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says Herodotus, the children bury their fathers; in time of war the fathers bury their children! But the Gods have willed it so.-I, 87.

Note 68, page 33, col. 1.

Cazziva.

Note 79, page 33, col. 2.

Thy reverend form.

His person, says Herrera, had an air of grandeur His hair, from many hardships, had long been grey. In him you saw a man of an unconquerable courage, and high thoughts; patient of wrongs, calm in adversity, ever trusting in God:-and, had he lived in an

An ancient Cacique, in his life-time and after his death, employed by the Zemi to alarm his people.-cient times, statues and temples would have been See F. COLUMBUS, c. 62.

Note 69, page 33, col. 1.

Unseen, unheard!-Hence, Minister of Ill.

The Author is speaking in his inspired character. Hidden things are revealed to him, and placed before his mind as if they were present.

Note 70, page 33, col. 1.

-too soon shall they fulfil.

Nor could they, (the Powers of Darkness) have more effectually prevented the progress of the Faith, than by desolating the New World; by burying nations alive in mines, or consigning them in all their errors to the sword.-Relacion de B. DE LAS CASAS. Note 71, page 33, col. 1.

When forth they rush as with the torrent's sweep. Not man alone, but many other animals, became extinct there.

Note 72, page 33, col. 2.

Who among us a life of sorrow spent.

For a summary of his life and character, see “ An Account of the European Settlements."-P. I, c. 8.

Note 73, page 33, col. 2.

Signs like the ethereal bow-that shall endure.

erected to him without number, and his name would have been placed among the stars.

Note 80, page 34, col. 1.

By dogs of carnage.

One of these, on account of his extraordinary sagacity and fierceness, received the full allowance of a soldier. His name was Bezerillo.

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Note 82, page 34, col. 1.

Starts back to hear his alter'd accents there.

No unusual effect of an exuberant vegetation.The air was so vitiated," says an African traveller, "that our torches burnt dim, and seemed ready to be extinguished; and even the human voice lost its natu ral tone."

46

Note 83, page 34, col. 1.

Here, in His train, shall arts and arms attend.

There are those alive," said an illustrious orator, "whose memory might touch the two extremities. Lord Bathurst, in 1704, was of an age to comprehend such things-and, if his angel had then drawn up the curtain, and, whilst he was gazing with admiration,

It is remarkable that these phenomena still remain had pointed out to him a speck, and had told him, among the mysteries of nature.

Note 74, page 33, col. 2.

He stood, and thus his secret soul address'd.
Te tua fata docebo. Virg.
Saprai di tua vita il viaggio. Dante.

Note 75, page 33, col. 2.

And dash the floods of ocean to the stars.

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How simple were the manners of the early colonists! The first ripening of any European fruit was When he entered the Tagus, all the seamen ran distinguished by a family-festival. Garcilasso de la from all parts to behold, as it were some wonder, a Vega relates how his dear father, the valorous Anship that had escaped so terrible a storm.-F. COLUM-dres, collected together in his chamber seven or eight BUS, c. 40.

Note 76, page 33, col. 2.

And Thee restore thy Secret to the Deep.

I

I wrote on a parchment that I had discovered what I had promised; and, having put it into a cask, threw it into the sea.-Ibid. c, 37.

Note 77, page 33, col. 2.

gentlemen to share with him three asparaguses, the first that ever grew on the table-land of Cusco. When the operation of dressing them was over (and it is minutely described) he distributed the two largest among his friends; begging that the company would not take it ill, if he reserved the third for him self, as it was a thing from Spain.

North America became instantly an asylum for the To other eyes, from distant cliff descried. oppressed; Huguenots, and Catholics, and sects of Balboa immediately concluded it to be the ocean every name and country. Such were the first settlers for which Columbus had searched in vain; and when, in Carolina and Maryland, Pennsylvania and New at length, after a toilsome march among the moun- England. Nor is South America altogether without tains, his guides pointed out to him the summit from a claim to the title. Even now, while I am writing, which it might be seen, he commanded his men to the ancient house of Braganza is on its passage across halt, and went up alone.-HERRERA, I, x, 1. the Atlantic,

Note 78, page 33, col. 2.

Hung in thy chamber, buried in thy grave.

