Where lurk'd not danger? Through the fairy-land
No seat of pleasure glittering half-way down,
No hunting-place-but with some damning spot
That will not be wash'd out! There, at Caïano,(119)
Where, when the hawks were hooded and Night came,
Pulci would set the table in a roar

With his wild lay (120)—there, where the Sun descends,
And hill and dale are lost, veil'd with his beams,
The fair Venetian died-she and her lord,

Died of a posset drugg'd by him who sate

And saw them suffer, tlinging back the charge,
The murderer on the murder'd.

A

Sobs of Grief,

2

Sounds inarticulate-suddenly stopt,
And follow'd by a struggle and a gasp,
gasp in death, are heard yet in Cerreto,
Along the marble halls and staircases,
Nightly at twelve; and, at the self-same hour,
Shrieks, such as penetrate the inmost soul,
Such as awake the innocent babe to long,
Long wailing, echo through the emptiness
Of that old den far up among the hills, (121)
Frowning on him who comes from Pietra-Mala :
In them, in both, within five days and less,
Two unsuspecting victims, passing fair,
Welcomed with kisses, and slain cruelly,
One with the knife, one with the fatal noose.

But lo, the Sun is setting; (122) earth and sky One blaze of glory-What but now we saw As though it were not, though it had not been! He lingers yet; and, lessening to a point, Shines like the of Heaven-then withdraws; eye And from the zenith to the utmost skirts All is celestial red! The hour is come, When they that sail along the distant seas Languish for home; and they that in the morn Said to sweet friends « farewell,» melt as at parting; When, journeying on, the pilgrim, if he hears,

PART II.

I.

THE PILGRIM.

It was an hour of universal joy.
The lark was up and at the gate of heaven,
Singing, as sure to enter when he came ;
The butterfly was basking in my path,
His radiant wings unfolded. From below
The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively;
And odours, such as welcome in the day,
Such as salute the early traveller,

And come and go, each sweeter than the last,
Were rising. Hill and valley breathed delight;
And not a living thing but blessed the hour!
In every bush and brake there was a voice
Responsive!

From the Thrasymene, that now
Slept in the sun, a lake of molten gold,
And from the shore that once, when armies met, (123)
Rocked to and fro unfelt, so terrible

The rage, the slaughter, I had turn'd away;

The path, that led me, leading through a wood,

A fairy-wilderness of fruits and flowers,

And by a brook (124) that, in the day of strife,

Ran blood, but now runs amber-when a glade,
Far, far within, sunn'd only at noon-day,
Suddenly open'd. Many a bench was there,
Each round its ancient elm; and many a track,
Well-known to them that from the high-way loved
Awhile to deviate. In the midst a cross
Of mouldering stone as in a temple stood,
Solemn, severe; coeval with the trees
That round it in majestic order rose;
And on the lowest step a Pilgrim knelt,
Clasping his hands in prayer. He was the first
Yet seen by me (save in a midnight-masque,
A revel, where none cares to play his part,
And they, that speak, at once dissolve the charm)
The first in sober truth, no counterfeit;
And, when his orisons were duly paid,
He rose, and we exchanged, as all are wont,
A traveller's greeting.

Young, and of an age
When Youth is most attractive, when a light
Plays round and round, reflected, if I err not,
From some attendant Spirit, that ere long
(His charge relinquish'd with a sigh, a tear)
Wings his flight upward-with a look he won
My favour; and, the spell of silence broke,
I could not but continue.

When Raphael and his school from Florence caine,
Filling the land with splendour (129)-nor less oft
Watch'd her, declining, from a silent dell,
Not silent once, what time in rivalry

Tasso. Guarini, waved their wizard-wands,
Peopling the groves from Arcady, and lo,

Their doors seal'd up and silent as the night,
The dwellings of the illustrious dead-to turn
Toward Tibur, and, beyond the City-gate,
Pour out my unpremeditated verse,
Where on his mule I might have met so oft
Horace himself (132)—or climb the Palatine,

Thou art in Rome! the City that so long Reign'd absolute, the mistress of the world; The mighty vision that the prophets saw,

And trembled; that from nothing, from the least,
The lowliest village (what but here and there

A reed-roof'd cabin by a river-side?)
Grew into every thing; and, year by year,
Patiently, fearlessly working her way
O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea,
Not like the merchant with his merchandize,
Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring,
But hand to hand and foot to foot, through hosts,
Through nations numberless in battle-array,
Each behind each, each, when the other fell,
Up and in arms, at length subdued them all.

Thou art in Rome! the City, where the Gauls,
Entering at sun-rise through her open gates,
And, through her streets silent and desolate,
Marching to slay, thought they saw Gods, not men;
The City that, by temperance, fortitude,
And love of glory, tower'd above the clouds,
Then fell-but, falling, kept the highest seat,
And in her loneliness, her pomp of woe,

Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild,
Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age,
Her empire undiminish'd.

There, as though

Grandeur attracted Grandeur, are beheld
All things that strike, ennoble-from the depths
Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece,
Her groves, her temples-all things that inspire
Wonder, delight! Who would not say the Forms
Most perfect, most divine, had by consent
Flock'd thither to abide eternally,
Within those silent chambers where they dwell,
In happy intercourse?

