Volume 8 — 1837
Reading edition
The poems belonging to the year 1837 include the “Memorials of a Tour in Italy” with Henry Crabb Robinson in that year, and one or two additional sonnets.—Ed.
“SIX MONTHS TO SIX YEARS ADDED HE REMAINED”
Published 1837
One of the “Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces.”—Ed.
Six months to six years added he remained Upon this sinful earth, by sin unstained: O blessed Lord! whose mercy then removed A Child whom every eye that looked on loved; Support us, teach us calmly to resign 5 What we possessed, and now is wholly thine![59]
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY 1837
Composed 1837.—Published 1842
[During my whole life I had felt a strong desire to visit Rome and the other celebrated cities and regions of Italy, but did not think myself justified in incurring the necessary expense till I received from Mr. Moxon, the publisher of a large edition of my poems, a sum sufficient to enable me to gratify my wish without encroaching upon what I considered due to my family. My excellent friend H.C. Robinson readily consented to accompany me, and in March 1837, we set off from London, to which we returned in August, earlier than my companion wished or I should myself have desired had I been, like him, a bachelor. These Memorials of that tour touch upon but a very few of the places and objects that interested me, and, in what they do advert to, are for the most part much slighter than I could wish. More particularly do I regret that there is no notice in them of the South of France, nor of the Roman antiquities abounding in that district, especially of the Pont de Degard, which, together with its situation, impressed me full as much as any remains of Roman architecture to be found in Italy. Then there was Vaucluse, with its Fountain, its Petrarch, its rocks of all seasons, its small plots of lawn in their first vernal freshness, and the blossoms of the peach and other trees embellishing the scene on every side. The beauty of the stream also called forcibly for the expression of sympathy from one who, from his childhood, had studied the brooks and torrents of his native mountains. Between two and three hours did I run about climbing the steep and rugged crags from whose base the water of Vaucluse breaks forth. “Has Laura’s Lover,” often said I to myself, “ever sat down upon this stone? or has his foot ever pressed that turf?” Some, especially of the female sex, would have felt sure of it: my answer was (impute it to my years) “I fear, not.” Is it not in fact obvious that many of his love verses must have flowed, I do not say from a wish to display his own talent, but from a habit of exercising his intellect in that way rather than from an impulse of his heart? It is otherwise with his Lyrical poems, and particularly with the one upon the degradation of his country: there he pours out his reproaches, lamentations, and aspirations like an ardent and sincere patriot. But enough: it is time to turn to my own effusions such as they are.—I.F.]
TO HENRY CRABB ROBINSON[60]
Companion! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered, In[61] whose experience trusting, day by day Treasures I gained with zeal that neither feared The toils nor felt the crosses of the way, These records take, and happy should I be 5 Were but the Gift a meet Return to thee For kindnesses that never ceased to flow, And prompt self-sacrifice to which I owe Far more than any heart but mine can know. W. Wordsworth. Rydal Mount, Feb. 14th, 1842.
The Tour of which the following Poems are very inadequate remembrances was shortened by report, too well founded, of the prevalence of Cholera at Naples. To make some amends for what was reluctantly left unseen in the South of Italy, we visited the Tuscan Sanctuaries among the Apennines, and the principal Italian Lakes among the Alps. Neither of those lakes, nor of Venice, is there any notice in these Poems, chiefly because I have touched upon them elsewhere. See, in particular, Descriptive Sketches, “Memorials of a Tour on the Continent in 1820,” and a Sonnet upon the extinction of the Venetian Republic.—W.W.
I MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE
April, 1837
[Not the less Had his sunk eye kindled at those dear words That spake of bards and minstrels.
His, Sir Walter Scott’s, eye, did in fact kindle at them, for the lines, “Places forsaken now” and the two that follow, were adopted from a poem of mine which nearly forty years ago was in part read to him, and he never forgot them.
Old Helvellyn’s brow Where once together, in his day of strength, We stood rejoicing.
Sir Humphry Davy was with us at the time. We had ascended from Patterdale, and I could not but admire the vigour with which Scott scrambled along that horn of the mountain called “Striding Edge.” Our progress was necessarily slow, and was beguiled by Scott’s telling many stories and amusing anecdotes, as was his custom. Sir H. Davy would have probably been better pleased if other topics had occasionally been interspersed, and some discussion entered upon: at all events he did not remain with us long at the top of the mountain, but left us to find our way down its steep side together into the Vale of Grasmere, where, at my cottage, Mrs. Scott was to meet us at dinner.
With faint smile … He said, “When I am there, although ’tis fair, ’Twill be another Yarrow.”
See among these notes the one on Yarrow Revisited.
A few short steps (painful they were) apart From Tasso’s Convent-haven, and retired grave.
This, though introduced here, I did not know till it was told me at Rome by Miss Mackenzie of Seaforth, a lady whose friendly attentions during my residence at Rome I have gratefully acknowledged with expressions of sincere regret that she is no more. Miss M. told me that she accompanied Sir Walter to the Janicular Mount, and, after showing him the grave of Tasso in the church upon the top, and a mural monument, there erected to his memory, they left the church and stood together on the brow of the hill overlooking the City of Rome: his daughter Anne was with them, and she, naturally desirous, for the sake of Miss Mackenzie especially, to have some expression of pleasure from her father, half reproached him for showing nothing of that kind either by his looks or voice: “How can I,” replied he, “having only one leg to stand upon, and that in extreme pain!” so that the prophecy was more than fulfilled.
Over waves rough and deep.
We took boat near the lighthouse at the point of the right horn of the bay which makes a sort of natural port for Genoa; but the wind was high, and the waves long and rough, so that I did not feel quite recompensed by the view of the city, splendid as it was, for the danger apparently incurred. The boatman (I had only one) encouraged me saying we were quite safe, but I was not a little glad when we gained the shore, though Shelley and Byron—one of them at least, who seemed to have courted agitation from any quarter—would have probably rejoiced in such a situation: more than once I believe were they both in extreme danger even on the lake of Geneva. Every man, however, has his fears of some kind or other; and no doubt they had theirs: of all men whom I have ever known, Coleridge had the most of passive courage in bodily peril, but no one was so easily cowed when moral firmness was required in miscellaneous conversation or in the daily intercourse of social life.
How lovely robed in forenoon light and shade, Each ministering to each, didst thou appear, Savona.
There is not a single bay along this beautiful coast that might not raise in a traveller a wish to take up his abode there, each as it succeeds seems more inviting than the other; but the desolated convent on the cliff in the bay of Savona struck my fancy most; and had I, for the sake of my own health or that of a dear friend, or any other cause, been desirous of a residence abroad, I should have let my thoughts loose upon a scheme of turning some part of this building into a habitation provided as far as might be with English comforts. There is close by it a row or avenue, I forget which, of tall cypresses. I could not forbear saying to myself—“What a sweet family walk, or one for lonely musings, would be found under the shade!” but there, probably, the trees remained little noticed and seldom enjoyed.
This flowering broom’s dear neighbourhood.
