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.

[60] The following is the Itinerary of the Italian Tour of 1837, supplied by Mr. Henry Crabb Robinson. (See Memoirs of Wordsworth, vol. ii. pp. 316, 317.) The spelling of the names of places is Robinson’s.

[61] 1845.

To …

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]

[62] Wordsworth himself, his nephew tells us, had no sense of smell (see the Memoirs, by his nephew Christopher, vol. ii. p. 322).—Ed.

[63] Afterwards Father Faber, priest of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri.—Ed.

[64] Monte Amiata,—Ed.

[65] On the old high road from Siena to Rome.—Ed.

[66] The mountain between Rydal Head and Helvellyn.—Ed.

[67] Seat Sandal is the mountain between Tongue Ghyll and Grisedale Tarn on the south and east, and the Dunmail Raise road on the west.—Ed.

[68] Compare The Eclipse of the Sun, l. 78, in “Memorials of a Tour on the Continent in 1820” (vol. vi. p. 345).—Ed.

[69] Keppelcove, Nethermost cove, and the cove in which Red Tarn lies bounded by the “skeleton arms” of Striding Edge and Swirrel Edge. Compare Fidelity, l. 17, vol. iii. p. 45—

It was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps, till June, December’s snow.

Ed.

[70] Descending to Ullswater from Helvellyn, Greenside Fell and Mines are passed.—Ed.

[71] The Glenridding Screes are bold rocks on the left as you descend Helvellyn to Patterdale.—Ed.

[72] Glencoign is an offshoot of the Patterdale valley between Glenridding and Goldbarrow.—Ed.

[73] 1845.

… but …

1842.

[74] See the Fenwick note.—Ed.

[75] These words were quoted to me from Yarrow Unvisited, by Sir Walter Scott, when I visited him at Abbotsford, a day or two before his departure for Italy: and the affecting condition in which he was when he looked upon Rome from the Janicular Mount, was reported to me by a lady who had the honour of conducting him thither.—W.W. 1842. See also the Fenwick note to this poem, and compare Lockhart’s Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott (chapter lxxx. vol. x. p. 104).—Ed.

[76] The Janicular Mount.—Ed.

[77] See the Fenwick note prefixed to this poem.—Ed.

[78] He was then sixty-seven years of age.—Ed.

[79] See the Fenwick note.—Ed.

[80] The Campo Santo, or Burial Ground, founded by Archbishop Ubaldo (1188-1200).—Ed.

[81] “There are forty-three flat arcades, resting on forty-four pilasters.… In the interior there is a spacious hall, the open round-arched windows of which, with their beautiful tracery, sixty-two in number, look out upon a green quadrangle.… The walls are covered with frescoes by the Tuscan School of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, below which is a collection of Roman, Etruscan, and mediaeval sculptures.… The tombstones of persons interred here form the pavement.” (Baedeker’s Northern Italy, p. 324.)—Ed.

[82] Ubaldo conveyed hither fifty-three ship-loads of earth from Mount Calvary, in the Holy Land, in order that the dead might repose in holy ground.—Ed.

[83] The Baptistery in Pisa was begun in 1153 by Diotisalvi, and completed in 1278. It is a circular structure, covered by a conical dome, 190 feet high.—Ed.

[84] The Cathedral of Pisa is a basilica, built in 1063, in the Tuscan style, and has an elliptical dome.—Ed.

[85] The Campanile, or Clock-Tower, rises in eight stories to the height of 179 feet, and (from its oblique position) is known as the Leaning-Tower.—Ed.

[86] 1845.

Not …

1842.

[87] See the Fenwick note to this poem. Savona is a town on the Gulf of Genoa, capital of the Montenotte Department under Napoleon.—Ed.

[88] The theatre in Savona is dedicated to Chiabrera, who was a native of the place.—Ed.

[89] If any English reader should be desirous of knowing how far I am justified in thus describing the epitaphs of Chiabrera, he will find translated specimens of them in this Volume, under the head of “Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces.”—W.W. 1842.

[90] Tusculum was the birthplace of the elder Cato, and the residence of Cicero.—Ed.

[91] “Satis beatus unicis Sabinis.” Odes, ii. 18, 14.—Ed.

