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And now he number'd, marching by my side, All in their best attire. There first he saw
The Savans, Princes, who with him had cross'd His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
The frozen tract, with him familiarly

When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,
Through the rough day and rougher night conversed Seen behind all, and, varying, as he spoke,
In many a chalệt round the Peak of Terror,' With hope, and fear, and generous sympathy,
Round Tacul, Tour, Well-horn and Rosenlau, Subdued him. From that very hour he loved.
And Her, whose throne is inaccessible, ?
Who sits, withdrawn, in virgin-majesty,

The tale was long, but coming to a close, Nor oft unveils. Anon an Avalanche

When his dark eyes flash'd fire, and, stopping short, Roll'd its long ihunder; and a sudden crash, He listen'd and look'd up. I look'd up 100; Sharp and metallic, to the startled ear

And twice there came a hiss that through me thrillid Told that fardown a continent of Ice

"T was heard no more. A Chamois on the cliff Had burst in twain. But he had now begun; Had roused his fellows with that cry of fear, And with what transport he recall’d the hour

And all were gone. When to deserve, to win his blooming bride,

But now the thread was broken
Madelaine of Annecy, to his feet he bound. Love and its joys had vanish'd from his mind;
The iron crampons, and, ascending, trod

And he recounted his hair-breadth escapes
The l'pper realms of Frost; then, by a cord When with his friend, Hubert of Bionnay,
Let half-way down, enter'd a Grot star-bright, (His ancient carbine from his shoulder slung,
And gather'd from above, below, around, (11) His axe to hew a stair-case in the ice)
The pointed crystals!

He track'd their footsteps. By a cloud surprised,
Once, nor long before (12) Upon a crag among the precipices,
(Thus did his tongue run on, fast as his feet, Where the next step had hurld them fifty fathoms,
And with an eloquence that Nature gives

Oft had they stood, lock'd in each other's arms, To all her children-breaking off by starts All the long night under a freezing sky, Into the harsh and rude, oft as the Mule

Each guarding each the while from sleeping, falling. Drew his displeasure) once, nor long before, Oh, 't was a sport he loved dearer than life, Alone at day-break on the Mettenberg,

And only would with life itself relinquish! He slipp'd, he fell; and, through a fearful cleft “ My sire, my grandsire died among these wilds. Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper, As for myself,” he cried, and he held forth Went to the Under-world! Long-while he lay His wallet in his hand, "this do I call Upon his rugged bed—then waked like one My winding-sheet-for I shall have no other!” Wishing to sleep again and sleep for ever! For, looking round, he saw or thought he saw And he spoke truth. Within a little month Innumerable branches of a Cavem,

He lay among these awful solitudes, Winding beneath a solid crust of ice;

('T was on a glacier-half-way up to Heaven) With here and there a rent that show'd the stars ! Taking his final rest. Long did his wife, What then, alas, was left him but to die?

Suckling her babe, her only one, look out What else in those immeasurable chambers, The way he went at parting, but he came not! Strewn with the bones of iniserable men,

Long fear to close her eyes, lest in her sleep Lost like himself! Yet must he wander on, (Such their belief) he should appear before her, Till cold and hunger set his spirit free!

Frozen and ghastly pale, or crush'd and bleeding, And, rising, he began his dreary round;

To tell her where he lay, and supplicate
When hark, the noise as of some mighty River For the last rite! At length the dismal news
Working its way to light! Back he withdrew, Came to her ears, and to her eyes his corse.
But soon return'd, and, fearless from despair,
Dash'd down the dismal Channel ; and all day,

If day could be where utter darkness was,

Travell’d incessantly, the craggy roof
Just over-head, and the impetuous waves,

Now the grey granite, starting through the snow,
Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength Discover'd many a variegated moss
Lashing him on. At last the water slept

That to the pilgrim resting on his staff In a dead lake at the third step he took,

Shadows out capes and islands; and ere long Unfathomable and the roof, that long

Numberless flowers, such as disdain to live Had threaten'd, suddenly descending, lay

In lower regions, and delighted drink Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,

The clouds before they fall, flowers of all hues, His journey ended; when a ray divine

With their diminutive leaves cover'd the ground. Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to Her T was then, that, turning by an ancient larch, Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin,

Shiver'd in two, yet most majestical
He plunged, he swam-and in an instant rose, With its long level branches, we observed
The barrier past, in light, in sunshine! Through

A human figure sitting on a stone
A smiling valley, full of cottages,

Far down by the way-side-just where the rock Glittering the river ran; and on the bank

Is riven asunder, and the Evil One The young were dancing ('t was a festival-day) Has bridged the gulf, a wondrous monument (13)

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1 The Schrek hor.

