Built in one night, from which the flood beneath,
Raging along, all foam, is seen not heard,
And seen as motionless!

Nearer we drew,
And 't was a woman young and delicate,
Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot,
Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand
In deepest thought. Young as she was, she wore
The matron-cap; and from her shape we judged,
As well we might, that it would not be long
Ere she became a mother. Pale she look'd,
Yet cheerful; though, methought, once, if not twice,
She wiped away a tear that would be coming:
And in those moments her small hat of straw,
Worn on one side, and garnish'd with a riband
Glittering with gold, but ill conceal'd a face
Not soon to be forgotten. Rising up
On our approach, she journey'd slowly on;
And my companion, long before we met,
Knew, and ran down to greet her.

She was born
(Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears)
In Val d'Aosta; and an Alpine stream,
Leaping from crag to crag in its short course
To join the Dora, turn'd her father's mill.
There did she blossom till a Valaisan,
A townsman of Martigny, won her heart,
Much to the old man's grief. Long he held out,
Unwilling to resign her; and at length,
When the third summer came, they stole a match
And fled. The act was sudden; and when far
Away, her spirit had misgivings. Then
She pictured to herself that aged face
Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in anger;
And, when at last she heard his hour was near,
Went forth unseen, and, burden'd as she was,
Cross'd the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness,
And hold him to her heart before he died.
Her task was done. She had fulfill'd her wish,
And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping.
A frame like hers had suffer'd; but her love
Was strong within her; and right on she went,
Fearing no ill. May all good Angels guard her!
And should I once again, as once I may,
Visit Martigny, I will not forget

Thy hospitable roof, Marguerite de Tours;
Thy sign the silver swan.' Heaven prosper Thee!

VI.

THE ALPS.

WHO first beholds those everlasting clouds, Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night, Still where they were, stedfast, immovable; Who first beholds the Alps-that mighty chain Of Mountains, stretching on from east to west, So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal, As to belong rather to Heaven than EarthBut instantly receives into his soul A sense, a feeling that he loses not,

A something that informs him 't is a moment Whence he may date henceforward and for ever?

To me they seem'd the barriers of a World, Saying, Thus far, no farther! and as o'er

1 La Cygne.

The level plain I travell'd silently,
Nearing them more and more, day after day,
My wandering thoughts my only company,
And they before me still, oft as I look'd,

A strange delight, mingled with fear, came o'er me
A wonder as at things I had not heard of!
Oft as I look'd, I felt as though it were
For the first time!

Great was the tumult there,
Deafening the din, when in barbaric pomp
The Carthaginian on his march to Rome
Entered their fastnesses. Trumpling the snows,
The war-horse reared; and the tower'd elephant
Upturn'd his trunk into the murky sky,
Then tumbled headlong, swallow'd up and lost,
He and his rider.

Now the scene is changed;
And o'er Mont Cenis, o'er the Simplon winds
A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone
Flung about carelessly, it shines afar,
Catching the eye in many a broken link,
In many a turn and traverse as it glides;
And oft above and oft below appears,
Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up,
As though it were another, not the same,
Leading along he knows not whence or whither
Yet through 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 lock'd up before.

Not such my path!
Mine but for those, who, like Jean Jacques, delight (14)
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, (15)
The same as Hannibal's.

But now 't is 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 further 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
Under the promontory-its tall tower

And long flat roofs, just such as Poussin drew.
Caught by a sun-beam slanting through a cloud;
A quay-like scene, glittering and full of life,
And doubled by reflection.

What delight,
After so long a sojourn in the wild,

To hear once more the sounds of cheerful labor!
-But in a clime like this where are they not?
Along the shores, among the hills 't is now
The heyday of the Vintage; all abroad,
But most the young and of the gentler sex,
Busy in gathering; all among the vines,
Some on the ladder, and some underneath,
Filling their baskets of green wicker-work,
While many a canzonet and frolic laugh

And reading, in the eyes that sparkled round, The thousand love-adventures written there.

Can I forget-no, never, such a scene So full of witchery! Night linger'd still, When, with a dying breeze, I left Bellaggio; But the strain follow'd me; and still I saw Thy smile, Angelica; and still I heard Thy voice-once and again bidding adieu.

VIII. BERGAMO.

From tree to tree, the trees in avenues,

And every avenue a cover'd walk,

Hung with black clusters. "Tis enough to make
The sad man merry, the benevolent one
Melt into tears--so general is the joy!
While up and down the cliffs, over the lake,
Wains oxen-drawn, and pannier'd mules are seen,
Laden with grapes, and dropping rosy wine.

Here I received from thee, Filippo Mori,
One of those courtesies so sweet, so rare!
When, as I rambled through thy vineyard-ground
On the hill-side, thou sent'st thy little son,
Charged with a bunch almost as big as he,
To press it on the stranger.

May thy vats
O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer,
Live to become ere-long himself a giver;
And in due time, when thou art full of honor,
The staff of thine old age!

