quires, (3)

Who leads a life of satisfied desires.

What though no marble breathes, no canvas glows,
From every point a ray of genius flows! (4)
Be mine to bless the more mechanic skill,
That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will;
And cheaply circulates, through distant climes,
The fairest relics of the purest times.
Here from the mould to conscious being start
Those finer forms, the miracles of art;
Here chosen gems, imprest on sulphur, shine,
That slept for ages in a second mine;
And here the faithful graver dares to trace
A Michael's grandeur, and a Raphael's grace!
Thy Gallery, Florence, gilds my humble walls,
And my low roof the Vatican recalls!

Soon as the morning-dream my pillow flies,
To waking sense what brighter visions rise!
O mark! again the courses of the Sun,
At Guido's call, (5) their round of glory run!
Again the rosy Hours resume their flight,
Obscured and lost in floods of golden light!

But could thine erring friend so long forget
(Sweet source of pensive joy and fond regret)
That here its warmest hues the pencil flings,
Lo! here the lost restores, the absent brings;
And still the Few best loved and most revered (6)
Rise round the board their social smile endear'd?

Selected shelves shall claim thy studious hours; There shall thy ranging mind be fed on flowers!! There, while the shaded lamp's mild lustre streams, Read ancient books, or dream inspiring dreams; (7) And, when a sage's bust arrests thee there, (8) Pause, and his features with his thoughts compare. -Ah, most that Art my grateful rapture calls, Which breathes a soul into the silent walls; 2 Which gathers round the Wise of every Tongue, (9) All on whose words departed nations hung; Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet; Guides in the world, companions in retreat!

Though my thatch'd bath no rich Mosaic knows, A limpid spring with unfelt current flows. Emblem of Life! which, still as we survey, Seems motionless, yet ever glides away! The shadowy walls record, with Attic art, The strength and beauty that its waves impart. Here Thetis, bending, with a mother's fears Dips her dear boy, whose pride restrains his tears. There, Venus, rising, shrinks with sweet surprise, As her fair self reflected seems to rise!

Far from the joyless glare, the maddening strife, And all the dull impertinence of life, These eye-lids open to the rising ray, And close, when nature bids, at close of day. Here, at the dawn, the kindling landscape glows; There noon-day levees call from faint repose. Here the flush'd wave flings back the parting light; There glimmering lamps anticipate the night.

2 Posten verò quàm Tyrannio mihi libros disposuit, mens addata videtur mes ædibus.-Cic.

Amid the buzz of crowds, the whirl of wheels,
To muse unnoticed-while around him press
Alone, in wonder lost, he seems to stand
The meteor-forms of equipage and dress;

A very stranger in his native land!

And (though perchance of current coin possest,
And modern phrase by living lips exprest)
Like those blest Youths, (10) forgive the fabling page,
Whose blameless lives deceived a twilight age,
Spent in sweet slumbers; till the miner's spade
Unclosed the cavern, and the morning play'd.
Ah! what their strange surprise, their wild delight!
New arts of life, new manners meet their sight!
In a new world they wake, as from the dead;
Yet doubt the trance dissolved, the vision fled!

O come, and, rich in intellectual wealth,
Blend thought with exercise, with knowledge health!
Long, in this shelter'd scene of letter'd talk,
With sober step repeat the pensive walk;
Nor scorn, when graver triflings fail to please,
The cheap amusements of a mind at ease;
Here every care in sweet oblivion cast,
And many an idle hour-not idly pass'd.

No tuneful echoes, ambush'd at my gate, Catch the blest accents of the wise and great. (11) Vain of its various page, no Album breathes The sigh that Friendship or the Muse bequeaths. Yet some good Genii o'er my hearth preside, Oft the far friend, with secret spell, to guide; And there I trace, when the grey evening lours, A silent chronicle of happier hours!

When Christmas revels in a world of snow,
And bids her berries blush, her carols flow;
His spangling shower when Frost the wizard flings;
Or, borne in ether blue, on viewless wings,
O'er the white pane his silvery foliage weaves,
And gems with icicles the sheltering eves;
-Thy muffled friend his nectarine-wall pursues,
What time the sun the yellow crocus wooes,
Screened from the arrowy North; and duly hies 2
To meet the morning-rumor as it flies;

To range the murmuring market-place, and view
The motley groups that faithful Teniers drew.