[92] See Horace, Odes, iii. 13.—Ed.

[93] See Horace, Epistles, i. 10, 49—

Haec tibi dictabam post fanum putre Vacunae.

Vacuna was a Sabine divinity. She had a sanctuary near Horace’s Villa. (Compare Pliny, Nat. Hist. iii. 42, 47.) A traveller in Italy writes: “Following a path along the brink of the torrent Digentia, we passed a towering rock, on which once stood Vacuna’s shrine.” See also Ovid, Fasti, vi. 307.—Ed.

[94] The Bay of Naples. Neapolis (the new city) received its ancient name of Parthenope from one of the Sirens, whose body was said to have been washed ashore in that bay. Sil. 12, 33.—Ed.

[95] See Georgics, iv. 564.—Ed.

[96] Virgil died at Brundusium, but his remains were carried to his favourite residence, Naples, and were buried by the side of the road leading to Puteoli—the Via Puteolana. His tomb is still pointed out near Posilipo,—close to the sea, and about half way from Naples to Puteoli, the Scuola di Virgilio.

“The monument, now called the tomb of Virgil, is not on the road which passes through the tunnel of Posilipo; but if the Via Puteolana ascended the hill of Posilipo, as it may have done, the situation of the monument would agree very well with the description of Donatus.” (George Long, in Smith’s Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography.)

The inscription said to have been placed on the tomb was as follows:—

Mantua me genuit, Calabri rapuere, tenet nunc

Parthenope. Cecini pascua, rura, duces.

Ed.

[97] The catacombs were subterranean chambers and passages, usually cut out of the solid rock, and used as places of burial, or of refuge. The early Christians made use of the catacombs in the Appian Way for worship, as well as for sepulture.—Ed.

[98] The Carcer Mamertinus,—one of the most ancient Roman structures,—overhung the Forum, as Livy tells us, “imminens foro,” underneath the Capitoline hill. It still exists, and is entered from the sacristy of the church of S. Giuseppe de Falagnami, to the left of the arch of Severus. It was originally a well (the Tullianum of Livy), and afterwards a prison, in which Jugurtha was starved to death, and Catiline’s accomplices perished. There are two chambers in the prison, one beneath the other; the lower-most containing, in its rock floor, a spring, which rises nearly to the surface. For the legend connected with it see the next note.—Ed.

[99] According to the legend, St. Peter, who was imprisoned in the Carcer Mamertinus under Nero, caused this spring to flow miraculously in order to baptize his jailors. Hence the building is called S. Pietro in Carcere.—Ed.

[100] Compare “Despondency Corrected,” The Excursion, book iv. l. 1058—

Within the soul a faculty abides, etc.

Ed.

[101] See the Fenwick note.—Ed.

[102] It would be ungenerous not to advert to the religious movement that, since the composition of these verses in 1837, has made itself felt, more or less strongly, throughout the English Church;—a movement that takes, for its first principle, a devout deference to the voice of Christian antiquity. It is not my office to pass judgment on questions of theological detail; but my own repugnance to the spirit and system of Romanism has been so repeatedly and, I trust, feelingly expressed, that I shall not be suspected of a leaning that way, if I do not join in the grave charge, thrown out, perhaps in the heat of controversy, against the learned and pious men to whose labours I allude. I speak apart from controversy; but, with strong faith in the moral temper which would elevate the present by doing reverence to the past, I would draw cheerful auguries for the English Church from this movement, as likely to restore among us a tone of piety more earnest and real than that produced by the mere formalities of the understanding, refusing, in a degree, which I cannot but lament, that its own temper and judgment shall be controlled by those of antiquity.—W.W. 1842.

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]

[103] The Monte Mario is to the north-west of Rome, beyond the Janiculus and the Vatican. The view from the summit embraces Rome, the Campagna, and the sea. It is capped by the villa Millini, in which the “magnificent solitary pine-tree” of this sonnet still stands, amidst its cypress plantations.—Ed.

[104] “It was Mr. Theed, the sculptor, who informed us of the pine-tree being the gift of Sir George Beaumont.” H.C. Robinson. (See Memoirs of Wordsworth, by his nephew, vol. ii. p. 330.)—Ed.

