The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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| RHYMES ON THE ROAD,
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
RHYMES ON THE ROAD,
EXTRACTED FROM THE JOURNAL OF A TRAVELLING MEMBER OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY, 1819.
The greater part of the following Rhymes were written or composed in an old calêche, for the purpose of beguiling the ennui of solitary travelling; and as verses, made by a gentleman in his sleep, have been lately called “a psychological curiosity,” it is to be hoped that verses, composed by a gentleman to keep himself awake, may be honoured with some appellation equally Greek.
INTRODUCTORY RHYMES.
Different Attitudes in which Authors compose.—Bayes, Henry Stephens, Herodotus, &c.—Writing in Bed—in the Fields. —Plato and Sir Richard Blackmore.—Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs.—Madame de Staël.—Rhyming on the Road, in an old Calêche.
And tricks, we authors have in writing!
While some write sitting, some, like Bayes,
Usually stand, while they're inditing.
Poets there are, who wear the floor out,
Measuring a line at every stride;
While some, like Henry Stephens, pour out
Rhymes by the dozen, while they ride.
And Richerand, a French physician,
Declares the clock-work of the head
Goes best in that reclin'd position.
If you consult Montaigne and Pliny on
The subject, 'tis their joint opinion
That Thought its richest harvest yields
Abroad, among the woods and fields;
That bards, who deal in small retail,
At home may, at their counters, stop;
But that the grove, the hill, the vale,
Are Poesy's true wholesale shop.
And, verily, I think they're right—
For, many a time, on summer eves,
Just at that closing hour of light,
When, like an Eastern Prince, who leaves
For distant war his Haram bowers,
The Sun bids farewell to the flowers,
Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing
Mid all the glory of his going!—
When wand'ring through the fields alone,
Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams,
Which, far too bright to be my own,
Seem'd lent me by the Sunny Power,
That was abroad at that still hour.
The few, whom genuine Genius warms;
Upon whose souls he stamps his seal,
Graven with Beauty's countless forms;—
The few upon this earth, who seem
Born to give truth to Plato's dream,
Since in their thoughts, as in a glass,
Shadows of heavenly things appear,
Reflections of bright shapes that pass
Through other worlds, above our sphere!
For Plato, too, produc'd, 'tis said,
(As one, indeed, might almost guess,)
His glorious visions all in bed.
Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme;
And (if the wits don't do him wrong)
'Twixt death and epics pass'd his time,
Scribbling and killing all day long—
Like Phœbus in his car, at ease,
Now warbling forth a lofty song,
Now murdering the young Niobes.
Who wrote, we're told, 'mid all the pains
And horrors of exenteration,
Nine charming odes, which, if you'll look,
You'll find preserv'd, with a translation,
By Bartholinus in his book.
The various modes in which men write.
Some wits are only in the mind,
When beaus and belles are round them prating;
Some, when they dress for dinner, find
Their muse and valet both in waiting;
And manage, at the self-same time,
To' adjust a neckcloth and a rhyme.
Without a glove, to tear or nibble;
Or a small twig to whisk about—
As if the hidden founts of Fancy,
Like wells of old, were thus found out
By mystic tricks of rhabdomancy.
Such was the little feathery wand ,
That, held for ever in the hand
Of her , who won and wore the crown
Of female genius in this age,
Seem'd the conductor, that drew down
Those words of lightning to her page.
To the odd way in which I write—
Having employ'd these few months past
Chiefly in travelling, day and night,
I've got into the easy mode,
Of rhyming thus along the road—
Making a way-bill of my pages,
Counting my stanzas by my stages—
'Twixt lays and re-lays no time lost—
In short, in two words, writing post.
—Montaigne.
Pliny.
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:—
Desedit totos heic Plato sæpe dies.
Eâdem curâ nec minores inter cruciatus animam infelicem agenti fuit Asbiorno Prudæ Danico heroi, cum Bruso ipsum, intestina extrahens, immaniter torqueret, tunc enim novem carmina cecinit, &c. —Bartholin. de Causis Contempt. Mort.
EXTRACT I.
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.
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 will burst,
As youthful bards in dreams behold.
Full often was my wistful gaze
Turn'd to the sun, who now began
To call in all his out-post rays,
Such as beseems a hero's flight.
Oh, how I wish'd for Joshua's power,
To stay the brightness of that hour!
But no—the sun still less became,
Diminish'd to a speck, as splendid
And small as were those tongues of flame,
That on th' Apostles' heads descended!
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.
This whole assembled, gazing world
Will stand, upon that awful day,
When the Ark's Light, aloft unfurl'd,
Among the opening clouds shall shine,
Divinity's own radiant sign!
That minute, with thy brow in heaven,
As sure a sign of Deity
As e'er to mortal gaze was given.
Nor ever, were I destined yet
To live my life twice o'er again,
Can I the deep-felt awe forget,
The dream, the trance that rapt me then!
And life, beyond this mortal hour;—
Those mountings of the soul within
At thoughts of Heav'n—as birds begin
By instinct in the cage to rise,
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 risk'd that splendid right,
For aught that earth through all its range
Of glories, offers in exchange!
'Twas all this, at that instant brought,
Like breaking sunshine, o'er my thought—
Of sacred zeal, which, could it shine
Thus purely ever, man might grow,
Ev'n upon earth a thing divine,
And be, once more, the creature made
To walk unstain'd th' Elysian shade!
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 rear'd to Thee,
Rekindle all that hope divine,
And feel my immortality!
EXTRACT II. FATE OF GENEVA IN THE YEAR 1782.
A FRAGMENT.
Who, when this small Republic rose,
Quick as a startled hive of bees,
Against her leaguering enemies—
When, as the Royal Satrap shook
His well-known fetters at her gates,
Ev'n wives and mothers arm'd, and took
Their stations by their sons and mates;
And on these walls there stood—yet, no,
Shame to the traitors—would have stood
At Freedom's base their sacred blood;
If those yet live, who, on that night,
When all were watching, girt for fight,
Stole, like the creeping of a pest,
From rank to rank, from breast to breast,
Filling the weak, the old with fears,—
Turning the heroine's zeal to tears,—
Betraying Honour to that brink,
Where, one step more, and he must sink—
And quenching hopes, which, though the last,
Like meteors on a drowning mast,
Would yet have led to death more bright,
Than life e'er look'd, in all its light!
