 | The poetical works of George Keate |  |
13
ANCIENT AND MODERN ROME;
A POEM.
Sum ex iis qui mirer Antiquos: Non tamen, ut quidam, temporum
nostrorum ingenia despicio. Neque enim quasi lassa,
et effæta natura, ut nihil jam laudabile pariat.
Plin. Epist. lib. vi. ep. 21.
15
Or Muse, or Dryad, whosoe'er thou wert,
Who oft in Britain hast vouchsaf'd to hear
My voice invoking, as some artless lay
I caroll'd, or light song, to greet the ear
Of Friendship, hither to this distant soil
(Soil favour'd of the Nine) repair, and with
Thy smiles direct me, studious to describe
In numbers not uncouth, as o'er these scenes
Pensive I wander, what of ancient arts,
And monumental grandeur, still remains,
Midst the proud ruins of immortal Rome.—
Immortal did I say?—yes, once so deem'd,
When like a goddess on the rapid blast
High mounted, to the kings of climes remote
She sent her laws, and saw the world obey.—
But Time, capricious parent, gives to all
Their morning, and their eve; and having shewn
Mankind some prosper'd child, mark'd it for fame,
And rais'd it to its noon-tide hour, delights
To pluck its honours off, and sink it down
To teach an awful moral in the dust!
Who oft in Britain hast vouchsaf'd to hear
My voice invoking, as some artless lay
I caroll'd, or light song, to greet the ear
Of Friendship, hither to this distant soil
(Soil favour'd of the Nine) repair, and with
Thy smiles direct me, studious to describe
In numbers not uncouth, as o'er these scenes
Pensive I wander, what of ancient arts,
And monumental grandeur, still remains,
16
Immortal did I say?—yes, once so deem'd,
When like a goddess on the rapid blast
High mounted, to the kings of climes remote
She sent her laws, and saw the world obey.—
But Time, capricious parent, gives to all
Their morning, and their eve; and having shewn
Mankind some prosper'd child, mark'd it for fame,
And rais'd it to its noon-tide hour, delights
To pluck its honours off, and sink it down
To teach an awful moral in the dust!
And such thy doom, these stately ruins tell;
These stately ruins, that from various shores
Attract the traveller, whose bosom burns
With strong impatience, by the classic page
Excited (faithful register of worth)
To visit thee, thou once great seat of arms,
Thou nurse of heroes; with respectful eye,
To gaze upon thy temples, o'er thy heaps
Pause rev'rent, and amid this wasteful mass,
Trace out thy former glory.—Well indeed,
Poor mournful reliques, conscious of your shame,
And mindful what ye were, well do ye strive
To hide yourselves beneath the shelt'ring leaves,
Or the kind umbrage of the neighbouring moss.
These stately ruins, that from various shores
Attract the traveller, whose bosom burns
With strong impatience, by the classic page
Excited (faithful register of worth)
To visit thee, thou once great seat of arms,
17
To gaze upon thy temples, o'er thy heaps
Pause rev'rent, and amid this wasteful mass,
Trace out thy former glory.—Well indeed,
Poor mournful reliques, conscious of your shame,
And mindful what ye were, well do ye strive
To hide yourselves beneath the shelt'ring leaves,
Or the kind umbrage of the neighbouring moss.
But whilst I tread the silent streets of Rome,
Where cowls supply the helmet's blaze, where now
Creeps o'er the shaken battlement the vine;
Let me a moment recollect the years
When Fortune led her onward, and success
Outran her hopes; admire her dawn of life,
Her scanty family, midst lonely sheds;
Simple, laborious, of her future pride
Planning the basis: Mark each vary'd step,
Her change of government, her laws, her strength;
Her politics, her wisdom: to the field
Accompany her march, and see her crown'd
With triumph, and with spoil, while the subdu'd
With fear mix'd admiration, and rever'd
The hand that conquer'd.—Then in ev'ry breast
Breath'd public virtue, and each bosom felt
The glow of liberty—Their youth, inur'd
To exercise, and toil, (the soldier's school!)
Were taught to scorn fatigue, contemn a life
Of indolence and ease, and die with joy
To serve their country!—Maxims such as these,
Sure as the herald's trumpet, loud announc'd
The deeds that follow'd:—prompted by this flame,
This patriot spirit, lo! a sacred train
Of Heroes born to such exalted acts
As in these distant, these degen'rate times,
Almost o'ertax belief!—Thy name, O Rome,
Re-echo'd thro' the globe, from where the Rhine
,
And swelling Danube , urge their foaming course
Ev'n to Euphrates' borders: Afric's sons
Proclaim it in their desarts, and the streams
Of Tagus roll it to th'Atlantic deep:
That both at morn, and eve, the sun beheld
Her banners wave. Nor did she give mankind
Her chains alone; where'er her eagles flew,
They bore the gentler arts of polish'd life,
Attendant on her conquests!—Thus she shone,
And the world hail'd her universal Queen!—
O could I here break off, here close the view:
Nor see the laurel wreaths, by valour earn'd,
By virtue dignify'd, blasted and torn
By foul Corruption's hand!—but 'tis with states,
As men, too often grandeur's treach'rous smiles
Warp the well-meaning heart, pollute its springs,
And prompt the active mind to drop its task.—
When virtue pauses she recedes!—Thus Rome,
Cloy'd with prosperity, and of her fame
Grown careless, in the roseate bow'r repos'd
Of Luxury: (that false one, whose soft lap
Hath lull'd the mightiest) drank her baneful cup,
And to her music lent a ravish'd ear:
As fatal, as whate'er by ancient bards
Was told of Sirens, or of Gorgon's head,
That ruin'd with a glance.—What tho' its force
It urges not impetuous, slowly sure,
Like subt'lest poison, it pervades each sense,
Each power of action, and corrodes the frame,
Till death atones for folly!—Nor did Rome
Fall unremember'd, since her name alone
Inspir'd such dread, that ev'n her pale remains
By Superstition drest, guarded by priests,
Who blending policy with holy faith,
Relying on the crosier, not the sword,
Roll'd terrors thro' the world; stain'd many an age
With guiltless blood; and still with weaken'd sway,
(Now milder) bids these hallow'd fabrics rise,
That yield a second subject to my song.
