And not a breath, a murmur! Every sail
Slept in the offing. Yet along the shore
Great was the stir; as at the noontide hour,'
None unemployed. Where from its native rock
A streamlet, clear and full, ran to the sea,
The maidens knelt and sung as they were wont,
Washing their garments. Where it met the tide,
Sparkling and lost, an ancient pinnace lay
Keel upward, and the fagot blazed, the tar
Fumed from the cauldron; 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.
Re-echoed; 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, PISANI1 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, untameable, 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,
1 Paganino Doria, Nicolo Pisani; those great seamen, who balanced for so many years the fortunes of Genoa and Venice.
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
Over the billow, has a wretched son,
Or yet more wretched sire, grown grey in chains,
Laboured, 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 odours. 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. 'Twas 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 the setting sun,
The windows blazing. But we now approached
A City far renowned; and wonder ceased.
THIS house was ANDREA DORIA'S.
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 'tis of marble, and at once inspires
The reverence due to ancient dignity.
He left it for a better; and 'tis now
A house of trade,2 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,
1 The Piazza Doria, or, as it is now called, the Piazza di San Matteo, insignificant as it may be thought, is to me the most interesting place in Genoa. It was there that Doria assembled the people, when he gave them their liberty (Sigonii Vita Doria); and on one side of it is the church he lies buried in, on the other a house, originally of very small dimensions, with this inscription : S. C. Andreæ de Auria Patria Liberatori Munus Publicum.
The streets of old Genoa, like those of Venice, were constructed only for foot passengers.
2 When I saw it in 1822, a basket-maker lived on the ground floor, and over him a seller of chocolate.
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.
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
1 Alluding to the palace which he built afterwards, and in which he twice entertained the Emperor Charles the Fifth. It is the most magnificent edifice on the bay of Genoa.
2 Fiesco. For an account of his conspiracy, see Robertson's "History of Charles the Fifth."
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