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Built in one night, from which the flood beneath, The level plain I travellid silently,
Raging along, all foam, is seen not heard,

Nearing them more and more, day after day,
And seen as motionless!

My wandering thoughts my only company, Nearer we drew, And they before me still, oft as I look'd, And 't was a woman young and delicate,

A strange delight, mingled with fear, came o'er me Wrapt in a russet cloak from head to foot,

A wonder as at things I had not heard of! Her eyes cast down, her cheek upon her hand Oft as I look'd, I felt as though it were

deepest thought. Young as she was, she wore For the first time! The matron-cap; and from her shape we judged,

Great was the tumult there, As well we might, that it would not be long Deafening the din, when in barbaric pomp Ere she became a mother. Pale she look'd, The Carthaginian on his march to Rome Yet cheerful; though, methought, once, if not twice, Entered their fastnesses. Trampling the snows, She wiped away a tear that would be coming : The war-horse reared ; and the tower'd elephant And in those moments her small hat of straw, Upturn’d his trunk into the murky sky, Worn on one side, and garnish'd with a riband Then tumbled headlong, swallow'd up and lost, Glittering with gold, but ill conceal'd a face He and his rider. Not soon to be forgotten. Rising up

Now the scene is changed; On our approach, she journey'd slowly on; And o'er Mont Cenis, o'er the Simplon winds And my companion, long before we met,

A path of pleasure. Like a silver zone Knew, and ran down to greet her.

Flung about carelessly, it shines afar,

She was born Catching the eye in many a broken link, (Such was her artless tale, told with fresh tears) In many a turn and traverse as it glides; In Val d'Aosta ; and an Alpine stream,

And oft above and oft below appears, Leaping from crag to crag in its short course Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up, To join the Dora, turn'd her father's mill.

As though it were another, not the same, There did she blossom till a Valaisan,

Leading along he knows not whence or whither A townsman of Martigny, won her heart,

Yet through its fairy course, go where it will,
Much to the old man's grief. Long he held out, The torrent stops it not, the rugged rock
Unwilling to resign her; and at length,

Opens and lets it in; and on it runs,
When the third summer came, they stole a match Winning its easy way from clime to clime
And fled. The act was sudden; and when far Through glens lock'd up before.
Away, her spirit had misgivings. Then

Not such my path! She pictured to herself that aged face

Mine but for those, who, like Jean Jacques, delight(14) Sickly and wan, in sorrow, not in anger;

In dizziness, gazing and shuddering on And, when at last she heard his hour was near, Till fascination comes and the brain turns ! Went forth unseen, and, burden'd as she was, Mine, though I judge but from my ague-fits Cross'd the high Alps on foot to ask forgiveness, Over the Drance, just where the Abbot fell, (15) And hold him to her heart before he died.

The same as Hannibal's.
Her task was done. She had fulfill'd her wish,

But now 't is past,
And now was on her way, rejoicing, weeping. That turbulent Chaos; and the promised land
A frame like hers had suffer'd; but her love Lies at my feet in all its loveliness!
Was strong within her; and right on she went, To him who starts up from a terrible dream,
Fearing no ill. May all good Angels guard her! And lo the sun is shining, and the lark
And should I once again, as once


Singing aloud for joy, to him is not
Visit Martigny, I will not forget

Such sudden ravishment as now I feel Thy hospitable roof, Marguerite de Tours;

At the first glimpses of fair Italy.
Thy sign the silver swan. Heaven prosper Thee!