When Spring bursts forth in blossoms through the vale,

And her wild music triumphs on the gale,
Oft with my book I muse from stile to stile;
Oft in my porch the listless noon beguile,
Framing loose numbers, till declining day
Through the green trellis shoots a crimson ray;
Till the West-wind leads on the twilight hours,
And shakes the fragrant bells of closing flowers.
Nor boast, O Choisy! seat of soft delight,
The secret charm of thy voluptuous night.
Vain is the blaze of wealth, the pomp of power!
Lo, here, attendant on the shadowy hour,
Thy closet-supper, served by hands unseen,
Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene, (12)

Cicero speaks with pleasure of a little seat under Aristotle in the library of Atticus. "Literis sustentor et recreor; maloque in illa tua sedecula, quam habes sub imagine Aristotelis, sedere quàm in istorum sella curuli!"-Ep. ad Att. iv, 10.

Nor should we forget that Dryden drew inspiration from the "majestic face" of Shakspeare; and that a portrait of Newton was the only ornament| of the closet of Buffon.-Ep. to Kneller. Voyage à Montbart.

In the chamber of a man of genius we
Write all down:
Such and such pictures;-there the window
-the arras, figures,

Why, such and such.

Note 9, page 21, col. 1.

Which gathers round the Wise of every Tongue. Quis tantis non gaudeat et glorietur hospitibus, exclaims Petrarch.-Spectare, etsi nihil aliud, certè juvat.--Homerus apud me mutus, imò verò ego apud illum surdus sum. Gaudeo tamen vel aspectû solo, et sæpe illum amplexus ac suspirens dico: O magne vir, etc.-Epist. Var. lib. 20.

Note 10, page 21, col. 2.

Like those blest Youths.

See the Legend of the Seven Sleepers.-GIBBON, c. 33.

Note 11, page 21, col. 2.

And hence the "starry lamps" of Milton, that

-from the arched roof Pendent by subtle magic,

-yielded light

As from a sky.

Note 13, page 22, col. 1.

Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art.

duced those admirable pieces of mechanism, afterAt the petits soupers of Choisy were first introwards carried to perfection by Loriot, the Confidente and the Servante; a table and a side-board, which descended and rose again covered with viands and wines. And thus the most luxurious Court in Europe, after all its boasted refinements, was glad to return at last, by this singular contrivance, to the quiet and privacy of humble life.-Vie privée de Louis XV, tom. ii, p. 43.

Between 1. 10, and 1. 11, col. 1, were these lines, since omitted:

Hail, sweet Society! in crowds unknown,

Though the vain world would claim thee for its own.
Still where thy small and cheerful converse flows,
Be mine to enter, ere the circle close.
When in retreat Fox lays his thunder by,
And Wit and Taste their mingled charms supply;
When Siddons, born to melt and freeze the heart,
Performs at home her more endearing part;
When he, who best interprets to mankind
The winged messengers from mind to mind,
Leans on his spade, and, playful as profound,
His genius sheds its evening-sunshine round,
Be mine to listen; pleased yet not elate,
Ever too modest or too proud to rate
Myself by my companions, self-compell'd
To earn the station that in life I held.

They were written in 1796.

Note 14, page 22, col. 1.

Note 12, page 21, col. 2.

Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene.

At a Roman supper, statues were sometimes employed to hold the lamps.

-Aurea sunt juvenum simulacra per ædeis,
Lampadas igniferas manibus retinentia dextris.
Lucr. ii, 24.

A fashion as old as Homer!-Odyss. vii, 100.
On the proper degree and distribution of light, we
may consult a great master of effect. Il lume grande,
ed alto, e non troppo potente, sarà quello, che ren-
derà le particole de' corpi molto grate.-Tratt. della
Pittura di LIONARDO DI VINCI, c. xli.

So through the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide. An allusion to the floating bee-house, or barge laden with bee-hives, which is seen in some parts

Note 15, page 22, col. 1.

Caught through St. James's groves at blush of day.
After this line in the MS.

Groves that Belinda's star illumines still,
And ancient Courts and faded splendors fill.

Note 16, page 22, col. 1.

And, with the swallow, wings the year away!

It was the boast of Lucullus that he changed his climate with the birds of passage.—PLUT. in Vit. Lucull.

How often must he have felt the truth here inculcated, that the master of many houses has no home!

31

I.