The broom is a great ornament through the months of March and April to the vales and hills of the Apennines, in the wild parts of which it blows in the utmost profusion, and of course successively at different elevations as the season advances. It surpasses ours in beauty and fragrance,[62] but, speaking from my own limited observations only, I cannot affirm the same of several of their wild spring flowers, the primroses in particular, which I saw not unfrequently but thinly scattered and languishing compared to ours.
The note at the end of this poem, upon the Oxford movement, was entrusted to my friend, Mr. Frederick Faber.[63] I told him what I wished to be said, and begged that, as he was intimately acquainted with several of the Leaders of it, he would express my thought in the way least likely to be taken amiss by them. Much of the work they are undertaking was grievously wanted, and God grant their endeavours may continue to prosper as they have done.—I.F.]
Ye Apennines! with all your fertile vales Deeply embosomed, and your winding shores Of either sea, an Islander by birth, A Mountaineer by habit, would resound Your praise, in meet accordance with your claims 5 Bestowed by Nature, or from man’s great deeds Inherited:—presumptuous thought!—it fled Like vapour, like a towering cloud, dissolved. Not, therefore, shall my mind give way to sadness;— Yon snow-white torrent-fall, plumb down it drops 10 Yet ever hangs or seems to hang in air, Lulling the leisure of that high perched town, Aquapendente, in her lofty site Its neighbour and its namesake—town, and flood Forth flashing out of its own gloomy chasm 15 Bright sunbeams—the fresh verdure of this lawn Strewn with grey rocks, and on the horizon’s verge, O’er intervenient waste, through glimmering haze, Unquestionably kenned, that cone-shaped hill With fractured summit,[64] no indifferent sight 20 To travellers, from such comforts as are thine, Bleak Radicofani![65] escaped with joy— These are before me; and the varied scene May well suffice, till noon-tide’s sultry heat Relax, to fix and satisfy the mind 25 Passive yet pleased. What! with this Broom in flower Close at my side! She bids me fly to greet Her sisters, soon like her to be attired With golden blossoms opening at the feet Of my own Fairfield.[66] The glad greeting given, 30 Given with a voice and by a look returned Of old companionship, Time counts not minutes Ere, from accustomed paths, familiar fields, The local Genius hurries me aloft, Transported over that cloud-wooing hill, 35 Seat Sandal, a fond suitor of the clouds,[67] With dream-like smoothness, to Helvellyn’s top,[68] There to alight upon crisp moss and range, Obtaining ampler boon, at every step, Of visual sovereignty—hills multitudinous, 40 (Not Apennine can boast of fairer) hills Pride of two nations, wood and lake and plains, And prospect right below of deep coves shaped[69] By skeleton arms, that, from the mountain’s trunk Extended, clasp the winds, with mutual moan 45 Struggling for liberty, while undismayed The shepherd struggles with them. Onward thence And downward by the skirt of Greenside fell,[70] And by Glenridding-screes,[71] and low Glencoign,[72] Places forsaken now, though[73] loving still 50 The muses, as they loved them in the days Of the old minstrels and the border bards.— But here am I fast bound; and let it pass, The simple rapture;—who that travels far To feed his mind with watchful eyes could share 55 Or wish to share it?—One there surely was, “The Wizard of the North,” with anxious hope Brought to this genial climate, when disease Preyed upon body and mind—yet not the less Had his sunk eye kindled at those dear words 60 That spake of bards and minstrels; and his spirit Had flown with mine to old Helvellyn’s brow, Where once together, in his day of strength, We stood rejoicing,[74] as if earth were free From sorrow, like the sky above our heads. 65 Years followed years, and when, upon the eve Of his last going from Tweed-side, thought turned, Or by another’s sympathy was led, To this bright land, Hope was for him no friend, Knowledge no help; Imagination shaped 70 No promise. Still, in more than ear-deep seats, Survives for me, and cannot but survive The tone of voice which wedded borrowed words To sadness not their own, when, with faint smile Forced by intent to take from speech its edge, 75 He said, “When I am there, although ’tis fair, ’Twill be another Yarrow.”[75] Prophecy More than fulfilled, as gay Campania’s shores Soon witnessed, and the city of seven hills, Her sparkling fountains, and her mouldering tombs; 80 And more than all, that Eminence[76] which showed Her splendours, seen, not felt, the while he stood A few short steps (painful they were) apart From Tasso’s Convent-haven, and retired grave.[77] Peace to their Spirits! why should Poesy 85 Yield to the lure of vain regret, and hover In gloom on wings with confidence outspread To move in sunshine?—Utter thanks, my Soul! Tempered with awe, and sweetened by compassion For them who in the shades of sorrow dwell, 90 That I—so near the term to human life Appointed by man’s common heritage,[78] Frail as the frailest, one withal (if that Deserve a thought) but little known to fame— Am free to rove where Nature’s loveliest looks, 95 Art’s noblest relics, history’s rich bequests, Failed to reanimate and but feebly cheered The whole world’s Darling—free to rove at will O’er high and low, and if requiring rest, Rest from enjoyment only. Thanks poured forth 100 For what thus far hath blessed my wanderings, thanks Fervent but humble as the lips can breathe Where gladness seems a duty—let me guard Those seeds of expectation which the fruit Already gathered in this favoured Land 105 Enfolds within its core. The faith be mine, That He who guides and governs all, approves When gratitude, though disciplined to look Beyond these transient spheres, doth wear a crown Of earthly hope put on with trembling hand; 110 Nor is least pleased, we trust, when golden beams, Reflected through the mists of age, from hours Of innocent delight, remote or recent, Shoot but a little way—’tis all they can— Into the doubtful future. Who would keep 115 Power must resolve to cleave to it through life, Else it deserts him, surely as he lives. Saints would not grieve nor guardian angels frown If one—while tossed, as was my lot to be, In a frail bark urged by two slender oars 120 Over waves rough and deep,[79] that, when they broke, Dashed their white foam against the palace walls Of Genoa the superb—should there be led To meditate upon his own appointed tasks, However humble in themselves, with thoughts 125 Raised and sustained by memory of Him Who oftentimes within those narrow bounds Rocked on the surge, there tried his spirit’s strength And grasp of purpose, long ere sailed his ship To lay a new world open. Nor less prized 130 Be those impressions which incline the heart To mild, to lowly, and to seeming weak, Bend that way her desires. The dew, the storm— The dew whose moisture fell in gentle drops On the small hyssop destined to become, 135 By Hebrew ordinance devoutly kept, A purifying instrument—the storm That shook on Lebanon the cedar’s top, And as it shook, enabling the blind roots Further to force their way, endowed its trunk 140 With magnitude and strength fit to uphold The glorious temple—did alike proceed From the same gracious will, were both an offspring Of bounty infinite. Between Powers that aim Higher to lift their lofty heads, impelled 145 By no profane ambition, Powers that thrive By conflict, and their opposites, that trust In lowliness—a mid-way tract there lies Of thoughtful sentiment for every mind Pregnant with good. Young, Middle-aged, and Old, 150 From century on to century, must have known The emotion—nay, more fitly were it said— The blest tranquillity that sunk so deep Into my spirit, when I paced, enclosed In Pisa’s Campo Santo,[80] the smooth floor 155 Of its Arcades paved with sepulchral slabs,[81] And through each window’s open fret-work looked O’er the blank Area of sacred earth Fetched from Mount Calvary,[82] or haply delved In precincts nearer to the Saviour’s tomb, 160 By hands of men, humble as brave, who fought For its deliverance—a capacious field That to descendants of the dead it holds And to all living mute memento breathes, More touching far than aught which on the walls 165 Is pictured, or their epitaphs can speak, Of the changed City’s long-departed power, Glory, and wealth, which, perilous as they are, Here did not kill, but nourished, Piety. And, high above that length of cloistral roof, 170 Peering in air and backed by azure sky, To kindred contemplations ministers The Baptistery’s dome,[83] and that which swells From the Cathedral pile;[84] and with the twain Conjoined in prospect mutable or fixed 175 (As hurry on in eagerness the feet, Or pause) the summit of the Leaning-tower.