I always saw them in his room, and he ordered

Cum sociis, natoque, Penatibus, et magnis dîs.
Note 85, page 34, col. 1.

Untouch'd, shall drop the fetters from the slave. Je me transporte quelquefois au-delà d'un siècle. them to be buried with his body.-F. COLUMBUS, C. 86. J'y vois le bonheur à côté de l'industrie, la douce

Note 87, page 34, col. 1.

-the slayer slain.

Cortes, Pizarro.-" Almost all," says Las Casas,

tolérance remplaçant la farouche inquisition; j'y vois, un jour de fête, Péruviens, Mexicains, Américains libres, François s'embrassant comme des frères, et bénissant le régne de la liberté, qui doit amener partout have perished. The innocent blood, which they had une harmonic universelle.-Mais les mines, les es- shed, cried aloud for vengeance; the sighs, the tears claves, que deviendront-ils? Les mines se fermeront, of so many victims went up before God." les esclaves seront les frères de leurs maîtres.

BRISSOT.

There is a prophetic stanza, written a century ago by Bp. Berkeley, which I must quote, though I shall suffer by the comparison.

Westward the course of empire takes its way.

The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day.
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

Note 86, page 34, col. 1.

The spoiler spoil'd of all.

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Note 88, page 34, col. 1.

'Mid gems and gold, unenvied and unblest. L'Espagne a fait comme ce roi insensé qui demanda que tout ce qu'il toucheroit se convertit en or, et qui fut obligé de revenir aux dieux pour les prier de finir sa misère.-MONTESQUIEU.

Note 83, page 34, col. 2.
Where on his altar-tomb, etc.

An interpolation.

Note 90, page 34, col. 2.
Though in the western world His grave.

An anachronism. The body of Columbus was not yet removed from Seville.

Cortes. "A peine put-il obtenir audience de CharlesQuint; un jour il fendit la presse qui entourait la coche de l'empereur, et monta sur l'étrier de la portière. Charles demanda quel étoit cet homme: 'C'est,' répondit Cortez, celui qui vous a donné plus d'états que vos pères ne vous ont laissé de villes.'"--VOLTAIRE. Roger Bacon.

It is almost unnecessary to point out another, in the Ninth Canto. The telescope was not then in use; though described long before with great accuracy by

Italy;

A POEM.

PREFACE.

A FEW Copies of this Poem were printed off in the autumn of the year before last, while the Author was abroad. It is now corrected, and republished with some additions.

With folded arms and listless look to snuff
The morning air, or the caged sky-lark sung,
From his green sod up-springing-but in vain,
His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song
Old in the days of Homer, and his wings
With transport quivering, on my way I went,
Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily,

Whatever may be its success, it has led him in Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut; many an after-dream through a beautiful country; and may not perhaps be uninteresting to those who have learnt to live in past times as well as present, and whose minds are familiar with the events and the people that have rendered Italy so illustrious.

The stories, taken from the old Chroniclers, are given without exaggeration; and are, he believes, as true to the original text as any of the Plays that may be said to form our popular history. May 1st, 1823.

PART I.

I.

THE LAKE OF GENEVA.

DAY glimmer'd in the east, and the white Moon
Hung like a vapor in the cloudless sky,
Yet visible, when on my way I went,
Glad to be gone-a pilgrim from the north,
Now more and more attracted as I drew
Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan,

Drowsy, half-clad, had from his window leant,

As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived,' (1)
Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee
Inscribed to consecrate (such virtue dwells
In those small syllables) the narrow street,
His birth-place-when, but one short step too late,
He sate him down and wept-wept till the morning; (2)
Then rose to go-a wanderer through the world.

"T is not a tale that every hour brings with it.
Yet at a City-gate, from time to time,
Much might be learnt; and most of all at thine
London-thy hive the busiest, greatest, still
Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by,
And note who passes. Here comes one, a Youth,
Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power,
A Chatterton-in thought admired, caress'd,
And crown'd like Petrarch in the Capitol;
Ere long to die-to fall by his own hand,
And fester with the vilest. Here come two,
Less feverish, less exalted-soon to part,
A Garrick and a Johnson; Wealth and Fame
Awaiting one-even at the gate, Neglect
And Want the other. But what multitudes,
Urged by the love of change, and, like myself,

1 Rousseau.

Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's fare,
Press on-though but a rill entering the Sea,
Entering and lost! Our task would never end.

