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tolérance remplaçant la farouche inquisition; j'y vois,
Note 87, page 34, col. 1. un jour de fête, Péruviens, Mexicains, Américains
the slayer slain. libres, François s'embrassant comme des frères, et bén- Cortes, Pizarro." Almost all," says Las Casas, issant le régne de la liberté, qui doit amener partout" have perished. The innocent blood, which they had une harmonie universelle.—Mais les mines, les es- shed, cried aloud for vengeance; the sighs, the lears claves, que deviendront-ils ? Les mines se serieront, of so many victims went up before God.” les esclaves seront les frères de leurs maîtres.
Note 88, page 34, col. 1.
'Mid gems and gold, unenvied and unblest. There is a prophetic stanza, written a century ago
L'Espagne a fait comme ce roi insensé qui demanda by Bp. Berkeley, which I must quote, though I shall suffer by the comparison.
que tout ce qu'il toucheroit se convertit en or, et qui
fut obligé de revenir aux dieux pour les prier de finir
Note 89, page 34, col. 2.
Where on his altar-tomb, etc.
Note 90, page 34, col. 2.
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 yet removed from Seville. coche de l'empereur, et monta sur l'étrier de la por- It is almost unnecessary to point out another, in tière. Charles demanda quel étoit cet homme: “C'est,'|ihe Ninth Canto. The telescope was not then in use ; répondit Cortez, celui qui vous a donné plus d'états though described long before with great accuracy by que vos pères ne vous ont laissé de villes.'"-VOLTAIRE. Roger Bacon.
With folded arms and listless look to snuff
From his green sod up-springing—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 Homer, and his wings abroad. It is now corrected, and republished with With transport quivering, on my way I went, some additions.
Thy gates, Geneva, swinging heavily, Whatever may be its success, it has led him in Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut; many an after-dream through a beautiful country: As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived,' (1) and may not perhaps be uninteresting to those who Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee have learnt to live in past times as well as present, Inscribed to consecrate (such virtue dwells and whose minds are familiar with the events and In those small syllables) the narrow street, the people that have rendered lialy so illustrious. His birth-place—when, but one short step too late,
The stories, taken from the old Chroniclers, are He sale him down and wept-wept till the morning; (2) given without exaggeration ; and are, he believes, as 'Then rose to go-a wanderer through the world. true to the original text as any of the Plays that may 'T is not a tale that every hour brings with it. be said to form our popular history.
Yet at a City-gate, from time to time,
Much might be learnt; and most of all at thino
Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by,
And note who passes. Here comes one, a Youth,
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 vapor in the cloudless sky,
A Garrick and a Johnson ; Wealth and Fame Yet visible, when on my way I went,
Awaiting one--even at the gate, Neglect Glau to be gonema 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,
A stir unusual and accompanied Press on—though but a rill entering the Sea, With many a tuning of rude instruments, Entering and lost! Our task would never end. And many a laugh that argued coming pleasure,
Mine host's fair daughter for the nuptial rite, Day glimmer'd and I went, a gentle breeze And nuptial feast attiring—there I slept, Ruftling the Leman Lake. Wave after wave, And in my dreams wander'd once more, well-pleased If such they might be call’d, dash'd as in sport, But now a charm was on the rocks, and woods, Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach
And waters; for, methought, I was with those Making wild music, and far westward caught I had at morn, at even, wish'd for there. The sun-beam-where, alone and as entranced, Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff
THE GREAT ST. BERNARD.
NiGit was again descending, when my mule, And soon a passage-boat swept gaily by,
That all day long had climb'd among the clouds, Laden with peasant-girls and fruits and flowers, Higher and higher still, as by a stair And many a chanticleer and partlet caged
Let down from Heaven itself, transporting me, For Vevay's market-place-a motley group Stopp'd, to the joy of both, at that low door Seen through the silvery haze. But soon 't was gone. So near the summit of the Great St. Bernard ; The shifting sail Napp'd idly for an instant,
That door which ever on its hinges moved Then bore them off.