In a strange land
Such things, however trifling, reach the heart,
And through the heart the head, clearing away
The narrow notions that grow up at home,
And in their place grafting Good-Will to All.
At least I found it so; nor less at eve,
When, bidden as an English traveller
(T was by a little boat that gave me chase
With oar and sail, as homeward-bound I cross'd
The bay of Tramezzine), right readily
I tum'd my prow and follow'd, landing soon
Where steps of purest marble met the wave;
Where, through the trellises and corridors,
Soft music came as from Armida's palace,
Breathing enchantment o'er the woods, the waters;
And through a bright pavilion, bright as day,
Forms such as hers were flitting, lost among
Such as of old in sober pomp swept by,
Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts
Painted by Cagliari; (16) where the world danced
Under the starry sky, while I look'd on,
Admiring, listening, quaffing gramolata, (17)

But soon they changed the measure, entering on A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour,

A war of words, and waged with looks and gestures,
Between Trappanti and his ancient dame,
Mona Lucilia. To and fro it went;

While many a titter on the stairs was heard,
And Barbara's among them.

When 't was done,
Their dark eyes flash'd no longer, yet, methought,
In many a glance as from the soul, express'd
More than enough to serve thera. Far or near,
Few let them pass unnoticed; and there was not
A mother round about for many a league,
But could repeat their story. Twins they were,
And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world;
Their parents lost in the old ferry-boat
That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down
Crossing the rough Penacus.'

May they live
Blameless and happy-rich they cannot be,
Like him who, in the days of Minstrelsy, (18)
Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door,
Crying without, "Give me a lay to sing!"
And soon in silk (such then the power of song)
Return'd to thank him; or like him, wayworn
And lost, who, by the foaming Adigè
Descending from the Tyrol, as night fell,
Knock'd at a city-gate near the hill-foot,
The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone,
An eagle on a ladder, and at once
Found welcome-nightly in the banner'd hall
Tuning his harp to tales of Chivalry
Before the great Mastino, (19) and his guests,
The three-and-twenty, by some adverse fortune,
By war or treason or domestic malice,

Reft of their kingly crowns, reft of their all,
And living on his bounty.

But who now
Enters the chamber, flourishing a scroll
In his right hand, his left at every step

1 Lago di Garda.

O Italy, how beautiful thou art!
Yet I could weep-for thou art lying, alas!
Low in the dust; and they who come, admire thee
As we admire the beautiful in death.

Thine was a dangerous gift, the gift of Beauty.
Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast,
Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee!
-But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already,
Twice shone among the nations of the world, (22)
As the sun shines among the lesser lights
Of heaven; and shalt again. The hour shall come,
When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit,
Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey,
Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again
If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess
Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame
Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously,
And, dying, left a splendor like the day,
That like the day diffused itself, and still
Blesses the earth-the light of genius, virtue,
Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death,
Godlike example. Echoes that have slept
Since Athens, Lacedæmon, were themselves,
Since men invoked "By Those in Marathon!"
Awake along the Ægean; and the dead,
They of that sacred shore, have heard the call,

And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen Moving as once they were-instead of rage Breathing deliberate valor.

X.

COLL'ALTO.

In this neglected mirror (23) (the broad frame Of massive silver serves to testify That many a noble matron of the house Has sate before it) once, alas, was seen What led to many sorrows. From that time The bat came hither for a sleeping-place; And he, who cursed another in his heart, Said, "Be thy dwelling through the day, the night, Shunn'd like Coil'alto." "T was in that old Castle, Which flanks the cliff with its grey battlements Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest, Hangs in the Trevisan, that thus the Steward, Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left him, Address'd me, as we enter'd what was call'd

My Lady's Chamber." On the walls, the chairs,
Much yet remain'd of the rich tapestry;
Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot

In the green glades of some enchanted forest.
The toilet-table was of massive silver,
Florentine Art, when Florence was renown'd;
A gay confusion of the elements,

Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers
And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage,
Hung a small bird of curious workmanship,
That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold
(So said at least the babbling Dame, Tradition)
His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again
The song that pleased her. While I stood and look'd,
A gleam of day yet lingering in the West,
The Steward went on.

"She had ('t is now long since) A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina. Fair as a lily, and as spotless too; None so admired, beloved. They had grown up As play-fellows; and some there were, who said, Some who knew much, discoursing of Cristina, She is not what she seems.' When unrequired, She would steal forth; her custom, her delight, To wander through and through an ancient grove Self-planted half-way down, losing herself Like one in love with sadness; and her veil And vesture white, scen ever in that place, Ever as surely as the hours came round, Among those reverend trees, gave her below The name of The White Lady. But the day Is gone, and I delay you.

In that chair The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting, Her gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina, Combing her golden hair; and, through this door The Count, her lord, was hastening, call'd away By letters of great urgency to Venice; When in the glass she saw, as she believed, ("T was an illusion of the Evil SpiritSome say he came and cross'd it at the instant) A smile, a glance at parting, given and answer'd, That turn'd her blood to gall. That very night The deed was done. That night, ere yet the Moon Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf

From the well-head, supplying all below; Making the Imperial City of the East, Herself, his tributary.