Where cowls supply the helmet's blaze, where now
Creeps o'er the shaken battlement the vine;
Let me a moment recollect the years
When Fortune led her onward, and success
Outran her hopes; admire her dawn of life,
Her scanty family, midst lonely sheds;
Simple, laborious, of her future pride
Planning the basis: Mark each vary'd step,
18
Her politics, her wisdom: to the field
Accompany her march, and see her crown'd
With triumph, and with spoil, while the subdu'd
With fear mix'd admiration, and rever'd
The hand that conquer'd.—Then in ev'ry breast
Breath'd public virtue, and each bosom felt
The glow of liberty—Their youth, inur'd
To exercise, and toil, (the soldier's school!)
Were taught to scorn fatigue, contemn a life
Of indolence and ease, and die with joy
To serve their country!—Maxims such as these,
Sure as the herald's trumpet, loud announc'd
The deeds that follow'd:—prompted by this flame,
This patriot spirit, lo! a sacred train
Of Heroes born to such exalted acts
As in these distant, these degen'rate times,
Almost o'ertax belief!—Thy name, O Rome,
19
And swelling Danube , urge their foaming course
Ev'n to Euphrates' borders: Afric's sons
Proclaim it in their desarts, and the streams
Of Tagus roll it to th'Atlantic deep:
That both at morn, and eve, the sun beheld
Her banners wave. Nor did she give mankind
Her chains alone; where'er her eagles flew,
They bore the gentler arts of polish'd life,
Attendant on her conquests!—Thus she shone,
And the world hail'd her universal Queen!—
O could I here break off, here close the view:
Nor see the laurel wreaths, by valour earn'd,
By virtue dignify'd, blasted and torn
By foul Corruption's hand!—but 'tis with states,
20
Warp the well-meaning heart, pollute its springs,
And prompt the active mind to drop its task.—
When virtue pauses she recedes!—Thus Rome,
Cloy'd with prosperity, and of her fame
Grown careless, in the roseate bow'r repos'd
Of Luxury: (that false one, whose soft lap
Hath lull'd the mightiest) drank her baneful cup,
And to her music lent a ravish'd ear:
As fatal, as whate'er by ancient bards
Was told of Sirens, or of Gorgon's head,
That ruin'd with a glance.—What tho' its force
It urges not impetuous, slowly sure,
Like subt'lest poison, it pervades each sense,
Each power of action, and corrodes the frame,
Till death atones for folly!—Nor did Rome
Fall unremember'd, since her name alone
Inspir'd such dread, that ev'n her pale remains
21
Who blending policy with holy faith,
Relying on the crosier, not the sword,
Roll'd terrors thro' the world; stain'd many an age
With guiltless blood; and still with weaken'd sway,
(Now milder) bids these hallow'd fabrics rise,
That yield a second subject to my song.
What tho' oblivion in her sable veil
Hath wrap'd thy former splendor, yet ev'n now,
Thy mould'ring fragments, ivy-crested tow'rs,
And arches, tott'ring to their fall, remain,
And in their antiquated liv'ry, speak
Their better fortune.—Pillars, that amidst
The solemn scene, by many an insult scarr'd,
Stand up historic; rifted vaults of fanes,
And palaces, whose wide disparted roofs
Threaten each visitant: and frequent seen
Some shatter'd urn that hath betray'd its charge,
To mix with vulgar dust.—Or should the charms
Of Sculpture wake attention, here the eye
Finds rapturous delight, whilst it beholds,
The chiselled stone such mimic life assume,
And property of being, that it seems
As Art could rival Nature.—Every sense
Submits t'illusion, while before us stands
Gigantic Hercules , on his huge club
Resting his weight enormous: or the limbs
Of matchless Flora, thro' her flowing robe,
Press decent on the sight: so charms the step
And graceful carriage of the Delphic God :
Laocoon's anguish, and the beauteous form,
Too beauteous form, of fair Antinous!
Alike demand a sigh: nor shall unmark'd
The Gladiators pass, with manly force,
Greatly expressive; nor the confident brow
Of Meleager; nor thy pensive air,
Dejected Agrippina .—With new joy
The mind reflecting o'er th'enliven'd bust
Shall pause, supremely pleas'd, as face to face,
Amidst the bright assembly we appear
Of chiefs and sages, whose heroic deeds
Beyond the storms of fate superior shine
On Fame's eternal record.—In their looks
We seem to read their story, ev'ry trace
Remark inquisitive, and oft' return,
As some fresh action of their life revives,
To gaze, contemplate, and admire again.
Hath wrap'd thy former splendor, yet ev'n now,
Thy mould'ring fragments, ivy-crested tow'rs,
And arches, tott'ring to their fall, remain,
And in their antiquated liv'ry, speak
Their better fortune.—Pillars, that amidst
The solemn scene, by many an insult scarr'd,
Stand up historic; rifted vaults of fanes,
And palaces, whose wide disparted roofs
Threaten each visitant: and frequent seen
22
To mix with vulgar dust.—Or should the charms
Of Sculpture wake attention, here the eye
Finds rapturous delight, whilst it beholds,
The chiselled stone such mimic life assume,
And property of being, that it seems
As Art could rival Nature.—Every sense
Submits t'illusion, while before us stands
Gigantic Hercules , on his huge club
Resting his weight enormous: or the limbs
Of matchless Flora, thro' her flowing robe,
Press decent on the sight: so charms the step
And graceful carriage of the Delphic God :
Laocoon's anguish, and the beauteous form,
23
Alike demand a sigh: nor shall unmark'd
The Gladiators pass, with manly force,
Greatly expressive; nor the confident brow
Of Meleager; nor thy pensive air,
Dejected Agrippina .—With new joy
The mind reflecting o'er th'enliven'd bust
Shall pause, supremely pleas'd, as face to face,
Amidst the bright assembly we appear
Of chiefs and sages, whose heroic deeds
Beyond the storms of fate superior shine
On Fame's eternal record.—In their looks
We seem to read their story, ev'ry trace
Remark inquisitive, and oft' return,
24
To gaze, contemplate, and admire again.
