Even I have felt beneath those beams, And manage, at the self-same time, Some bards there are who cannot If thus I've felt, how must they feel, Shadows of things divine appear— But this reminds me I digress ; scribble Without a glove, to tear or nibble, As if the hidden founts of Fancy, By mystic tricks of rhabdomancy. As for myself—to come at last To the old way in which I writeHaving employed these few months past For Plato, too, produced, 'tis said Chiefly in travelling, day and night, (As one indeed might almost guess), I've got into the easy mode, His glorious visions all in bed.1 You see, of rhyming on the road'Twas in his carriage the sublime Making a way-bill of my pages, Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme; Counting my stanzas by my stagesAnd (if the wits don't do him wrong), 'Twixt lays and re-lays no time lost"Twixt death and epics passed his time, In short, in two words, writing post. Scribbling and killing all day long-My verses, I suspect, not ill Like Phoebus in his car, at ease, Now warbling forth a lofty song, There was a hero 'mong the Danes, By Bartholinus in his book.2 The only authority I know for imputing this practice to Plato and Herodotus, is a Latin poem by M. de Valois on his Bed, in which he says: Lucifer Herodotum vidit vesperque cubantem; Desedit totos hic Plato sæpe dies. 2 Eadem cura nec minores inter cruciatus animam infelicem agenti fuit Asbiorno Prudæ Resembling the crazed vehicle (An old calèche, for which a villain On weak, but rather easy, springs, And (where the road is not so rough, Down precipices) safe enough.- Of the Reviews to overhaul. Danico heroi, cum Bruso ipsum, intestina extra hens, immaniter torqueret, tune enim nove carmina cecinit, etc.-Bartholin. de causis cor tempt. mort. 3 Made of paper, twisted up like a fan of feather. Mme de Staël is here alluded to. 4 Custom-house officers. RHYMES ON THE ROAD. EXTRACT I. Geneva. View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura.-Anxious to reach it before the Sun went down.-Obliged to proceed on Foot.-Alps.-Mont Blanc.-Effect of the Scene. "TWAS late-the sun had almost shone His last and best, when I ran on, Anxious to reach that splendid view Before the day-beams quite withdrew ; And feeling as all feel, on first Approaching scenes where, they are told, Such glories on their eyes shall burst As youthful bards in dreams behold. 'Twas distant yet, and, as I ran, Full often was my wistful gaze Turned to the sun, who now began To call in all his outpost rays, And form a denser march of light, Such as beseems a hero's flight. Oh, how I wished for Joshua's power, To stay the brightness of that hour! But no-the sun still less became, Diminished to a speck, as splendid And small as were those tongues of flame That on the Apostles' heads descended! "Twas at this instant-while there glowed This last, intensest gleam of light Suddenly, through the opening road, The valley burst upon my sight! That glorious valley, with its lake, And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling, Mighty, and pure, and fit to make The ramparts of a Godhead's dwelling! I stood entranced an 1 mute--as they Among the opening clouds shall shine, As sure a sign of Deity As e'er to mortal gaze was given. To live my life twice o'er again, 'Twas all that consciousness of power, When near their time for change of skies That proud assurance of our claim To rank among the Sons of Light, Mingled with shame oh, bitter shame! ! At having risked that splendid right, For aught that earth, through all its range 'Twas all this, at the instant brought, Of glories, offers in exchange! Like breaking sunshine, o'er my thought "Twas all this, kindled to a glow Of sacred zeal, which, could it shine Thus purely ever, man might grow, Even upon earth, a thing divine, And be once more the creature made To walk unstained the Elysian shade! No-never shall I lose the trace Of what I've felt in this bright place. And should my spirit's hope grow weak; Should I, oh God! e'er doubt thy power, This mighty scene again I'll seek, At the same calm and glowing hour, And here, at the sublimest shrine That Nature ever reared to Thee, Rekindle all that hope divine, And feel my immortality! 1 Between Vattay and Gex. Not from a blood-stained diadem, Like that which decked this oceanqueen, But from high daring in the cause Of human Rights-the only good And blessed strife, in which man draws His powerful sword on land or flood. Mourn not for Venice-though her fall That run the guilty race she ran, True, her high spirit is at rest, And all those days of glory gone, When the world's waters, east and west, Beneath her white-winged commerce shone; Under the Doge Michaeli, in 1171. 2 La famille entière des Justiniani, l'une des plus illustres de Venise, voulut marcher toute entière dans cette expedition: elle fournit cent combattans: c'était renouveler l'exemple d'une illustre famille de Rome; le même malheur les attendait.