Till soon, too soon, distrust, alarms
Throughout th' embattled thousands ran,
And the high spirit, late in arms,
The zeal, that might have work'd such charms,
Fell, like a broken talisman—
Their gates, that they had sworn should be
The gates of Death, that very dawn,
Gave passage widely, bloodlessly,
To the proud foe—nor sword was drawn,
To stain their footsteps, as they pass'd;
But, of the many sworn at night
To do or die, some fled the sight,
Some stood to look, with sullen frown,
While some, in impotent despair,
Broke their bright armour and lay down,
Weeping, upon the fragments there!—
If those, I say, who brought that shame,
That blast upon Geneva's name,
Be living still—though crime so dark
Shall hang up, fix'd and unforgiven,
In History's page, th' eternal mark
For Scorn to pierce—so help me, Heaven,
I wish the traitorous slaves no worse,
No deeper, deadlier disaster,
From all earth's ills no fouler curse
Than to have --- their master!
In the year 1782, when the forces of Berne, Sardinia, and France laid siege to Geneva, and when, after a demonstration of heroism and self-devotion, which promised to rival the feats of their ancestors in 1602 against Savoy, the Genevans, either panic-struck or betrayed, to the surprise of all Europe, opened their gates to the besiegers, and submitted without a struggle to the extinction of their liberties. —See an account of this Revolution in Coxe's Switzerland.
EXTRACT III.
Fancy and Truth.—Hippomenes and Atalanta.—Mont Blanc.—Clouds.
That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind;
Or, at least, like Hippomenes, turns her astray
By the golden illusions he flings in her way.
Mont Blanc, like a vision, then suddenly rais'd
On the wreck of the sunset—and all his array
Of high-towering Alps, touch'd still with a light
Far holier, purer than that of the Day,
As if nearness to Heaven had made them so bright!
Then the dying, at last, of these splendours away
From peak after peak, till they left but a ray,
O'er the Mighty of Mountains still glowingly hung,
Like the last sunny step of Astræa, when high
From the summit of earth to Elysium she sprung!
And those infinite Alps, stretching out from the sight
Till they mingled with Heaven, now shorn of their light,
Stood lofty, and lifeless, and pale in the sky,
Like the ghosts of a Giant Creation gone by!
By the same brilliant light that hung over it then—
The valley, the lake in their tenderest charms—
Mont Blanc in his awfullest pomp—and the whole
A bright picture of Beauty, reclin'd in the arms
Of Sublimity, bridegroom elect of her soul!
But where are the mountains, that round me at first,
One dazzling horizon of miracles, burst?
Those Alps beyond Alps, without end swelling on
Like the waves of eternity—where are they gone?
That chain of Mont Blancs, which my fancy flew o'er,
With a wonder that nought on this earth can recall,
Were but clouds of the evening, and now are no more.
Drop thy curtain, at once, and hide all from my sight.
It is often very difficult to distinguish between clouds and Alps; and on the evening when I first saw this magnificent scene, the clouds were so disposed along the whole horizon, as to deceive me into an idea of the stupendous extent of these mountains, which my subsequent observation was very far, of course, from confirming.
EXTRACT IV.
The Picture Gallery.—Albano's Rape of Proserpine.—Reflections. —Universal Salvation.—Abraham sending away Agar, by Guercino.—Genius.
By smooth Albano ; him, whose pencil teems
With Cupids, numerous as in summer groves
The leaflets are, or motes in summer beams
These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth
Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath—
Those, that are nearest, link'd in order bright,
And those, more distant, showing from beneath
The others' wings their little eyes of light.
While see, among the clouds, their eldest brother,
But just flown up, tells with a smile of bliss
This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother,
Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss!
Who wove these fables, picture, in their weaving,
That blessed truth, (which, in a darker day,
Origen lost his saintship for believing ,)—
That Love, eternal Love, whose fadeless ray
Nor time, nor death, nor sin can overcast,
Ev'n to the depths of hell will find his way,
And soothe, and heal, and triumph there at last!
This picture, the Agar of Guercino, and the Apostles of Guido (the two latter of which are now the chief ornaments of the Brera), were formerly in the Palazzo Zampieri at Bologna.
Of Enna, where Proserpine, gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis was gather'd.
From Abram's lips that he and she must part;
That seem the very last drops from her heart.
Exquisite picture!—let me not be told
Of minor faults, of colouring tame and cold—
If thus to conjure up a face so fair ,
So full of sorrow; with the story there
Of all that woman suffers, when the stay
Her trusting heart hath lean'd on falls away—
If thus to touch the bosom's tenderest spring,
By calling into life such eyes, as bring
Back to our sad remembrance some of those
We've smil'd and wept with, in their joys and woes,
Thus filling them with tears, like tears we've known,
Till all the pictur'd grief becomes our own—
If this be deem'd the victory of Art—
If thus, by pen or pencil, to lay bare
The deep, fresh, living fountains of the heart
Before all eyes, be Genius—it is there!
It is probable that this fine head is a portrait, as we find it repeated in a picture by Guercino, which is in the possession of Signor Camuccini, the brother of the celebrated painter at Rome.
EXTRACT V.
Fancy and Reality.—Rain-drops and Lakes.—Plan of a Story. —Where to place the Scene of it.—In some unknown Region. Psalmanazar's Imposture with respect to the Island of Formosa.
That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands, within her own bright round,
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
A single charm, that's not from Nature won,
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single hue unborrow'd from the sun—
But 'tis the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotomy of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on Peris' wings!
Existing Beauty and that form ideal,
Which she assumes, when seen by poets' eyes,
Like sunshine in the drop—with all those dyes,
Which Fancy's variegating prism supplies.
With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness,
And the sad, doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd
Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness.
But where to choose the region of my vision
In this wide, vulgar world—what real spot
Can be found out sufficiently Elysian
For two such perfect lovers, I know not.
Oh for some fair Formosa, such as he,
The young Jew fabled of, in the' Indian Sea,
By nothing, but its name of Beauty, known,
And which Queen Fancy might make all her own,
Her fairy kingdom—take its people, lands,
And tenements into her own bright hands,
And make, at least, one earthly corner fit
For Love to live in, pure and exquisite!
EXTRACT VI.
The Fall of Venice not to be lamented.—Former Glory.—Expedition against Constantinople.—Giustinianis.—Republic. —Characteristics of the old Government.—Golden Book.— Brazen Mouths.—Spies.—Dungeons.—Present Desolation.
