And oft above and oft below appears,

Seen o'er the wall by him who journies up,

As though it were another, not the same, Leading along he knows not whence or whither.

Yet thro' its fairy-course, go where it will,

The torrent stops it not, the rugged rock

Opens and lets it in; and on it runs,

Winning its easy way from clime to clime

Through glens locked up before.

Not such my path!

Mine but for those, who, like Jean Jaques delight

In dizziness, gazing and shuddering on

Till fascination comes and the brain turns!

Mine, though I judge but from my ague-fits

Over the Drance, just where the Abbot fell, m

The same as Hannibal's.

But now 'tis past,

That turbulent Chaos; and the promised land

Lies at my

feet in all its loveliness!

To him who starts up from a terrible dream,

And lo, the sun is shining, and the lark

Singing aloud for joy, to him is not

Such sudden ravishment as now I feel

At the first glimpses of fair Italy.

VII.

COMO.

I LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake

Under the shore—though not to visit Pliny,

To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk,

Or fishing, as he might be, from his window:

And, to deal plainly, (may his Shade forgive me!)

Could I recall the ages past, and play

The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve

My leisure for Catullus on his Lake,

Though to fare worse, or Virgil at his farm

A little farther on the way to Mantua.

But such things cannot be. So I sit still,

And let the boatman shift his little sail,

His sail so forked and so swallow-like,

Well-pleased with all that comes. The morning-air

Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round

A silvery gleam and now the purple mists

:

Rise like a curtain; now the sun looks out,

Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious light

This noble amphitheatre of mountains ;

And now appear as on a phosphor-sea

Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pavia;

Some sailing up, some down, and some at anchor,

Lading, unlading at that small port-town