[85] Nor[86] less remuneration waits on him Who having left the Cemetery stands In the Tower’s shadow, of decline and fall 180 Admonished not without some sense of fear, Fear that soon vanishes before the sight Of splendour unextinguished, pomp unscathed, And beauty unimpaired. Grand in itself, And for itself, the assemblage, grand and fair 185 To view, and for the mind’s consenting eye A type of age in man, upon its front Bearing the world-acknowledged evidence Of past exploits, nor fondly after more Struggling against the stream of destiny, 190 But with its peaceful majesty content. —Oh what a spectacle at every turn The Place unfolds, from pavement skinned with moss, Or grass-grown spaces, where the heaviest foot Provokes no echoes, but must softly tread; 195 Where Solitude with Silence paired stops short Of Desolation, and to Ruin’s scythe Decay submits not. But where’er my steps Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care Those images of genial beauty, oft 200 Too lovely to be pensive in themselves But by reflection made so, which do best And fitliest serve to crown with fragrant wreaths Life’s cup when almost filled with years, like mine. —How lovely robed in forenoon light and shade, 205 Each ministering to each, didst thou appear Savona,[87] Queen of territory fair As aught that marvellous coast thro’ all its length Yields to the Stranger’s eye. Remembrance holds As a selected treasure thy one cliff, 210 That, while it wore for melancholy crest A shattered Convent, yet rose proud to have Clinging to its steep sides a thousand herbs And shrubs, whose pleasant looks gave proof how kind The breath of air can be where earth had else 215 Seemed churlish. And behold, both far and near, Garden and field all decked with orange bloom, And peach and citron, in Spring’s mildest breeze Expanding; and, along the smooth shore curved Into a natural port, a tideless sea, 220 To that mild breeze with motion and with voice Softly responsive; and, attuned to all Those vernal charms of sight and sound, appeared Smooth space of turf which from the guardian fort Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April green, 225 In coolest climes too fugitive, might even here Plead with the sovereign Sun for longer stay Than his unmitigated beams allow, Nor plead in vain, if beauty could preserve, From mortal change, aught that is born on earth 230 Or doth on time depend. While on the brink Of that high Convent-crested cliff I stood, Modest Savona! over all did brood A pure poetic Spirit—as the breeze, Mild—as the verdure, fresh—the sunshine, bright— 235 Thy gentle Chiabrera![88]—not a stone, Mural or level with the trodden floor, In Church or Chapel, if my curious quest Missed not the truth, retains a single name Of young or old, warrior, or saint, or sage, 240 To whose dear memories his sepulchral verse[89] Paid simple tribute, such as might have flowed From the clear spring of a plain English heart, Say rather, one in native fellowship With all who want not skill to couple grief 245 With praise, as genuine admiration prompts. The grief, the praise, are severed from their dust, Yet in his page the records of that worth Survive, uninjured;—glory then to words, Honour to word-preserving Arts, and hail 250 Ye kindred local influences that still, If Hope’s familiar whispers merit faith, Await my steps when they the breezy height Shall range of philosophic Tusculum;[90] Or Sabine vales[91] explored inspire a wish 255 To meet the shade of Horace by the side Of his Bandusian fount;[92]—or I invoke His presence to point out the spot where once He sate, and eulogized with earnest pen Peace, leisure, freedom, moderate desires; 260 And all the immunities of rural life Extolled, behind Vacuna’s crumbling fane.[93] Or let me loiter, soothed with what is given Nor asking more, on that delicious Bay,[94] Parthenope’s Domain—Virgilian haunt, 265 Illustrated with never-dying verse,[95] And, by the Poet’s laurel-shaded tomb,[96] Age after age to Pilgrims from all lands Endeared. And who—if not a man as cold In heart as dull in brain—while pacing ground 270 Chosen by Rome’s legendary Bards, high minds Out of her early struggles well inspired To localize heroic acts—could look Upon the spots with undelighted eye, Though even to their last syllable the Lays 275 And very names of those who gave them birth Have perished?—Verily, to her utmost depth, Imagination feels what Reason fears not To recognize, the lasting virtue lodged In those bold fictions that, by deeds assigned 280 To the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race, And others like in fame, created Powers With attributes from History derived, By Poesy irradiate, and yet graced, Through marvellous felicity of skill, 285 With something more propitious to high aims Than either, pent within her separate sphere, Can oft with justice claim. And not disdaining Union with those primeval energies To virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your height 290 Christian Traditions! at my Spirit’s call Descend, and, on the brow of ancient Rome As she survives in ruin, manifest Your glories mingled with the brightest hues Of her memorial halo, fading, fading, 295 But never to be extinct while Earth endures. O come, if undishonoured by the prayer, From all her Sanctuaries!—Open for my feet Ye Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse Of the Devout, as, ’mid your glooms convened 300 For safety, they of yore enclasped the Cross[97] On knees that ceased from trembling, or intoned Their orisons with voices half-suppressed, But sometimes heard, or fancied to be heard, Even at this hour. And thou Mamertine prison,[98] 305 Into that vault receive me from whose depth Issues, revealed in no presumptuous vision, Albeit lifting human to divine, A saint, the Church’s Rock, the mystic Keys Grasped in his hand;[99] and lo! with upright sword 310 Prefiguring his own impendent doom, The Apostle of the Gentiles; both prepared To suffer pains with heathen scorn and hate Inflicted;—blessed Men, for so to Heaven They follow their dear Lord! Time flows—nor winds, 315 Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course, But many a benefit borne upon his breast For human-kind sinks out of sight, is gone, No one knows how; nor seldom is put forth An angry arm that snatches good away, 320 Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream Has to our generation brought and brings Innumerable gains; yet we, who now Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely To a chilled age, most pitiably shut out 325 From that which is and actuates, by forms, Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact Minutely linked with diligence uninspired, Unrectified, unguided, unsustained, By godlike insight. To this fate is doomed 330 Science, wide-spread and spreading still as be Her conquests, in the world of sense made known. So with the internal mind it fares; and so With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear Of vital principle’s controlling law, 335 To her purblind guide Expediency; and so Suffers religious faith. Elate with view Of what is won, we overlook or scorn The best that should keep pace with it, and must, Else more and more the general mind will droop, 340 Even as if bent on perishing. There lives No faculty within us which the Soul Can spare,[100] and humblest earthly Weal demands, For dignity not placed beyond her reach, Zealous co-operation of all means 345 Given or acquired, to raise us from the mire, And liberate our hearts from low pursuits. By gross Utilities enslaved we need More of ennobling impulse from the past, If to the future aught of good must come 350 Sounder and therefore holier than the ends Which, in the giddiness of self-applause, We covet as supreme. O grant the crown That Wisdom wears, or take his treacherous staff From Knowledge!—If the Muse, whom I have served 355 This day, be mistress of a single pearl Fit to be placed in that pure diadem; Then, not in vain, under these chesnut boughs Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul To transports from the secondary founts 360 Flowing of time and place, and paid to both Due homage; nor shall fruitlessly have striven, By love of beauty moved, to enshrine in verse Accordant meditations, which in times Vexed and disordered, as our own, may shed 365 Influence, at least among a scattered few, To soberness of mind and peace of heart Friendly; as here to my repose hath been This flowering broom’s dear neighbourhood,[101] the light And murmur issuing from yon pendent flood, 370 And all the varied landscape. Let us now Rise, and to-morrow greet magnificent Rome.[102]
II THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO[103] AT ROME
[Sir George Beaumont told me that, when he first visited Italy, pine-trees of this species abounded, but that on his return thither, which was more than thirty years after, they had disappeared from many places where he had been accustomed to admire them, and had become rare all over the country, especially in and about Rome. Several Roman villas have within these few years passed into the hands of foreigners, who, I observed with pleasure, have taken care to plant this tree, which in course of years will become a great ornament to the city and to the general landscape. May I venture to add here, that having ascended the Monte Mario, I could not resist embracing the trunk of this interesting monument of my departed friend’s feelings for the beauties of nature, and the power of that art which he loved so much, and in the practice of which he was so distinguished?—I.F.]