In ruin, 'mong those States unblest,
Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride,
Where'er they trampled, Freedom died.
No—let us keep our tears for them,
Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been
Not from a blood-stain'd diadem,
Like that which deck'd this ocean-queen,
But from high daring in the cause
Of human Rights—the only good
And blessed strife, in which man draws
His mighty sword on land or flood.
Be awful, as if Ocean's wave
And Justice triumphs o'er her grave.
Thus perish ev'ry King and State,
That run the guilty race she ran,
Strong but in ill, and only great
By outrage against God and man!
And all those days of glory gone,
When the world's waters, east and west,
Beneath her white-wing'd commerce shone;
When, with her countless barks she went
To meet the Orient Empire's might ,
And her Giustinianis sent
Their hundred heroes to that fight.
But mourn them not—for vanish'd, too,
Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,)
Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud,
The chains, the rapine, and the blood,
That fill'd 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, obey'd but curst—
The stern machinery of thy State,
Which hatred would, like steam, have burst,
Had stronger fear not chill'd ev'n hate;—
Thy perfidy, still worse than aught
Thy own unblushing Sarpi taught;—
Its shadow, rain'd down dews of death ;—
Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold,
Clos'd against humble Virtue's name ,
But open'd wide for slaves who sold
Their native land to thee and shame ;—
Thy all-pervading host of spies,
Watching o'er every glance and breath,
To read their chance of life or death;—
Thy laws, that made a mart of blood,
And legaliz'd the assassin's knife ;—
And racks, and Leads , that burnt out life;—
The doom that now hath fall'n on thee;
Themselves beneath the yoke now bow'd,—
A yoke, by no one grace redeem'd,
Such as, of old, around thee beam'd,
But mean and base as e'er yet gall'd
Earth's tyrants, when, themselves, enthrall'd,—
I feel the moral vengeance sweet,
And, smiling o'er the wreck, repeat
“Thus perish every King and State,
“That tread the steps which Venice trod,
“Strong but in ill, and only great,
“By outrage against man and God!”
“La famille entière des Justiniani, l'une des plus illustres de Venise, voulut marcher toute entière dans cette expédition; 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.
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.
The spirit, in which these maxims of Father Paul are conceived, may be judged from the instructions which he gives for the management of the Venetian colonies and provinces. Of the former he says:—“Il faut les traiter comme des animaux féroces, les rogner les dents, et les griffes, les humilier souvent, surtout leur ôter les occasions de s'aguerrir. Du pain et le bâton, voilà ce qu'il leur faut; gardons l'humanité pour une meilleure occasion.”
For the treatment of the provinces he advises thus:— “Tendre à dépouiller les villes de leurs privilèges, faire que les habitans s'appauvrissent, et que leurs biens soient achetés par les Vénitiens. Ceux qui, dans les conseils municipaux, se montreront ou plus audacieux ou plus dévoués aux intérêts de la population, il faut les perdre ou les gagner à quelque prix que ce soit: enfin, s'il se trouve dans les provinces quelques chefs de parti, il faut les exterminer sous un prétexte quelconque, mais en évitant de recourir à la justice ordinaire. Que le poison fasse l'office de bourreau, cela est moins odieux et beaucoup plus profitable.”
Conduct of Venice towards her allies and dependencies, particularly to unfortunate Padua.—Fate of Francesco Carrara, for which see Daru, vol. ii. p. 141.
“À 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.
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.
By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition , not only was assassination recognized 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.
M. Daru has given an abstract of these Statutes, from a manuscript in the Bibliothêque du Roi, and it is hardly credible that such a system of treachery and cruelty should ever have been established by any government, or submitted to, for an instant, by any people. Among various precautions against the intrigues of their own Nobles, we find the following:— “Pour persuader aux étrangers qu'il était difficile et dangereux d'entretenir quelqu' intrigue secrète avec les nobles Vénitiens, on imagina de faire avertir mystérieusement le Nonce du Pape (afin que les autres ministres en fussent informés) que l'Inquisition avait autorisé les patriciens à poignarder quiconque essaierait de tenter leur fidélité. Mais craignant que les ambassadeurs ne prêtassent foi difficilement à une délibération, qui en effet n'existait pas, l'Inquisition voulait prouver qu'elle en était capable. Elle ordonna des recherches pour découvrir s'il n'y avait pas dans Venise quelque exilé au-dessus du commun, qui eût rompu son ban; ensuite un des patriciens qui étaient aux gages du tribunal, reçut la mission d'assassiner ce malheureux, et l'ordre de s'en vanter, en disant qu'il s'était porté à cet acte, parce que ce banni était l'agent d'un ministre étranger, et avait cherché à le corrompre.”—“Remarquons,” adds M. Daru, “que ceci n'est pas une simple anecdote; c'est une mission projetée, délibérée, écrite d'avance; une règle de conduite tracée par des hommes graves à leurs successeurs, et consignée dans des statuts.”
The cases, in which assassination is ordered by these Statutes, are as follow:—
“Un ouvrier de l'arsenal, un chef de ce qu'on appelle parmi les marins le menstrance, passait-il au service d'une puissance étrangère: il fallait le faire assassiner, surtout si c'était un homme réputé brave et habile dans sa profession.” (Art. 3. des Statuts.)
“Avait-il commis quelque action qu'on ne jugeait pas à propos de punir juridiquement, on devait le faire empoisonner,” (Art. 14.)
“Un artisan passait-il à l'étranger en y exportant quelque procédé de l'industrie nationale: c'était encore un crime capital, que la loi inconnue ordonnait de punir par un assassinat.” (Art. 26.)
The facility with which they got rid of their Duke of Bedfords, Lord Fitzwilliams, &c. was admirable: it was thus:—
“Le patricien qui se permettait le moindre propos contre le gouvernement, était admonété deux fois, et à la troisième noyé comme incorrigible.” (Art. 39.)
“Les prisons des plombs; c'est-à-dire ces fournaises ardentes qu'on avait distribuées en petites cellule sous les terrasses qui couvrent le palais.”
EXTRACT VII.
Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.—Reflections, when about to read them.
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—
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,
Like Psaphon's birds , speaking their master's name,
In ev'ry language, syllabled by Fame?—
Within the circle of that master-mind,—
Like spells, deriv'd from many a star, and met
Together in some wond'rous amulet,—
Would burn to know when first the Light awoke
In his young soul,—and if the gleams that broke
From that Aurora of his genius, rais'd
Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blaz'd;
Would love to trace th' unfolding of that power,
Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour;
And feel, in watching o'er his first advance,
As did th' Egyptian traveller , when he stood
By the young Nile, and fathom'd with his lance
The first small fountains of that mighty flood.