Day glimmer'd and I went, a gentle breeze
Ruffling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave,
If such they might be call'd, dash'd as in sport,
Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach
Making wild music, and far westward caught
The sun-beam-where, alone and as entranced,
Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff
Lay with his circular and dotted line,
Fishing in silence. When the heart is light
With hope, all pleases, nothing comes amiss;
And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by,

Laden with peasant-girls and fruits and flowers,
And many a chanticleer and partlet caged
For Vevay's market-place-a motley group

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THE GREAT ST. BERNARD.

NIGHT was again descending, when my mule,
That all day long had climb'd among the clouds,
Higher and higher still, as by a stair

Let down from Heaven itself, transporting me,
Stopp'd, to the joy of both, at that low door

Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 't was gone. So near the summit of the Great St. Bernard; The shifting sail flapp'd idly for an instant,

Then bore them off.

I am not one of those

So dead to all things in this visible world,
So wondrously profound-as to move on
In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old (3)
(His name is justly in the Calendar)

Who through the day pursued this pleasant path
That winds beside the mirror of all beauty, (4)
And, when at eve his fellow-pilgrims sate,
Discoursing of the lake, ask'd where it was.
They marvell'd, as they might; and so must all,
Seeing what now I saw; for now 't was day.
And the bright Sun was in the firmament,
A thousand shadows of a thousand hues
Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb
Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont Blanc,
Thy seas of ice and ice-built promontories,
That change their shapes for ever as in sport;
Then travell'd onward, and went down behind
The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up
The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe
Borne homeward through the forest in his hand;
And, in some deep and melancholy glen,
That dungeon-fortress never to be named,
Where, like a lion taken in the toils,

That door which ever on its hinges moved
To them that knock'd, and nightly sends abroad
Ministering Spirits. Lying on the watch,
Two dogs of grave demeanor welcomed me, (5)
All meekness, gentleness, though large of limb;
And a lay-brother of the Hospital,

Who, as we toil'd below, had heard by fits
The distant echoes gaining on his ear,
Came and held fast my stirrup in his hand,
While I alighted.

Long could I have stood,
With a religious awe contemplating
That House, the highest in the Ancient World,
And placed there for the noblest purposes.
"T was a rude pile of simplest masonry,
With narrow windows and vast buttresses,
Built to endure the shocks of Time and Chance ;
Yet showing many a rent, as well it might,
Warr'd on for ever by the elements,
And in an evil day, nor long ago,

By violent men-when on the mountain-top
The French and Austrian banners met in conflict.

On the same rock beside it stood the church,
Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity;
The vesper-bell, for 't was the vesper-hour,

Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit. Duly proclaiming through the wilderness,

Ah, little did He think, who sent him there,
That he himself, then greatest among men,
Should in like manner be so soon convey'd
Across the ocean-to a rock so small
Amid the countless multitude of waves,
That ships have gone and sought it, and return'd,
Saying it was not!

Still along the shore,
Among the trees I went for many a mile,
Where damsels sit and weave their fishing-nets,
Singing some national song by the way-side.
But now 't was dusk, and journeying by the Rhone,
That there came down, a torrent from the Alps,
I enter'd where a key unlocks a kingdom,'
The mountains closing, and the road, the river
Filling the narrow pass. There, till a ray
Glanced through my lattice, and the household-stir
Warn'd me to rise, to rise and to depart,

1 St. Maurice.

"All ye who hear, whatever be your work,
Stop for an instant-move your lips in prayer!"
And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale,

If dale it might be call'd, so near to Heaven,
A little lake, where never fish leap'd up,
Lay like a spot of ink amid the snow;
A star, the only one in that small sky,
On its dead surface glimmering. "T was a scene
Resembling nothing I had left behind,

As though all worldly ties were now dissolved;-
And to incline the mind still more to thought,
To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore
Under a beetling cliff stood half in shadow
A lonely chapel destined for the dead,
For such as, having wander'd from their way,
Had perish'd miserably Side by side,
Within they lie, a mournful company
All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them;
Their features full of life, yet motionless
In the broad day, nor soon to suffer change,

Though the barr'd windows, barr'd against the wolf, Which, where it comes, makes Summer; and in Are always open!