To them that knock’d, and nightly sends abroad I am not one of those
Ministering Spirits. Lying on the watch, So dead to all things in this visible world,
Two dogs of grave demeanor welcomed me, (5) So wondrously profound as to move on
All meekness, genileness, though large of limb; In the sweet light of heaven, like him of old (3)
And a lay-brother of the Hospital, (His name is justly in the Calendar)
Who, as we toil'd below, had heard by fits
Long could I have stood,
And placed there for the noblest purposes. A thousand shadows of a thousand hues
"T was a rude pile of simplest masonry, Chequering the clear expanse. Awhile his orb With narrow windows and vast buttresses, Hung o'er thy trackless fields of snow, Mont Blanc, Built to endure the shocks of Time and Chance, Thy seas of ice and ice-built promontories, Yet showing many a rent, as well it might, That change their shapes for ever as in sport; Warr'd on for ever by the elements, Then travellid onward, and went down behind And in an evil day, nor long ago, The pine-clad heights of Jura, lighting up
By violent men—when on the mountain-top The woodman's casement, and perchance his axe The French and Austrian banners met in conflict. Borne homeward through the forest in his hand; And, in some deep and melancholy glen,
On the same rock beside it stood the church, That dungeon-fortress never to be named, Reft of its cross, not of its sanctity; Where, like a lion taken in the toils,
The vesper-bell, for 't was the vesper-hour, Toussaint breathed out his brave and generous spirit. Duly proclaiming through the wilderness, Ah, little did He think, who sent him there, "All ye who hear, whatever be your work, That he himself, then greatest among men, Stop for an instant-move your lips in prayer!" Should in like manner be so soon convey'd And, just beneath it, in that dreary dale, Across the ocean—to a rock so small
If dale it might be call’d, so near to Heaven, Amid the countless multitude of waves,
A little lake, where never fish leap'd up,
A star, the only one in that small sky,
On its dead surface glimmering. 'T was a scene Among the trees I went for many a mile,
Resembling nothing I had left behind, Where darnsels sit and weave their fishing-nets, As though all worldly ties were now dissolved ;Singing some national song by the way-side. And to incline the mind still more to thought, But now 't was dusk, and journeying by the Rhone, To thought and sadness, on the eastern shore That there came down, a torrent from the Alps, Under a beetling cliff stood half in shadow I enter'd where a key unlocks a kingdom,' A lonely chapel destined for the dead, The mountains closing, and the road, the river For such as, having wander'd from their way, Filling the narrow pass. There, till a ray Had perish'd miserably Side by side, Glanced through my lattice, and the household-stir Within they lie, a mournful company Warn'd me to rise, to rise and to depart,
All in their shrouds, no earth to cover them;
Their features full of life, yet motionless 1 St. Maurice.
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
Is but some scanty lettuce, to observe
As though it were their last--and instantly
My mule refresh'd--and, let the truth be told, Nor was a brow o'ercast. Seen as I saw them,
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 im to pleasure, mirth;
Snorting suspicion while with sight, smell, touch, Mingling, at intervals, with rational talk
Examining the wet and spongy 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 steep, the smooth—my mule refresh'd, his bels Rose, and the snow rollid on in ocean-billows,
Gingled once more, the signal to depart,
And we set out in the grey light of dawn,
Descending rapidly-by waterfalls
That in their long career had stopt mid-way, Unearthly beings. “ Anselm, higher up,
At length, uncheck'd, unbidden, he stood still; Just where it drifts, a dog howls loud and long,
And all his bells were muffled. Then my Guide, And now, as guided by a voice from Heaven,
Lowering his voice, address'd me: “Through this Digs with his feet. That noble vehemence
Chasm Whose can it be, but his who never err'd ?
On and say nothing—for a word, a breath, Let us to work! there is no time to lose !