In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,—
As if the Star of Bitterness, which fell
On earth of old , had touch'd them with its beams,—
Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,
From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate;
Comes out, at times, in love's own native light;—
How gladly all, who've watch'd these struggling rays
Of a bright, ruin'd spirit through his lays,
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,
What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven
That noble nature into cold eclipse;
Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven,
And born, not only to surprise, but cheer
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,
Is now so quench'd, that of its grandeur lasts
Nought, but the wide, cold shadow which it casts!
Of scene and clime—th' adventures, bold and strange—
The griefs—the frailties, but too frankly told—
The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold,
If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks
His virtues as his failings, we shall find
The record there of friendships, held like rocks,
And enmities, like sun-touch'd snow, resign'd;
Of fealty, cherish'd without change or chill,
In those who serv'd him, young, and serve him still;
Which wakes not pride, to many a 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 ,
“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.
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.”
“And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third part of the waters became wormwood.” —Rev. viii.
EXTRACT VIII.
Female Beauty at Venice.—No longer what it was in the Time of Titian.—His Mistress.—Various Forms in which he has painted her.—Venus.—Divine and profane Love.—La Fragilità d' Amore.—Paul Veronese.—His Women.—Marriage of Cana.—Character of Italian Beauty.—Raphael Fornarina. Modesty.
Thy beautiful!—ah, where are they?
The forms, the faces, that once shone,
Models of grace, in Titian's eye,
Where are they now? while flowers live on
In ruin'd places, why, oh why
Must Beauty thus with Glory die?
That maid, whose lips would still have mov'd,
Could art have breath'd a spirit through them;
Whose varying charms her artist lov'd
More fondly every time he drew them,
(So oft beneath his touch they pass'd,
Each semblance fairer than the last);
Offers to Love—yet still the one
Fair idol, seen through every change,
Like facets of some orient stone,—
In each the same bright image shown.
Sometimes a Venus, unarray'd
But in her beauty —sometimes deck'd
In costly raiment, as a maid
That kings might for a throne select.
Now high and proud, like one who thought
The world should at her feet be brought;
Now, with a look reproachful, sad ,—
Unwonted look from brow so glad;—
And telling of a pain too deep
For tongue to speak or eyes to weep.
Sometimes, through allegory's veil,
In double semblance seen to shine,
Telling a strange and mystic tale
Of Love Profane and Love Divine —
As far as earth and heav'n apart.
Or else (by quaint device to prove
The frailty of all worldly love)
Holding a globe of glass, as thin
As air-blown bubbles, in her hand,
With a young Love confin'd therein,
Whose wings seem waiting to expand—
And telling, by her anxious eyes,
That, if that frail orb breaks, he flies!
Paul of Verona!—where are they,
The oriental forms , that lent
Thy canvass such a bright array?
Noble and gorgeous dames, whose dress
Seems part of their own loveliness;
The floating clouds around him weave
Of light they from himself receive!
Where is there now the living face
Like those that, in thy nuptial throng ,
By their superb, voluptuous grace,
Make us forget the time, the place,
The holy guests they smile among,—
Till, in that feast of heaven-sent wine,
We see no miracles but thine.
There bloom'd such beauty here, 'tis gone,—
Gone, like the face that in the stream
Of Ocean for an instant shone,
When Venus at that mirror gave
A last look, ere she left the wave.
And though, among the crowded ways,
We oft are startled by the blaze
Of eyes that pass, with fitful light,
Like fire-flies on the wing at night ,
To show how angels look in heaven.
Ev'n in its shape most pure and fair,
'Tis Beauty, with but half her zone,—
All that can warm the Sense is there,
But the Soul's deeper charm is flown:—
'Tis Raphael's Fornarina,—warm,
Luxuriant, arch, but unrefin'd;
A flower, round which the noontide swarm
Of young Desires may buzz and wind,
But where true Love no treasure meets,
Worth hoarding in his hive of sweets.
Upon the rounded cheek, which tells
How fresh, within the heart, this dew
Of Love's unrifled sweetness dwells,
We must go back to our own Isles,
Where Modesty, which here but gives
A rare and transient grace to smiles,
In the heart's holy centre lives;
And thence, as from her throne diffuses
O'er thoughts and looks so bland a reign,
That not a thought or feeling loses
Its freshness in that gentle chain.
Alludes particularly to the portrait of her in the Sciarra collection at Rome, where the look of mournful reproach in those full, shadowy eyes, as if she had been unjustly accused of something wrong, is exquisite.
The fine picture in the Palazzo Borghese, called (it is not easy to say why) “Sacred and Profane Love,” in which the two figures, sitting on the edge of the fountain, are evidently portraits of the same person.
This fanciful allegory is the subject of a picture by Titian in the possession of the Marquis Cambian at Turin, whose collection, though small, contains some beautiful specimens of all the great masters.
As Paul Veronese gave but little into the beau ideal, his women may be regarded as pretty close imitations of the living models which Venice afforded in his time.
“Certain it is (as Arthur Young truly and feelingly says) one now and then meets with terrible eyes in Italy.”
EXTRACT IX.
The English to be met with every where.—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.
Where we can rest, in dream Elysian,
Without some curst, round English face,
Popping up near, to break the vision?
'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines,
Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet;
Nor highest Alps nor Apennines
Are sacred from Threadneedle Street!
Fancying we leave this world behind,
Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear
As—“Baddish news from 'Change, my dear—
“The Funds—(phew, curse this ugly hill)—
“Are lowering fast—(what, higher still?)—
“Will soon be down to sixty-seven.”
Eternal London haunts us still.
The trash of Almack's or Fleet Ditch—
And scarce a pin's head difference which—
Mixes, though ev'n to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon!
And, if this rage for travelling lasts,
If Cockneys, of all sects and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
Will leave their puddings and coal fires,
To gape at things in foreign lands,
No soul among them understands;
If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off 'mong the Wahabees;
If neither sex nor age controls,
Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids
Young ladies, with pink parasols,
To glide among the Pyramids —
A spot, that's free from London-kind!
Who knows, if to the West we roam,
But we may find some Blue “at home
Among the Blacks of Carolina—
Or, flying to the Eastward, see
Some Mrs. Hopkins, taking tea
And toast upon the Wall of China!