-Histoire de Venise, par Daru. 3 The celebrated Fra Paolo. The collection of maxims which this bold monk drew up, at the request of the Venetian Government, for the guidance of the Secret Inquisition of State, are so atrocious as to seem rather an over-charged satire upon despotism, than a system of policy seriously inculcated, and but too readily and constantly pursued. Conduct of Venice towards her allies and When with her countless barks she went To meet the Orient Empire's might,1 And the Giustinianis sent Their hundred heroes to that fight.2 Vanished are all her pomps, 'tis true, But mourn them not-for, vanished too (Thanks to that Power who, soon or late, Hurls to the dust the guilty Great) Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud, The chains, the rapine, and the blood, That filled each spot, at home, abroad, Where the Republic's standard stood! Desolate Venice! when I track Thy haughty course through centuries back, Thy ruthless power, obeyed but cursed, The stern machinery of thy State, Which hatred would, like steam, have burst, Had stronger fear not chilled even hate; Thy perfidy, still worse than aught Thy own unblushing Sarpis taught, Thy friendship, which, o'er all beneath Its shadow, rained down dews of death,4 Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold, Shut against humble Virtue's name,5 But opened wide for slaves who sold Their native land to thee and shame, 6 Thy all-pervading host of spies, Watching o'er every glance and breath, Till men looked in each other's eyes, To read their chance of life or death, dependencies, particularly to unfortunate Padua, -Fate of Francesco Carrara, for which see Daru, vol. ii. p. 141. 5 'A l'exception des trente citadins admis au grand conseil pendant la guerre de Chiozzi, il n'est pas arrivé une seule fois que les talens ou les services aient paru à cette noblesse orgueilleuse des titres suffisans pour s'asseoir avec elle.'-Daru. 6 Among those admitted to the honour of being inscribed in the Libro d'Oro were some families of Brescia, Treviso, and other places, whose only claim to that distinction was the zeal with which they prostrated themselves and their country at the feet of the republic. I feel the moral vengeance sweet, Let me, a moment, think what thousands live O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give, Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow Over these precious leaves, as I do now. How all who know-and where is he unknown? To what far region have his songs not flown, 4 Like Psaphon's birds, speaking their master's name In every language syllabled by Fame?— How all, who've felt the various spells combined Within the circle of that splendid mind, Like powers, derived from many a star, and met And, smiling o'er the wreck, repeat-Together in some wondrous amulet, 'Thus perish every King and State, Would burn to know when first the light awoke That tread the steps which Venice trod, Strong but in fear, and only great By outrage against man and God!' EXTRACT III. Venice. L-d B's3 Memoirs, written by himself.-Reflections, when about to read them. LET me, a moment-ere with fear and hope Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope As one, in fairy tale, to whom the key Of some enchanter's secret halls is given, Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly, If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven 1 By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition not only was assassination recognised as a regular mode of punishment, but this secret power over life was delegated to their minions at a distance, with nearly as much facility as a licence is given under the game laws of England. The only restriction seems to have been the necessity of applying for a new certificate after every individual exercise of the power. In his young soul,-and if the gleams that broke From that Aurora of his genius, raised More bliss or pain in those on whom they blazed Would love to trace the unfolding of that power, Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour; And feel, in watching o'er its first advance, As did the Egyptian traveller,5 when he stood By the young Nile, and fathomed with his lance The first small fountains of that mighty flood. They, too, who 'mid the scornful thoughts that dwell In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams, 2 Les prisons des plombs; c'est-à-dire ces fournaises ardentes qu'on avait distribuées en petites cellules sous les terrasses qui couvrent le palais.' Byron. Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let them fly away in various directions: whence the proverb, Psaphonis aves. 5 Bruce. Of generous aid, given with that noiseless art Which wakes not pride, to many wounded heart Of acts-but, no-not from himself must aught Of the bright features of his life be sought. While they who court the world, like Milton's cloud,1 Turn forth their silver lining' on the crowd, This gifted Being wraps himself in night, And, keeping all that softens, and adorns, And gilds his social nature, hid from sight, Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns. EXTRACT IV. Venice. The English to be met with everywhere.Alps and Threadneedle Street.-The Simplon and the Stocks.-Rage for Travelling. Blue Stockings among the Wahabees.-Parasols and Pyramids. ---Mrs. Hopkins and the Wall of China. AND is there then no earthly place Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some cursed, round English face, Popping up near, to break the vision? 'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doomed to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Apennines Are sacred from Threadneedle Street! Fancying we leave this world behind, If up the Simplon's path we wind, As-'Baddish news from 'Change, my Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear dear The Funds-(phew, curse this ugly hill !) Are lowering fast-(what! higher still?) 1' Did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night ?'- Comus. |