IX.

AVIGNON, FROM THE ROCHE DON 7.

IMMORTAL in the memory of man,

Fair city, ever beautiful and green

In thy old age! How many eyes have seen
Thy streets, thy glorious River! I could scan
For ever so magnificent a plan

As God's most lovely works display-I ween
Not fairy land's more witching: Lo, the scene
Of hill and valley, river, mountain, plain,—
And all mid ruins of the whirlwind voice
Of Anarchy. Smooth winds the silver Rhone
On either side this sacred hill. Rejoice,

O waters, in your silence: every stone

Of God's own house hath trembled at the shock; For civil war can thrill the heart of rock.

X.

PETRARCH AND LAURA 8.

TILL the last Trump awaken Man from death,
Oblivion ne'er will lay himself adown

On Laura's hearse*. Petrarch's immortal crown
Of amaranthine flowers, perennial breath

Of roses which inhaled the primal breeze
Of Paradise, ere guilt on earth was known—
This crown can never fade. Long as the trees
Shall wave their flowing locks, the rose full blown
Fill with her perfume the fresh morning air;
Long as the Sun enriches the green earth
With beams of light-shall live this far-famed pair,
(Romantic Lovers, prime of Fancy's birth);

So long shall Laura in her beauty move,

And Petrarch's verse shall breathe the soul of Love.

* Oblivion laid him down on Laura's herse.

Sir W. Raleigh's Sonnet on Spenser's Faery Queen.

XI.

FAREWELL TO THE RHONE.

As when through many scenes with one loved friend
Our happy feet have journeyed, the full heart
Swells, unrestrained, with sorrow that we part,
And homeward our slow steps unwilling bend-
Sighing that Pleasure hath so soon an end;
Thus, beauteous Stream, unconscious as thou art,
With mingled love and sorrow I depart
From thy blue waters; while my way I wend
Mid scenes more wild and strange-denuded rocks
Unvisited by thee-and with thy looks

And gentle voice unsoothed. I cannot tell
Why rivers please my soul; they seem
Friends of my infancy. As such, dear Stream,

With grief unfeigned I say to thee, Farewell!

XII.

ROCKS NEAR AVIGNON9.

No River laves the feet of these wild rocks;
Trees veil not their grey heads; nor on their breast
Grows verdant shrub, or fragrant herb; yet rest
The orient sunbeams, like rich golden locks,
On their bare summits; and these aged blocks
Shine like Apollo's hair: nor are they drest
In lights less lovely from the glowing west,

When smile on earth the Sun's last lingering looks. We ask,-Whence are they? Spring they from the earth?

Volcanic throes? Or offspring of the sea,

Which, as 'tis said, erst* laved this soil? In mirth Haply Behemoth stretched him sportfully

On these rough beds; the seahorse and the shark Reposed them on these rocks in waters deep and dark.

* Some Geologists suppose that the sea flowed, before the Deluge, over that part of the earth, which is now dry land.

XIII.

THE MEDITERRANEAN.

WHEN to the waters of the rushing Rhone
I bade farewell, no object could I find
That filled the vacancy of heart and mind
Left by the loss of that fair river; lone

I felt, and wearied, when the day was done:
The very face of Nature seemed unkind;

I looked to see my favourite river wind

Proudly beneath his mountains.-But thy waters
Break on my eyes, as sight breaks on the blind,
O Mediterranean, with thy blue-eyed daughters,
Enshrined from boyhood in my memory.
Thy blue waves dash on many a classic shore.
Ere mighty Rome enslaved fair Italy,

Greece heard thy voice, and loved thy loud uproar.