EXTRACT X. Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband.
Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit, like thine, to wake the jest,
No voice like thine, to breathe the song.
That thou and I are far apart.
Alas, alas, how different flows,
With thee and me the time away.
Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knows—
Still, if thou canst, be light and gay;
I only know that without thee
The sun himself is dark for me.
Thou'st always lov'd to see me wear?
Do I perfume the locks that thou
So oft hast braided o'er my brow,
Thus deck'd, through festive crowds to run,
And all th' assembled world to see,—
All but the one, the absent one,
Worth more than present worlds to me!
No, nothing cheers this widow'd heart—
My only joy, from thee apart,
From thee thyself, is sitting hours
And days, before thy pictur'd form—
That dream of thee, which Raphael's powers
Have made with all but life-breath warm!
The words I speak to thee in play,
I fancy from their silent frame,
Those eyes and lips give back the same;
And still I gaze, and still they keep
Smiling thus on me—till I weep!
Our little boy, too, knows it well,
For there I lead him every day,
And teach his lisping lips to tell
The name of one that's far away.
Forgive me, love, but thus alone
My time is cheer'd, while thou art gone.
Et celebras lentis otia mista jocis;
Aut cithara æstivum attenuas cantuque calorem.
Hei mihi, quam dispar nunc mea vita tuæ!
Nec mihi displiceant quæ sunt tibi grata; sed ipsa est,
Te sine, lux oculis pene inimica meis.
Non auro aut gemmâ caput exornare nitenti
Me juvat, aut Arabo spargere odore comas:
Non celebres ludos fastis spectare diebus.
[OMITTED] Sola tuos vultus referens Raphaelis imago
Picta manu, curas allevat usque meas.
Huic ego delicias facio, arrideoque jocorque,
Alloquor et tanquam reddere verba queat.
Assensu nutuque mihi sæpe illa videtur
Dicere velle aliquid et tua verba loqui.
Agnoscit balboque patrem puer ore salutat.
Hoc solor longas decipioque dies.
EXTRACT XI.
They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove,
They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,
When she warbled her best—but they've nothing like Love.
Which Heav'n for the mild and the tranquil hath made—
Calm, wedded affection, that home-rooted plant,
Which sweetens seclusion, and smiles in the shade;
Remains, like a portrait we've sat for in youth,
Where, ev'n though the flush of the colours may fly,
The features still live, in their first smiling truth;
With all that in Man most ennoblingly towers,
Grow wreath'd into one—like the column, combin'd
Of the strength of the shaft and the capital's flowers.
By the Arno, the Po, by all Italy's streams—
Of this heart-wedded love, so delicious to share,
Not a husband hath even one glimpse in his dreams.
Of a sun, from whose fount the luxuriant festoons
Of these beautiful valleys drink lustre so bright,
That, beside him, our suns of the north are but moons,—
And that Love, though unus'd, in this region of spring,
To be thus to a tame Household Deity turn'd,
Would yet be all soul, when abroad on the wing.
Which burst, when the senses have first caught the flame;
Such fits of the blood as those climates impart,
Where Love is a sun-stroke, that maddens the frame.
Whose beginnings are virginly pure as the source
Of some small mountain rivulet, destin'd to roll
As a torrent, ere long, losing peace in its course—
A more headlong descent, without chance of recall;
But which Modesty ev'n to the last edge attends,
And, then, throws a halo of tears round its fall!
Mid the ruin its madness too often hath made,
As it keeps, even then, a bright trace of the heaven,
That heaven of Virtue from which it has stray'd—
Where Woman, like something that's holy, watch'd over,
And fenc'd, from her childhood, with purity round,
Comes, body and soul, fresh as Spring, to a lover!
Till spirit with spirit in sympathy move;
And the Senses, asleep in their sacred recesses,
Can only be reach'd through the temple of Love!—
Where the mystery nature hath hung round the tie
By which souls are together attracted and bound,
Is laid open, for ever, to heart, ear, and eye;—
That ignorance, even than knowledge more bright,
Which circles the young, like the morn's sunny mist,
And curtains them round in their own native light;—
Or for Fancy, in visions, to gleam o'er the thought;
From the maiden's young heart, are the only ones taught.
Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray,
Or adore, like Sabæans, each light of Love's sky,
Here is not the region, to fix or to stray.
Without honour to guard, or reserve to restrain,
What have they, a husband can mourn as a loss?
What have they, a lover can prize as a gain?
EXTRACT XII.
Music in Italy.—Disappointed by it.—Recollections of other Times and Friends.—Dalton.—Sir John Stevenson.—His Daughter.—Musical Evenings together.
Supreme, in Italy's soft shades,
'Tis like that Harmony, so famous,
Among the spheres, which, He of Samos
Declar'd, had such transcendent merit,
That not a soul on earth could hear it;
For, far as I have come—from Lakes,
Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks,
Through Milan, and that land, which gave
The Hero of the rainbow vest —
By Mincio's banks, and by that wave ,
Which made Verona's bard so blest—
Places, that (like the Attic shore,
Which rung back music, when the sea
Thrilling alive with melody—
I've heard no music—not a note
Of such sweet native airs as float,
In my own land, among the throng,
And speak our nation's soul for song.
Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part,
And richer, if not sweeter, makes
The flow'rs she from the wild-hedge takes—
Ev'n there, no voice hath charm'd my ear,
No taste hath won my perfect praise,
Like thine, dear friend —long, truly dear—
Thine, and thy lov'd Olivia's lays.
She, always beautiful, and growing
Still more so every note she sings—
Like an inspir'd young Sibyl , glowing
With her own bright imaginings!
And thou, most worthy to be tied
In music to her, as in love,
All other language far above,
Eloquent Song—whose tones and words
In every heart find answering chords!
Singing or listening all day long,
Till Time itself seem'd chang'd, at last,
To music, and we liv'd in song!
Turning the leaves of Haydn o'er,
As quick, beneath her master hand,
They open'd all their brilliant store,
Like chambers, touch'd by fairy wand;
Or o'er the page of Mozart bending,
Now by his airy warblings cheer'd,
Now in his mournful Requiem blending
Voices, through which the heart was heard.
Was He invok'd, thy lov'd-one's Sire —
He, who, if aught of grace there be
In the wild notes I write or sing,
And lent them charms they did not bring;—
He, of the gentlest, simplest heart,
With whom, employ'd in his sweet art,
(That art, which gives this world of ours
A notion how they speak in heaven,)
I've pass'd more bright and charmed hours
Than all earth's wisdom could have given.