Stirring the air, may loosen and bring down But who descends Mont Velan? "Tis La Croix.
A winter's snow-enough to overwhelm Away, away! if not, alas, too late.
The horse and foot that, night and day, defiled Homeward he drags an old man and a boy,
Along this path to conquer at Marengo. Faltering and falling, and hut half awaken'd,
Well I remember how I met them here, Asking to sleep again.” Such their discourse.
As the light died away, and how Napoleon, Oft has a venerable roof received me;
Wrapt in his cloak-I could not be deceived
Rein'd in his horse, and ask'd me, as I pass’d, St. Bruno's once'(7)—where, when the winds were How far 't was to St. Remi. Where the rock hush'd,
Juts forward, and the road, crumbling away, Nor from the cataract the voice came up, You might have heard the mole work underground, "T was there; and down along the brink he led
Narrows almost to nothing at its base, So great the stillness of that place; none seen,
To Victory Dessaix, who turn'd the scale, (10) Save when from rock to rock a hermit cross'd
Leaving his life-blood in that famous field By some rude bridge-or one at midnight toll'd
(When the clouds break, we may discern the spot To matins, and white habits, issuing forth,
In the blue haze), sleeps, as you saw at dawn, Glided along those aisles interminable,
Just as you enter'd, in the Hospital-church.” All, all observant of the sacred law
So saying, for awhile he held his peace, Of Silence. Nor is that sequester'd spot,
Awe-struck beneath that dreadful Canopy ;
JORASSE was in his three-and-twentieth year;
Graceful and active as a stag just roused;
Among the Hunters of the Higher Alps ;
Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies, 1 The Grande Chartreuse.
Said to arise by those who dwell below, 2 Vallombrosa, formerly called Acqua Bella.
From frequent dealings with the Mountain-Spirits. 3 A:iosto and Milton.
But other ways had taught him better things;
And now he number' l, marching by my side, All in their best attire. There first he saw
When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,
The tale was long, but coming to a close, Nor oft unveils. Anon an Avalanche
When his dark eyes flash'd fire, and, stopping short, Rolld its long thunder; and a sudden crash, He listen'd and look'd up. I look'd up 100; Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear
And twice there came a hiss that through me thrillid Told that far-down a continent of Ice
"T was heard no more. A Chamois on the cliff Had burst in twain. But he had now begun, Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear, And with what transport he recall'd the hour And all were gone. When to deserve, to win his blooming bride,
But now the thread was broken.
And he recounied his hair-breadth escapes
He track'd their footsteps. By a cloud surprised,
Oft had they stood, lock'd in each other's arms, To all her children-breaking off by starts All the long night under a freezing sky, Into the harsh and rude, oft as the Mule
Each guarding each the while from sleeping, falling Drew his displeasure) once, nor long before, Oh, 't was a sport he loved dearer than life, Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg,
And only would with life itself relinquish! He slipp'd, he fell; and, through a fearful cleft My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds. Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper, As for myself," he cried, and he held forth Went to the Under-world! Long-while he lay His wallet in his hand, “this do I call Upon his rugged bed—then waked like one My winding-sheet-for I shall have no other!" Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever! for, looking round, he saw or thought he saw
And he spoke truth. Within a little month Innumerable branches of a Cavern,
He lay among these awful solitudes, Winding beneath a solid crust of ice;
|('T was on a glacier-half-way up to Heaven) With here and there a rent that show'd the stars ! Taking his final rest. Long did his wife, What then, alas, was left him but to die?
Suckling her babe, her only one, look out What else in those immeasurable chambers, The way he went at parting, but he came not! Strewn with the bones of miserable men,
Long fear to close her eyes, lest in her sleep Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on, (Such their belief) he should appear before her, Till cold and hunger set his spirit free!
Frozen and ghastly pale, or crush'd and bleeding, And, rising, he began his dreary round;
To tell her where he lay, and supplicate
MARGUERITE DE TOURS.