And I am there!

Ah, little thought I, when in school I sate, A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn Glowing with Roman story, I should live To tread the Appian, (131) once an avenue Of monuments most glorious, palaces,

Are now where once the mightiest spirits met
In terrible conflict; this, while Rome was free,
The noblest theatre on this side Heaven!

Here the first Brutus stood, when o'er the corse
Of her so chaste all mourn'd, and from his cloud
Burst like a God. Here, holding up the knife
That ran with blood, the blood of his own child,
Virginius call'd down vengeance.-But whence spoke
They who harangued the people; turning now
To the twelve tables, (135) now with lifted hands
To the Capitoline Jove, whose fulgent shape
In the unclouded azure shone far off,

And to the shepherd on the Alban mount (136)
Seem'd like a star new-risen? Where were ranged
In rough array as on their element,

The beaks of those old galleys, destined still 2
To brave the brunt of war-at last to know
A calm far worse, a silence as in death?
All spiritless; from that disastrous hour
When he, the bravest, gentlest of them all, 3
Scorning the chains he could not hope to break,
Fell on his sword!

Along the Sacred Way
Hither the Triumph came, and, winding round
With acclamation, and the martial clang
Of instruments, and cars laden with spoil,
Stopt at the sacred stair that then appear'd,
Then through the darkness broke, ample, star-bright,
As though it led to heaven. "T was night; but now
A thousand torches, turning night to day, (137)
Blazed, and the victor, springing from his seat

Went up. and, kneeling as in fervent prayer,
Enter'd the Capitol. But what are they,
Who at the foot withdraw, a mournful train
In fetters? And who, yet incredulous,
Now gazing wildly round, now on his sons,

Replied a Soldier of the Pontiff's guard.

And innocent as beautiful! exclaim'd A Matron sitting in her stall, hung round With garlands, holy pictures, and what not? Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs display'd

Staggers along, the last!-They are the fallen,

Those who were spared to grace the chariot-wheels;
And there they parted, where the road divides,
The victor and the vanquish'd-there withdrew;
He to the festal board, and they to die.

Well might the great, the mighty of the world, They who were wont to fare deliciously, And war but for a kingdom more or less, Shrink back, nor from their thrones endure to look, To think that way! Well might they in their state Humble themselves, and kneel and supplicate To be delivered from a dream like this!

Here Cincinnatus pass'd, his plough the while Left in the furrow, and how many more, Whose laurels fade not, who still walk the earth, Consuls, Dictators, still in Curule pomp Sit and decide; and, as of old in Rome, Name but their names, set every heart on fire!

Here, in his bonds, he whom the phalanx saved not, '
The last on Philip's throne; and the Numidian,
So soon to say, stript of his cumbrous robe,
Stript to the skin, and in his nakedness

Thrust under-ground, How cold this bath of yours!»
And thy proud queen, Palmyra, through the sands 3
Pursued, o'ertaken on her dromedary;
Whose temples, palaces, a wondrous dream
That passes not away, for many a league
Illumine yet the desert. Some invoked
Death, and escaped; the Egyptian, when her asp
Came from his covert under the green leaf; 4
And Hannibal himself; and she who said,
Taking the fatal cup between her hands,5 (139)
Tell him I would it had come yesterday;
For then it had not been his nuptial gift. »

And I accosted her to hear her story.

The stab, she cried, was given in jealousy;

But never fled a purer spirit to heaven,
As thou wilt
say, or much my mind misleads,
When thou hast seen her face. Last night at dusk,
When on her way from vespers-None were near,
None save her serving-boy, who knelt and wept,
But what could tears avail him, when she fell-
Last night at dusk, the clock then striking nine,
Just by the fountain-that before the church,
The church she always used, St Isidore's-
Alas, I knew her from her earliest youth,
That excellent lady. Ever would she say,
Good even, as she pass'd, and with a voice
Gentle as theirs in heaven!»-But now by fits
A dull and dismal noise assail'd the ear,
A wail, a chant, louder and louder yet;
And now a strange fantastic troop appear'd!
Thronging, they came-as from the shades below;
All of a ghostly white! Oh say,» I cried,

Do not the living here bury the dead?
Do Spirits come and fetch them? What are these,
That seem not of this World, and mock the Day;
Each with a burning taper in his hand?—

<< It is an ancient Brotherhood thou seest.
Such their apparel. Through the long, long line,
Look where thou wilt, no likeness of a man;
The living mask'd, the dead alone uncover'd.
But mark-And, lying on her funeral-couch,
Like one asleep, her eyelids closed, her hands
Folded together on her modest breast,
As 't were her nightly posture, through the crowd
She came at last-and richly, gaily clad,
As for a birth-day feast! But breathes she not?
A glow is on her cheek-and her lips move!
And now a smile is there-how heavenly sweet!
Oh no! replied the Dame, wiping her tears,
But with an accent less of grief than anger,
No, she will never, never wake again!,

Death, when we meet the spectre in our walks, As we did yesterday and shall to-morrow, Soon grows familiar-like most other things, Seen, not observed; but in a foreign clime, Changing his shape to something new and strange, (And through the world he changes as in sport, Affect he greatness or humility)

Knocks at the heart. His form and fashion here

To me, I do confess, reflect a gloom,

A sadness round; yet one I would not lose;
Being in unison with all things else
In this, this land of shadows, where we live
More in past time than present, where the ground,
League beyond league, like one great cemetery,
Is cover'd o'er with mouldering monuments;
And, let the living wander where they will,
They cannot leave the footsteps of the dead.