But the Bise blew cold; (6)
And, bidden to a spare but cheerful meal,
I sate among the holy brotherhood

At their long board. The fare indeed was such
As is prescribed on days of abstinence,

But might have pleased a nicer taste than mine;
And through the floor came up, an ancient matron
Serving unseen below; while from the roof
(The roof, the floor, the walls of native fir),
A lamp hung flickering, such as loves to fling
Its partial light on Apostolic heads,
And sheds a grace on all. Theirs Time as yet
Had changed not. Some were almost in the prime;
Nor was a brow o'ercast. Seen as I saw them,
Ranged round their ample hearth-stone in an hour
Of rest, they were as gay, as free from guile,
As children; answering, and at once, to all
The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth;
Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk

Music; and gathering news from them that came,
As of some other world. But when the storm
Rose, and the snow roll'd on in ocean-billows,
When on his face the experienced traveller fell,
Sheltering his lips and nostrils with his hands,
Then all was changed; and, sallying with their pack
Into that blank of nature, they became
Unearthly beings. "Anselm, higher up,

Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long,
And now, as guided by a voice from Heaven,
Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence
Whose can it be, but his who never err'd?
Let us to work! there is no time to lose!-
But who descends Mont Velan? "Tis La Croix.
Away, away! if not, alas, too late.

Homeward he drags an old man and a boy,
Faltering and falling, and but half awaken'd,
Asking to sleep again." Such their discourse.

Oft has a venerable roof received me;

thought,

Oft am I sitting on the bench beneath
Their garden-plot, where all that vegetates
Is but some scanty lettuce, to observe
Those from the South ascending, every step
As though it were their last-and instantly
Restored, renew'd, advancing as with songs,
Soon as they see, turning a lofty crag,
That plain, that modest structure, promising
Bread to the hungry, (9) to the weary rest.

III.

THE DESCENT.

My mule refresh'd-and, let the truth be told,
He was not of that vile, that scurvy race,
From sire to son lovers of controversy,
But patient, diligent, and sure of foot,
Shunning the loose stone on the precipice,
Snorting suspicion while with sight, smell, touch,
Examining the wet and spongy moss,

And on his haunches sitting to slide down
The steep, the smooth-my mule refresh'd, his bells
Gingled once more, the signal to depart,
And we set out in the grey light of dawn,
Fast-frozen, and among huge blocks of ice
Descending rapidly-by waterfalls
That in their long career had stopt mid-way,
At length, uncheck'd, unbidden, he stood still;
And all his bells were muffled. Then my Guide,
Lowering his voice, address'd me: "Through this
Chasm

On and say nothing-for a word, a breath,
Stirring the air, may loosen and bring down
A winter's snow-enough to overwhelm
The horse and foot that, night and day, defiled
Along this path to conquer at Marengo.
Well I remember how I met them here,
As the light died away, and how Napoleon,
Wrapt in his cloak-I could not be deceived-
Rein'd in his horse, and ask'd me, as I pass'd,

St. Bruno's once' (7)—where, when the winds were How far 't was to St. Remi. Where the rock

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Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away,
Narrows almost to nothing at its base,
"T was there; and down along the brink he led
To Victory!-Dessaix, who turn'd the scale, (10)
Leaving his life-blood in that famous field
(When the clouds break, we may discern the spot
In the blue haze), sleeps, as you saw at dawn,
Just as you enter'd, in the Hospital-church."
So saying, for awhile he held his peace,
Awe-struck beneath that dreadful Canopy;
But soon, the danger pass'd, launch'd forth again

IV. JORASSE.

JORASSE was in his three-and-twentieth year; Graceful and active as a stag just roused; Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech, Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up Among the Hunters of the Higher Alps; Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness, Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies, Said to arise by those who dwell below, From frequent dealings with the Mountain-Spirits. But other ways had taught him better things;

And now he number'd, marching by my side, The Savans, Princes, who with him had cross'd The frozen tract, with him familiarly

Through the rough day and rougher night conversed
In many a chalêt round the Peak of Terror,'
Round Tacul, Tour, Well-horn and Rosenlau,
And Her, whose throne is inaccessible, 2
Who sits, withdrawn, in virgin-majesty,
Nor oft unveils. Anon an Avalanche
Roll'd its long thunder; and a sudden crash,
Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear
Told that far-down a continent of Ice
Had burst in twain. But he had now begun,
And with what transport he recall'd the hour
When to deserve, to win his blooming bride,
Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound
The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod

The Upper realms of Frost; then, by a cord
Let half-way down, enter'd a Grot star-bright,
And gather'd from above, below, around, (11)
The pointed crystals!

