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in prayer.

That glimss., that vision of a brighter And heard its mournful echoes, as the day

last For his dear Rome, must to a Roman High-minded heirs of the Republic be,

passed. Short as it was, worth ages past away 'Twas then that thou, their Tribune

In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery: (name which brought 'Twas on a night of May-beneath that Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's

thought), Which had through many an age seen Didst, from a spirit Rome in vain shall Time untune

seek The strings of this Great Empire, till it To call up in her sons again, thus fell

speak: From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell

• Romans ! look round you--on this The sound of the church clock, near sacred place Adrian's Tomb,

There once stood shrines, and gods, Summoned the warriors, who had risen and god-like menfor Rome,

What see you now? what solitary trace To meet unarmed, with vaught to Is left of all that made Rome's glory watch them there

then ? But God's own eye, and pass the night The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount

bereft Holy beginning of a holy cause, Even its name—and nothing now When heroes, girt for Freedom's com- remains

But the deep memory of that glory, Before high Heaven, and, humble in left their might,

To whet our pangs and aggravate our Call down its blessing on that awful chains ! fight.

But shall this be ?-our sun and sky

the same, At dawn, in arms, wen, worth the Treading the very soil our fathers patriot band,

trod, And as the breeze, fresh from the Tiber, What withering curse hath fallen on fanned

soul and frame, Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could

What visitation hath there come

from God, The palm-tree there, the sword, the To blast our strength and rot us into keys of Heaven

slaves, Types of the justice, peace, and liberty, Here, on our great forefathers' glorious That were to bless them when their chains were riven.

It cannot be — rise up, ye Mighty On to the Capitol the pageant moved, Dead, While many a Shade of other times, If we, the living, are too weak to that still

crush Around that grave of grandeur sighing These tyrant priests, that o'er your roved,

empire tread, Hung o'er their footsteps up the Till all but Romans at Rome's tame. Sacred Hill,

ness blush !

bat, pause


graves ?

It is not easy to discover wliat church is dix-neuvième, dans l'église du château de Saintmeant by Du Cerceau here : 'Il fit crier dans les Ange au son de la cloche, afin de pourvoir au Bon rues de Rome, à son de trompe, que chacun eût à Etat.' se trouver, sans armes, la nuit du lendemain,


• Happy Palmyra ! in thy desert domes, | But this is past-too long have lordly Where only date-trees sigh and priests serpents hiss ;

And priestly lords led us, with all And thou, whose pillars are but silent our pride homes

Withering about us, like devoted beasts, For the stork's brood, superb Per- Dragged to the shrine, with faded sepolis !

garlands tied. Thrice happy both that your extin- 'Tis o'er—the dawn of our deliverance guished race

breaks ! Have left no embers-no half-living Up from his sleep of centuries awakes trace

The Genius of the Old Republic, free No slaves, to crawl around the once As first he stood, in chainless majesty, proud spot,

And sends his voice through ages yet Till past renown in present shame's

to come, forgot ;

Proclaiming Rome, Rome, Rome, While Rome, the Queen of all, whose Eternal Rome !

very wrecks, If lone and lifeless through a desert

hurled, Would wear more true magnificence

EXTRACT VII. than decks

Rome. The assembled thrones of all the existing world

Mary Magdalen.-Her Story.Numerous Rome, Rome alone, is haunted, stained, Pictures of her.-Correggio.Guido.and cursed,

Raphel, etc.-Canova's two exquisite Through every spot her princely Statues. --The Somariva Magdalen.Tiber laves,

Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's By living human things—the deadliest, Works.

worst, This earth engenders-tyrants and No wonder, Mary, that thy story their slaves !

