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It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion, An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Antony of Trent With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ; A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old AncestorThat by the way—it may be true or falseBut don't forget the picture; and you will not, When you have heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child-her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride of an indulgent Father; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,

Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety, Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the Nuptial feast, When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting. Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried, "T is but to make a trial of our love! And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back and flying still, Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd, But that she was not!

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When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fasten'd her down for ever!

XIX. BOLOGNA.

'T was night; the noise and bustle of the day
Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought
Miraculous cures-he and his stage were gone;
And he who, when the crisis of his tale

Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear,
Sent round his cap; and he who thrumm'd his wire
And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain
Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries, 1
So well pourtray'd and by a son of thine,
Whose voice had swell'd the hubbub in his youth,
Were hush'd, Bologna; silence in the streets,

The

squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs; And soon a courier, posting as from far, Housing and holster, boot and belted coat And doublet, stain'd with many a various soil, Stopt and alighted. 'T was where hangs aloft That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming All who arrive there, all perhaps save those Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell, Those on a pilgrimage: and now approach'd Wheels, through the lofty porticoes resounding, Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade As the sky changes. To the gate they came; And, ere the man had half his story done, Mine host received the Master-one long used To sojourn among strangers, every where (Go where he would, along the wildest track) Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, And leaving footsteps to be traced by those Who love the haunts of Genius; one who saw, Observed, nor shunn'd the busy scenes of life, But mingled not, and, mid the din, the stir, Lived as a separate Spirit.

Much had pass'd

Since last we parted; and those five short years-
Much had they told! His clustering locks were turn'd
Grey; nor did aught recall the Youth that swam
From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice,
Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought
Flash'd lightning-like, nor linger'd on the way,
Waiting for words. Far, far into the night
We sate, conversing-no unwelcome hour,
The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose,
Rising, we climb'd the rugged Apennine.

Well I remember how the golden sun
Fill'd with its beams the unfathomable gulfs,
As on we travell'd, and along the ridge,
'Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild fig,
His motley household came-Not last nor least,
Battista, who upon the moonlight-sea

Of Venice, had so ably, zealously
Served, and, at parting, flung his oar away
To follow through the world; who without stain
Had worn so long that honourable badge,2

1 See the Cries of Bologna, as drawn by Annibal Carracci. He was of very humble origin; and, to correct his brother's vanity, once sent him a portrait of their father, the tailor, threading his needle.

2 The principal gondolier, il fante di poppa, was almost always in the confidence of his master, and employed on occasions that required judgment and address.

The gondolier's, in a Patrician House

Arguing unlimited trust.-Not last nor least,

Thou, though declining in thy beauty and strength,
Faithful Moretto, to the latest hour

Guarding his chamber-door, and now along
The silent, sullen strand of Missolonghi

Howling in grief.

He had just left that place

Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea,
Ravenna; where, from Dante's sacred tomb
He had so oft, as many a verse declares,
Drawn inspiration; where, at twilight-time,
Through the pine-forest wandering with loose rein,
Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld 3
(What is not visible to a Poet's eye})

The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds, and their prey,
The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth
Suddenly blasted. 'T was a theme he loved,
But others claim'd their turn; and many a tower,
Shatter'd, uprooted from its native rock,
Its strength the pride of some heroic age,
Appear'd and vanish'd (many a sturdy steer 4
Yoked and unyoked), while as in happier days
He pour'd his spirit forth. The past forgot,
All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured
Present or future.

He is now at rest;

And praise and blame fall on his ear alike,
Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone,
Gone like a star that through the firmament
Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course
Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks,
Was generous, noble-noble in its scorn
Of all things low or little; nothing there
Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do
Things long regretted, oft, as many know,
None more than I, thy gratitude would build
On slight foundations: and, if in thy life
Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert,
Thy wish accomplish'd; dying in the land
Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire,
Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious!

They in thy train-ah, little did they think, As round we went, that they so soon should sit Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourn'd, Changing her festal for her funeral song; That they so soon should hear the minute-gun, As morning gleam'd on what remain'd of thee, Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering Thy years of joy and sorrow.

Thou art gone; And he who would assail thee in thy grave, Oh, let him pause! For who among us all, Tried as thou wert-even from thine earliest years, When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland-boyTried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame; Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine, Her charmed cup-ah, who among us all Could he had not err'd as much, and more? say

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XX. FLORENCE.