Oft, where the burial-rite follows so fast
The agony, oft coming, nor from far,
Must a fond father meet his darling child,

(Him who at parting climbed his knees and clung) Clay-cold and wan, and to the bearers cry,

- Stand, I conjure ye!»

Seen thus destitute,

What are the greatest? They must speak beyond
A thousand homilies. When Raphael went,
His heavenly face the mirror of his mind,
His mind a temple for all lovely things
To flock to and inhabit-when He went,
Wrapt in his sable cloak, the cloak he wore,
To sleep beneath the venerable Dome,'
By those attended, who in life had loved,
Had worshipp'd, following in his steps to Fame,
(T was on an April-day, when Nature smiles)
All Rome was there. But, ere the march began,
Ere to receive their charge the bearers came,
Who had not sought him? And when all beheld
Him, where he lay, how changed from yesterday,
Him in that hour cut off, and at his head

remembering that nations are naturally patient and long-suffering, and seldom rise in rebellion till they are so degraded by a bad government as to be almost incapable of a good one. «Hate them, perhaps, you may say, we should not; but despise them we must, if enslaved, like the people of Rome, in mind as well as body; if their religion be a gross and barbarous superstition.»>-I respect knowledge; but I do not despise ignorance. They think only as their fathers thought, worship as they worshipped. They do no more; and, if ours had not burst their bondage, braving imprisonment and death, might not we at this very moment have been exhibiting, in our streets and our churches, the same processions, ceremonials, and mortifications?

Nor should we require from those who are in an earlier stage of society, what belongs to a later. They are only where we once were; and why hold them in derision? It is their business to cultivate the inferior

Now on his face, lifeless and colourless,

Then on those forms divine that lived and breathed,
And would live on for ages-all were moved;
And sighs burst forth, and loudest lamentations.

V.

NATIONAL PREJUDICES.

. ANOTHER Assassination! This venerable City, I exclaimed, what is it, but as it began, a nest of robbers and murderers? We must away at sun-rise, Luigi.»But before sun-rise I had reflected a little, and in the soberest prose. My indignation was gone; and, when Luigi undrew my curtain, crying, « Up, Signor up! The horses are at the door." Luigi," I replied, if thou lovest me, draw the curtain. = 2

It would lessen very much the severity with which men judge of each other, if they would but trace effects to their causes, and observe the progress of things in the moral as accurately as in the physical world. When we condemn millions in the mass as vindictive and sanguinary, we should remember that, wherever Justice is ill administered, the injured will redress themselves. Robbery provokes to robbery; murder to assassination. Resentments become hereditary; and what began in disorder, ends as if all Hell had broke loose.

Laws create a habit of self-restraint, not only by the influence of fear, but by regulating in its exercise the passion of revenge. If they overawe the bad by the prospect of a punishment certain and well-defined, they console the injured by the infliction of that punishment; and, as the infliction is a public act, it excites and entails no enmity. The laws are offended; and the community for its own sake pursues and overtakes the offender; often without the concurrence of the sufferer, sometimes against his wishes.

Now those who were not born, like ourselves, to such advantages, we should surely rather pity than hate; and, when at length they venture to turn against their rulers, we should lament, not wonder at their excesses;

The Pantheon.

A dialogue, which is said to have passed many years ago at Lyons (Mem. de Grammont, 1, 3.) and which may still be heard in almost every hotellerie at day-break.

As the descendants of an illustrious people have lately done.

many of the last what are we as a nation, when compared to others that have passed away? Unfortunately it is too much the practice of governments to nurse and keep alive in the governed their national prejudices. It withdraws their attention from what is passing at home, and makes them better tools in the hands of Ambition. Hence next-door neighbours are held up to us from our childhood as natural enemies; and we are urged on like curs to worry each other.1

In like manner we should learn to be just to individuals. Who can say, In such circumstances I should have done otherwise? Who, did he but reflect by what slow gradations, often by how many strange concurrences, we are led astray, with how much reluctance, how much agony, how many efforts to escape, how many self-accusations, how many sighs, how many tears-Who, did he but reflect for a moment, would have the heart to cast a stone? Fortunately these things are known to Him, from whom no secrets are hidden; and let us rest in the assurance that His judgments are

Candour, generosity, bow rare are they in the world; and how much is to le deplored the want of them! When a minister in our parliament consents at last to a measure, which, for many reasons erhaps existing no longer, he bed before refused to adopt, there should be no exultation as over the fallen, no taunt, no jeer. How often may the resistance be continued lest an enemy should triumph, and the result of conviction be received as a symptom of fear! * Eneid, xii, 134.