Oh ever-wond'rous art, that from the schools
Of Greece cam'st hither to this favour'd clime,
Yet rarely hast vouchsaf'd to pass the cliffs
Of the proud Apennine, or cheer the cold,
And genius-chilling regions of the North!
Of Greece cam'st hither to this favour'd clime,
Yet rarely hast vouchsaf'd to pass the cliffs
Of the proud Apennine, or cheer the cold,
And genius-chilling regions of the North!
The anxious voyager who sees the port
Whither he's bound, and where before his thoughts
Were long arriv'd, feels rising in his soul
A sudden transport; not unlike, perchance,
Is that sensation which the stranger's breast,
With expectation's fire already warm'd,
Expanding feels, when from some neighb'ring height
His greedy eye takes in the nodding piles
Of old magnificence, or darts its beam
O'er the wide barren
plain, where tow'rs o'erthrown
Lie broken, and sepulchral monuments
Skirt all the blue horizon.—Let's away
And wander midst the dank and shadowy gloom
Of antique Baths, or the Pantheon's round,
Well harmoniz'd, where dignity and grace,
And just proportion reign. The Circus too
Invites our steps, and the Tarpeian rock:
How much unlike what good Evander shew'd
Anchises' son, as thro' his little state,
On Tiber's banks, the poor but friendly prince,
His heav'n-born guest conducted!—mark e'en still,
Spite of the Gothic spoiler, the proud tops
Of obelisks, whose sculptur'd sides confess
The mystic labours of Egyptian hands!
And those tall Columns
that preserve your names,
Illustrious Pair, who to th'exalted state
Of Emp'ror, join'd these titles more august,
The wise, the good.—But, let us bend our course
To where the Amphitheatre's old walls
Mantled in green, with many a winding, turn
In circuit vast; while fancy paints to view
All Rome assembled on some festive day,
Rank above rank, with ev'ry face, intent
To see the death-doom'd man, and nature yield
To force superior. The pursuit of arms
Had check'd each softer impulse, and forbad
To call compassion virtue; nor was known,
As in our times, the Stage's wiser aim,
To steal instruction through the poet's song,
To melt the stubborn heart, and teach the eye
To shed the gen'rous tear for others' woe.
Whither he's bound, and where before his thoughts
Were long arriv'd, feels rising in his soul
A sudden transport; not unlike, perchance,
Is that sensation which the stranger's breast,
With expectation's fire already warm'd,
Expanding feels, when from some neighb'ring height
His greedy eye takes in the nodding piles
Of old magnificence, or darts its beam
25
Lie broken, and sepulchral monuments
Skirt all the blue horizon.—Let's away
And wander midst the dank and shadowy gloom
Of antique Baths, or the Pantheon's round,
Well harmoniz'd, where dignity and grace,
And just proportion reign. The Circus too
Invites our steps, and the Tarpeian rock:
How much unlike what good Evander shew'd
Anchises' son, as thro' his little state,
On Tiber's banks, the poor but friendly prince,
His heav'n-born guest conducted!—mark e'en still,
Spite of the Gothic spoiler, the proud tops
Of obelisks, whose sculptur'd sides confess
The mystic labours of Egyptian hands!
26
Illustrious Pair, who to th'exalted state
Of Emp'ror, join'd these titles more august,
The wise, the good.—But, let us bend our course
To where the Amphitheatre's old walls
Mantled in green, with many a winding, turn
In circuit vast; while fancy paints to view
All Rome assembled on some festive day,
Rank above rank, with ev'ry face, intent
To see the death-doom'd man, and nature yield
To force superior. The pursuit of arms
Had check'd each softer impulse, and forbad
To call compassion virtue; nor was known,
As in our times, the Stage's wiser aim,
To steal instruction through the poet's song,
27
To shed the gen'rous tear for others' woe.
Beneath the sloping side of yonder hill,
Sacred to Jove, where stood the Capitol,
Th'unpeopled Forum spreads; but yet a few
Sequester'd pillars lift their heads, and point
Some temple's site; strew'd round with mingled heaps,
That wear the badge of hoar antiquity.
While in the front appears the story'd arch,
To Titus rear'd, when shouting Rome proclaim'd
His Solymean conquest : then arose
Thy fane, O Peace
, thou heav'n-descended queen!
Parent of Arts! under whose fost'ring reign
The Muses triumph; (shame upon the world,
And man's corrupted heart, that thou should'st e'er
Desert our habitations!) nor far off
The Palatine's steep mount, where ancient tale
Feigns the Twin Brothers found, but honour'd more
By great Augustus' dwelling: now, alas!
How is its lot revers'd! with mournful pine,
And melancholy cyprus thick o'er-grown!—
Here Desolation, mocking the vain farce
Of human labours, and the low conceits
Of human pride, thron'd on a craggy pile,
Smiles pleas'd with her own work; amid the spoils
Of Time's fell hand, where nought is seen to move.
Save the green lizard sporting in the sun,
Sole tenant of the solitary waste.
Sacred to Jove, where stood the Capitol,
Th'unpeopled Forum spreads; but yet a few
Sequester'd pillars lift their heads, and point
Some temple's site; strew'd round with mingled heaps,
That wear the badge of hoar antiquity.
While in the front appears the story'd arch,
To Titus rear'd, when shouting Rome proclaim'd
His Solymean conquest : then arose
28
Parent of Arts! under whose fost'ring reign
The Muses triumph; (shame upon the world,
And man's corrupted heart, that thou should'st e'er
Desert our habitations!) nor far off
The Palatine's steep mount, where ancient tale
Feigns the Twin Brothers found, but honour'd more
By great Augustus' dwelling: now, alas!