I saw far off the dark top of a Pine Look like a cloud—a slender stem the tie That bound it to its native earth—poised high ’Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, Striving in peace each other to outshine. 5 But when I learned the Tree was living there, Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont’s care,[104] Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine! The rescued Pine-tree, with its sky so bright And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home, 10 Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight, Supplanted the whole majesty of Rome (Then first apparent from the Pincian Height)[105] Crowned with St. Peter’s everlasting dome.[106]
III AT ROME
[Sight is at first sight a sad enemy to imagination and to those pleasures belonging to old times with which some exertions of that power will always mingle: nothing perhaps brings this truth home to the feelings more than the city of Rome; not so much in respect to the impression made at the moment when it is first seen and looked at as a whole, for then the imagination may be invigorated and the mind’s eye quickened; but when particular spots or objects are sought out, disappointment is I believe invariably felt. Ability to recover from this disappointment will exist in proportion to knowledge, and the power of the mind to reconstruct out of fragments and parts, and to make details in the present subservient to more adequate comprehension of the past.—I.F.]
Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill? Yon petty Steep in truth the fearful Rock, Tarpeian named of yore,[107] and keeping still That name, a local Phantom proud to mock The Traveller’s expectation?—Could our Will Destroy the ideal Power within, ’twere done Thro’ what men see and touch,—slaves wandering on, Impelled by thirst of all but Heaven-taught skill. Full oft, our wish obtained, deeply we sigh; Yet not unrecompensed are they who learn, 10 From that depression raised, to mount on high With stronger wing, more clearly to discern Eternal things; and, if need be, defy Change, with a brow not insolent, though stern.
IV AT ROME—REGRETS—IN ALLUSION TO NIEBUHR AND OTHER MODERN HISTORIANS
Those old credulities, to nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of History, stript naked as a rock ’Mid a dry desert? What is it we hear? The glory of Infant Rome must disappear,[108] 5 Her morning splendours vanish, and their place Know them no more. If Truth, who veiled her face With those bright beams yet hid it not, must steer Henceforth a humbler course perplexed and slow; One solace yet remains for us who came 10 Into this world in days when story lacked Severe research, that in our hearts we know How, for exciting youth’s heroic flame, Assent is power, belief the soul of fact.
V CONTINUED
Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same Involved a history of no doubtful sense, History that proves by inward evidence From what a precious source of truth it came. Ne’er could the boldest Eulogist have dared 5 Such deeds to paint, such characters to frame, But for coeval sympathy prepared To greet with instant faith their loftiest claim. None but a noble people could have loved Flattery in Ancient Rome’s pure-minded style: 10 Not in like sort the Runic Scald was moved; He, nursed ’mid savage passions that defile Humanity, sang feats that well might call For the blood-thirsty mead of Odin’s riotous Hall.
VI PLEA FOR THE HISTORIAN
Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise, Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth, Who, gathering up all that Time’s envious tooth Has spared of sound and grave realities, Firmly rejects those dazzling flatteries, 5 Dear as they are to unsuspecting Youth, That might have drawn down Clio from the skies To vindicate the majesty of truth. Such was her office while she walked with men,[109] A Muse, who,[110] not unmindful of her Sire 10 All-ruling Jove, whate’er the[111] theme might be Revered her Mother, sage Mnemosyne, And taught her faithful servants how the lyre Should[112] animate, but not mislead, the pen.[113]
VII AT ROME
[I have a private interest in this Sonnet, for I doubt whether it would ever have been written but for the lively picture given me by Anna Ricketts of what she had witnessed of the indignation and sorrow expressed by some Italian noblemen of their acquaintance upon the surrender, which circumstances had obliged them to make, of the best portion of their family mansions to strangers.—I.F.]
They—who have seen the noble Roman’s scorn Break forth at thought of laying down his head, When the blank day is over, garreted In his ancestral palace, where, from morn To night, the desecrated floors are worn 5 By feet of purse-proud strangers; they—who have read In one meek smile, beneath a peasant’s shed, How patiently the weight of wrong is borne; They—who have heard some learned Patriot treat[114] Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole theme 10 From ancient Rome, downwards through that bright dream Of Commonwealths, each city a starlike seat Of rival glory; they—fallen Italy— Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of Thee!
VIII NEAR ROME, IN SIGHT OF ST. PETER’S
Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn; O’er man and beast a not unwelcome boon Is shed, the languor of approaching noon; To shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn Mute are all creatures, as this couchant fawn, 5 Save insect-swarms that hum in air afloat, Save that the Cock is crowing, a shrill note, Startling and shrill as that which roused the dawn. —Heard in that hour, or when, as now, the nerve Shrinks from the note[115] as from a mis-timed thing, 10 Oft for a holy warning may it serve, Charged with remembrance of his sudden sting, His bitter tears, whose name the Papal Chair And yon resplendent Church are proud to bear.
IX AT ALBANO[116]
[This Sonnet is founded on simple fact, and was written to enlarge, if possible, the views of those who can see nothing but evil in the intercessions countenanced by the Church of Rome. That they are in many respects lamentably pernicious must be acknowledged; but, on the other hand, they who reflect, while they see and observe, cannot but be struck with instances which will prove that it is a great error to condemn in all cases such mediation as purely idolatrous. This remark bears with especial force upon addresses to the Virgin.—I.F.]