"T WAS Autumn; through Provence had ceased The vintage, and the vintage-feast.

The sun had set behind the hill,

The moon was up, and all was still,

And from the convent's neighboring tower
The clock had toll'd the midnight-hour,
When Jacqueline came forth alone,
Her kerchief o'er her tresses thrown;
A guilty thing and full of fears,
Yet ah, how lovely in her tears!

She starts, and what has caught her eye?
What-but her shadow gliding by?
She stops, she pants; with lips apart
She listens to her beating heart!
Then, through the scanty orchard stealing,
The clustering boughs her track concealing,
She flies, nor casts a thought behind,
But gives her terrors to the wind;
Flies from her home, the humble sphere
Of all her joys and sorrows here,
Her father's house of mountain-stone,
And by a mountain-vine o'ergrown.
At such an hour in such a night,
So calm, so clear, so heavenly bright,
Who would have seen, and not confess'd
It looked as all within were blest?
What will not woman, when she loves?
Yet lost, alas, who can restore her?—
She lifts the latch, the wicket moves;
And now the world is all before her.

Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone;
And Jacqueline, his child, was gone!
Oh what the madd'ning thought that came?
Dishonor coupled with his name!
By Condé at Rocroy he stood;

By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood;
Two banners of Castile he gave
Aloft in Notre Dame to wave;
Nor did thy Cross, St. Louis, rest
Upon a purer, nobler breast.

He slung his old sword by his side,

And snatch'd his staff and rush'd to save;
Then sunk-and on his threshold cried,
"Oh lay me in my grave!

-Constance! Claudine! where were ye then?
But stand not there. Away! away!
Thou, Frederic, by thy father stay.
Though old, and now forgot of men,
Both must not leave him in a day."
Then, and he shook his hoary head,
"Unhappy in thy youth!" he said.
'Call as thou wilt, thou call'st in vain;
No voice sends back thy name again.
To mourn is all thou hast to do;
Thy play-mate lost, and teacher too."
And who but she could soothe the boy,
Or turn his tears to tears of joy?
Long had she kiss'd him as he slept,
Long o'er his pillow hung and wept;

And, as she pass'd her father's door,
She stood as she would stir no more.
But she is gone, and gone for ever!
No, never shall they clasp her never!
They sit and listen to their fears;
And he, who through the breach had led
Over the dying and the dead,
Shakes if a cricket's cry he hears!

Oh! she was good as she was fair;
None-none on earth above her!
As pure in thought as angels are,
To know her was to love her.
When little, and her eyes, her voice,
Her every gesture said "rejoice,"
Her coming was a gladness;

And, as she grew, her modest grace,

Her down-cast look 't was heaven to trace,
When, shading with her hand her face,
She half inclined to sadness.

Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted;
Like music to the heart it went.
And her dark eyes-how eloquent!
Ask what they would, 't was granted.
Her father loved her as his fame;
-And Bayard's self had done the same!

Soon as the sun the glittering pane
On the red floor in diamonds threw,
His songs she sung and sung again,
Till the last light withdrew.
Every day, and all day long,
He mused or slumber'd to a song,
But she is dead to him, to all!
Her lute hangs silent on the wall;
And on the stairs, and at the door
Her fairy-step is heard no more!
At every meal an empty chair
Tells him that she is not there;

She, who would lead him where he went,
Charm with her converse while he leant;
Or, hovering, every wish prevent;

At eve light up the chimney-nook,
Lay there his glass within his book;
And that small chest of curious mould,
(Queen Mab's, perchance, in days of old,)
Tusk of elephant and gold;

Which, when a tale is long, dispenses
Its fragrant dust to drowsy senses.

In her who mourn'd not, when they miss'd her
The old a child, the young a sister?
No more the orphan runs to take
From her loved hand the barley-cake.
No more the matron in the school
Expects her in the hour of rule,
To sit amid the elfin brood,
Praising the busy and the good.
The widow trims her hearth in vain,
She comes not-nor will come again!
Not now, his little lesson done,

With Frederic blowing bubbles in the sun;

Nor spinning by the fountain-side,
(Some story of the days of old,

Barbe Bleue or Chaperon Rouge half-told
To him who would not be denied ;)
Not now, to while an hour away,
Gone to the falls in Valombrè,
Where 't is night at noon of day;

Nor wandering up and down the wood,
To all but her a solitude,

Where once a wild deer, wild no more,
Her chaplet on his antlers wore,
And at her bidding stood.