Oh happy days, oh early friends,
How Life, since then, hath lost its flowers!
But yet—though Time some foliage rends,
The stem, the Friendship, still is ours;
And long may it endure, as green,
And fresh as it hath always been!
But where is he, that could return
To such cold subjects from a dream,
Through which these best of feelings burn?—
Not all the works of Science, Art,
Or Genius in this world are worth
One genuine sigh, that from the heart
Friendship or Love draws freshly forth.
Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Stevenson's daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort.
EXTRACT XIII.
Reflections on reading De Cerceau's Account of the Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1347. —The Meeting of the Conspirators on the Night of the 19th of May.—Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.—Rienzi's Speech.
Of Truth and Freedom 'mid these temples breath'd,
And see, once more, the Forum shine with swords,
In the Republic's sacred name unsheath'd—
That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day
For his dear Rome, must to a Roman be,
Short as it was, worth ages past away
In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery.
Which had, through many an age, seen Time untune
From his rude hands, a broken, silent shell—
The sound of the church clock , near Adrian's Tomb,
Summon'd the warriors, who had risen for Rome,
To meet unarm'd,—with none to watch them there,
But God's own eye,—and pass the night in prayer.
Holy beginning of a holy cause,
When heroes, girt for Freedom's combat, pause
Before high Heav'n, and, humble in their might,
Call down its blessing on that coming fight.
And, as the breeze, fresh from the Tiber, fann'd
Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see
The palm-tree there, the sword, the keys of Heaven —
That were to bless them, when their chains were riven.
On to the Capitol the pageant mov'd,
While many a Shade of other times, that still
Around that grave of grandeur sighing rov'd,
Hung o'er their footsteps up the Sacred Hill,
And heard its mournful echoes, as the last
High-minded heirs of the Republic pass'd.
'Twas then that thou, their Tribune , (name, which brought
Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,)
Didst, with a spirit Rome in vain shall seek
To wake up in her sons again, thus speak:—
“There once stood shrines, and gods, and godlike men.
“What see you now? what solitary trace
“Is left of all, that made Rome's glory then?
“The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft
“Ev'n of its name—and nothing now remains
“But the deep memory of that glory, left
“To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains!
“But shall this be?—our sun and sky the same,—
“Treading the very soil our fathers trode,—
“What withering curse hath fall'n on soul and frame,
“What visitation hath there come from God,
“To blast our strength, and rot us into slaves,
“Here, on our great forefathers' glorious graves?
“It cannot be—rise up, ye Mighty Dead,—
“If we, the living, are too weak to crush
“These tyrant priests, that o'er your empire tread,
“Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blush!
“Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss;
“And thou, whose pillars are but silent homes
“For the stork's brood, superb Persepolis!
“Have left no embers—no half-living trace—
“No slaves, to crawl around the once proud spot,
“Till past renown in present shame's forgot.
“While Rome, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks,
“If lone and lifeless through a desert hurl'd,
“Would wear more true magnificence than decks
“The' assembled thrones of all the' existing world—
“Rome, Rome alone, is haunted, stain'd and curst,
“Through every spot her princely Tiber laves,
“By living human things—the deadliest, worst,
“This earth engenders—tyrants and their slaves!
“And we—oh shame!—we, who have ponder'd o'er
“The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay ;
“Tracking our country's glories all the way—
“Ev'n we have tamely, basely kiss'd the ground
“Before that Papal Power,—that Ghost of Her,
“The World's Imperial Mistress—sitting, crown'd
“And ghastly, on her mouldering sepulchre!
“And priestly lords led us, with all our pride
“Withering about us—like devoted beasts,
“Dragg'd to the shrine, with faded garlands tied.
“'Tis o'er—the dawn of our deliverance breaks!
“Up from his sleep of centuries awakes
“The Genius of the Old Republic, free
“As first he stood, in chainless majesty,
“And sends his voice through ages yet to come,
“Proclaiming Rome, Rome, Rome, Eternal Rome!”
The “Conjuration de Nicolas Gabrini, dit de Rienzi,” by the Jesuit De Cerceau, is chiefly taken from the much more authentic work of Fortifiocca on the same subject. Rienzi was the son of a laundress.
It is not easy to discover what church is meant by Du Cerceau here:—“Il fit crier dans les rues de Rome, à son de trompe, que chacun eût à se trouver, sans armes, la nuit du lendemain, dix neuvième, dans l'église du château de Saint-Ange, au son de la cloche, afin de pourvoir au Bon E'tat.”
“Les gentilshommes conjurés portaient devant lui trois étendarts. Nicolas Guallato, surnommé le bon diseur, portait le premier; qui était de couleur rouge, et plus grand que les autres. On y voyait des caractères d'or avec une femme assise sur deux lions, tenant d'une main le globe du monde, et de l'autre une Palme pour représenter la ville de Rome. C'était le Gonfalon de la Liberté. Le second, à fonds blanc, avec un St. Paul tenant de la droite une Epée nue et de la gauche la couronne de Justice, était porté par Etienne Magnacuccia, notaire apostolique. Dans le troisième, St. Pierre avait en main les clefs de la Concorde et de la Paix. Tout cela insinuait le dessein de Rienzi, qui était de rétablir la liberté la justice et la paix.” —Du Cerceau, liv. ii.
The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning “Spirto gentil,” is supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have been addressed to Rienzi; but there is much more evidence of its having been written, as Ginguené asserts, to the young Stephen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome. That Petrarch, however, was filled with high and patriotic hopes by the first measures of this extraordinary man, appears from one of his letters, quoted by Du Cerceau, where he says,—“Pour tout dire, en un mot, j'atteste, non comme lecteur, mais comme témoin oculaire, qu'il nous a ramené le justice, la paix, la bonne foi, la sécurité, et tous les autres vestiges de l'âge d'or.”
This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words are, as near as I can recollect:—“For what is the Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman Empire, sitting crowned on the grave thereof?”
EXTRACT XIV.
Fragment of a Dream.—The great Painters supposed to be Magicians. —The Beginnings of the Art.—Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.—Improvements under Giotto, &c.— The first Dawn of the true Style in Masaccio.—Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.—Leonardo da Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.—His Knowledge of Mathematics and of Music.—His female Heads all like each other.—Triangular Faces.—Portraits of Mona Lisa, &c. —Picture of Vanity and Modesty.—His chef-d'œuvre, the Last Supper.—Faded and almost effaced.