Of all the fairest cities of the earth

None are so fair as Florence. T is a gem
Of purest ray, a treasure for a casket!
And what a glorious lustre did it shed,(74)
When it emerged from darkness! Search within,
Without, all is enchantment! 'Tis the past
Contending with the present; and in turn
Each has the mastery.

In this chapel wrought (75)
Massaccio; and he slumbers underneath.
Wouldst thou behold his monument? Look round!
And know that where we stand, stood oft and long,
Oft till the day was gone, Raphael himself,
He and his haughty Rival-patiently,
Humbly, to learn of those who came before,
To steal a spark from their authentic fire,

Theirs, who first broke the gloom, Sons of the Morning.

There, on the seat that runs along the wall,
South of the Church, east of the belfry-tower
(Thou canst not miss it), in the sultry time
Would Dante sit conversing (76), and with those
Who little thought that in his hand he held
The balance, and assign'd at his good pleasure
To each his place in the invisible world,
To some an upper, some a lower region;
Reserving in his secret mind a niche
For thee, Saltrello, who with quirks of law
Hadst plagued him sore, and carefully requiting (77)
Such as ere-long condemn'd his mortal part
To fire. (78) Sit down awhile-then by the gates
Wondrously wrought, so beautiful, so glorious,
That they might serve to be the gates of Heaven,
Enter the Baptistery. That place he loved,
Calling it his! And in his visits there
Well might he take delight! For, when a child,
Playing, with venturous feet, near and yet nearer
One of the fonts, fell in, he flew and saved him, (79)
Flew with an energy, a violence,

That broke the marble-a mishap ascribed
To evil motives; his, alas! to lead

A life of trouble, and ere-long to leave
All things most dear to him, ere-long to know
How salt another's bread is, and how toilsome
The going up and down another's stairs.

Nor then forget that Chamber of the Dead (80),
Where the gigantic forms of Night and Day,
Turn'd into stone, rest everlastingly,
Yet still are breathing; and shed round at noon
A twofold influence-only to be felt-

A light, a darkness, mingling each with each;
Both and yet neither. There, from age to age,
Two Ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres.
That is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well (81).

He meditates, his head upon his hand.

What scowls beneath his broad and helm-like bonnet? Is it a face, or but an eyeless scull?

'T is hid in shade; yet, like the basilisk,

It fascinates, and is intolerable.

His mien is noble, most majestical!

Then most so, when the distant choir is heard,

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But let not Sculpture, Painting, Poesy,
Or they, the masters of these mighty spells,
Detain us. Our first homage is to Virtue.
Where, in what dungeon of the Citadel

(It must be known-the writing on the wall (83)
Cannot be gone-'t was cut in with his dagger,
Ere, on his knees to God, he slew himself),
Where, in what dungeon, did Filippo Strozzi,
The last, the greatest of the Men of Florence,
Breathe out his soul-lest in his agony,
When on the rack and call'd upon to answer,
He might accuse the guiltless.

That debt paid,
But with a sigh, a tear for human frailty,
We may return, and once more give a loose
To the delighted spirit-worshipping,
In her small temple of rich workmanship,'
Venus herself, who, when she left the skies,
Came hither.

XXI.

DON GARZIA.

AMONG the awful forms that stand assembled
In the great square of Florence, may be seen
That Cosmo, (84) not the Father of his Country,
Not he so styled, but he who play'd the tyrant.
Clad in rich armour like a paladin,
But with his helmet off-in kingly state,
Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass;
And they, who read the legend underneath,
Go and pronounce him happy. Yet there is
A Chamber at Grosseto, that, if walls
Could speak, and tell of what is done within,
Would turn your admiration into pity.
Half of what pass'd, died with him; but the rest,
All he discover'd when the fit was on,
All that, by those who listen'd, could be glean'd
From broken sentences and starts in sleep,
Is told, and by an honest Chronicler.(85)

Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia (The eldest had not seen his sixteenth summer), Went to the chase; but one of them, Giovanni, His best beloved, the glory of his house, Return'd not; and at close of day was found Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas! The trembling Cosmo guess'd the deed, the doer; And having caused the body to be borne In secret to that chamber-at an hour When all slept sound, save the disconsolate Mother,2(86) Who little thought of what was yet to come, And lived but to be told-he bade Garzia Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand A winking lamp, and in the other a key Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led; And, having enter'd in and lock'd the door, The father fix'd his eyes upon the And closely question'd him. No change betray'd

