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remplaçant la farouche inquisition ; j'y vois, un jour de
Note 87, page 34, col. 1. fète, Péruviens, Mexicains, Américains libres, François,
-the slayer slain. s'embrassant comme des frères, et bénissant le règne de Cortes, Pizarro.- « Almost all," says Las Casas, la liberté, qui doit amener partout une harmonie uni « have perished. The innocent blood, which they had verselle. Mais les mines, les esclaves, que deviendront- shed, cried aloud for vengeance; the sighs, the tears of ils ? Les mines se fermeront, les esclaves seront les frères so many victims went up before God.» de leurs maitres. - Bossot.
Note 88, page 34, col. 1. There is a prophetic stanza, written a century ago by
'Mid gems and cold unenvied and unblest. Bp. Berkeley, which I must quote, though I shall suffer by the comparison.
L'Espagne a fait comme ce roi insensé qui demanda
que tout ce qu'il toucheroit se convertit en or, et qui Westward the course of empire takes its way.
fut obligé de revenir aux dieux pour les prier de finir sa The four first acts already past,
Note 89, page 34, col. 2.
Wbere on his altar-tomb, etc.
90, page 34, col. 2. The spoiler spoild of all.
Though in the western world His grave. Cortes. « A peine put-il obtenir audience de Charles An anachronism. The body of Columbus was not Quint; un jour il fendit la presse qui entourait la coche yet removed from Seville. de l'empereur, et monta sur l'étrier de la portiere. It is almost unnecessary to point out anotlıer, in Charles demanda quel étoit cet homme: "C'est,' répondit the Ninth Canto. The telescope was not then in use; Cortez, ‘celui qui vous a donné plus d'états que vos though described long before with great accuracy by pères ne vous ont laissé de villes.'--Voltaire.
With folded arms and listless look to snuff
From his green sod upspringing-but in vain, A Few copies of this Poem were printed off in the His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song Autumn of the Year before last, while the Author was Old in the days of Ilomer, and his wings abroad. It is now corrected, and republished with some With transport quivering, on my way I went, additions.
Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily, Whatever may be its success, it has led him in many | Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut; an after-dream through a beautiful Country; and may As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived,' (1) not perhaps be uninteresting to those who have learnt Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee to live in Past Times as well as Present, and whose Inscribed to consecrate (such virtue dwells minds are familiar with the Events and the People that in those small syllables) the narrow street, have rendered Italy so illustrious.
His birth-place-when, but one short step too late, The stories, taken from the old Chroniclers, are given He sate him down and wept-wept till the morning;(2) without exaggeration; and are, he believes, as true to Then rose to go-a wanderer through the world. the original text as any of the Plays that may be said 'T is not a tale that every hour brings with it. lo form our popular bistory.
Yet at a City-gate, from time to time,
Much might be learnt; and most of all at thine,
Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by,
And note who passes. Here comes one, a Youtlı,
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, Hung like a vapour in the cloudless sky,
A Garrick and a Johnson ; Wealth and Fame Yet visible, when on my way I went,
Awaiting onc-even at the gate, Neglect Glad to be gone-a pilgrim from the north,
And Want the other. But what multitudes,
Urged by the love of change, and, like myself,
Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's fare, Press on-though but a rill entering the Sea, Entering and lost! Our task would never end.
A stir unusual and accompanied
Day glimmer'd and I went, a gentle breeze Ruftling 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 Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 't was gone. The shifting sail flapp'd idly for an instant, Then bore them off.