Days passed—and Monte Calvo would not clear His head from mist; and, as the wind sobbed through Albano’s dripping Ilex avenue,[117] My dull forebodings in a Peasant’s ear Found casual vent. She said, “Be of good cheer; 5 Our yesterday’s procession did not sue In vain; the sky will change to sunny blue, Thanks to our Lady’s grace.” I smiled to hear, But not in scorn:—the Matron’s Faith may lack The heavenly sanction needed to ensure 10 Fulfilment; but, we trust, her upward track[118] Stops not at this low point, nor wants the lure Of flowers the Virgin without fear may own, For by her Son’s blest hand the seed was sown.
X “NEAR ANIO’S STREAM, I SPIED A GENTLE DOVE”
Near Anio’s stream,[119] I spied a gentle Dove Perched on an olive branch, and heard her cooing ’Mid new-born blossoms that soft airs were wooing, While all things present told of joy and love. But restless Fancy left that olive grove 5 To hail the exploratory Bird renewing Hope for the few, who, at the world’s undoing, On the great flood were spared to live and move. O bounteous Heaven! signs true as dove and bough Brought to the ark are coming evermore, 10 Given though we seek them not, but, while we plough[120] This sea of life without a visible shore, Do neither promise ask nor grace implore In what alone is ours, the living Now.[121]
XI FROM THE ALBAN HILLS, LOOKING TOWARDS ROME
Forgive, illustrious Country! these deep sighs, Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills bestrown With monuments decayed or overthrown, For all that tottering stands or prostrate lies, Than for like scenes in moral vision shown, 5 Ruin perceived for keener sympathies; Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her gaudy crown Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies. Yet why prolong this mournful strain?—Fallen Power, Thy fortunes, twice exalted,[122] might provoke 10 Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour When thou, uprisen, shalt break thy double yoke, And enter, with prompt aid from the Most High, On the third stage of thy great destiny.[123]
XII NEAR THE LAKE OF THRASYMENE
When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came,[124] An earthquake, mingling with the battle’s shock, Checked not its rage;[125] unfelt the ground did rock, Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly aim.— Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day’s shame, 5 Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure, Save in this Rill that took from blood the name[126] Which yet it bears, sweet Stream! as crystal pure. So may all trace and sign of deeds aloof From the true guidance of humanity, 10 Thro’ Time and Nature’s influence, purify Their spirit; or, unless they for reproof Or warning serve, thus let them all, on ground That gave them being, vanish to a sound.
XIII NEAR THE SAME LAKE
For action born, existing to be tried, Powers manifold we have that intervene To stir the heart that would too closely screen Her peace from images to pain allied. What wonder if at midnight, by the side 5 Of Sanguinetto or broad Thrasymene,[127] The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms glide, Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen; And singly thine, O vanquished Chief![128] whose corse, Unburied, lay hid under heaps of slain: 10 But who is He?—the Conqueror. Would he force His way to Rome? Ah, no,—round hill and plain Wandering, he haunts, at fancy’s strong command, This spot—his shadowy death-cup in his hand.[129]
XIV THE CUCKOO AT LAVERNA[130]
May 25th 1837
[Among a thousand delightful feelings connected in my mind with the voice of the cuckoo, there is a personal one which is rather melancholy. I was first convinced that age had rather dulled my hearing, by not being able to catch the sound at the same distance as the younger companions of my walks; and of this failure I had a proof upon the occasion that suggested these verses. I did not hear the sound till Mr. Robinson had twice or thrice directed my attention to it.]
List—’twas the Cuckoo.—O with what delight Heard I that voice! and catch it now, though faint,[131] Far off and faint, and melting into air, Yet not to be mistaken. Hark again! Those louder cries give notice that the Bird, 5 Although invisible as Echo’s self,[132] Is wheeling hitherward. Thanks, happy Creature, For this unthought-of greeting! While allured From vale to hill, from hill to vale led on, We have pursued, through various lands, a long 10 And pleasant course; flower after flower has blown, Embellishing the ground that gave them birth With aspects novel to my sight; but still Most fair, most welcome, when they drank the dew In a sweet fellowship with kinds beloved, 15 For old remembrance sake. And oft—where Spring Display’d her richest blossoms among files Of orange-trees bedecked with glowing fruit Ripe for the hand, or under a thick shade Of Ilex, or, if better suited to the hour, 20 The lightsome Olive’s twinkling canopy—[133] Oft have I heard the Nightingale and Thrush Blending as in a common English grove Their love-songs; but, where’er my feet might roam, Whate’er assemblages of new and old, 25 Strange and familiar, might beguile the way, A gratulation from that vagrant Voice Was wanting;—and most happily till now. For see, Laverna! mark the far-famed Pile, High on the brink of that precipitous rock,[134] 30 Implanted like a Fortress, as in truth It is, a Christian Fortress, garrisoned In faith and hope, and dutiful obedience, By a few Monks, a stern society, Dead to the world and scorning earth-born joys. 35 Nay—though the hopes that drew, the fears that drove, St. Francis, far from Man’s resort, to abide Among these sterile heights of Apennine, [135] Bound him, nor, since he raised yon House, have ceased To bind his spiritual Progeny, with rules 40 Stringent as flesh can tolerate and live;[136] His milder Genius (thanks to the good God That made us) over those severe restraints Of mind, that dread heart-freezing discipline, Doth sometimes here predominate, and works 45 By unsought means for gracious purposes; For earth through heaven, for heaven, by changeful earth, Illustrated, and mutually endeared. Rapt though He were above the power of sense, Familiarly, yet out of the cleansed heart 50 Of that once sinful Being overflowed On sun, moon, stars, the nether elements, And every shape of creature they sustain, Divine affections; and with beast and bird (Stilled from afar—such marvel story tells— 55 By casual outbreak of his passionate words, And from their own pursuits in field or grove Drawn to his side by look or act of love Humane, and virtue of his innocent life) He wont to hold companionship so free, 60 So pure, so fraught with knowledge and delight, As to be likened in his Followers’ minds To that which our first Parents, ere the fall From their high state darkened the Earth with fear, Held with all Kinds in Eden’s blissful bowers. 65 Then question not that, ’mid the austere Band, Who breathe the air he breathed, tread where he trod, Some true Partakers of his loving spirit Do still survive,[137] and, with those gentle hearts Consorted, Others, in the power, the faith, 70 Of a baptized imagination, prompt To catch from Nature’s humblest monitors Whate’er they bring of impulses sublime. Thus sensitive must be the Monk, though pale With fasts, with vigils worn, depressed by years, 75 Whom in a sunny glade I chanced to see, Upon a pine-tree’s storm-uprooted trunk, Seated alone, with forehead sky-ward raised, Hands clasped above the crucifix he wore Appended to his bosom, and lips closed 80 By the joint pressure of his musing mood And habit of his vow. That ancient Man— Nor haply less the Brother whom I marked, As we approached the Convent gate, aloft Looking far forth from his aerial cell, 85 A young Ascetic—Poet, Hero, Sage, He might have been, Lover belike he was— If they received into a conscious ear The notes whose first faint greeting startled me, Whose sedulous iteration thrilled with joy 90 My heart—may have been moved like me to think, Ah! not like me who walk in the world’s ways, On the great Prophet, styled the Voice of One Crying amid the wilderness, and given, Now that their snows must melt, their herbs and flowers 95 Revive, their obstinate winter pass away, That awful name to Thee, thee, simple Cuckoo, Wandering in solitude, and evermore Foretelling and proclaiming, ere thou leave This thy last haunt beneath Italian skies 100 To carry thy glad tidings over heights Still loftier, and to climes more near the Pole. Voice of the Desert, fare-thee-well; sweet Bird! If that substantial title please thee more, Farewell!—but go thy way, no need hast thou 105 Of a good wish sent after thee; from bower To bower as green, from sky to sky as clear, Thee gentle breezes waft—or airs that meet Thy course and sport around thee softly fan— Till Night, descending upon hill and vale, 110 Grants to thy mission a brief term of silence, And folds thy pinions up in blest repose.
