), and in a place of stir;
Men on their daily business, early and late,
Thronging thy very threshold. But, when there,
Thou wert among thy fellow-citizens,
Thy children, for they hailed thee as their sire ;
And on a spot thou must have loved, for there,
Calling them round, thou gav’st them more than life,
Giving what, lost, makes life not worth the keeping.
There thou didst do indeed an act divine ;
Nor couldst thou leave thy door or enter in,
Without a blessing on thee.

Thou art now
Again among them. Thy brave mariners,
They who had fought so often by thy side,
Staining the mountain-billows, bore thee back ;
And thou art sleeping in thy funeral-chamber.

Thine was a glorious course; but couldst thou there,
Clad in thy cere-cloth — in that silent vault,
Where thou art gathered to thy ancestors
Open thy secret heart and tell us all,
Then should we hear thee with a sigh confess,
A sigh how heavy, that thy happiest hours
Were passed before these sacred walls were left,
Before the ocean-wave thy wealth reflected,
And pomp and power drew envy, stirring up
The ambitious man, that in a perilous hour
Fell from the plank.

326

MARCO GRIFFONI.

War is a game at which all are sure to lose, sooner or later, play they how they will; yet every nation has delighted in war, and none more, in their day, than the little republic of GENOA, whose galleys, while she had any, were always burning and sinking those of the Pisans, the Vene

the Greeks, or the Turks; Christian and Infidel alike to her.

But experience, when dearly bought, is seldom thrown away altogether. A moment of sober reflection came at last; and, after a victory the most splendid and ruinous of any in her annals, she resolved from that day and forever to live at peace with all mankind; having in her long career

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