Who first beholds those everlasting clouds, I LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake
Seed-time and harvest, morning, noon and night, Under the shore—though not to visit Pliny,
Still where they were, stedfast, immovable; To catch him musing in his plane-tree walk,
Who first beholds the Alps—that mighty chain Or fishing, as he might be, from his window:
Of Mountains, stretching on from east to west, And, to deal plainly, (may his Shade forgive me!)
So massive, yet so shadowy, so ethereal,

Could I recall the ages past, and play As to belong rather to Heaven than Earth

The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve But instantly receives into his ul

My leisure for Catullus on his Lake, A sense, a feeling that he loses not,

Though to fare worse, or Virgil at his farm A something that informs him 't is a moment A little further on the way to Mantua. Whence he may date henceforward and for ever? But such things cannot be. So I sit still,

And let the boatman shift his little sail, To me they seer'd the barriers of a World, His sail so forked and so swallow-like, Saying, Thus far, no farther! and as o'er

Well-pleased with all that comes. The morning air

Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round
1 La Cygne.
A silvery gleam: and now the purple mists


Rise like a curtain ; now the sun looks out, And reading, in the eyes that sparkled round,
Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious light

The thousand love-adventures written there.
This noble amphitheatre of mountains ;
And now appear as on a phosphor-sea

Can I forget—no, never, such a scene
Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pavia; So full of witchery! Night linger'd still,
Some sailing up, some down, and some at anchor, When, with a dying breeze, I left Bellaggio;
Lading, unlading at that small port-town

But the strain follow'd me; and still I saw
Under the promontory—its tall tower

Thy smile, Angelica ; and still I heard
And long flat roofs, just such as Poussin drew, Thy voice-once and again bidding adieu.
Caught by a sun-beam slanting through a cloud;
A quay-like scene, glittering and full of life,

And doubled by reflection."
What delight,

After so long a sojourn in the wild,

The song was one that I had heard before,
To hear once more the sounds of cheerful labor! But where I knew not. It inclined to sadness ;
-But in a clime like this where are they not? And, turning round from the delicious fare
Along the shores, among the hills 't is now My landlord's little daughter, Barbara,
The heyday of the Vintage ; all abroad,

Had from her apron just rolld out before me,
But most the young and of the gentler sex, Figs and rock-melons at the door I saw
Busy in gathering; all among the vines,

Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like
Some on the ladder, and some underneath, They were, and poorly clad, but not unskill'd;
Filling their baskets of green wicker-work, With their small voices and an old guitar
While many a canzonet and frolic laugh

Winning their mazy progress to my heart Come through the leaves ; the vines in light festoons In that, the only universal language. From tree to tree, the trees in avenues,

But soon they changed the measure, entering on And every avenue a cover'd walk,

A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour, Hang with black clusters. "T is enough to make A war of words, and waged with looks and gestures, The sad man merry, the benevolent one

Between Trappanti and his ancient dame,
Melt into tears-so general is the joy!

Mona Lucilia. To and fro it went;
While up and down the cliffs, over the lake, While many a titter on the stairs was heard,
Wains oxen-drawn, and pannier'd mules are seen, And Barbara's among them.
Laden with grapes, and dropping rosy wine.

When 't was done,

Their dark eyes flash'd no longer, yet, methought, Here I received from thee, Filippo Mori, In many a glance as from the soul, express'd One of those courtesies so sweet, so rare !

More than enough to serve them. Far or near, When, as I rambled through thy vineyard-ground Few let them pass unnoticed ; and there was not On the hill-side, thou sent’st thy little son,

A mother round about for many a league, Charged with a bunch almost as big as he, But could repeat their story. Twins they were, To press it on the stranger.

And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world ;
May thy vats

Their parents lost in the old ferry-boat
O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer,

That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down Live to become ere-long himself a giver; Crossing the rough Penacus.' And in due time, when thou art full of honor,

May they live
The staff of thine old age!

Blameless and happy-rich they cannot be,
In a strange land

Like him who, in the days of Minstrelsy, (18) Such things, however trifling, reach the heart,

Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door, And through the heart the head, clearing away

Crying without, “ Give me a lay to sing !" The narrow notions that grow up at home,

And soon in silk (such then the power of song) And in their place grafting Good-Will 10 All.

Return'd to thank him; or like him, wayworn At least I found it so; nor less at eve,

And lost, who, by the foaming Adige When, bidden as an English traveller

Descending from the Tyrol, as night fell, (T was by a little boat that gave me chase

Knock'd at a city-gate near the hill-foot, With oar and sail, as homeward-bound I cross'd The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone, The bay of Tramezzine), right readily

An eagle on a ladder, and at once I turn'd my prow and follow'd, landing soon Found welcome-nightly in the banner'd hall Where steps of purest marble met the wave;

Tuning his harp to tales of Chivalry Where, through the trellises and corridors,

Before the great Mastino, (19) and his guests, Soft music came as from Armida's palace, The three-and-twenty, by some adverse fortune, Breathing enchantment o'er the woods, the waters; By war or treason or domestic malice, And through a bright pavilion, bright as day,