XV AT THE CONVENT OF CAMALDOLI
This famous sanctuary was the original establishment of Saint Romualdo (or Rumwald, as our ancestors saxonised the name) in the 11th century, the ground (campo) being given by a Count Maldo. The Camaldolensi, however, have spread wide as a branch of Benedictines, and may therefore be classed among the gentlemen of the monastic orders. The society comprehends two orders, monks and hermits; symbolised by their arms, two doves drinking out of the same cup. The monastery in which the monks here reside is beautifully situated, but a large unattractive edifice, not unlike a factory. The hermitage is placed in a loftier and wilder region of the forest. It comprehends between 20 and 30 distinct residences, each including for its single hermit an inclosed piece of ground and three very small apartments. There are days of indulgence when the hermit may quit his cell, and when old age arrives, he descends from the mountain and takes his abode among the monks.
My companion had, in the year 1831, fallen in with the monk, the subject of these two sonnets, who showed him his abode among the hermits. It is from him that I received the following[138] particulars. He was then about 40 years of age, but his appearance was that of an older man. He had been a painter by profession, but on taking orders changed his name from Santi to Raffaello, perhaps with an unconscious reference as well to the great Sanzio d’Urbino as to the archangel. He assured my friend that he had been 13 years in the hermitage and had never known melancholy or ennui. In the little recess for study and prayer, there was a small collection of books. “I read only,” said he, “books of asceticism and mystical theology.” On being asked the names of the most famous[139] mystics, he enumerated Scaramelli, San Giovanni della Croce, St. Dionysius the Areopagite (supposing the work which bears his name to be really his),[140] and with peculiar emphasis Ricardo di San Vittori. The works of Saint Theresa are also in high repute among ascetics.[141] These names may interest some of my readers.
We heard that Raffaello was then living in the convent; my friend sought in vain to renew his acquaintance with him. It was probably a day of seclusion. The reader will perceive that these sonnets were supposed to be written when he was a young man.—W.W. 1842.
The monastery of Camaldoli is on the highest point of the hills near Naples (1476 feet), and commands one of the finest views in Italy.—Ed.
Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft, And seeking consolation from above; Nor grieve the less that skill to him was left To paint this picture of his lady-love: Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve? 5 And O, good Brethren of the cowl, a thing So fair, to which with peril he must cling, Destroy in pity, or with care remove. That bloom—those eyes—can they assist to bind Thoughts that would stray from Heaven? The dream must cease 10 To be; by Faith, not sight, his soul must live; Else will the enamoured Monk too surely find How wide a space can part from inward peace The most profound repose his cell can give.
XVI CONTINUED
The world forsaken, all its busy cares And stirring interests shunned with desperate flight, All trust abandoned in the healing might Of virtuous action; all that courage dares, Labour accomplishes, or patience bears— 5 Those helps rejected, they, whose minds perceive How subtly works man’s weakness, sighs may heave For such a One beset with cloistral snares. Father of Mercy! rectify his view, If with his vows this object ill agree; 10 Shed over it thy grace, and thus subdue[142] Imperious passion in a heart set free:— That earthly love may to herself be true, Give him a soul that cleaveth unto thee.
XVII AT THE EREMITE OR UPPER CONVENT OF CAMALDOLI
What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size[143] Enormous, dragged, while side by side they sate, By panting steers up to this convent gate? How, with empurpled cheeks and pampered eyes, Dare they confront the lean austerities 5 Of Brethren, who, here fixed, on Jesu wait In sackcloth, and God’s anger deprecate Through all that humbles flesh and mortifies? Strange contrast!—verily the world of dreams, Where mingle, as for mockery combined, 10 Things in their very essences at strife, Shows not a sight incongruous as the extremes That everywhere, before the thoughtful mind, Meet on the solid ground of waking life.[144]
XVIII AT VALLOMBROSA[145]
[I must confess, though of course I did not acknowledge it in the few lines I wrote in the Strangers’ book kept at the convent, that I was somewhat disappointed at Vallombrosa. I had expected, as the name implies, a deep and narrow valley overshadowed by enclosing hills; but the spot where the convent stands is in fact not a valley at all, but a cove or crescent open to an extensive prospect. In the book before mentioned, I read the notice in the English language that if anyone would ascend the steep ground above the convent, and wander over it, he would be abundantly rewarded by magnificent views. I had not time to act upon this recommendation, and only went with my young guide to a point, nearly on a level with the site of the convent, that overlooks the Vale of Arno for some leagues. To praise great and good men has ever been deemed one of the worthiest employments of poetry, but the objects of admiration vary so much with time and circumstances, and the noblest of mankind have been found, when intimately known, to be of characters so imperfect, that no eulogist can find a subject which he will venture upon with the animation necessary to create sympathy, unless he confines himself to a particular part or he takes something of a one-sided view of the person he is disposed to celebrate. This is a melancholy truth, and affords a strong reason for the poetic mind being chiefly exercised in works of fiction: the poet can then follow wherever the spirit of admiration leads him, unchecked by such suggestions as will be too apt to cross his way if all that he is prompted to utter is to be tested by fact. Something in this spirit I have written in the note attached to the Sonnet on the King of Sweden; and many will think that in this poem and elsewhere I have spoken of the author of Paradise Lost in a strain of panegyric scarcely justifiable by the tenor of some of his opinions, whether theological or political, and by the temper he carried into public affairs, in which, unfortunately for his genius, he was so much concerned.—I.F.]
Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks In Vallombrosa, where Etrurian shades High over-arch’d embower. Paradise Lost.[146]
“Vallombrosa—I longed in thy shadiest wood To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor!”[147] Fond wish that was granted at last, and the Flood, That lulled me asleep, bids me listen once more. Its murmur how soft! as it falls down the steep, 5 Near that Cell—yon sequestered Retreat high in air—[148] Where our Milton was wont lonely vigils to keep For converse with God, sought through study and prayer. The Monks still repeat the tradition with pride, And its truth who shall doubt? for his Spirit is here;[149] 10 In the cloud-piercing rocks doth her grandeur abide, In the pines pointing heavenward her beauty austere; In the flower-besprent meadows his genius we trace Turned to humbler delights, in which youth might confide, That would yield him fit help while prefiguring that Place 15 Where, if Sin had not entered, Love never had died. When with life lengthened out came a desolate time, And darkness and danger had compassed him round, With a thought he would[150] flee to these haunts of his prime, And here once again a kind shelter be found. 20 And let me believe that when nightly the Muse Did[151] waft him to Sion, the glorified hill,[152] Here also, on some favoured height, he[153] would choose To wander, and drink inspiration at will. Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page 25 Of that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mind Had a musical charm, which the winter of age And the changes it brings had no power to unbind. And now, ye Miltonian shades! under you I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part, 30 While your leaves I behold and the brooks they will strew, And the realised vision is clasped to my heart. Even so, and unblamed, we rejoice as we may In Forms that must perish, frail objects of sense; Unblamed—if the Soul be intent on the day 35 When the Being of Beings shall summon her hence. For he and he only with wisdom is blest Who, gathering true pleasures wherever they grow, Looks up in all places, for joy or for rest, To the Fountain whence Time and Eternity flow. 40
XIX AT FLORENCE
[Upon what evidence the belief rests that this stone was a favourite seat of Dante, I do not know; but a man would little consult his own interest as a traveller, if he should busy himself with doubts as to the fact. The readiness with which traditions of this character are received, and the fidelity with which they are preserved from generation to generation, are an evidence of feelings honourable to our nature. I remember how, during one of my rambles in the course of a college vacation, I was pleased on being shown a seat near a kind of rocky cell at the source of the river, on which it was said that Congreve wrote his Old Bachelor. One can scarcely hit on any performance less in harmony with the scene; but it was a local tribute paid to intellect by those who had not troubled themselves to estimate the moral worth of that author’s comedies; and why should they? He was a man distinguished in his day; and the sequestered neighbourhood in which he often resided was perhaps as proud of him as Florence of her Dante: it is the same feeling, though proceeding from persons one cannot bring together in this way without offering some apology to the Shade of the great Visionary.—I.F.]
Under the shadow of a stately Pile, The dome of Florence, pensive and alone, Nor giving heed to aught that passed the while, I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone, The laurelled Dante’s favourite seat.[154] A throne, 5 In just esteem, it rivals; though no style Be there of decoration to beguile The mind, depressed by thought of greatness flown. As a true man, who long had served the lyre, I gazed with earnestness, and dared no more. 10 But in his breast the mighty Poet bore A Patriot’s heart, warm with undying fire. Bold with the thought, in reverence I sate down, And, for a moment, filled that empty Throne.
XX BEFORE THE PICTURE OF THE BAPTIST, BY RAPHAEL, IN THE GALLERY AT FLORENCE[155]
[It was very hot weather during the week we stayed at Florence; and, never having been there before, I went through much hard service, and am not therefore ashamed to confess I fell asleep before this picture and sitting with my back towards the Venus de Medicis. Buonaparte—in answer to one who had spoken of his being in a sound sleep up to the moment when one of his great battles was to be fought, as a proof of the calmness of his mind and command over anxious thoughts—said frankly, that he slept because from bodily exhaustion he could not help it. In like manner it is noticed that criminals on the night previous to their execution seldom awake before they are called, a proof that the body is the master of us far more than we need be willing to allow. Should this note by any possible chance be seen by any of my countrymen who might have been in the gallery at the time (and several persons were there) and witnessed such an indecorum, I hope he will give up the opinion which he might naturally have formed to my prejudice.—I.F.]
The Baptist might have been ordain’d to cry Forth from the towers of that huge Pile, wherein His Father served Jehovah; but how win Due audience, how for aught but scorn defy The obstinate pride and wanton revelry 5 Of the Jerusalem below, her sin And folly, if they with united din Drown not at once mandate and prophecy? Therefore the Voice spake from the Desert, thence To Her, as to her opposite in peace, 10 Silence, and holiness, and innocence, To Her and to all Lands its warning sent, Crying with earnestness that might not cease, “Make straight a highway for the Lord—repent!”
XXI AT FLORENCE—FROM MICHAEL ANGELO
[However at first these two sonnets from Michael Angelo may seem in their spirit somewhat inconsistent with each other, I have not scrupled to place them side by side as characteristic of their great author, and others with whom he lived. I feel, nevertheless, a wish to know at what periods of his life they were respectively composed.[156] The latter, as it expresses, was written in his advanced years, when it was natural that the Platonism that pervades the one should give way to the Christian feeling that inspired the other: between both there is more than poetic affinity.—I.F.]
Rapt above earth by power of one fair face, Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights, I mingle with the blest on those pure heights Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place. With Him who made the Work that Work accords 5 So well, that by its help and through his grace I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words, Clasping her beauty in my soul’s embrace. Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn, I feel how in their presence doth abide 10 Light which to God is both the way and guide; And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn, My noble fire emits the joyful ray That through the realms of glory shines for aye.
XXII AT FLORENCE—FROM M. ANGELO
Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load, And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee; Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee To thy protection for a safe abode. The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree, 5 The meek, benign, and lacerated face, To a sincere repentance promise grace, To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine, My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear; 10 Neither put forth that way thy arm severe; Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto incline More readily the more my years require Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire.
XXIII AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE APENNINES
[The political revolutions of our time have multiplied, on the Continent, objects that unavoidably call forth reflections such as are expressed in these verses, but the Ruins in those countries are too recent to exhibit, in anything like an equal degree, the beauty with which time and nature have invested the remains of our Convents and Abbeys. These verses, it will be observed, take up the beauty long before it is matured, as one cannot but wish it may be among some of the desolations of Italy, France, and Germany.—I.F.]
Ye Trees! whose slender roots entwine Altars that piety neglects; Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine Which no devotion now respects; If not a straggler from the herd 5 Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird, Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride In aught that ye would grace or hide— How sadly is your love misplaced, Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste! 10 Ye, too,[157] wild Flowers! that no one heeds, And ye—full often spurned as weeds— In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness From fractured arch and mouldering wall— Do but more touchingly recal 15 Man’s headstrong violence and Time’s fleetness, Making[158] the precincts ye adorn Appear to sight still more forlorn.
XXIV IN LOMBARDY
See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves!—most hard Appears his lot, to the small Worm’s compared, For whom his toil with early day begins. Acknowledging no task-master, at will 5 (As if her labour and her ease were twins) She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still;— And softly sleeps within the thread she spins. So fare they—the Man serving as her Slave. Ere long their fates do each to each conform: 10 Both pass into new being,—but the Worm, Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave; His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend To bliss unbounded, glory without end.
XXV AFTER LEAVING ITALY
[I had proof in several instances that the Carbonari, if I may still call them so, and their favourers, are opening their eyes to the necessity of patience, and are intent upon spreading knowledge actively but quietly as they can. May they have resolution to continue in this course! for it is the only one by which they can truly benefit their country. We left Italy by the way which is called the “Nuova Strada de Allmagna,” to the east of the high passes of the Alps, which take you at once from Italy into Switzerland. This road leads across several smaller heights, and winds down different vales in succession, so that it was only by the accidental sound of a few German words that I was aware we had quitted Italy, and hence the unwelcome shock alluded to in the two or three last lines of the latter sonnet.—I.F.]