The Tribune.

son,

2 Eleonora di Toledo.

Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up

The bloody sheet. « Look there! Look there! he cried,
Blood calls for blood-and from a father's hand!
-Unless thyself wilt save him that sad office.
What! he exclaim'd, when, shuddering at the sight,
The boy breathed out, «I stood but on my guard.
«Darest thou then blacken one who never wrong'd thee,
Who would not set his foot upon a worm?-
Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee,
And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all.»
Then from Garzia's side he took the dagger,
That fatal one which spilt his brother's blood;
And, kneeling on the ground, Great God!» he cried,
<< Grant me the strength to do an act of Justice.
Thou knowest what it costs me; but, alas,
How can I spare myself, sparing none else?
Grant me the strength, the will-and oh forgive
The sinful soul of a most wretched son.
'Tis a most wretched father who implores it..
Long on Garzia's neck he hung, and wept
Tenderly, long press'd him to his bosom;
And then, but while he held him by the arm,
Thrusting him backward, turn'd away his face,

And stabb'd him to the heart.

Well might De Thou,

When in his youth he came to Cosmo's court,
Think on the past; and, as he wander'd through
The Ancient Palace (87)—through those ample spaces
Silent, deserted-stop awhile to dwell

Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall (88)
Together, as of two in bonds of love,

One in a Cardinal's habit, one in black,
Those of the unhappy brothers, and infer
From the deep silence that his questions drew, (89)
The terrible truth.

1 Well might he heave a sigh
For poor humanity, when he beheld
That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire,
Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate,

Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick-man's mess,
In the last stage-death-struck and deadly pale ;
His wife, another, not his Eleonora,

At once his nurse and his interpreter.

XXII.

THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE.

'Tis morning. Let us wander through the fields,
Where Cimabue (90) found a shepherd-boy'
Tracing his idle fancies on the ground;
And let us from the top of Fiesole,
Whence Galileo's glass by night observed
The phases of the moon, look round below
On Arno's vale, where the dove-colour'd oxen
Are ploughing up and down among the vines,
While many a careless note is sung aloud,
Filling the air with sweetness-and on thee,
Beautiful Florence, (91) all within thy walls,
Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers,
Drawn to our feet.

From that small spire, just caught

By the bright ray, that church among the rest (92)
By One of Old distinguish'd as The Bride,
Let us pursue in thought (what can we better?)
Those who assembled there at matin-prayers;2 (93)
See the Decameron. First Day.

'Giotto.

Who, when Vice revell'd and along the street
Tables were set, what time the bearer's bell
Rang to demand the dead at every door,
Came out into the meadows; (94) and, awhile
Wandering in idleness, but not in folly,
Sate down in the high grass and in the shade
Of many a tree sun-proof-day after day,
When all was still and nothing to be heard
But the cicala's voice among the olives,
Relating in a ring, to banish care,
Their hundred novels.

Round the hill they went, (95) Round underneath-first to a splendid house, Gherardi, as an old tradition runs,

That on the left, just rising from the vale;
A place for Luxury-the painted rooms,
The open galleries and middle court

Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers.
Then west-ward to another, nobler yet;
That on the right, now known as the Palmieri,
Where Art with Nature vied-a Paradise,
With verdurous walls, and many a trelliss'd walk
All rose and jasmine, many a forest-vista

Cross'd by the deer. Then to the Ladies' Valley;
And the clear lake, that seem'd as by enchantment
To lift up to the surface every stone
Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish
Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold,
Now motionless, now glancing to the sun.

Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day? The morning-banquet by the fountain-side, (96) The dance that follow'd, and the noon-tide slumber; Then the tales told in turn, as round they lay On carpets, the fresh waters murmuring; And the short interval fill'd up with games Of Chess, and talk, and reading old Romances, Till supper-time, when many a syren-voice Sung down the stars, and in the grass the torches Burnt brighter for their absence.

