And who shall tell the drive there and the din?
The bells, the drums, the crowds yet squeezing in,
The shouts from mere exuberance of delight,
And mothers with their babes in sore affright,
And armed bands making important way
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday;
Minstrels and friars and beggars many a one
That pray and roll their blind eyes in the sun,
And all the buzzing throngs that hang like bees
On roofs and walls and tops of garden trees.
With tapestries bright the windows overflow
By lovely faces brought that come and go,
Till by their work the charmers take their seats
Themselves the sweetest pictures in the streets,
In colours by light awnings beautified;
Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied,
Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow
Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow:
Smiling and talking some, and some serene,
But all with flowers, and all with garlands green,
And most in fluttering talk impatient for the scene.
At length the approaching trumpets, with a start
On the smooth wind come dancing to the heart.
The crowd are mute; and from the southern wall
A lordly blast gives answer to the call.
Then comes the crush; and all who best can strive
In shuffling struggle toward the palace drive,
Where balustered and broad, of marble fair,
Its portico commands the public square:
For there Count Guido is to hold his state
With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate.
But far too well the square has been supplied:
And, after a rude heave from side to side,
With angry faces turned and nothing gained.
The order first found easiest is maintained;
Leaving the pathways only for the crowd,
The space within for the procession proud.
For in this manner is the square set out :
The sides half-deep are crowded round about
And faced with guards who keep the horseway clear;
And round a fountain in the midst appear-
Seated with knights and ladies in discourse-
Rare Tuscan wits and warbling troubadours,
Whom Guido, for he loved the Muse's race,
Has set there to adorn his public place.
The seats with boughs are shaded from above
Of bays and roses-trees of wit and love.
And in the midst fresh whistling through the scene
The lightsome fountain starts from out the green
Clear and compact; till at its height o'errun
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun.
Another start of trumpets with reply;
And o'er the gate a crimson canopy
Opens to right and left its flowing shade,
And Guido issues with the princely maid
And sits. The courtiers fall on either side
But every look is fixed upon the bride,
Who seems all thought at first, and hardly hears
The enormous shout that springs as she appears;
Till, as she views the countless gaze below,
And faces that with grateful homage glow
A home to leave and husband yet to see
Are mixed with thoughts of lofty charity:
And hard it is she thinks to have no will;
But not to bless these thousands harder still.
With that a keen and quivering sense of tears
Scarces moves her sweet proud lip and disappears;
A smile is underneath and breaks away
And round she looks and breathes as best befits the day.
What need I tell of cheeks and lips and eyes
The locks that fall, and bosom's balmy rise?
Beauty's whole soul is here, though shadowed still
With anxious thought and doubtful maiden will;
A lip for endless love should all prove just;
An eye that can withdraw into as deep distrust.
While thus with earnest looks the people gaze,
Another shout the neighbouring quarters raise;
The train are in the town, and gathering near
With noise of cavalry and trumpets clear,
A princely music, unbedimmed with drums,
The mighty brass seems opening as it comes.
And now it fills and now it shakes the air,
And now it bursts into the sounding square,
At which the crowd with such a shout rejoice,
Each think he's deafened with his neighbour's voice.
Then with a long-drawn breath the clangours die,
The palace trumpets give a last reply ;
And clustering hoofs succeed with stately stir
Of snortings proud and clinking furniture ;—
The most majestic sound of human will:
Nought else is heard some time, the people are so still.
I would fain go on with this procession, which the art of the poet continues to make us see and hear and almost feel, so vividly does he describe the pageantry, the noise, and the jostling. But it fills the whole canto, and there is yet another poem for which I must make room. Every mother knows these pathetic stanzas. I shall never forget attempting to read them to my faithful maid, the hemmer of flounces, whose fair-haired Saxon boy, her pet and mine, was then fast recovering from a dangerous illness. I attempted to read these verses, and did read as many as I could for the rising in the throat, the hysterica passio of poor Lear, and as many as my auditor could hear for her own sobs. No doubt they have often extorted such praises-the truest and the most precious that can be given.
TO T. L. H., SIX YEARS OLD, DURING A SICKNESS.
Sleep breathes at last from out thee
My little patient boy;
And balmy rest about thee-
Smooths off the day's annoy.
I sit me down and think
Of all thy winning ways;
Yet almost wish with sudden shrink
That I had less to praise.
Thy sidelong pillowed meekness,
Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart in pain and weakness
Of fancied faults afraid;
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
And calmly midst my dear ones
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,-
The tears are in their bed.
Ah, first-born of thy mother
When life and hope were new,
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;
My light where'er I go,
My bird when prison-bound,
My hand-in-hand companion,-no,
My prayers shall hold thee round.
To say He has departed,
His voice, his face is gone!
To feel impatient-hearted
Yet feel we must bear on!
Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep ensure
That it will not be so.
Yes! still he's fixed and sleeping!
This silence, too, the while-
Its very hush and creeping
Seem whispering us a smile.
Something divine and dim
Seems going by mine ear
Like parting wings of Seraphim
Who 66
say, We've finished here."
The name of Percy Bysshe Shelley is united to that of Leigh Hunt by many associations. They were in Italy together; they were friends; and the survivor has never ceased to bewail the untimely catastrophe of that great poet. does that early and sudden death appear untimely to our dim eyes! Doubtless all was wise, all just, all merciful; yet to our finite perceptions, he seemed snatched away just as his spirit was preparing to receive the truths to which it had before been blinded. However, this rests with an All-wise, and an Allmerciful Judge, and is far beyond our imperfect speculations.
In a literary point of view, there is no doubt but every succeeding poem showed the gradual clearing away of the mists and vapours with which, in spite of his exquisite rhythm, and a thousand beauties of detail, his fine genius was originally clouded.
The first time I ever met with any of his works, this vagueness brought me into a ludicrous dilemma. It was in the great library of Tavistock House that Mr. Perry one morning put into my hand a splendidly
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