Reft of their kingly crowns, reft of their all, Forms such as hers were fitting, lost among

And living on his bounty. Such as of old in sober pomp swept by,

But who now
Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts

Enters the chamber, flourishing a scroll
Painted by Cagliari ; (16) where the world danced In his right hand, his left at every step
Under the starry sky, while I look'd on,
Admiring, listening, quaffing gramolata, (17)

1 Lago di Garda.

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Brushing the floor with what was once a hat And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen
Of ceremony. Gliding on, he comes,

Moving as once they were instead of rage
Slipshod, ungarter'd ; his long suit of black Breathing deliberate valor.
Dingy and thread bare, though renew'd in patches
Till it has almost ceased to be the old one.

At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads

COLL'ALTO. “ 'T is my necessity !” he stops and speaks, Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face.

In this neglected mirror (23) (the broad frame

Of massive silver serves to testify “ I am a Poet, Signor :-give me leave

That many a noble matron of the house
To bid you welcome. Though you shrink from notice, Has sate before it) once, alas, was seen
The splendor of your name has gone before you ; What led to many sorrows. From that time
And Italy from sea to sea rejoices,

The bat came hither for a sleeping-place;
As well indeed she may! But I transgress :

And he, who cursed another in his heart, I too have known the weight of praise, and ought Said, “Be thy dwelling through the day, the night, To spare another.”

Shunn'd like Coil'alto." "T was in that old Castle, Saying so, he laid

Which fanks the cliff with its grey battlements His sonnet, an impromptu, on my table,

Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest, And bow'd and left me; in his hollow hand Hangs in the Trevisan, that thus the Steward, Receiving my small tribute, a zecchino,

Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left him, Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees.

Address'd me, as we enter'd what was calid

My Lady's Chamber.” On the walls, the chairs, My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine,

Much yet remaind of the rich tapestry; « The very best in Bergamo!" had long

Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot
Fled from all eyes; or, like the young Gil Blas In the green glades of some enchanted forest.
De Santillane, I had perhaps been seen

The toilet-table was of massive silver,
Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise. Florentine Art, when Florence was renown'd;

A gay confusion of the elements,
Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and Aowers.

And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage,

Hung a small bird of curious workmanship,
Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius ?

That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold Are those the distant turrets of Verona ?

(So said at least the babbling Dame, Tradition) And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque (20) His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him? The song that pleased her. While I stood and look’d, Such questions hourly do I ask myself ; (21) A gleam of day yet lingering in the West, And not a finger-post by the road-side

The Steward went on. “ To Mantua"-"To Ferrara "_but excites

“She had ('t is now long since) Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation. A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina,

Fair as a lily, and as spotless 100; O Italy, how beautiful thou art!

None so admired, beloved. They had grown up Yet I could weep-for thou art lying, alas! As play-fellows; and some there were, who said, Low in the dust; and they who come, admire thee Some who knew much, discoursing of Cristina, As we admire the beautiful in death.

She is not what she seems.' hen unrequired,
Thine was a dangerous gift, the gift of Beauty. She would steal forth; her custom, her delight,
Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast, To wander through and through an ancient grove
Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee! Self-planted half-way down, losing herself
-But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already, Like one in love with sadness; and her veil
Twice shone among the nations of the world, (22) And vesture white, seen ever in that place,
As the sun shines among the lesser lights

Ever as surely as the hours came round,
or heaven ; and shalt again. The hour shall come, Among those reverend trees, gave her below
When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit, The name of The White Lady. But the day
Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey, Is gone, and I delay you.
Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again

In that chair
If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess

The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting, Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame

Her gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina, Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously, Combing her golden hair; and, through this door And, dying, left a splendor like the day,

The Count, her lord, was hastening, call'd away That like the day diffused itself, and still

By letters of great urgency to Venice; Blesses the earth—the light of genius, virtue, When in the glass she saw, as she believed, Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death, ('T was an illusion of the Evil SpiritGodlike example. Echoes that have slept

Some say he came and cross'd it at the instant) Since Athens, Lacedæmon, were themselves, A smile, a glance at parting, given and answer'd, Since men invoked “ By Those in Marathon !" That turn'd her blood to gall. That very night Awake along the Ægean; and the dead,

The deed was done. That night, ere yet the Moon They of that sacred shore, have heard the call, Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf

Baying as still he does (oft do I hear him,

A vagrant crew, and careless of to-morrow, (28) An hour and more by the old turret-clock),

Careless and full of mirth. Who, in that quaver, They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristina, Sings “Caro, Caro !"-"T is the Prima Donna, Helping her down in her distress to die.