I am not one of those
Still along the shore,
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 So near the summit of the Great Sc Bernard; 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 demeanour 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, Duly proclaiming through the wilderness, • All ye who licar, 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 fleaven, 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 thoughi, To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore Cnder a beeling ciiff stood half in shadow A lonely chapel destined for the dead, For such as, having wander'd from their way, Had perished 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 thought,
Oft am I sitting on the bench bencath
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,
Bread to the hungry, (9) to the weary rest. (The roof, the floor, the walls of native fir,)
My mule refresh'd-and, let the truth be told,
He was not of that vile, that scurvy race, Ranged round their ample hearth-stone in an hour
From sire to son lovers of controversy, Of rest, they were as gay, as free from guile,
But patient, diligent, and sure of foot, As children; answering, and at once, to all
Shunning the loose stone on the precipice, The gentler impulses, to pleasure, mirth;
Sporting suspicion while with sight, smell, touch, Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk
Examining the wet and spungy moss, Music; and gathering news from them that came, And on his haunches sitting to slide down As of some other world. But when the storm
The sfeep, the smooth-my mule refreslid, his bells Rose, and the snow roll'd on in ocean-billows,
Gingled once more, the signal to depart, When on liis face the experienced traveller fell,
And we set out in the grey light of dawn,
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. Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long,
Then my Guide, And now, as guided by a voice from heaven
Lowering his voice, address'd me: * Through this Chasm Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence
On and say nothing--for a word, a breath, Whose can it be, but his who never err'd ?
Stirring the air, may loosen and bring down Let us to work! there is no time to lose!
A winter's snow-enough to overwhelm But who descends Mont Velan? 'T is La Croix.
The horse and foot that, night and day, defiled Away, away! if not, alas, too late.
Along this path to conquer at Marengo. Homeward he drags an old man and a boy,
Well I remember how I met them here, Faltering and falling, and but half awaken'd,
As the light died away,
and how Napoleon, Asking to sleep again.. Such their discourse.
Wrapt in his cloak- I could not be deccived
Reind in his horse, and asked me, as I pass'd, Oft has a venerable roof received me;
How far't was to St Remi. Where the rock St Bruno's once' (7) — where, when the winds were
Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away, hush'd,
Narrows almost to nothing at its base, Nor from the cataract the voice came up,
'T was there; and down along the brink he led You might have heard the mole work underground, To Victory!- Dessaix, who turn'd the le, (10) So great the stiilness of that place; none seen,
Leaving his life-blood in that famous field Save when from rock to rock a hermit cross'd
(When the clouds break, we may
discern the spot By some rude bridge-or onc at midnight tolld In the blue haze), sleeps, as you saw at dawn, To matins, and white habits, issuing forth,
Just as you enter'd, in the Hospital-churclı.. Glided along those aisles interminable,
So saying, for awhile he held his peace, All, all observant of the sacred law
Awe-struck beneath that dreadful Canopy; Of Silence. Nor is that sequester'd spot,
But soon, the danger pass’d, launch'd forth again.
JORASSE was in his three-and-twentieth
year, Bul, among them all,
Graceful and active as a stay just roused; None can with this compare, the dangerous seat
Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech,
Yet seldom secn to smile. Of generous, active Virtue. What though Frost
He had grown up Reign everlastingly, and ice and snow
Sinong the Hunters of the Higher Alps;
Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtfulness,
Said to arise by those who dwell below,
From frequent dealings with the Mountain-Spirits. 3 Ariosto and Milton.
But other ways had taught him belter things;
All in their best attire. Thiere first he saw
And now he number'd, marching by my side,
Once, nor long before (12)
The tale was long, but coming to a close, When his dark eyes flash'd fire, and, stopping short, He listep'd and look'd up.
I look'd up 100; 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;
My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds.
And he spoke truth. Within a little month He lay among these awful solitudes, ('T was on a glacier-half-way up to fleaven) 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 cruslı'd and bleeding, To tell her where he lay, and supplicate For the last rite! At length the dismal news Came to her cars, and to her eyes his corse.
MARGUERITE DE TOURS. Now the grey granite, starting through the show, 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 larcli, 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 llas bridged the gulph, a wondrous monumentido)
Built in one night, from which the flood beneath,
Nearer we drew,
She was born
The level plain I travell’d silently,
Great was the tumult there,
Now the scene is changed;
a broken link, In many a turn and traverse as it glides ; And oft above and oft below
from clime to clime Through glens lock'd up before.
Not such my path!
But now 't is past,
Wuo first beholds those everlasting clouds,
I love to sail along the Larian Lake
To me they seem'd the barriers of a World, Saying, Thus far, no farther! and as o'er