Once, nor long before (12)
(Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet,
And with an eloquence that Nature gives
To all her children-breaking off by starts
Into the harsh and rude, oft as the Mule
Drew his displeasure) once, nor long before,
Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg,
He slipp'd, he fell; and, through a fearful cleft
Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper,
Went to the Under-world! Long-while he lay
Upon his rugged bed-then waked like one
Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever!
For, looking round, he saw or thought he saw
Innumerable branches of a Cavern,
Winding beneath a solid crust of ice;

With here and there a rent that show'd the stars!
What then, alas, was left him but to die?
What else in those immeasurable chambers,
Strewn with the bones of miserable men,
Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on,
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free!
And, rising, he began his dreary round;
When hark, the noise as of some mighty River
Working its way to light! Back he withdrew,
But soon return'd, and, fearless from despair,
Dash'd down the dismal Channel; and all day,
If day could be where utter darkness was,
Travell'd incessantly, the craggy roof
Just over-head, and the impetuous waves,
Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength
Lashing him on. At last the water slept
In a dead lake-at the third step he took,
Unfathomable-and the roof, that long
Had threaten'd, suddenly descending, lay
Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,
His journey ended; when a ray divine
Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her
Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin,
He plunged, he swam-and in an instant rose,
The barrier past, in light, in sunshine! Through
A smiling valley, full of cottages,
Glittering the river ran; and on the bank
The young were dancing ('t was a festival-day)

All in their best attire. There first he saw
His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,
Seen behind all, and, varying, as he spoke,
With hope, and fear, and generous sympathy,
Subdued him. From that very hour he loved.

The tale was long, but coming to a close, When his dark eyes flash'd fire, and, stopping short, He listen'd and look'd up. I look'd up too; And twice there came a hiss that through me thrill'd' "T was heard no more. A Chamois on the cliff Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear, And all were gone.

But now the thread was broken.
Love and its joys had vanish'd from his mind;
And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes
When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay,
(His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung,
His axe to hew a stair-case in the ice)

He track'd their footsteps. By a cloud surprised,
Upon a crag among the precipices,

Where the next step had hurl'd them fifty fathoms,
Oft had they stood, lock'd in each other's arms,
All the long night under a freezing sky,

Each guarding each the while from sleeping, falling.
Oh, 't was a sport he loved dearer than life,
And only would with life itself relinquish !

My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds.
As for myself," he cried, and he held forth
His wallet in his hand, "this do I call
My winding-sheet-for I shall have no other!"

And he spoke truth. Within a little month He lay among these awful solitudes, (T was on a glacier-half-way up to Heaven) Taking his final rest. Long did his wife, Suckling her babe, her only one, look out The way he went at parting, but he came not! Long fear to close her eyes, lest in her sleep (Such their belief) he should appear before her, Frozen and ghastly pale, or crush'd and bleeding, To tell her where he lay, and supplicate For the last rite! At length the dismal news Came to her ears, and to her eyes his corse

V.

MARGUERITE DE TOURS.

Now the grey granite, starting through the snow,
Discover'd many a variegated moss'
That to the pilgrim resting on his staff
Shadows out capes and islands; and ere long
Numberless flowers, such as disdain to live

In lower regions, and delighted drink
The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues,
With their diminutive leaves cover'd the ground.
"T was then, that, turning by an ancient larch,
Shiver'd in two, yet most majestical
With its long level branches, we observed
A human figure sitting on a stone

Far down by the way-side-just where the rock
Is riven asunder, and the Evil One

Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument (13)

1 The Schrekhorn.

The Jung-frau.

1 Lichen Geographicus.

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