Note 169, page 74, col. 2. Not thus did they return, The tyrant slain. third novel of Franco Sacchetty we read, that a stranger, suddenly entering Giotto's study, threw down a shield and departed, saying, "Paint me my It was in the year 839. See Muratori. Art. Chronici arms in that shield ;" and that Giotto, looking after Amalphitani Fragmenta. Note 170, page 74, col. 2. Serve for their monument. By degrees, says Giannone, they made themselves famous through the world. The Tarini Amalfitani were a coin familiar to all nations; and their maritime code regulated every where the commerce of the sea. Many churches in the East were by them built and endowed: by them was first founded in Palestine that most renowned military Order of St. John of Jerusalem; and who does not know that the Mariner's Compass was invented by a citizen of Amalfi ? Note 171, page 75, col. 1. The air is sweet with violets, running wild. Note 172, page 75, col. 1. Those thoughts so precious and so lately lost. Note 173, page 75, col. 2. -and Posidonia rose. him, exclaimed, "Who is he? What is he? He says, Paint me my arms, as if he was one of the Bardi! What arms does he bear?" Note 178, page 77, col. 1. Paganino Doria, Nicolo Pisani; those great seamen, who balanced for so many years the fortunes of Genoa and Venice. Note 179, page 77, col. 1. Ruffling with many an oar the crystalline sea. The Feluca is a large boat for rowing and sailing, much used in the Mediterranean. Note 180, page 77, col. 1. How oft where now we rode. Every reader of Spanish poetry is acquainted with that affecting romance of Gongora, Amarrado al duro banco, etc. Lord Holland has translated it in his Life of Lope Vega. Note 181, page 77, col. 2. Here he lived. Originally a Greek City under that name, and afterwards a Roman City, under the name of Pastum. See Mitford's Hist. of Greece, chap. x, sec. 2. It was surprised and destroyed by the Saracens at the be-a house, originally of very small dimensions, with ginning of the tenth century. 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 side of it is the church he lies buried in, on the other them their liberty (Sigonii Vita Doria); and on one Note 174, page 76, col. 1. "What hangs behind that curtain ?" This story, if a story it can be called, is fictitious; and I have done little more than give it as I received it. It has already appeared in prose; but with many alterations and additional circumstances. The abbey of Monte Cassino is the most ancient and venerable house of the Benedictine Order. It is situated within fifteen leagues of Naples, on the inland road to Rome; and no house is more hospitable. Note 175, page 76, col. 1. For life is surely there, and visible change. There are many miraculous pictures in Italy; but none, I believe, were ever before described as malignant in their influence. Note 176, page 76, col. 2. Within a crazed and tatter'd vehicle. Then degraded, and belonging to a Vetturino. Note 177, page 76, col. 2. A shield as splendid as the Bardi wear. 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. Note 182, page 77, col. 2. Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse. Note 183, page 77, col. 2. A house of trade. When I saw it in 1822, a basket-maker lived on the ground-floor, and over him a seller of chocolate. Note 184, page 78, col. 1. Before the ocean-wave thy wealth reflected. 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. Note 185, page 78, col. 1. The ambitious man, that in a perilous hour Fiesco. See Robertson's History of the Empero. A Florentine family of great antiquity. In the sixty- Charles the Fifth. 97 Miscellaneous Poems. ODE TO SUPERSTITION 1 I. 1. HENCE, to the realms of Night, dire demon, hence! Clot his shaggy mane with gore, With flashing fury bid his eye-balls shine; Thy touch, thy deadening touch has steel'd the breast, Whence, through her April-shower, soft Pity smiled; When, with a frown that froze the peopled earth,' Ha! what withering phantoms glare! As blows the blast with many a sudden swell, And, through the mist, reveals the terrors of his form. I. 3. O'er solid seas, where Winter reigns, Each potent spell thou badest him know. Smit by the scorchings of the noontide beam. Blooming in her bridal vest: She hurls the torch! she fans the fire! To die is to be blest: She clasps her lord to part no more, The Sisters sail in dusky state," While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main,' Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train. II. 1. Thou spakest, and lo! a new creation glow'd. And at its base the trembling nations bow'd. Grasp'd the globe with iron hand. spheres ; The indignant pyramid sublimely towers, And braves the efforts of a host of years. Sweet Music breathes her soul into the wind; And bright-eyed Painting stamps the image of the mind. II. 2. Round their rude ark old Egypt's sorcerers rise! But ah! what myriads claim the bended knee!' Charm'd with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay! II. 3. On yon hoar summit, mildly bright High o'er the world, the white-robed Magi gaze 5 The Fates of the Northern Mythology. See Mallet's An- I. 131. tiquities. 9 En. VI. 46, etc. The Sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er, Breathing a prophetic flame. The cavern frowns; its hundred mouths unclose! And in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire flows! III. 1. Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead! Rites thy brown oaks would never dare Rites that have chain'd old Ocean on his bed. III. 2. Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears! In cloister'd solitude she sits and sighs, Lord of each pang the nerves can feel, Pure as the mountain-snows: She smiles! and where is now the cloud 1 See Tacitus, 1. xiv, c. 29. 2 This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Jerusalem, in the last year of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris, p. 34. Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, And lo! it visits man with beams of light and love, VERSES WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS.' YES, 't is the pulse of life! my fears were vain. I wake, I breathe, and am myself again. Still in this nether world; no seraph yet! Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set, With troubled step to haunt the fatal board, Where I died last-by poison or the sword; Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light. -To drop all metaphor, that little bell Call'd back reality, and broke the spell. No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone; A very woman-scarce restrains her own! Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, When to be grateful is the part assign'd? Ah no! she scorns the trappings of her Art; No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart! But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask? Is here no other actress? let me ask. Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, Know every Woman studies stage-effect. She moulds her manners to the part she fills, As Instinct teaches, or as Humor wills; And, as the grave or gay her talent calls, Acts in the drama till the curtain falls. First. how her little breast with triumph swe.ls When the red coral rings its golden bells! To play in pantomime is then the rage, Along the carpet's many-color'd stage; Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavor, Now here, now there-in noise and mischief ever! A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapors ; Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she dances; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions! A romp! that longest of perpetual motions! -Till tamed and tortured into foreign graces, She sports her lovely face at public places; And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan, First acts her part with that great actor, MAN. Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies! Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs! Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice; Till fading beauty hints the late advice. Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain'd, And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd! Then comes that good old character, a Wife, With all the dear distracting cares of life; A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, And, in return, a thousand cards receive; Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire, With nightly blaze set Portland-place on fire; Snatch half a glimpse at Concert, Opera, Ball, A meteor, traced by none, though seen by all; 1 After a Tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane, April 27, 1795. And, when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam, In very spleen-rehearse the girls at home. Last, the grey Dowager, in ancient flounces, With snuff and spectacles the age denounces; Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle Knelt for a look, and duell'd for a smile. The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal, Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal; With modern Belles eternal warfare wages, Like her own birds that clamor from their cages; And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, Like some old Ruin, “nodding to its fall!" Thus Woman makes her entrance and her exit; Not least an actress, when she least suspects it. Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; Full oft, with energy that scorns control, At once lights up the features of the soul; Unlocks each thought chain'd down by coward Art, And to full day the latent passions start! -And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. Born on the stage-through every shifting scene, Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, Still has your smile her trembling spirit fired! And can she act, with thoughts like these inspired? Thus from her mind all artifice she flings, All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things! To you, uncheck'd, each genuine feeling flows; For all that life endears-to you she owes. FROM EURIPIDES. THERE is a streamlet issuing from a rock. The village-girls, singing wild madrigals, Dip their white vestments in its waters clear, And hang them to the sun. There first I saw her Her dark and eloquent eyes, mild, full of fire, "Twas heaven to look upon; and her sweet voice As tunable as harp of many strings, At once spoke joy and sadness to my soul! Dear is that valley to the murmuring bees; CAPTIVITY. CAGED in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake THE SAILOR. THE Sailor sighs as sinks his native shore, Ah! now each dear, domestic scene he knew, Recall'd and cherish'd in a foreign clime, Charms with the magic of a moonlight view; Its colors mellow'd, not impair'd, by time. True as the needle, homeward points his heart, Through all the horrors of the stormy main; This, the last wish that would with life depart, To see the smile of her he loves again. When Morn first faintly draws her silver line, Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er, Carved is her name in many a spicy grove, But lo, at last he comes with crowded sail! -Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand! TO AN OLD OAK. Immota manet; multosque nepotes, Multa virum volvens durando sæcula, vincit. Virg. 1 ROUND thee, alas, no shadows move! There once the steel-clad knight reclined, Then Culture came, and days serene; Father of many a forest deep, Wont in the night of woods to dwell, Thy singed top and branches bare TO TWO SISTERS.' WELL may you sit within, and, fond of grief, Oh she was great in mind, though young in years! Changed is that lovely countenance, which shed Light when she spoke, and kindled sweet surprise, As o'er her frame each warm emotion spread, Play'd round her lips, and sparkled in her eyes. Those lips so pure, that moved but to persuade 1 On the death of a younger sister. Yet has she fled the life of bliss below, And now in joy she dwells, in glory moves! ON A TEAR. OH! that the Chemist's magic art Could crystallize this sacred treasure! Long should it glitter near my heart, A secret source of pensive pleasure The little brilliant, ere it fell, Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye; Then, trembling, left its coral cellThe spring of Sensibility! Sweet drop of pure and pearly light! Benign restorer of the soul! The sage's and the poet's theme, That very law' which moulds a tear, And bids it trickle from its source, That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course. TO A VOICE THAT HAD BEEN LOST. Vane, quid affectas faciem mihi ponere, pictor? Et, si vis similem pingere, pinge sonum. Ausonius, ONCE more, Enchantress of the soul, Once more we hail thy soft control. -Yet whither, whither didst thou fly? To what bright region of the sky? Say, in what distant star to dwell? (Of other worlds thou seem'st to tell) Or trembling, fluttering here below, Resolved and unresolved to go, In secret didst thou still impart Thy raptures to the pure in heart? Perhaps to many a desert shore, Thee, in his rage, the Tempest bore; Thy broken murmurs swept along, 'Mid Echoes yet untuned by song; |