In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls,
I felt the veil of sleep, serene,
Come o'er the memory of each scene,
As twilight o'er the landscape falls.
Nor was it slumber, sound and deep,
But such as suits a poet's rest—
That sort of thin, transparent sleep,
Through which his day-dreams shine the best.
Where certain wondrous men, 'twas said,
With strange, miraculous power endu'd,
Were coming, each in turn, to shed
His arts' illusions o'er the sight,
And call up miracles of light.
The sky above this lonely place,
Was of that cold, uncertain hue,
The canvass wears, ere, warm'd apace,
Its bright creation dawns to view.
Proclaim'd the first enchantments nigh ;
And as the feeble light increas'd,
Strange figures mov'd across the sky,
With golden glories deck'd, and streaks
Of gold among their garments' dyes ;
But nought of life was in their eyes;—
Like the fresh-painted Dead one meets,
Borne slow along Rome's mournful streets.
And forms succeeded to their place,
With less of gold, in their array,
But shining with more natural grace,
And all could see the charming wands
Had pass'd into more gifted hands.
Surpassing fair, on which the sun,
That instant risen, a beam let fall,
Which through the dusky twilight trembled,
And reach'd at length, the spot where all
Those great magicians stood assembled.
And as they turn'd their heads, to view
The shining lustre, I could trace
On each uplifted studying face ;
While many a voice with loud acclaim,
Call'd forth, “Masaccio” as the name
Of him, the' Enchanter, who had rais'd
This miracle, on which all gaz'd.
From out the dungeon of old Night,—
Like the Apostle, from his prison
Led by the Angel's hand of light;
And—as the fetters, when that ray
Of glory reach'd them, dropp'd away ,
So fled the clouds at touch of day!
Just then, a bearded sage came forth,
Who oft in thoughtful dream would stand,
To trace upon the dusky earth
Strange learned figures with his wand ;
His little page behind him bore,
And wak'd such music as, when mute,
Left in the soul a thirst for more!
And forms and faces, that from out
A depth of shadow mildly shone,
Were in the soft air seen about.
Though thick as midnight stars they beam'd,
Yet all like living sisters seem'd,
So close, in every point, resembling
Each other's beauties—from the eyes
Lucid as if through crystal trembling,
Yet soft as if suffused with sighs,
To the long, fawn-like mouth, and chin,
Lovelily tapering, less and less,
Till, by this very charm's excess,
Like virtue on the verge of sin,
It touch'd the bounds of ugliness.
Of some of Arno's dark-ey'd maids—
Such maids as should alone live on,
In dreams thus, when their charms are gone:
Some Mona Lisa, on whose eyes
A painter for whole years might gaze ,
Nor find in all his pallet's dyes,
One that could even approach their blaze!
With her white fingers to the sun
Outspread, as if to ask his ray
Whether it e'er had chanc'd to play
On lilies half so fair as they!
This self-pleas'd nymph, was Vanity—
And by her side another smil'd,
In form as beautiful as she,
That still reserve of purity,
Which is to beauty like the haze
Of evening to some sunny view,
Softening such charms as it displays,
And veiling others in that hue,
Which fancy only can see through!
This phantom nymph, who could she be,
But the bright Spirit, Modesty?
To weave his spells, and still there pass'd,
As in the lantern's shifting play,
Group after group in close array,
Each fairer, grander, than the last.
But the great triumph of his power
Was yet to come:—gradual and slow,
(As all that is ordain'd to tower
Among the works of man must grow,)
The sacred vision stole to view,
In that half light, half shadow shown,
Which gives to ev'n the gayest hue,
A sober'd, melancholy tone.
Sorrowful night which Jesus pass'd
With his disciples when he said
Mournfully to them—“I shall be
“Betray'd by one, who here hath fed
“This night at the same board with me.”
And though the Saviour, in the dream
Spoke not these words, we saw them beam
Legibly in his eyes (so well
The great magician work'd his spell),
And read in every thoughtful line
Imprinted on that brow divine,
The meek, the tender nature, griev'd,
Not anger'd, to be thus deceiv'd—
Celestial love requited ill
For all its care, yet loving still—
Deep, deep regret that there should fall
From man's deceit so foul a blight
His Spirit must have felt that night,
Who, soon to die for human-kind,
Thought only, 'mid his mortal pain,
How many a soul was left behind
For whom he died that death in vain!
That scene so bright so soon should pass!
But pictur'd on the humid air,
Its tints, ere long, grew languid there ;
And storms came on, that, cold and rough,
Scatter'd its gentlest glories all—
As when the baffling winds blow off
The hues that hang o'er Terni's fall,—
Till, one by one, the vision's beams
Faded away, and soon it fled,
To join those other vanish'd dreams
That now flit palely 'mong the dead,—
The shadows of those shades, that go,
Around Oblivion's lake, below!
Margaritone of Orezzo, who was a pupil and imitator of the Greeks, is said to have invented this art of gilding the ornaments of pictures, a practice which, though it gave way to a purer taste at the beginning of the 16th century, was still occasionally used by many of the great masters: as by Raphael in the ornaments of the Fornarina, and by Rubens not unfrequently in glories and flames.
The works of Masaccio.—For the character of this powerful and original genius, see Sir Joshua Reynolds's twelfth discourse. His celebrated frescos are in the church of St. Pietro del Carmine, at Florence.
All the great artists studied, and many of them borrowed from Masaccio. Several figures in the Cartoons of Raphael are taken, with but little alteration, from his frescos.
On dit que Léonard parut pour la première fois à la cour de Milan, dans un espèce de concours ouvert entre les meilleurs joueurs de lyre d'Italie. Il se présenta avec une lyre de sa facon, construit en argent. —Histoire de la Peinture en Italie.
He is said to have been four years employed upon the portrait of this fair Florentine, without being able, after all, to come up to his idea of her beauty.
Vanity and Modesty in the collection of Cardinal Fesch, at Rome. The composition of the four hands here is rather awkward, but the picture, altogether, is very delightful. There is a repetition of the subject in the possession of Lucien Bonaparte.
The Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci, which is in the Refectory of the Convent delle Grazie at Milan. See L'Histoire de la Peinture in Italie, liv. iii. chap. 45. The writer of that interesting work (to whom I take this opportunity of offering my acknowledgments, for the copy he sent me a year since from Rome,) will see I have profited by some of his observations on this celebrated picture.
