Of whitest marble, white as from the
And richly wrought with many a high
Greek sculpture—in some earlier day perhaps A tomb, and honoured with a hero's ashes. The water from the rock filled and o'erflowed; Then dashed away, playing the prodigal,
And soon was lost-stealing unseen, unheard, Thro' the long grass, and round the twisted roots Of aged trees; discovering where it ran By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat, I threw me down; admiring, as I lay, That shady nook, a singing-place for birds, That grove so intricate, so full of flowers, More than enough to please a child a-Maying.
The sun had set, a distant convent-bell Ringing the Angelus; and now approached The hour for stir and village-gossip there, The hour Rebekah came, when from the well She drew with such alacrity to serve The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard Footsteps; and lo, descending by a path Trodden for ages, many a nymph appeared, Appeared and vanished, bearing on her head Her earthen pitcher. It called up the day Ulysses landed there; and long I gazed, Like one awaking in a distant time.1
The place here described is near Mola di Gaëta in the kingdom of Naples.
At length there came the loveliest of them all, er little brother dancing down before her; and ever as he spoke, which he did ever, urning and looking up in warmth of heart nd brotherly affection. Stopping there, he joined her rosy hands, and, filling them With the pure element, gave him to drink ; nd, while he quenched his thirst, standing on tip-toe,
ooked down upon him with a sister's smile, Nor stirred till he had done, fixed as a statue.
Then hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova, Thou hadst endowed them with immortal youth; And they had evermore lived undivided, Winning all hearts of all thy works the fairest.
IS a wild life, fearful and full of change, The mountain robber's. On the watch
Levelling his carbine at the passenger; And, when his work is done, he dares not sleep. Time was, the trade was nobler, if not honest; When they that robbed, were men of better faith1 Than kings or pontiffs; when, such reverence The Poet drew among the woods and wilds, A voice was heard, that never bade to spare,2
1 Alluding to Alfonso Piccolomini. "Stupiva ciascuno che, mentre un bandito osservava rigorosamente la sua parola, il Papa non avesse ribrezzo, di mancare alla propria."-GALLUZZI, ii. 364. He was hanged at Florence, March 16, 1591.
2 Tasso was returning from Naples to Rome, and had arrived at Mola di Gaëta, when he received this tribute of respect. The captain of the troop was Marco di Sciarra. See Manso, Vita del Tasso. Ariosto had a similar adventure with Filippo Pacchione. See Garofalo.
Crying aloud," Hence to the distant hills! Tasso approaches; he, whose song beguiles The day of half its hours; whose sorcery Dazzles the sense, turning our forest-glades To lists that blaze with gorgeous armoury, Our mountain-caves to regal palaces.
Hence, nor descend till he and his are gone. Let him fear nothing."-When along the shore, And by the path that, wandering on its way, Leads through the fatal grove where Tully fell, (Grey and o'ergrown, an ancient tomb is there) He came and they withdrew, they were a race Careless of life in others and themselves, For they had learnt their lesson in a camp; But not ungenerous. 'Tis no longer so. Now crafty, cruel, torturing ere they slay The unhappy captive, and with bitter jests Mocking Misfortune; vain, fantastical, Wearing whatever glitters in the spoil;
And most devout, though, when they kneel and
With every bead they could recount a murder ; As by a spell they start up in array,1
As by a spell they vanish—theirs a band, Not as elsewhere of outlaws, but of such As sow and reap, and at the cottage-door Sit to receive, return the traveller's greeting; Now in the garb of peace, now silently Arming and issuing forth, led on by men Whose names on innocent lips are words of fear, Whose lives have long been forfeit.-Some there
That, ere they rise to this bad eminence,
Lurk, night and day, the plague-spot visible, The guilt that says, Beware; and mark we now
"Cette race de bandits a ses racines dans la population même du La police ne sait où les trouver."-Lettres de Chateauvieur.
im, where he lies, who couches for his prey It the bridge-foot in some dark cavity cooped by the waters, or some gaping tomb, Tameless and tenantless, whence the red fox lunk as he entered.
There he broods, in spleen
Gnawing his beard; his rough and sinewy frame D'erwritten with the story of his life :
On his wan cheek a sabre-cut, well earned In foreign warfare; on his breast the brand Endelible, burnt in when to the port
He clanked his chain, among a hundred more Dragged ignominiously; on every limb Memorials of his glory and his shame, Stripes of the lash and honourable scars, And channels here and there worn to the bone By galling fetters.
He comes slowly forth, Unkennelling, and up that savage dell
Anxiously looks; his cruise, an ample gourd, (Duly replenished from the vintner's cask) Slung from his shoulder; in his breadth of belt Two pistols and a dagger yet uncleansed,
A parchment scrawled with uncouth characters, And a small vial, his last remedy,
His cure, when all things fail.
Save when the rugged bear and the gaunt wolf Howl in the upper region, or a fish
Leaps in the gulf beneath. But now he kneels ; And (like a scout, when listening to the tramp Of horse or foot) lays his experienced ear Close to the ground, then rises and explores, Then kneels again, and, his short rifle-gun Against his cheek, waits patiently.
Two Monks, Portly, grey-headed, on their gallant steeds,
Descend where yet a mouldering cross o'erhangs The grave of one that from the precipice Fell in an evil hour. Their bridle-bells Ring merrily; and many a loud, long laugh Re-echoes; but at once the sounds are lost. Unconscious of the good in store below, The holy fathers have turned off, and now Cross the brown heath, ere long to wag their beards Before my lady-abbess, and discuss
Things only known to the devout and pure O'er her spiced bowl-then shrive the sister-hood, Sitting by turns with an inclining ear
As with a curse—then paces up and down, Now fast, now slow, brooding and muttering on; Gloomy alike to him Future and Past.
But hark, the nimble tread of numerous feet! "Tis but a dappled herd, come down to slake Their thirst in the cool wave.
Then checks himself, unwilling to disturb The sleeping echoes.—Once again he earths ; Slipping away to house with them beneath, His old companions in that hiding-place, The bat, the toad, the blind-worm, and the newt; And hark, a footstep, firm and confident, As of a man in haste. Nearer it draws; And now is at the entrance of the den. Ha! 'tis a comrade, sent to gather in The band for some great enterprise.
A sequel, may read on. The unvarnished tale, That follows, will supply the place of one. 'T was told me by the Count St. Angelo, When in a blustering night he sheltered me In that brave castle of his ancestors
« PreviousContinue » |