So well portrayed, and by a son of thine,
Whose voice had swelled the hubbub in his youth, Were hushed, BOLOGNA, silence in the streets,
The squares, when, hark! the clattering of fleet hoofs; And soon a courier, posting as from far,
Housing and holster, boot and belted coat And doublet, stained with many a various soil, Stopt and alighted. 'T was where hangs aloft That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming All who arrive there, all perhaps save those Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell, Those on a pilgrimage. And now approached Wheels, through the lofty porticos resounding, Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade As the sky changes. To the gate they came; And, ere the man had half his story done, Mine host received the master one long used To sojourn among strangers, everywhere (Go where he would, along the wildest track) Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, And leaving footsteps to be traced by those Who love the haunts of genius; one who saw, Observed, nor shunned the busy scenes of life, But mingled not, and 'mid the din, the stir, Lived as a separate spirit.
Since last we parted; and those five short years — Much had they told! His clustering locks were turned Gray; nor did aught recall the youth that swam
From SESTOS to ABYDOS. Yet his voice, Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought Flashed lightning-like, nor lingered on the way,
Waiting for words. Far, far into the night We sat, conversing-no unwelcome hour, The hour we met; and when Aurora rose, Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine. Well I remember how the golden sun Filled with its beams the unfathomable gulfs, As on we travelled, and along the ridge, 'Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild-fig, His motley household came. Not last nor least, BATTISTA, who, upon the moonlight-sea Of VENICE, had so ably, zealously,
Served, and, at parting, thrown his oar away To follow through the world; who without stain Had worn so long that honorable badge,
The gondolier's, in a patrician house
Arguing unlimited trust.1-Not last nor least, Thou, though declining in thy beauty and strength, Faithful MORETTO, to the latest hour Guarding his chamber-door, and now along The silent, sullen strand of MISSOLONGHI Howling in grief. He had just left that place Of old renown, once in the ADRIAN sea,' RAVENNA! where from DANTE's sacred tomb He had so oft, as many a verse declares, Drawn inspiration; where, at twilight-time, Through the pine-forest wandering with loose rein, Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld (What is not visible to a poet's eye?)
The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds and their prey, The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth Suddenly blasted. 'T was a theme he loved, But others claimed their turn; and many a tower,
Shattered, uprooted from its native rock, Its strength the pride of some heroic age, Appeared and vanished (many a sturdy steer 135 Yoked and unyoked) while as in happier days He poured his spirit forth. The past forgot, All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured Present or future.
And praise and blame fall on his ear alike, Now dull in death. Yes, BYRON, thou art gone, Gone like a star that through the firmament Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks, Was generous, noble noble in its scorn Of all things low or little; nothing there Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do Things long regretted, oft, as many know, None more than I, thy gratitude would build On slight foundations: and, if in thy life Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert, Thy wish accomplished; dying in the land Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire- Dying in GREECE, and in a cause so glorious! They in thy train-ah! little did they think, As round we went, that they so soon should sit Mourning beside thee, while a nation mourned, Changing her festal for her funeral song; That they so soon should hear the minute-gun, As morning gleamed on what remained of thee, Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering Thy years of joy and sorrow.
And he who would assail thee in thy grave,
O, let him pause! For who among us all, Tried as thou wert even from thine earliest years, When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland-boy - Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame; Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine, Her charméd cup-ah! who among us all Could say he had not erred as much, and more?
Of all the fairest cities of the earth, None is so fair as FLORENCE. 'Tis a gem Of purest ray; and what a light broke forth, 196 When it emerged from darkness! Search within, Without; all is enchantment! 'Tis the Past Contending with the Present; and in turn
In this chapel wrought
One of the few, Nature's interpreters,
The few, whom genius gives as lights to shine, MASACCIO; and he slumbers underneath.
Wouldst thou behold his monument? Look round! And know that where we stand stood oft and long, Oft till the day was gone, RAPHAEL himself; Nor he alone, so great the ardor there, Such, while it reigned, the generous rivalry; He and how many as at once called forth, Anxious to learn of those who came before,
To steal a spark from their authentic fire, Theirs who first broke the universal gloom,
On that ancient seat, The seat of stone that runs along the wall," South of the church, east of the belfry-tower (Thou canst not miss it), in the sultry time Would DANTE sit conversing, and with those Who little thought that in his hand he held The balance, and assigned at his good pleasure To each his place in the invisible world, To some an upper region, some a lower; Many a transgressor sent to his account, Long ere in FLORENCE numbered with the dead; The body still as full of life and stir
At home, abroad; still and as oft inclined
To eat, drink, sleep; still clad as others were, And at noon-day, where men were wont to meet, Met as continually; when the soul went, Relinquished to a demon, and by him
(So says the bard, and who can read and doubt ?) Dwelt in and governed.
Sit thee down a while; 141
Then, by the gates so marvellously wrought,
That they might serve to be the gates of Heaven, 142
Enter the Baptistery. That place he loved,
Loved as his own; Well might he take delight! For when a child, Playing, as many are wont, with venturous feet Near and yet nearer to the sacred font, Slipped and fell in, he flew and rescued him, Flew with an energy, a violence,
143 and in his visits there
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