How is its lot revers'd! with mournful pine,
And melancholy cyprus thick o'er-grown!—
Here Desolation, mocking the vain farce
Of human labours, and the low conceits
Of human pride, thron'd on a craggy pile,
Smiles pleas'd with her own work; amid the spoils
Of Time's fell hand, where nought is seen to move.
29
Sole tenant of the solitary waste.
Yet, O ye reliques, injur'd as ye are
By the sharp canker of consuming age,
Be ye my altars; on your grass-grown tops,
Charm'd with reflecting what ye once have been,
I'll sacrifice my hours; for you forsake
The crouded haunts of men, where much is talk'd,
And little reason'd; and with you, indulge
That pleasing pensiveness yourselves inspire,
That meditating mood. Nay ev'n when chill'd
Beneath a wintry sky, her soaring wings
Imagination droops, and her damp'd fires
Burn weak and pale, then present to my mind
Your well-known forms shall rise, spread o'er my thoughts
A transient joy, and frequent be my theme.
By the sharp canker of consuming age,
Be ye my altars; on your grass-grown tops,
Charm'd with reflecting what ye once have been,
I'll sacrifice my hours; for you forsake
The crouded haunts of men, where much is talk'd,
And little reason'd; and with you, indulge
That pleasing pensiveness yourselves inspire,
That meditating mood. Nay ev'n when chill'd
Beneath a wintry sky, her soaring wings
Imagination droops, and her damp'd fires
Burn weak and pale, then present to my mind
Your well-known forms shall rise, spread o'er my thoughts
A transient joy, and frequent be my theme.
30
And do I walk the Forum?—and is this
The memorable spot, on which have trod
So many patriots, who in freedom's cause
Unsheath'd the sword of justice?—yes it is;
I know it is.—If in a Briton's breast,
Tho' midst the ice of the far northern sea,
Or realms, where slav'ry drags its hopeless chain,
Beams the bright flame of liberty, say Muse,
What must he feel in Rome?—perhaps I dream,
And 'tis illusion peoples the lone void
With yonder band of heroes, on whose brows
Sits awful majesty, and round whose heads
Twines the victorious laurel. In the van,
(For who can all the visionary shades
Of fleeting fancy count?) methinks, I see
The Elder Brutus; venerable man!
Parent, and judge; hard fate! to join two names,
That must for ever jar; but yet behold,
To one great cause still constant, he disclaims
All partial ties, proud only to be call'd
The Father of his Country.—Close behind,
In sullen grief, and in his mantle wrap'd,
The stern Virginius passes: mark his eyes
Rooted to earth! on whose cold bosom stretch'd
Like some fair flow'ret the rude storm hath crop'd,
A slaughter'd virgin lies; from insult sav'd,
From loss of honour, by th'indulgent blow:
Nor, unreveng'd her wounds, since in her fall
Was tyranny destroy'd.—But what's yon troop,
Rushing from out the Capitol, whose looks
Speak terror to beholders? each array'd
In senatorial robes, in every hand
A dagger reeking with the crimson blood
Of one but young in death?—Yet hold!—I know;
For at their head, intrepidly appears
Another Brutus, to th'impatient throng
Exclaiming, eager as they press around,
“That Rome is free, and Cæsar but a name!”
The memorable spot, on which have trod
So many patriots, who in freedom's cause
Unsheath'd the sword of justice?—yes it is;
I know it is.—If in a Briton's breast,
Tho' midst the ice of the far northern sea,
Or realms, where slav'ry drags its hopeless chain,
Beams the bright flame of liberty, say Muse,
What must he feel in Rome?—perhaps I dream,
And 'tis illusion peoples the lone void
With yonder band of heroes, on whose brows
Sits awful majesty, and round whose heads
Twines the victorious laurel. In the van,
(For who can all the visionary shades
Of fleeting fancy count?) methinks, I see
The Elder Brutus; venerable man!
Parent, and judge; hard fate! to join two names,
That must for ever jar; but yet behold,
31
All partial ties, proud only to be call'd
The Father of his Country.—Close behind,
In sullen grief, and in his mantle wrap'd,
The stern Virginius passes: mark his eyes
Rooted to earth! on whose cold bosom stretch'd
Like some fair flow'ret the rude storm hath crop'd,
A slaughter'd virgin lies; from insult sav'd,
From loss of honour, by th'indulgent blow:
Nor, unreveng'd her wounds, since in her fall
Was tyranny destroy'd.—But what's yon troop,
Rushing from out the Capitol, whose looks
Speak terror to beholders? each array'd
In senatorial robes, in every hand
A dagger reeking with the crimson blood
Of one but young in death?—Yet hold!—I know;
For at their head, intrepidly appears
Another Brutus, to th'impatient throng
32
“That Rome is free, and Cæsar but a name!”
Hail Liberty, daughter of Heav'n! whose smiles
Sustain'd the wand'ring Scythian, cheer the gloom
Of Lapland's tedious night, and wanting which,
The circling moon ne'er sees a people blest
In all her visitations!—found no more,
In these once favour'd seats, where shall our steps
Pursue thy flight?—To where Helvetia's sons,
Midst their cloud-piercing mountains, yet maintain
Their manners uncorrupt? or where the cliffs
Of far-view'd Albion, thy admir'd retreat
Rise, 'midst the world of waters?—There, O maid
Celestial, ever reign; her children teach
To venerate thy name, that the fair band
Of peaceful virtues, which adorn thy train,
May still be theirs; and Britain's fame expand
From pole to pole: while with her freedom charm'd,
Less happy nations tow'rds her sea-girt shores
Shall sighing frequent turn their wishful eyes,
Extol her fortune, and lament their own.
Sustain'd the wand'ring Scythian, cheer the gloom
Of Lapland's tedious night, and wanting which,
The circling moon ne'er sees a people blest
In all her visitations!—found no more,
In these once favour'd seats, where shall our steps
Pursue thy flight?—To where Helvetia's sons,
Midst their cloud-piercing mountains, yet maintain
Their manners uncorrupt? or where the cliffs
Of far-view'd Albion, thy admir'd retreat
Rise, 'midst the world of waters?—There, O maid
33
To venerate thy name, that the fair band
Of peaceful virtues, which adorn thy train,
May still be theirs; and Britain's fame expand
From pole to pole: while with her freedom charm'd,
Less happy nations tow'rds her sea-girt shores
Shall sighing frequent turn their wishful eyes,
Extol her fortune, and lament their own.