[105] From the Mons Pincius, “collis hortorum,” where were the gardens of Lucullus, there is a remarkable view of modern Rome.—Ed.

[106] Within a couple of hours of my arrival at Rome, I saw from Monte Pincio, the Pine tree as described in the sonnet; and, while expressing admiration at the beauty of its appearance, I was told by an acquaintance of my fellow-traveller, who happened to join us at the moment, that a price had been paid for it by the late Sir G. Beaumont, upon condition that the proprietor should not act upon his known intention of cutting it down.—W.W. 1842.

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.

[107] The Tarpeian rock, from which those condemned to death were hurled, is not now precipitous, as it used to be: the ground having been much raised by successive heaps of ruin.—Ed.

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.

[108] Niebuhr, in his Lectures on Roman History (1826-29), was one of the first to point out the legendary character of much of the earlier history, and its “historical impossibility.” He explained the way in which much of it had originated in family and national vanity, etc.—Ed.

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]

[109] Clio, daughter of Zeus and Mnemosyne, the first-born of the Muses, presided over History. It was her office to record the actions of illustrious heroes.—Ed.

[110] 1845.

Her rights to claim, and vindicate the truth.

Her faithful Servants while she walked with men

Were they who, …

1842.

[111] 1845.

… their …

1842.

[112] 1845.

And, at the Muse’s will, invoked the lyre

To animate, …

1842.

[113]

Quem virum—lyra—

—sumes celebrare Clio?

W. W. 1842.

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.

[114] 1845.

They—who have heard thy lettered sages treat

1842.

[115] 1845.

… voice …

1842.

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.

[116] Albano, 10 miles south-east of Rome, is a small town and episcopal residence, a favourite autumnal resort of Roman citizens. It is on the site of the ruins of the villa of Pompey. Monte Carlo (the Monte Calvo of this sonnet) is the ancient Mons Latialis, 3127 feet high. At its summit a convent of Passionist Monks occupies the site of the ancient temple of Jupiter.—Ed.

[117] The ilex-grove of the Villa Doria is one of the most marked features of Albano.—Ed.

[118] 1845.

Its own fulfilment; but her upward track

1842.

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]

[119] The Anio joins the Tiber north of Rome, flowing from the north-east past Tivoli.—Ed.

[120] 1845.

Even though men seek them not, but, while they plough

1842.

[121] 1845.

… the vouchsafed Now.

1842.

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]

[122] The ancient Classic period, and that of the Renaissance.—Ed.

[123] This period seems to have been already entered. Compare Mrs. Browning’s “Poems before Congress,” passim.—Ed.

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.

[124] The Carthaginian general Hannibal defeated the Roman Consul C. Flaminius, near the lacus Trasimenus, 217 B.C., with a loss of 15,000 men. (See Livy, book xxii. 4, etc.)—Ed.

[125] Compare Hannibal, A Historical Drama, by the late Professor John Nichol, act II. scene vi. p. 107—

Here shall shepherds tell

To passing travellers, when we are dust,

How, by the shores of reedy Thrasymene,

We fought and conquered, while the earthquake shook

The walls of Rome.

Ed.

[126] Sanguinetto.—W.W. 1845.

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]

[127] Lake Thrasymene is the largest of the Etrurian lakes, being ten miles in length and three in breadth.—Ed.

[128] C. Flaminius.—Ed.

[129] After the battle of Lake Thrasymene, Hannibal did not push on to Rome, but turned through the Apennines to Apulia, just as subsequently after the battle of Cannas he remained inactive.—Ed.

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.