He, whose dream It was (it was no more) sleeps in Val d'Elsa, Sleeps in the church, where (in his ear, I ween) The Friar poured out his catalogue of treasures; (97) A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone

To the Wise Men; a phial-full of sounds,

The musical chimes of the great bells that hung
In Solomon's Temple; and, though last not least,
A feather from the Angel Gabriel's wing,
Dropt in the Virgin's chamber.

That dark ridge,
Stretching away in the South-east, conceals it;

Not so his lowly roof and scanty farm, (98)

Ilis and rill, if yet a trace be left,

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To catch a thrush on every lime-twig there;
Or in the wood among his wood-cutters;
Or in the tavern by the highway-side
At tric-trac with the miller; or at night,
Doffing h's rustic suit, and, duly clad,
Entering his closet, and, among his books,
Among the Great of every age and clime,
A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased,
Questioning each why he did this or that,
And learning how to overcome the fear
Of poverty and death?

Nearer we hail

Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of Old

For its green wine (100)-dearer to me, to most,
As dwelt on by that great Astronomer,'
Seven years a prisoner at the city-gate, (101)
Let in but in his grave-clothes. Sacred be
His cottage (justly was it call'd The Jewel!) (102)
Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight
Glimmer'd, at blush of dawn he dress'd his vines,
Chanting aloud in gaiety of heart

Some verse of Ariosto. There, unseen, (103)
In manly beauty Milton stood before him,
Gazing with reverent awe-Milton, his guest,
Just then come forth, all life and enterprise;
He in his old age and extremity,

Blind, at noon-day exploring with his staff;
His eyes upturn'd as to the golden sun,
His eye-balls idly rolling. Little then
Did Galileo think whom he bade welcome;
That in his hand he held the hand of one

Who could requite him-who would spread his name
O'er lands and seas-great as himself, nay greater;
Milton as little that in him he saw,

As in a glass, what he himself should be,
Destined so soon to fall on evil days

And evil tongues-so soon, alas, to live
In darkness, and with dangers compass'd round,
And solitude.

Well pleased, could we pursue
The Arno, from his birth-place in the clouds,
So near the yellow Tiber's (104)-springing up
From his four fountains on the Apennine,
That mountain-ridge a sea-mark to the ships
Sailing on either sea. Downward he runs,
Scattering fresh verdure through the desolate wild,
Down by the City of Hermits, (105) and, ere-long,
The venerable woods of Vallombrosa;

Then through these gardens to the Tuscan sea,
Reflecting castles, convents, villages,

And those great Rivals in an elder day,

Florence and Pisa-who have given him fame,
Fame everlasting, but who stain'd so oft
His troubled waters. Oft, alas, were seen,

When flight, pursuit, and hideous rout were there,
Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring; (106)
The man, the hero, on his foaming steed,
Borne underneath-already in the realms
Of Darkness.

Nor did night or burning noon
Bring respite. Oft, as that great Artist saw,2 (107)
Whose pencil had a voice, the cry « To arms!
And the shrill trumpet, hurried up the bank
Those who had stolen an hour to breast the tide,

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And wash from their unharness'd limbs the blood
And sweat of battle. Sudden was the rush,
Violent the tumult; for, already in sight,
Nearer and nearer yet the danger drew;
Each every sinew straining, every feature,
Each snatching up, and girding, buckling on
Morion and greave and shirt of twisted mail,
As for his life-no more perchance to taste,
Arno, the grateful freshness of thy glades,
Thy waters-where, exulting, he had felt
A swimmer's transport, there, alas, to float
And welter. Nor between the gusts of War,
When flocks were feeding, and the shepherd's pipe
Gladden'd the valley, when, but not unarm'd,

The sower came forth, and, following him who plough'd,
Threw in the seed-did thy indignant waves
Escape pollution. Sullen was the splash,
Heavy and swift the plunge, when they received
The key that just had grated on the ear
Of Ugolino-closing up for ever

That dismal dungeon henceforth to be named
The Tower of Famine.