But come, my Muse, thou mistress of my song,
Let us to Tivoli's romantic hill,
In rural beauty rich, where learning's friend
And best protector, good Mæcenas, gave
The recompence to merit (happiest task
Of those whom plenty crowns!) or to the streets
Of desolate Palestrina, throng'd no more
With Fortune's votaries : or the tranquil shades
Of cool Frescati , in whose lov'd retreat
Once Tully thought, and reason'd: then let's seek
The wat'ry beauties of the Alban lake
And Antium's pleasing shores,—or if perchance
A shorter circuit better should delight,
Stealing along, upon the winding banks
Of yellow Tiber (in whose oozy bed
The spoils of many a day, of many an Art,
Lie sepulcher'd:) we'll mount thy sweet ascent,
Madama
; and beneath th'embow'ring trees,
Or in thy past'ral theatre, where first
The Faithful Shepherd to the echoing woods
Sigh'd out his am'rous tale, securely shun
The raging heat, or wait the evening sky,
Ting'd with unnumber'd rays; and from thy height,
Reposing on some bank, by Nature's hand
Richly adorn'd, contemplate all below.—
There let us ruminate on old renown,
And the long story'd page of ages past.
Reflection hath its joy, a pensive calm
That shrouds the soul, and bears it on the wings
Of vagrant thought to Mem'ry's wide domain!—
Now, now indulge it, while we sit and mark
The mad career of Fortune, and behold
Imperial Rome 'midst all her triumphs fall'n!—
So closes ev'ry scene; and thus decay
The works of men: allow'd a little space
To shine, attract,—then fade and be forgot!
For ah! the paths that lead to pow'r and fame,
And those which feel the peasant's silent step,
End in one point: observe Ambition's flight,
And laugh at all the wild fantastic dreams
Of human folly.—Seeking thy embrace,
O Virtue, let us court thee as our good;
Our only treasure, and our only hope;
Our shield to guard us 'gainst a faithless world,
And all its venom'd shafts: for thou unhurt,
Sprung from immortal Truth, serenely bright,
Sustain'st the gen'ral wreck; and like the Sun
Shalt still appear with undiminish'd light,
When all the boasted monuments of pride
Shall sink, and mingle with the dust they hid!
Let us to Tivoli's romantic hill,
In rural beauty rich, where learning's friend
And best protector, good Mæcenas, gave
The recompence to merit (happiest task
Of those whom plenty crowns!) or to the streets
34
With Fortune's votaries : or the tranquil shades
Of cool Frescati , in whose lov'd retreat
Once Tully thought, and reason'd: then let's seek
The wat'ry beauties of the Alban lake
And Antium's pleasing shores,—or if perchance
A shorter circuit better should delight,
Stealing along, upon the winding banks
Of yellow Tiber (in whose oozy bed
The spoils of many a day, of many an Art,
Lie sepulcher'd:) we'll mount thy sweet ascent,
35
Or in thy past'ral theatre, where first
The Faithful Shepherd to the echoing woods
Sigh'd out his am'rous tale, securely shun
The raging heat, or wait the evening sky,
Ting'd with unnumber'd rays; and from thy height,
Reposing on some bank, by Nature's hand
Richly adorn'd, contemplate all below.—
There let us ruminate on old renown,
36
Reflection hath its joy, a pensive calm
That shrouds the soul, and bears it on the wings
Of vagrant thought to Mem'ry's wide domain!—
Now, now indulge it, while we sit and mark
The mad career of Fortune, and behold
Imperial Rome 'midst all her triumphs fall'n!—
So closes ev'ry scene; and thus decay
The works of men: allow'd a little space
To shine, attract,—then fade and be forgot!
For ah! the paths that lead to pow'r and fame,
And those which feel the peasant's silent step,
End in one point: observe Ambition's flight,
And laugh at all the wild fantastic dreams
Of human folly.—Seeking thy embrace,
O Virtue, let us court thee as our good;
Our only treasure, and our only hope;
Our shield to guard us 'gainst a faithless world,
37
Sprung from immortal Truth, serenely bright,
Sustain'st the gen'ral wreck; and like the Sun
Shalt still appear with undiminish'd light,
When all the boasted monuments of pride
Shall sink, and mingle with the dust they hid!
Weep'st thou, my Muse, this changeful state of things?
Nay sure they ask a sigh!—yet rather mourn,
That man unthriftily rejects the gifts
Which nature made him heir to. Heav'n points out
A flow'ry way to all, nor bids its sons
Tread the hard flint, or shun the joys of life.—
Then wherefore, 'midst yon venerable piles
Of pompous ruin, splendid fabrics rise,
And swelling domes?—Why do I hear the voice
Of Superstition, bid her altars blaze?
And see her beckon to the cloyster'd cell
The blooming maid?—Alike the pride of youth,
The blush of beauty yield; their blossoms crop'd
Ere we can say they flourish'd!—hark! the gates
Grate on their hinges to receive their guests,
And hide them from mankind! like gems conceal'd
In the dark womb of earth, whose radiance ne'er
Shall woo th'admiring eye!—Still as their hours,
Their useless hours, creep on, to waste their strength
In painful pennance, at the tinsell'd shrine
Count o'er their beads, and by the midnight lamp
Mutter cold pray'rs, sent from the practis'd lips
More frequent than the heart which rapture fires—
O blind, to think their safety lies in flight!
Or that the steady foot of Virtue fears
To tread the haunts of men! there most she shines,
And conquers by example, stronger far
Than preaching volumes, or recording brass.
Arm'd of herself she braves each hostile dart,
And only asks protection from the skies.