If we turn

To the black forests of the Rhine, the Danube,
Where o'er each narrow glen a castle hangs,
And, like the wolf that hunger'd at his door,
The baron lived by rapine-there we meet,
In warlike guise, the Caravan from Venice;
When on its march, now lost and now emerging,
A glittering file, the trumpet heard, the scout
Sent and recall'd-but at a city-gate
All gaiety, and look'd for ere it comes;
Winning its way with all that can attract,
Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert,
Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlemain,
And his brave peers, each with his visor up,
On their long lances lean and gaze awhile,
When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed
The Wonders of the East! Well might they then
Sigh for new Conquests!

Thus did Venice rise,
Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came,
That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet
From India, from the region of the Sun,
Fragrant with spices-that a way was found,
A channel open'd, and the golden stream
Turn'd to enrich another. Then she felt
Her strength departing, and at last she fell,
Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed;
She who had stood yet longer than the longest
Of the Four Kingdoms-who, as in an Ark,
Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks,
Uninjured, from the Old World to the New,
From the last trace of civilized life-to where
Light shone again, and with unclouded splendor.

Though many an age in the mid-sea She dwelt,
From her retreat calmly contemplating
The changes of the Earth, herself unchanged.
Before her pass'd, as in an awful dream,
The mightiest of the mighty. What are these,
Clothed in their purple? O'er the globe they fling
Their monstrous shadows; and, while yet we speak,
Phantom-like, vanish with a dreadful scream!
What but the last that styled themselves the
Cæsars?

And who in long array (look where they come;
Their gestures menacing so far and wide)
Wear the green turban and the heron's plume?
Who-but the Caliphs? follow'd fast by shapes
As new and strange-Emperor, and King, and Czar,
And Soldan, each, with a gigantic stride,
Trampling on all the flourishing works of peace
To make his greatness greater, and inscribe
His name in blood-some, men of steel, steel-clad;
Others, nor long, alas, the interval,

In light and gay attire, with brow serene
Wielding Jove's thunder, scattering sulphurous fire
Mingled with darkness; and, among the rest,
Lo, one by one, passing continually,
Those who assume a sway beyond them all;
Men grey with age, each in a triple crown,
And in his tremulous hands grasping the keys
That can alone, as he would signify,
Unlock Heaven's gate.

XII. LUIGI.

He who is on his travels and loves ease, Ease and companionship, should hire a youth, Such as thou wert, Luigi. Thee I found, Playing at Mora (33) on the cabin-roof With Pulcinella-crying, as in wrath, "Tre! Quattro! Cinque !"-t is a game to strike Fire from the coldest heart. What then from thine And, ere the twentieth throw, I had resolved, Won by thy looks. Thou wert an honest lad; Wert generous, grateful, not without ambition. Had it depended on thy will and pleasure, Thou wouldst have number'd in thy family At least six Doges and twelve Procurators. (34) But that was not to be. In thee I saw The last of a long line of Carbonari, Who in their forest, for three hundred years, Had lived and labor'd, cutting, charring wood; Discovering where they were, to those astray, By the re-echoing stroke, the crash, the fall, Or the blue wreath that travell'd slowly up Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies Led thee away to justle in the crowd; And there I found thee-by thy own prescription Crossing the sea to try once more a change Of air and diet, landing and as gaily, Near the Dogana-on the Great Canal, As though thou knewest where to dine and sleep.

First didst thou practise patience in Bologna, Serving behind a Cardinal's gouty chair, Laughing at jests that were no laughing matter; Then teach the Art to others in Ferrara -At the Three Moors-as Guide, as CiceroneDealing out largely in exchange for pence Thy scraps of knowledge-through the grassy street Leading, explaining-pointing to the bars Of Tasso's dungeon, and the Latin verse, Graven in the stone, that yet denotes the door Of Ariosto.

Many a year gone

Since on the Rhine we parted; yet, methinks,
I can recall thee to the life, Luigi;
In our long journey ever by my side,
O'er rough and smooth, o'er apennine, maremma;
Thy locks jet-black, and clustering round a face
Open as day and full of manly daring.

Thou hadst a hand, a heart for all that came,
Herdsman or pedlar, monk or muleteer;
And few there were, that met thee not with smiles.
Mishap pass'd o'er thee like a summer-cloud.
Cares thou hadst none; and they, who stood to hear
thee,

Caught the infection and forgot their own.
Nature conceived thee in her merriest mood,
Her happiest-not a speck was in the sky;
And at thy birth the cricket chirp'd, Luigi,
Thine a perpetual voice-at every turn
A larum to the echo. In a clime,
Where all the world was gay, thou wert the gayest,
And, like a babe, hush'd only by thy slumbers,
Up hill and down, morning and noon and night,
Singing or talking; singing to thyself

When none gave ear, but to the listener talking.