II.

The day was in the golden west;

And, curtain'd close by leaf and flower, The doves had cooed themselves to rest In Jacqueline's deserted bower;

The doves-that still would at her casement peck,
And in her walks had ever flutter'd round
With purple feet and shining neck,
True as the echo to the sound.

That casement, underneath the trees,
Half open to the western breeze,
Look'd down, enchanting Garonnelle,
Thy wild and mulberry-shaded dell,
Round which the Alps of Piedmont rose,
The blush of sunset on their snows:
While, blithe as lark on summer-morn,
When green and yellow waves the corn,
When harebells blow in every grove,
And thrushes sing "I love! I love!"
Within (so soon the early rain
Scatters, and 't is fair again;
Though many a drop may yet be seen
To tell us where a cloud has been)
Within lay Frederic, o'er and o'er
Building castles on the floor,
And feigning, as they grew in size,
New troubles and new dangers;

With dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes,
As he and Fear were strangers.

St. Pierre sat by, nor saw nor smiled.
His eyes were on his loved Montaigne ;
But every leaf was turn'd in vain.
Then in that hour remorse he felt,

And his heart told him he had dealt
Unkindly with his child.

A father may awhile refuse;

But who can for another choose?

When her young blushes had reveal'd
The secret from herself conceal'd,
Why promise what her tears denied,
That she should be De Courcy's bride?
-Wouldst thou, presumptuous as thou art,
O'er Nature play the tyrant's part,
And with the hand compel the heart?
Oh rather, rather hope to bind
The ocean-wave, the mountain-wind;
Or fix thy foot upon the ground
To stop the planet rolling round.

The light was on his face; and there
You might have seen the passions driven-
Resentment, Pity, Hope, Despair-
Like clouds across the face of Heaven.

1 Cantando "Io amo! Io amo!"-Tasso.

Now he sigh'd heavily; and now,
His hand withdrawing from is brow,
He shut the volume with a frown,
To walk his troubled spirit down:
-When (faithful as that dog of yore1
Who wagg'd his tail and could no more)
Manchon, who long had snuff'd the ground,
And sought and sought, but never found,
Leapt up and to the casement flew,
And look'd and bark'd and vanish'd through.
Tis Jacqueline! "T is Jacqueline !"
Her little brother laughing cried.
"I know her by her kirtle green,
She comes along the mountain-side;
Now turning by the traveller's seat,-
Now resting in the hermit's cave,-
Now kneeling, where the pathways meet,
To the cross on the stranger's grave.
And, by the soldier's cloak, I know
(There, there along the ridge they go)
D'Arcy, so gentle and so brave!
Look up-why will you not?" he cries,
His rosy hands before his eyes;
For on that incense-breathing eve

The sun shone out, as loth to leave.

See to the rugged rock she clings!

She calls, she faints, and D'Arcy springs;
D'Arcy so dear to us, to all;

Who, for you told me on your knee,
When in the fight he saw you fall,
Saved you for Jacqueline and me!"

And true it was! And true the tale!
When did she sue and not prevail?
Five years before-it was the night
That on the village-green they parted,
The lilied banners streaming bright
O'er maids and mothers broken-hearted;
The drum-it drown'd the last adieu,
When D'Arcy from the crowd she drew.
One charge I have, and one alone,
Nor that refuse to take,
My father-if not for his own,
Oh for his daughter's sake!"

Inly he vow'd-"'t was all he could!"
And went and seal'd it with his blood.
Nor can ye wonder. When a child,
And in her playfulness she smiled,
Up many a ladder-path2 he guided
Where meteor-like the chamois glided,
Through many a misty grove.

They loved-but under Friendship's name;
And Reason, Virtue fann'd the flame;
Till in their houses Discord came,
And 't was a crime to love.
Then what was Jacqueline to do?
Her father's angry hours she knew,
And when to soothe, and when persuade;
But now her path De Courcy cross'd,
Led by his falcon through the glade-
He turn'd, beheld, admired the maid;
And all her little arts were lost!
De Courcy, lord of Argentiere!
Thy poverty, thy pride, St. Pierre,
Thy thirst for vengeance sought the snare.

1 Argus.

2 Called in the language of the country pas de l'Echelle.