Nay sure they ask a sigh!—yet rather mourn,
That man unthriftily rejects the gifts
Which nature made him heir to. Heav'n points out
A flow'ry way to all, nor bids its sons
Tread the hard flint, or shun the joys of life.—
Then wherefore, 'midst yon venerable piles
Of pompous ruin, splendid fabrics rise,
And swelling domes?—Why do I hear the voice
Of Superstition, bid her altars blaze?
38
The blooming maid?—Alike the pride of youth,
The blush of beauty yield; their blossoms crop'd
Ere we can say they flourish'd!—hark! the gates
Grate on their hinges to receive their guests,
And hide them from mankind! like gems conceal'd
In the dark womb of earth, whose radiance ne'er
Shall woo th'admiring eye!—Still as their hours,
Their useless hours, creep on, to waste their strength
In painful pennance, at the tinsell'd shrine
Count o'er their beads, and by the midnight lamp
Mutter cold pray'rs, sent from the practis'd lips
More frequent than the heart which rapture fires—
O blind, to think their safety lies in flight!
Or that the steady foot of Virtue fears
To tread the haunts of men! there most she shines,
And conquers by example, stronger far
Than preaching volumes, or recording brass.
39
And only asks protection from the skies.
Haste from thy cell, O Memory, and hide
With blackest shades the day when first were rear'd
Th'unsocial Convent's walls. Shock'd at the act,
Man's guardian-angel fled, and left those breasts
Which friendship might have warm'd, and great pursuits
Guided thro' honour to the public good,
A prey to folly, and that partial love,
Which centers in itself.—Then broke the chain
That best cements in bonds of amity
Earth's num'rous family; then sunk the names,
For ever sacred, and for ever dear,
Of parent,—child,—posterity: those ties,
Which to our joys add joy; and pluck the thorns
From half the ills that cross the ways of life!
With blackest shades the day when first were rear'd
Th'unsocial Convent's walls. Shock'd at the act,
Man's guardian-angel fled, and left those breasts
Which friendship might have warm'd, and great pursuits
Guided thro' honour to the public good,
A prey to folly, and that partial love,
Which centers in itself.—Then broke the chain
That best cements in bonds of amity
Earth's num'rous family; then sunk the names,
For ever sacred, and for ever dear,
Of parent,—child,—posterity: those ties,
Which to our joys add joy; and pluck the thorns
From half the ills that cross the ways of life!
40
Still I recall the day, fresh on her cheek
The purple bloom of youth, when Laura bade
The world adieu , resign'd its flatt'ring pomps,
And took the holy veil. I view her still
Beside the altar, like a victim deck'd
Magnificent; fair as the pearly dew
Which on the rose-bud lies, or hangs within
The lilly's cup, what time Hyperion mounts
The eastern hills. Before the mitred priest
She kneels submissive; on the sacred floor
Casting those eyes, whose fires were sure design'd
To light the torch of Venus, and provoke
To am'rous parley; other office now
Destin'd to serve!—Who can unmov'd behold
Such sacrifice!—Yet 'tis her choice, and lo!
She sings consenting!—lo, the prelate cuts
Her graceful hair! and strips it of the gems
That sparkled 'midst her tresses; then conducts
The willing fair-one to the convent's gate,
Where she, in one last, one eternal kiss,
Dissolves all social bonds. The Abbess there
Receives her, and invests her beauteous limbs
(Unfriendly change!) in coarse monastic weeds,
Whilst all the virgin choir in hymns announce,
“Thee, Laura, thee, become the Spouse of “Christ.”
The purple bloom of youth, when Laura bade
The world adieu , resign'd its flatt'ring pomps,
And took the holy veil. I view her still
Beside the altar, like a victim deck'd
Magnificent; fair as the pearly dew
Which on the rose-bud lies, or hangs within
The lilly's cup, what time Hyperion mounts
The eastern hills. Before the mitred priest
She kneels submissive; on the sacred floor
Casting those eyes, whose fires were sure design'd
To light the torch of Venus, and provoke
To am'rous parley; other office now
Destin'd to serve!—Who can unmov'd behold
Such sacrifice!—Yet 'tis her choice, and lo!
She sings consenting!—lo, the prelate cuts
41
That sparkled 'midst her tresses; then conducts
The willing fair-one to the convent's gate,
Where she, in one last, one eternal kiss,
Dissolves all social bonds. The Abbess there
Receives her, and invests her beauteous limbs
(Unfriendly change!) in coarse monastic weeds,
Whilst all the virgin choir in hymns announce,
“Thee, Laura, thee, become the Spouse of “Christ.”
Self banish'd, self condemn'd, now to thy cell,
Too rigid maid, retire, and deck it round
With bones, and skulls, torn from the ravag'd grave,
To point a gloomy moral. Peace be thine,
And calm content! nor ever may thine eyes,
Like wand'ring exiles, cast a longing look
Back to their native, their abandon'd home!
Ne'er may wild Fancy paint in loveliest forms
Those joys thy zeal renounces, nor excite
The fruitless tear for liberty resign'd!
Too rigid maid, retire, and deck it round
With bones, and skulls, torn from the ravag'd grave,
To point a gloomy moral. Peace be thine,
And calm content! nor ever may thine eyes,
Like wand'ring exiles, cast a longing look
Back to their native, their abandon'd home!
42
Those joys thy zeal renounces, nor excite
The fruitless tear for liberty resign'd!
Yet hence, the arts, in ev'ry age, have found
A sure protectress; by Religion call'd
To raise her temples, decorate their walls,
And with unweary'd toil her sainted shrines
Illumine.—Hence, the pencil'd canvas glows
With living forms, whose visionary charms
Hold converse with the eye: the altar hence
Declares the sculptor's skill, as from the hard
And rugged rock, his wonder-working hand
Brings forth the imag'd martyr. Hence behold,
In one vast Pile conjoin'd, proportion, grace,
Strength, elegance, and grandeur; union, form'd
To challenge admiration, and insure
Praise universal; coming nearest that,
Which man must deem perfection.—Music too,
From voice melodious, and the vary'd string,
Sends forth the soul of harmony, like spells
Spreading enchantment round, 'till vaulted choirs
Ring with th'Eternal's praise, and men attempt
What happier Seraphs hymn.—Thrice blest the age
Which virtuous arts adorn! by them the heart
Grows more refin'd, by them the breast is warm'd
To nobler deeds, the laws of civil life
More taught, more study'd: brutal valour turns
To reason'd courage, and the mind awakes
To scenes unknown before; as the calm lake
Shews its embosom'd landscape, which lay hid
While the rough tempest swept it.—Wherefore else
Stand Europe's sons the foremost in renown?