Touches all hearts ; for there we see And we'-oh shame !-we, who have The soul's corruption and its glory, pondered o'er

Its death and life, combined in thee, The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay; From the first moment, when we find Have mounted up the streams of Thy spirit, haunted by a swarm ancient lore,

Of dark desires, which had enshrined Tracking our country's glories all the Themselves, like demons, in thy form, way-

Till when, by touch of Heaven set free, Even we have tamely, basely kissed the Thou cam’st, with those bright locks

ground Before that Papal Power, that Ghost (So oft the gaze of Bethany), of Her,

And, covering in their precious fold The World's Imperial Mistress-sitting, Thy Saviour's feet, did shed such tears crowned

As paid, each drop, the sins of years !And ghastly, on her mouldering Thenceon, through allthy course of love sepulchre !

To Him, thy Heavenly Master, -Him

of gold

"The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning high and patriotic hopes by the first measures of 'Spirto gentil,' is supposed, by Voltaire and this extraordinary man, appears from one of his others, to have been addressed to Rienzi; but letters, quoted by Du Cerceau, where he says, there is much more evidence of its having been Pour tout dire, en un mot, j'atteste, non comme written, as Ginguené asserts, to the young lecteur, mais comme témoin oculaire, qu'il nous Stephen Colonna, on his being created a Senator à ramené la justice, la paix, la bonne foi, la of Rome. That Petrarch, however, was filled with sécurité, et toutes les autres vestiges de l'aged'or.' Whose bitter death-cup from above, Thy faith has given thee in the skies, Had yet this sweetening round the

Ånd in the hearts of all men herebrim,

Not one hath equalled, hath come nigh That woman's faith and love stood fast Canova's fancy; oh, not one And fearless by Him to the last ! Hath made thee feel, and live, and die Till--blessed reward for truth like In tears away, as he hath done, thine!

In those bright images, more bright Thou wert, of all, the chosen one, With true expression's breathing light Before whose eyes that Face Divine, Than ever yet beneath the stroke

When risen from the dead, first shone, Of chisel into life awoke ! That thou mightst see how, like a cloud, The one,' portraying what thou wert Had passed away its mortal shroud, In thy first grief, while yet the flower And make that bright rerealment Of those young beauties was unhurt known

By sorrow's slow consuming power, To hearts less trusting than thy own-- | And mingling earth's luxurious grace All is affecting, cheering, grand;

With Heaven's subliming thoughts The kindliest record ever given,

so well, Even under God's own kindly hand, We gaze, and know not in which place Of what Repentance wins from Such beauty most was formed to Heaven!

dwell ! No wonder, Mary, that thy face,

The other, as thou lookedst when years In all its touching light of tears,

Of fasting, penitence, and tears Should meet us in each holy place,

Had worn thee down--and ne'er did Art Where Man before his God appears. The ruin which a breaking heart

With half such mental power express Hopeless—were he not taught to see All hope in Him who pardoned thee !

Spreads, by degrees, o'er loveliness! No wonder that the painter's skill

Those wasted arms, that keep the trace, Should oft have triumphed in the Even now, of all their youthful grace

Those tresses, of thy charms the last power Of keeping thee most lovely still

Whose pride forsook thee, wildly castThroughout thy sorrow's bitterest Those features, even in fading worth hour

The freshest smiles to others given,

And those sunk eyes, that see not earth, That soft Correggio should diffuse

But whose last looks are full of His melting shadows round thy form;

Heaven ! That Guido's pale unearthly hues

Should, in portraying thee, grow Wonderful artist ! praise like mineThat all—from the ideal, grand,

Though springing from a soul that

feels Inimitable Roman hand,

Deep worship of those works divine, Down to the small, enamelling touch Of smooth Carlino-should delight

Where Genius all his light reveals —

Is little to the words that came In picturing her who loved so much,' From him, thy peer in art and fame,

And was, in spite of sin, so bright! Whom I have known, by day, by night, But, Mary, 'mong the best essays Hang o'er thy marble with delight, Of Genius and of Art to raise

And, while his lingering hand would A semblance of those weeping eyes —

steal A vision, worthy of the sphere O'er every grace the taper's rays, 2

warm ;

? This statue isone of the last works of Canova, sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. in the possession of the Count Somariva, at Paris. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction % Canova always shows his fine statue, the to very high authority, that expression of the Venere Vincitrice, by the light of a small candle. intensest kind is fully within the sphere of

Give thee, with all the generous zeal This narrow valley, and the song
Such master-spirits only feel,

Of its small murmuring rivuletThat best of fame-a rival's praise ! The flitting to and fro of birds,

Tranquil and tame as they were once
In Eden, ere the startling words

Of man disturbed their orisons !