[130] Laverna is a corruption of Alverna (now called Alverniac). It is about five or six hours’ walk from Camaldoli, on a height of the Apennines, not far from the sources of the Anio. To reach it, “the southern height of the Monte Valterona is ascended as far as the chapel of St. Romaiald; then a descent is made to Moggiona, beyond which the path turns to the left, traversing a long and fatiguing succession of gorges and slopes; the path at the base of the mountain is therefore preferable. The market town of Soci in the valley of the Archiano is first reached, then the profound valley of the Corsaline; beyond it rises a blunted cone, on which the path ascends in windings to a stony plain with marshy meadows. Above this rises the abrupt sandstone mass of the Vernia, to the height of 850 feet. On its S.W. slope, one-third of the way up, and 3906 feet above the sea-level, is seen a wall with small windows, the oldest part of the monastery, built in 1218 by St. Francis of Assisi. The church dates from 1284.… One of the grandest points is the Penna della Vernia (4796 feet), the ridge of the Vernia, also known as l’Apennino, the ‘rugged rock between the sources of the Tiber and Anio,’ as it is called by Dante (Paradiso, ii. 106).… Near the monastery are the Luoghi Santi, a number of grottos and rock-hewn chambers in which St. Francis once lived.” (See Baedeker’s Northern Italy, 1886, p. 463.)

“The Monte Alverno, or Monte della Verni is situated on the border of Tuscany, near the sources of the Tiber and Anio, not far from the Castle of Chiusi, where Orlando lived.” (Mrs. Oliphant’s Francis of Assisi, chap. xvi. p. 248.)

See also Herzog’s Real-Encyklopädie für protestantische Theologie und Kirche, vol. iv. p. 655.—Ed.

[131] Compare To the Cuckoo, II. 3, 4 (vol. ii. p. 289)—

… Bird,

Or but a wandering Voice?

Ed.

[132] Compare To the Cuckoo, l. 15 (vol. ii. p. 290)—

No bird, but an invisible thing.

Ed.

[133] From the difference in the colour of each side of the leaf, a grove of olives when wind-tossed is pre-eminently a “twinkling canopy.”—Ed.

[134] See note, p. 67.—Ed.

[135] St. Francis of Assisi, founder of the order of Friars Minors, after establishing numerous monasteries in Italy, Spain, and France, resigned his office and retired to this, one of the highest of the Apennine heights. See note, p. 67. He was canonised in 1230. Henry Crabb Robinson tells us, “It was at Laverna that he” [W.W.] “led me to expect that he had found a subject on which he could write, and that was the love which birds bore to St. Francis. He repeated to me a short time afterwards a few lines, which I do not recollect amongst those he has written on St. Francis in this poem. On the journey, one night only I heard him in bed composing verses, and on the following day I offered to be his amanuensis; but I was not patient enough, I fear, and he did not employ me a second time. He made inquiries for St. Francis’s biography, as if he would dub him his Leibheiliger (body-saint), as Goethe (saying that every one must have one) declared St. Philip Neri to be his.” (See the Memoirs of William Wordsworth, by his nephew, vol. ii. p. 331)—Ed.

[136] The characteristic feature of the Franciscan order was its vow of Poverty, and Francis desired that it should be taken in the most rigorous sense, viz. that no individual member of the fraternity, nor the fraternity itself, should be allowed to possess any property whatsoever, even in things necessary to human use.—Ed.

[137] The members of the Franciscan order were the Stoics of Christendom. The order has been powerful, and of great service to the Roman Church—alike in literature, and in practical action and enterprise.—Ed.

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.

[138] 1845.

received these particulars.

1842.

[139] 1845.

famous Italian mystics,

1842.

[140] 1845.

San Dionysia, Areopagitica, and with

1842.

[141] 1845.

are among ascetics in high repute, but she was a Spaniard.

1842.

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.

[142] 1845.

… and so subdue

1842.

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]

[143] In justice to the Benedictines of Camaldoli, by whom strangers are so hospitably entertained, I feel obliged to notice, that I saw among them no other figures at all resembling, in size and complexion, the two Monks described in this Sonnet. What was their office, or the motive which brought them to this place of mortification, which they could not have approached without being carried in this or some other way, a feeling of delicacy prevented me from inquiring. An account has before been given of the hermitage they were about to enter. It was visited by us towards the end of the month of May; yet snow was lying thick under the pine-trees, within a few yards of the gate.—W.W. 1842.

[144] See note, pp. 72, 73.—Ed.