Or why doth India, midst her splendid mines,
Shine undesir'd?—such were the happy times,
When Plato trod the Academic grove,
And spoke of wisdom: such, when Rome beheld
Augustus thron'd; such too, in later years,
When Leo rul'd, and the thrice gen'rous hand
Of Medicis, his hospitable gates
Wide open'd, courting all, whom genius, worth,
Or learning dignify'd, to come, and rear
A Tuscan Athens.—Hail, illustrious Name!
Thee shall the Muses sing in every clime
Where science prospers; Thee, whose friendly arm
Rais'd the neglected mourner, bade her smiles
Spread their mild influence o'er a polish'd state,
'Till thine own Arno flow'd a rival stream
With fam'd Ilissus.—Casting off the veil
That had so long disgrac'd her, Sculpture then,
Lur'd by the voice of her lov'd Angelo ,
Rose from her Gothic trance, proud to assume
Once more her Attic dress: and with her came
Her fair companion Painting; to the world
First shewn by Cimabue , an infant then,
Rude, and unform'd; but by the skilful care
Of Giotto nurs'd, her beauty and her years
Advanc'd together, till she shone complete
In ev'ry virgin charm; sweet as the nymphs,
Who, when Aurora opes the gates of day,
Sport at her side, and to the jocund notes
Of lute and harp, around the Morning Star
Dance festive—Ever sacred be the soil
That gave her birth! Happiest Italia, thine
Hath Heaven mark'd fortunate; by nature deck'd
E'en to profusion. Here the Artist oft,
Or solitary Bard, deep-musing roams,
Eyes thy gay scenes, inhales the Southern breeze,
And catches inspiration.—Dwelling meet
For Fancy!—Here, the pleasing maid display'd
Her varying talents, fix'd her schools, and taught
Her mysteries; selecting from the band
That woo'd her favour, an appointed Few,
The heralds of her art, to raise at once
Hers, and their own renown.—“My sons,” she cry'd,
“(For dear as sons ye are) take from my hand
“These pencils, by myself prepar'd; whose pow'rs
“Shall win ye admiration, lasting praise.
“For to Fame's temple there are many paths,
“Nor for the hero, nor the sage alone
“Wreathes she her laurels; all by honest means
“Who seek them, wear them.—Thou, my “Raphael, go
“Prosp'rous, and on the Vatican's proud walls
“Fix an eternal name; an air divine,
“Sublimity of thought, and touch correct,
“Shall mark thy labours; 'till in One combin'd
“Thine ev'ry pow'r shall shine, and Nature's self
“Grow jealous of thy skill . Corregio, thou,
“By thine own genius great, shalt point new ways,
“Happy in all .—Thy portion, Titian, take
“In harmony of colour. Paolo, thine
“In grace and spirit.—Yours, be judgment deep,
“Caracci, and invention rare; from whom
“The art shall gain new lustre, and a line
“Of learn'd disciples spring .—Expression bold,
“And beauty of design, shall bless thy works,
“Domenichino; elegance and ease,
“My Guido, thine adorn. For grandeur, taste,
“And composition rich, Cortona, live
“Unrival'd; while in force, and shadow strong,
“And every passion of the feeling heart,
“None shall excel thee, Guercin, last, not least.”
A sure protectress; by Religion call'd
To raise her temples, decorate their walls,
And with unweary'd toil her sainted shrines
Illumine.—Hence, the pencil'd canvas glows
With living forms, whose visionary charms
Hold converse with the eye: the altar hence
Declares the sculptor's skill, as from the hard
And rugged rock, his wonder-working hand
Brings forth the imag'd martyr. Hence behold,
In one vast Pile conjoin'd, proportion, grace,
Strength, elegance, and grandeur; union, form'd
To challenge admiration, and insure
43
Which man must deem perfection.—Music too,
From voice melodious, and the vary'd string,
Sends forth the soul of harmony, like spells
Spreading enchantment round, 'till vaulted choirs
Ring with th'Eternal's praise, and men attempt
What happier Seraphs hymn.—Thrice blest the age
Which virtuous arts adorn! by them the heart
Grows more refin'd, by them the breast is warm'd
To nobler deeds, the laws of civil life
More taught, more study'd: brutal valour turns
To reason'd courage, and the mind awakes
To scenes unknown before; as the calm lake
Shews its embosom'd landscape, which lay hid
While the rough tempest swept it.—Wherefore else
Stand Europe's sons the foremost in renown?
Or why doth India, midst her splendid mines,
Shine undesir'd?—such were the happy times,
44
And spoke of wisdom: such, when Rome beheld
Augustus thron'd; such too, in later years,
When Leo rul'd, and the thrice gen'rous hand
Of Medicis, his hospitable gates
Wide open'd, courting all, whom genius, worth,
Or learning dignify'd, to come, and rear
A Tuscan Athens.—Hail, illustrious Name!