And to her monkey, smiling in his face,

Who, as transported, cries, " Brava! Ancora ?" - No blood was spilt; no instrument of death "T is a grave personage, an old macaw, Larkid-or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose ; Perch'd on her shoulder. But mark him who leaps Nor was a hair of her unblemish'd head

Ashore, and with a shout urges along Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower ungather'd, The lagging mules ; (29) then runs and climbs a tree And warm with life, her youthful pulses playing, That with its branches overhangs the stream, She was wall'd up within the Castle-wall. (24) And, like an acorn, drops on deck again. The wall itself was hollow'd to receive her; "T is he who speaks not, stins not, but we laugh ; Then closed again, and done to line and rule. That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino. (30) Would you descend and see it ?—'T is far down; And mark their Poet—with what emphasis And many a stair is gone. "T is in a vault

He prompts the young Soubrette, conning her part ! Under the Chapel: and there nightly now, Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box, As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair, And prompts again; for ever looking round And as though nothing had been done or thought of, As if in search of subjects for his wit, The stone-work rose before her, till the light His satire; and as often whispering Glimmer'd and went—there, nightly, at that hour Things, though unheard, not unimaginable. (You smile, and would it were an idle tale! Would we could say so!) at that hour she stands Had I thy pencil, Crabbe (when thou hast done, Shuddering-her eyes uplifted, and her hands Late may it be—it will, like Prospero's staff, Join'd as in prayer; then, like a Blessed Soul Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth), Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away I would portray the Italian-Now I cannot. Flies o'er the woods, the mountains. Issuing forth, (25) Subtle, discerning, eloquent, the slave The hunter meets her in his hunting track ; Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes; The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims Gentle when unprovoked, easily won, (For still she bears the name she bore of old) But quick in quarrel—through a thousand shades • Tis the White Lady'!"

His spirit flits, chameleon-like; and mocks

The eye of the observer.

Gliding on,

At length we leave the river for the sea.

At length a voice aloft proclaims “Venezia !" THERE is a glorious City in the Sea.

And, as call'd forth, it comes. The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,

A few in fear, Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed

Flying away from him whose boast it was,' Clings to the marble of her palaces.

That the grass grew not where his horse had trod, No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,

Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl, Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sea,

They built their nests among the ocean-waves ; Invisible; and from the land we went,

And, where the sands were shifting, as the wind As to a floating City-steering in,

Blew from the north, the south ; where they that And gliding up her streets as in a dream,

came, So smoothly, silently—by many a dome

Had to make sure the ground they stood upon, Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,

Rose, like an exhalation, from the deep, The statues ranged along an azure sky;

A vast Metropolis, (31) with glittering spires,
By many a pile in more than Eastern splendor,

With theatres, basilicas adorn'd;
Of old the residence of merchant-kings ;
The fronts of some, though Time had shatter'd them, That has endured the longest among men.

A scene of light and glory, a dominion,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art, (26)
As though the wealth within them had run o'er.

And whence the talisman, by which she rose,

Towering? 'T was found there in the barren sea. Thither I came, and in a wondrous Ark,

Want led to Enterprise ; and, far or near, (That, long before we slipt our cable, rang

Who met not the Venetian-now in Cairo; As with the voices of all living things)

Ere yet the Califa came, (32) listening to hear From Padua, where the stars are, night by night,

Its bells approaching from the Red-Sea coast ; Watch'd from the top of an old dungeon-tower, Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelin—(27) In converse with the Persian, with the Russ,

Now on the Euxine, on the Sea of Azoph, Not as he watch'd them, when he read his fate

The Tartar; on his lowly deck receiving And shudder'd. But of him I thought not then,

Pearls from the gulf of Ormus, gems from Bagdad; Him or his horoscope ; far, far from me The forms of Guilt and Fear ; though some were From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round,

Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love, there,

When in the rich bazaar he saw, display'd, Sitting among us round the cabin-board,

Treasures from unknown climes, away he went, Some who, like him, had cried, “ Spill

blood enough!" And, travelling slowly upward, drew ere-long And could shake long at shadows. They had play'd Their parts at Padua, and were now returning;

1 Attila.


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