Fair Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few, Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, fame, Part from thee without pity dyed in shame: I could not—while from Venice we withdrew, Led on till an Alpine strait confined our view[159] 5 Within its depths, and to the shore we came Of Lago Morto, dreary sight and name, Which o’er sad thoughts a sadder colouring threw. Italia! on the surface of thy spirit, (Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake) 10 Shall a few partial breezes only creep?— Be its depths quickened; what thou dost inherit Of the world’s hopes, dare to fulfil; awake, Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like sleep!
XXVI CONTINUED
As indignation mastered grief, my tongue Spake bitter words; words that did ill agree With those rich stores of Nature’s imagery, And divine Art, that fast to memory clung— Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young 5 In the sun’s eye, and in his sister’s sight How beautiful! how worthy to be sung In strains of rapture, or subdued delight! I feign not; witness that unwelcome shock That followed the first sound of German speech, 10 Caught the far-winding barrier Alps among. In that announcement, greeting seemed to mock[160] Parting; the casual word had power to reach My heart, and filled that heart with conflict strong.
Composed 1837.—Published 1842
This was originally (1842) included in the “Memorials of a Tour in Italy,” but, in 1845, it was transferred, along with the two which follow it, to the “Sonnets dedicated to Liberty and Order.”—Ed.
I
Ah why deceive ourselves! by no mere fit Of sudden passion roused shall men attain True freedom where for ages they have lain Bound in a dark abominable pit, With life’s best sinews more and more unknit. 5 Here, there, a banded few who loathe the chain May rise to break it: effort worse than vain For thee, O great Italian nation, split Into those jarring fractions.—Let thy scope Be one fixed mind for all; thy rights approve 10 To thy own conscience gradually renewed; Learn to make Time the father of wise Hope; Then trust thy cause to the arm of Fortitude, The light of Knowledge, and the warmth of Love.
II CONTINUED
Composed 1837.—Published 1842
Hard task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean On Patience coupled with such slow endeavour, That long-lived servitude must last for ever. Perish the grovelling few, who, prest between Wrongs and the terror of redress, would wean 5 Millions from glorious aims. Our chains to sever Let us break forth in tempest now or never!— What, is there then no space for golden mean And gradual progress?—Twilight leads to day, And, even within the burning zones of earth, 10 The hastiest sunrise yields a temperate ray; The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
III CONCLUDED
Composed 1837.—Published 1842
As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow And wither, every human generation Is to the Being of a mighty nation, Locked in our world’s embrace through weal and woe; Thought that should teach the zealot to forego 5 Rash schemes, to abjure all selfish agitation, And seek through noiseless pains and moderation The unblemished good they only can bestow. Alas! with most, who weigh futurity Against time present, passion holds the scales: 10 Hence equal ignorance of both prevails, And nations sink; or, struggling to be free, Are doomed to flounder on, like wounded whales Tossed on the bosom of a stormy sea.
“WHAT IF OUR NUMBERS BARELY COULD DEFY”
Composed 1837.—Published 1837
One of the “Poems dedicated to National Independence and Liberty.”—Ed.
What if our numbers barely could defy The arithmetic of babes, must foreign hordes, Slaves, vile as ever were befooled by words, Striking through English breasts the anarchy Of Terror, bear us to the ground, and tie 5 Our hands behind our backs with felon cords? Yields every thing to discipline of swords? Is man as good as man, none low, none high?— Nor discipline nor valour can withstand The shock, nor quell[163] the inevitable rout, 10 When in some great extremity breaks out A people, on their own beloved Land Risen, like one man, to combat in the sight Of a just God for liberty and right.
A NIGHT THOUGHT
Composed 1837.—Published 1837
[These verses were thrown off extempore upon leaving Mrs. Luff’s house at Fox Ghyll one evening. The good woman is not disposed to look at the bright side of things, and there happened to be present certain ladies who had reached the point of life where youth is ended, and who seemed to contend with each other in expressing their dislike of the country and climate. One of them had been heard to say she could not endure a country where there was “neither sunshine nor cavaliers.”—I.F.]
This poem was first published in The Tribute, a Collection of Miscellaneous unpublished Poems by various Authors, edited by Lord Northampton, in 1837, “for the benefit of the widow and family of the Rev. Edward Smedley.” (The same volume contained a poem by Southey on Brough Bells.) It next found a place in “Poems chiefly of Early and Late Years” (1842). A stanza given in The Tribute, No. 2 (see below), was omitted afterwards.—Ed.
Lo! where the Moon along the sky Sails with her happy destiny;[164] Oft is she hid from mortal eye Or dimly seen, But when the clouds asunder fly 5 How bright her mien![165] Far different we—a froward race,[166] Thousands though rich in Fortune’s grace With cherished sullenness of pace Their way pursue, 10 Ingrates who wear a smileless face The whole year through. If kindred humours e’er would make[167] My spirit droop for drooping’s sake, From Fancy following in thy wake, 15 Bright ship of heaven! A counter impulse let me take And be forgiven.[168]
THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE SIDE
Published 1842
[The facts recorded in this Poem were given me, and the character of the person described, by my friend the Rev. R. P. Graves,[169] who has long officiated as curate at Bowness, to the great benefit of the parish and neighbourhood. The individual was well known to him. She died before these verses were composed. It is scarcely worth while to notice that the stanzas are written in the sonnet form, which was adopted when I thought the matter might be included in twenty-eight lines.—I.F.]
One of the “Poems founded on the Affections.”—Ed.
I How beautiful when up a lofty height Honour ascends among the humblest poor, And feeling sinks as deep! See there the door Of One, a Widow, left beneath a weight Of blameless debt. On evil Fortune’s spite 5 She wasted no complaint, but strove to make A just repayment, both for conscience-sake And that herself and hers should stand upright In the world’s eye. Her work when daylight failed Paused not, and through the depth of night she kept 10 Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed With some, the noble Creature never slept; But, one by one, the hand of death assailed Her children from her inmost heart bewept. II The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears to flow, 15 Till a winter’s noon-day placed her buried Son Before her eyes, last child of many gone— His raiment of angelic white, and lo! His very feet bright as the dazzling snow Which they are touching; yea far brighter, even 20 As that which comes, or seems to come, from heaven, Surpasses aught these elements can show. Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that hour Whate’er befel she could not grieve or pine; But the Transfigured, in and out of season, 25 Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a power Over material forms that mastered reason. Oh, gracious Heaven, in pity make her thine! III But why that prayer? as if to her could come No good but by the way that leads to bliss 30 Through Death,—so judging we should judge amiss. Since reason failed want is her threatened doom, Yet frequent transports mitigate the gloom: Nor of those maniacs is she one that kiss The air or laugh upon a precipice; 35 No, passing through strange sufferings toward the tomb, She smiles as if a martyr’s crown were won: Oft, when light breaks through clouds or waving trees, With outspread arms and fallen upon her knees The Mother hails in her descending Son 40 An Angel, and in earthly ecstasies Her own angelic glory seems begun.