Thee shall the Muses sing in every clime
Where science prospers; Thee, whose friendly arm
Rais'd the neglected mourner, bade her smiles
Spread their mild influence o'er a polish'd state,
'Till thine own Arno flow'd a rival stream
With fam'd Ilissus.—Casting off the veil
That had so long disgrac'd her, Sculpture then,
Lur'd by the voice of her lov'd Angelo ,
45
Once more her Attic dress: and with her came
Her fair companion Painting; to the world
First shewn by Cimabue , an infant then,
Rude, and unform'd; but by the skilful care
Of Giotto nurs'd, her beauty and her years
Advanc'd together, till she shone complete
In ev'ry virgin charm; sweet as the nymphs,
Who, when Aurora opes the gates of day,
Sport at her side, and to the jocund notes
Of lute and harp, around the Morning Star
Dance festive—Ever sacred be the soil
That gave her birth! Happiest Italia, thine
Hath Heaven mark'd fortunate; by nature deck'd
46
Or solitary Bard, deep-musing roams,
Eyes thy gay scenes, inhales the Southern breeze,
And catches inspiration.—Dwelling meet
For Fancy!—Here, the pleasing maid display'd
Her varying talents, fix'd her schools, and taught
Her mysteries; selecting from the band
That woo'd her favour, an appointed Few,
The heralds of her art, to raise at once
Hers, and their own renown.—“My sons,” she cry'd,
“(For dear as sons ye are) take from my hand
“These pencils, by myself prepar'd; whose pow'rs
“Shall win ye admiration, lasting praise.
“For to Fame's temple there are many paths,
“Nor for the hero, nor the sage alone
“Wreathes she her laurels; all by honest means
“Who seek them, wear them.—Thou, my “Raphael, go
47
“Fix an eternal name; an air divine,
“Sublimity of thought, and touch correct,
“Shall mark thy labours; 'till in One combin'd
“Thine ev'ry pow'r shall shine, and Nature's self
“Grow jealous of thy skill . Corregio, thou,
“By thine own genius great, shalt point new ways,
“Happy in all .—Thy portion, Titian, take
“In harmony of colour. Paolo, thine
48
“Caracci, and invention rare; from whom
“The art shall gain new lustre, and a line
“Of learn'd disciples spring .—Expression bold,
“And beauty of design, shall bless thy works,
“Domenichino; elegance and ease,
“My Guido, thine adorn. For grandeur, taste,
“And composition rich, Cortona, live
“Unrival'd; while in force, and shadow strong,
“And every passion of the feeling heart,
“None shall excel thee, Guercin, last, not least.”
She said, and each the magic pencil took,
And wrought with ardour; (truth confirming all
The maid had prophecy'd) and dying, left
Their monuments behind, in princely halls
Erected, or at altars plac'd; where kneels
The penitent, and as he gazes, feels
Devotion rise anew.—O could my Verse
But share the rapture! and embolden'd, paint
In colours meet, these Boasts of modern Rome,
These triumphs of the Palette, and extend
Their praises due!—Yet what avails the wish?
That which was form'd to captivate the eye,
The ear must coldly taste; Description's weak,
And the Muse falters in the vain attempt.
And wrought with ardour; (truth confirming all
49
Their monuments behind, in princely halls
Erected, or at altars plac'd; where kneels
The penitent, and as he gazes, feels
Devotion rise anew.—O could my Verse
But share the rapture! and embolden'd, paint
In colours meet, these Boasts of modern Rome,
These triumphs of the Palette, and extend
Their praises due!—Yet what avails the wish?
That which was form'd to captivate the eye,
The ear must coldly taste; Description's weak,
And the Muse falters in the vain attempt.
And thou, O Time, whose all-destroying scythe,
Busy, and fatal, as the shaft of death,
No human toil escapes; whose deafen'd ear
No pray'r can sooth; but from this transient scene,
To the dark realms of silence, and of night
Condemn'st the sons of men, and with them, all
Their little pow'rs created; thy resolves
Tho' nought can shake, yet oh, awhile suspend
The purpos'd blow, and with thy wings protect
These precious reliques of a science lost!
That their felt energy may still inspire
A noble emulation, may awake
Each latent spark of genius in the breast,
Till with the circling years new Raphaels rise,
To swell the canvas with enliven'd force,
And fix their great idea on the soul.
Busy, and fatal, as the shaft of death,
No human toil escapes; whose deafen'd ear
No pray'r can sooth; but from this transient scene,
To the dark realms of silence, and of night
50
Their little pow'rs created; thy resolves
Tho' nought can shake, yet oh, awhile suspend
The purpos'd blow, and with thy wings protect
These precious reliques of a science lost!
That their felt energy may still inspire
A noble emulation, may awake
Each latent spark of genius in the breast,
Till with the circling years new Raphaels rise,
To swell the canvas with enliven'd force,
And fix their great idea on the soul.
Now called the Campania of Rome: 'tis of very large extent, and from lying uncultivated, its air is very fatal to those who sleep in it during the great heats.
This arch is at the entrance of the Campo Vacino, from the Amphitheatre, and was erected by the senate in honour of Titus, after the conquest of the Jews.
The temple of Peace stands near to it, was erected on the same occasion, and is esteemed to have been one of the finest temples in Rome.
The ancient name of that country, which is now called Switzerland, comprehending the thirteen cantons, and all the free states in alliance with them.
Palestrina is about twenty miles from Rome, and was anciently called Præneste; it was famous for its magnificent temple, dedicated to Fortune, of which there are considerable ruins.
Frescati is th ancient Tusculum, and is distant from Rome twelve miles: they still show some remains of Cicero's house; and it is supposed it was here that he composed his Tusculan Disputations.
The Villa Madama is just without Rome, on the banks of the Tiber, upon a beautiful eminence called Monte Mario Trastevere. It was built by Julio de Medicis, who was afterwards Clement the VII. and commands a most extensive view over Rome, and the whole Campania.
There are in this garden the remains of a rural theatre, in which the Pastor Fido was represented, for the first time, before Cardinal Borghese, afterwards Paul the V.
In the following lines is described the ceremony of giving the first veil, on the admission of a nun.
Michael Angelo Buonaroti, a Florentine, one of the most celebrated artists in sculpture and painting, but particularly in the former.
Painting was first revived at Florence, by Cimabue, towards the end of the thirteenth century. He was soon after followed by Giotto; and there are remains of both their works in the churches at Florence.
The picture alluded to is the Transfiguration, now in the church of St. Pietro Montorio, at Rome, esteemed the finest picture in the world. Raphael died just as he had finished it, and it was carried before his body to the grave.
| The poetical works of George Keate | |