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

[145] The name of Milton is pleasingly connected with Vallombrosa in many ways. The pride with which the Monk, without any previous question from me, pointed out his residence, I shall not readily forget. It may be proper here to defend the Poet from a charge which has been brought against him, in respect to the passage in Paradise Lost, where this place is mentioned. It is said, that he has erred in speaking of the trees there being deciduous, whereas they are, in fact, pines. The fault-finders are themselves mistaken; the natural woods of the region of Vallombrosa are deciduous, and spread to a great extent; those near the convent are, indeed, mostly pines; but they are avenues of trees planted within a few steps of each other, and thus composing large tracts of wood; plots of which are periodically cut down. The appearance of those narrow avenues, upon steep slopes open to the sky, on account of the height which the trees attain by being forced to grow upwards, is often very impressive. My guide, a boy of about fourteen years old, pointed this out to me in several places.—W.W. 1842.

[146] Compare Paradise Lost, book i. l. 302. Vallombrosa—the shady valley—is 18 miles distant from Florence. Wordsworth’s quotation from Milton was from memory. It is not quite accurate.—Ed.

[147] See for the two first lines, Stanzas composed in the Simplon Pass.—W.W. 1842. (See vol. vi. p. 357.)—Ed.

[148] The monastery of Vallombrosa was founded about 1050, by S. Giovanni Gnalberto. It was suppressed in 1869, and is now converted into the R. Instituto Forestale, or forest school. The “cell,” the “sequestered retreat” referred to by Wordsworth, is doubtless Il Paradisino, or Le Celle, a small hermitage 266 feet above the monastery, which is itself 2980 feet above the sea.—Ed.

[149] Compare Milton’s letter to Benedetto Bonmattei of Florence, written during his stay in the city, September 10, 1638.—Ed.

[150] 1845.

… might …

1842.

[151] 1845.

Would …

1842.

[152] Compare Paradise Lost, book iii. l. 29—

… but chief

Thee, Sion, and the flourie Brooks beneath,

That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow,

Nightly I visit.

Ed.

[153] 1845.

… they …

1842.

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.

[154] The Sasso di Dante is built into the wall of the house, No. 29 Casa dei Canonici, close to the Duomo.—Ed.

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!”

[155] This sonnet refers to the picture of the young St. John the Baptist, now in the Tribuna, Florence, designed about the same time as the Madonna di San Sisto, for Cardinal Colonna, who is said to have presented it to his doctor, Jacopo da Carpi. It has been much admired, and often copied; but it is inferior, both in drawing and in colouring, to the great works of Raphael. How much of it was actually from his hand is uncertain; and Baptist is painted rather like a Bacchus than a Saint.—Ed.

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.

[156] The second of the two sonnets translated by Wordsworth is No. lxxiii. in Signor Cesare Guastî’s edition of Michael Angelo (1863).

At the Foot of the Cross.

Scaro d’un’ importuna.

It was evidently written in old age. The following is Mr. John Addington Symond’s translation of the same sonnet.

Freed from a burden sore and grievous band,

Dear Lord, and from this wearying world untied,

Like a frail bark I turn me to Thy side,

As from a fierce storm to a tranquil land.

Thy thorns, Thy nails, and either bleeding hand,

With Thy mild gentle piteous face, provide

Promise of help and mercies multiplied,

And hope that yet my soul secure may stand.

Let not Thy holy eyes be just to see

My evil part, Thy chastened ears to hear,

And stretch the arm of judgment to my crime:

Let Thy blood only love and succour me,

Yielding more perfect pardon, better cheer,

As older still I grow with lengthening time.

The Sonnets of Michael Angelo Buonarroti and Tomaso Campanella, by John Addington Symonds, p. 110.

Compare Wordsworth’s translation of other three sonnets by Michael Angelo (vol. iii. pp. 380-384).—Ed.

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.

[157] 1845.

And ye, …

1842.

[158] 1845.

And make …

1842.

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!

[159] They left Venice by the Nuova Strada de Allmagna, resting at Logerone, Sillian, Spittal (in Carinthia), and thence on to Salzburg.—Ed.

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.

[160] See the Fenwick note to the last sonnet.—Ed.

AT BOLOGNA, IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE LATE INSURRECTIONS, 1837[161][162]

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.

[161] This date was omitted in the edition of 1842.

[162] The three sonnets, At Bologna, in remembrance of the late Insurrections, 1837, are printed as a sequel to the Italian Tour of that year.—Ed.