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
Grey; 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 moonlit 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 honourable badge,
The gondolier's, in a Patrician House
Arguing unlimited trust.'-Not last nor least,
Thou, tho' declining in thy beauty and strength,
Faithful MORETTO, to the latest hour
1 The principal gondolier, “il fante di poppa," was almost always in the confidence of his master, and employed on occasions that required judgment and address.
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,1
RAVENNA! where, from DANTE's sacred tomb
He had so oft, as many a verse declares,"
Drawn inspiration; where at twilight time,
Thro' 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." "Twas 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
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,
1 "Adrianum mare."-CICERO,
See the Prophecy of Dante.
See the tale as told by Boccaccio and Dryden.
They wait for the traveller's carriage at the foot of every hill.
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,
Oh, 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 charmed cup-ah, who among us all
Could say he had not erred as much, and more?
Of purest ray; and what a light broke forth
When it emerged from darkness! Search within,
Without; all is enchantment! 'Tis the Past
Contending with the Present; and in turn
1 Among other instances of her ascendency at the close of the thirteenth century, it is related that Florence saw twelve of her citizens assembled at the Court of Boniface the Eighth, as ambassadors from different parts of Europe and Asia. Their names are mentioned in Toscana Illustrata.
In this chapel wrought1
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 ardour 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,
Sons of the Morning.
On that ancient seat,
The seat of stone that runs along the wall,2
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,
1 A chapel of the Holy Virgin in the church of the Carmelites. It is adorned with the paintings of Masaccio, and all the great artists of Florence studied there: Leonardo da Vinci, Fra Bartolomeo, Andrea del Sarto, Michael Angelo, Raphael, &c.
"He had no stone, no inscription," says Vasari, "for he was thought little of in his lifetime."
"Se alcun cercasse il marmo, o il nome mio,
La chiesa è il marmo, una cappella è il nome."
Nor less melancholy was the fate of Andrea del Sarto, though his merit was not undiscovered. "There is a little man in Florence," said Michael Angelo to Raphael, "who, if he were employed on such great works as you are, would bring the sweat to your brow." (See Bocchi in his "Bellezza di Firenze.”)
2 "Il sasso di Dante." It exists, I believe, no longer, the wall having been taken down; but enough of him remains elsewhere.-Boccaccio delivered his lectures on the Divina Commedia in the church of S. Stefano; and whoever happens to enter it, when the light is favourable, may still, methinks, catch a glimpse of him and his hearers.
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