Once indeed 't was thine,
When many a winter-flood, thy tributary,
Was through its rocky glen rushing, resounding,
And thou wert in thy might, to save, restore
A charge most precious. To the nearest ford,
Hastening, a horseman from Arezzo came,
Careless, impatient of delay, a babe
Slung in a basket to the knotty staff
That lay athwart his saddle-bow. He spurs,
He enters; and his horse, alarm'd, perplex'd,
Halts in the midst. Great is the stir, the strife;
And lo, an atom on that dangerous sea, (108)
The babe is floating! Fast and far he flies;
Now tempest-rock'd, now whirling round and round,
But not to perish. By thy willing waves
Borne to the shore, among the bulrushes
The ark has rested; and unhurt, secure,
As on his mother's breast he sleeps within,
All peace! or never had the nations heard
That voice so sweet, which still enchants, inspires;
That voice, which sung of love, of liberty.
Petrarch lay there!--And such the images
That cluster'd round our Milton, when at eve
Reclined beside thee, (109) Arno; when at eve,
Led on by thee, he wander'd with delight,
Framing Ovidian verse, and through thy groves
Gathering wild myrtle. Such the Poet's dreams;
Yet not such only. For look round and say,
Where is the ground that did not drink warm blood,
The echo that had learnt not to articulate
The cry of murder?-Fatal was the day'
To Florence, when ('t was in a street behind
The church and convent of the Holy Cross-
There is the house-that house of the Donati,
Towerless, (110) and left long since, but to the last
Braving assault-all rugged, all emboss'd
Below, and still distinguish'd by the rings
Of brass, that held in war and festival-time
Their family-standards) fatal was the day
To Florence, when, at morn, at the ninth hour,
A noble Dame in weeds of widowhood,
Weeds to be worn hereafter by so many,

I See Note.

Stood at her door; and, like a sorceress, flung
Her dazzling spell. Subtle she was, and rich,
Rich in a hidden pearl of heavenly light,
Her daughter's beauty; and too well she knew
Its virtue! Patiently she stood and watch'd;
Nor stood alone-but spoke not-In her breast
Her purpose lay; and, as a youth pass'd by,
Clad for the nuptial rite, she smiled and said,
Lifting a corner of the maiden's veil,

This had I treasured up in secret for thee.
This hast thou lost! He gazed and was undone!
Forgetting-not forgot--he broke the bond,
And paid the penalty, losing his life

At the bridge-foot; (111) and hence a world of woe!
Vengeance for vengeance crying, blood for blood;
No intermission! Law, that slumbers not,
And, like the Angel with the flaming sword,
Sits over all, at once chastising, healing,
Himself the Avenger, went; and every street
Ran red with mutual slaughter-though sometimes
The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,
And loved when they should hate-like thee, Imelda,
They and thy Paolo. When last ye met

In that still hour (the heat, the glare was gone,
Not so the splendour-through the cedar-grove
A radiance stream'd like a consuming fire,

As though the glorious orb, in its descent,
Had come and rested there) when last ye met,
And those relentless brothers dragg'd him forth,
It had been well, hadst thou slept on, Imelda, (112)
Nor from thy trance of fear awaked, as night
Fell on that fatal spot, to wish thee dead,
To track him by his blood, to search, to find,
Then fling thee down to catch a word, a look,
A sigh, if yet thou couldst (alas, thou couldst not)
And die, unseen, unthought of-from the wound
Sucking the poison. (113)

Yet, when Slavery came,
Worse follow'd. (114) Genius, valour left the land.
Indignant-all that had from age to age
Adorn'd, ennobled; and head-long they fell,
Tyrant and slave. For deeds of violence,
Done in broad day and more than half redeem'd
By many a great and generous sacrifice
Of self to others, came the unpledged bowl,
The stab of the stiletto. Gliding by
Unnoticed, in slouch'd hat and muffling cloak,
That just discover'd, Caravaggio-like,

A swarthy check, black brow, and eye of flame,
The Bravo took his stand, and o'er the shoulder
Plunged to the hilt, or from beneath the ribs
Slanting (a surer path, as some averr'd)
Struck upward-then slunk off, or, if pursued,
Made for the Sanctuary, and there along
The glimmering aisle among the worshippers
Wander'd with restless step and jealous look,
Dropping thick gore.

Misnamed to lull suspicion,
In every Palace was The Laboratory, (115)
Where he within brew'd poisons swift and slow,
That scatter'd terror till all things seem'd poisonous,
And brave men trembled if a hand held out

A nosegay or a letter; while the Great

Drank from the Venice-glass, that broke, that shiver'd,

If aught malignant, aught of thine was there,

Cruel Tophana; (116) and pawn'd provinces

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