Those little, shadowy paths, that wind

Les Charmettes. Up the hill-side, with fruit-trees lined, A Visit to the House where Rousseau And lighted only by the breaks

lived with Madame de Warens. Their The gay wind in the foliage makes, Ménage.Its Grossness.Claude Anet. Or vistas here and there, that ope -Reverence with which the Spot is now Through weeping willows, like the visited Absurdity of this blind De

snatches notion to Pame. - Feelings excited by Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope, the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Even through the shade of sadness, - Disturbed by its Associations with

catches ! Rousseau's History.Impostures of All this, which—could I once but lose Men of Genius. Their Power of

The memory of those vulgar ties, mimicking ull the best Feelings, Love, Whose grossness all the heavenliest Independence, etc.


Of Genius can no more disguise, STRANCE power of Genius, that can Than the sun's beams can do away throw

The filth of fens o'er which they playO'er all that's vicious, weak, and low, This scene, which would have tilled my Such magic lights, such rainbow dyes, heart As dazzle even the steadiest eyes ! With thoughts of all that happiest


Of Love, where self hath only part, 'Tis too absurd—'tis weakness, shame, As echoing back another's blissThis low prostration before Fame

Of solitude, secure and sweet, This casting down beneath the car

Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet; Of idols, whatsoe'er they are,

Which, while it shelters, never chills Life's purest, holiest decencies,

Our sympathies with human woe, To be careered o'er, as they please.

But keeps them, like sequestered rills, No-let triumphant Genius have

Purer and fresher in their flowAll that his loftiest wish can crave. Of happy days, that share their beams If he be worshipped, let it be

'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employFor attributes, his noblest, first- Of tranquil nights, that give id dreams Not with that base idolatry,

The moonlight of the morning's joy!Which sanctifies his last and worst.

All this my heart could dwell on here,

But for those hateful memories near, I

may be cold-may want that glow Those sordid truths, that cross the track Of high romance, which bards should Of each sweet thought, and drive them know;

back That holy homage, which is felt Full into all the mire, and strife, In treading where the great have And vanities of that man's life, dwelt

Who, more than all that e'er have This reverence, whatsoe'er it be,

glowed I fear, I feel, I have it not,

With Fancy's flame (and it was his, For here, at this still hour, to me If ever given to mortal) showed

The charms of this delightful spot- What an impostor Genius isIts calm seclusion from the throng, How with that strong, mimetic art,

From allthe heart would fain forget- Which is its life and soul, it takes

All shapes of thought, all hues of heart, How all, in short, that makes the boast

Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes— Of their false tongues, they want the How like a gem its light may smile

most; O'er the dark path, by mortals trod, And while, with Freedom on their lips, Itself as mean a worm, the while, Sounding her timbrels, to set free

As crawls along the sullying sod-- This bright world, labouring in the What sensibility may fall

eclipse From its false lip, what plans to Of priestcraft and of slavery, bless,

They may, themselves, be slaves as low While home, friends, kindred, country, As ever lord or tron made, all,

To blossom in his smile, or grow, Lie waste beneath its selfishness - Likestunted brushwood, in his shade! How, with the pencil hardly dry From colouring up such scenes of Out on the craft-I'd rather be love

One of those hinds that round me And beauty, as make young hearts tread, sigh,

With just enough of sense to see Anıl dream, and think through The noon-day sun that's o'er my head, Heaven they rove,

Than thus, with high-built genius They, who can thus describe and move, cursed,

The very workers of these charms, That hath no heart for its foundation, Nor seek, nor ask a Heaven, above Be all, at once, that's brightest-worst

Some Maman's or Theresa's arms! Sublimest-meanest in creation !


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