Now the grey granite, starting through the snow, Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength
Discover'd many a variegated moss!
That to the pilgrim resting on his staff
Numberless flowers, such as disdain to live
In lower regions, and delighted drink Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,
The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues, His journey ended; when a ray divine
With their diminutive leaves cover'd the ground Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her "T was then, that, turning by an ancient larch, Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin, Shiver'd in two, yet most majestical He plunged, he swam—and in an instant rose, With its long level branches, we observed The barrier past, in light, in sunshine! Through
A human figure sitting on a stone A smiling valley, full of cottages,
Far down by the way-side—just where the rock Glittering the river ran; and on the bank
Is riven asunder, and the Evil One The young were dancing ('t was a festival-day) Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument (13)
1 The Schrekhorn.
1 Lichen Geographicus.
Built in one night, from which the flood beneath, The level plain I travelled silently,
Nearing them more and more, day after day,
My wandering thoughts my only company, Nearer we drew, And they before me still, oft as I look’d, And 't was a woman young and delicate,
A strange delight, mingled with fear, came o'er ne, Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot,
A wonder as at things I had not heard of!
Great was the tumult there,
Now the scene is changed; On our approach, she journey'd slowly on;
And o'er Mont Cenis, o'er the Simplon winds And my companion, long before we met,
A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone Knew, and ran down to greet her.
Flung about carelessly, it shines afar,
She was born Catching the eye in many a broken link, (Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears) In many a turn and traverse as it glides ; In Val d'Aosta ; and an Alpine stream,
And oft above and oft below appears, Leaping from crag to crag in its short course Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up, To join the Dora, turn'd her father's mill.
As though it were another, not the same, There did she blossom till a Valaisan,
Leading along he knows not whence or whither A townsman of Martigny, won her heart,
Yet through its fairy course, go where it will,
Opens and lets it in ; and on it runs,
Not such my path! She pictured to herself that aged face
Mine but for those, who, like Jean Jacques, delight(14) Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in anger;
In dizziness, gazing and shuddering on And, when at last she heard his hour was near, Till fascination comes and the brain turns ! Went forth unseen, and, burden d as she was, Mine, though I judge but froin my ague-fits Cross'd the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness, Over the Drance, just where the Abbot fell, (15) And hold him to her heart before he died.
The same as Hannibal's. Her task was done. She had fulfilld her wish,
But now 't is past, And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping. That turbulent Chaos ; and the promised land A frame like hers had suffer'd; but her love Lies at my feet in all its loveliness! Was strong within her; and right on she went, To him who starts up from a terrible dream, Fearing no ill. May all good Angels guard her! And lo the sun is shining, and the lark And should I once again, as once I may,
Singing aloud for joy, to him is not Visit Martigny, I will not forget
Such sudden ravishment as now I feel Thy hospitable roof, Marguerite de Tours;
At the first glimpses of fair Italy.
I LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night, Under the shore—though not to visit Pliny, Still where they were, stedfast, immovable ; To catch hin musing in his plane-tree walk, Who first beholds the Alps-that mighty chain Or fishing, as he might be, from his window: Of Mountains, stretching on from east to west, And, to deal plainly, (may his Shade forgive me !) So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,
Could I recall the ages past, and play As to belong rather to Heaven than Earth
The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve But instantly receives into his soul
My leisure for Catullus on his Lake, A sense, a feeling that he loses not,
Though to fare worse, or Virgil at his farm A something that informs him 't is a moment A little further on the way to Mantua. Whence he may date henceforward and for ever? But such things cannot be. So I sit still,
And let the boatman shift his little sail, To me they seem'd the barriers of a World, His sail so forked and so swallow-like, Saying, Thus far, no farther! and as o'er
Well-pleased with all that comes. The morning air
Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round 1 La Cygne. A silvery gleam: and now the purple misis