Leonardo appears to have used a mixture of oil and varnish for this picture, which alone, without the various other causes of its ruin, would have prevented any long duration of its beauties. It is now almost entirely effaced.
EXTRACT XV.
Mary Magdalen.—Her Story.—Numerous Pictures of her.— Correggio.—Guido.—Raphael, &c.—Canova's two exquisite Statues.—The Somariva Magdalen.—Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works.
Touches all hearts—for there we see
The soul's corruption, and its glory,
Its death and life combin'd in thee.
Thy spirit haunted by a swarm
Of dark desires,—like demons shrin'd
Unholily in that fair form,—
Till when, by touch of Heav'n set free,
Thou cam'st, with those bright locks of gold
(So oft the gaze of Bethany),
And, covering in their precious fold
Thy Saviour's feet, didst shed such tears
As paid, each drop, the sins of years!—
Thence on, through all thy course of love
To Him, thy Heavenly Master,—Him,
Had yet this cordial round the brim,
That woman's faith and love stood fast
And fearless by Him to the last:—
Till, oh, blest boon for truth like thine!
Thou wert, of all, the chosen one,
Before whose eyes that Face Divine,
When risen from the dead, first shone;
That thou might'st see how, like a cloud,
Had pass'd away its mortal shroud,
And make that bright revealment known
To hearts, less trusting than thy own.
All is affecting, cheering, grand;
The kindliest record ever given,
Ev'n under God's own kindly hand,
Of what Repentance wins from Heaven!
In all its touching light of tears,
Should meet us in each holy place,
Where Man before his God appears,
Hopeless—were he not taught to see
All hope in Him, who pardon'd thee!
Should oft have triumph'd in the power
Of keeping thee all lovely still
Ev'n in thy sorrow's bitterest hour;
That soft Correggio should diffuse
His melting shadows round thy form;
That Guido's pale, unearthly hues
Should, in pourtraying thee, grow warm;
That all—from the ideal, grand,
Inimitable Roman hand,
Down to the small, enamelling touch
Of smooth Carlino—should delight
In picturing her, who “lov'd so much,”
And was, in spite of sin, so bright!
Of Genius and of Art to raise
A semblance of those weeping eyes—
A vision, worthy of the sphere
Thy faith has earn'd thee in the skies,
And in the hearts of all men here,—
None e'er hath match'd, in grief or grace,
Canova's day-dream of thy face,
With true expression's breathing light,
Than ever yet, beneath the stroke
Of chisel, into life awoke.
The one , pourtraying what thou wert
In thy first grief,—while yet the flower
Of those young beauties was unhurt
By sorrow's slow, consuming power;
And mingling earth's seductive grace
With heav'n's subliming thoughts so well,
We doubt, while gazing, in which place
Such beauty was most form'd to dwell!—
The other, as thou look'dst, when years
Of fasting, penitence, and tears
Had worn thy frame;—and ne'er did Art
With half such speaking power express
The ruin which a breaking heart
Spreads, by degrees, o'er loveliness.
Ev'n still, of all their youthful grace,
That loosen'd hair, of which thy brow
Was once so proud,—neglected now!—
Those features, ev'n in fading worth
The freshest bloom to others given,
And those sunk eyes, now lost to earth,
But, to the last, still full of heaven!
Though springing from a soul, that feels
Deep worship of those works divine,
Where Genius all his light reveals—
How weak 'tis to the words that came
From him, thy peer in art and fame ,
Whom I have known, by day, by night,
Hang o'er thy marble with delight;
And, while his lingering hand would steal
O'er every grace the taper's rays ,
Give thee, with all the generous zeal
Such master spirits only feel,
That best of fame, a rival's praise!
This statue is one of the last works of Canova, and was not yet in marble when I left Rome. The other, which seems to prove, in contradiction to very high authority, that expression, of the intensest kind, is fully within the sphere of sculpture, was executed many years ago, and is in the possession of the Count Somariva, at Paris.
EXTRACT XVI.
A Visit to the House where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens. —Their Ménage.—Its Grossness.—Claude Anet.— Reverence with which the Spot is now visited.—Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.—Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene.—Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.—Impostures of Men of Genius.— Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, &c.
Round all that's vicious, weak, and low,
Such magic lights, such rainbow dyes
As dazzle ev'n the steadiest eyes.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
'Tis worse than weak—'tis wrong, 'tis shame,
This mean prostration before Fame;
This casting down, beneath the car
Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are,
Life's purest, holiest decencies,
To be career'd o'er, as they please.
For which his loftiest wish can call:
If he be worshipp'd, let it be
For attributes, his noblest, first;
Not with that base idolatry,
Which sanctifies his last and worst.
Of high romance, which bards should know;
That holy homage, which is felt
In treading where the great have dwelt;
This reverence, whatsoe'er it be,
I fear, I feel, I have it not:—
For here, at this still hour, to me
The charms of this delightful spot;
Its calm seclusion from the throng,
From all the heart would fain forget;
This narrow valley, and the song
Of its small murmuring rivulet;
The flitting, to and fro, of birds,
Tranquil and tame as they were once
In Eden, ere the startling words
Of Man disturb'd their orisons;
Up the hill-side, with fruit-trees lin'd,
And lighted only by the breaks
The gay wind in the foliage makes,
Or vistas, here and there, that ope
Through weeping willows, like the snatches
Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope
Ev'n through the shade of sadness catches!—
All this, which—could I once but lose
The memory of those vulgar ties,
Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues
Of Genius can no more disguise,
Than the sun's beams can do away
The filth of fens o'er which they play—
This scene, which would have fill'd my heart
With thoughts of all that happiest is;—
Of Love, where self hath only part,
As echoing back another's bliss;
Of solitude, secure and sweet,
Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet;
Which, while it shelters, never chills
Our sympathies with human woe,
But keeps them, like sequester'd rills,
Purer and fresher in their flow;
'Twixt quiet mirth and wise employ;
Of tranquil nights, that give, in dreams,
The moonlight of the morning's joy!—
All this my heart could dwell on here,
But for those gross mementos near;
Those sullying truths, that cross the track
Of each sweet thought, and drive them back
Full into all the mire, and strife,
And vanities of that man's life,
Who, more than all that e'er have glow'd
With Fancy's flame (and it was his,
In fullest warmth and radiance) show'd
What an impostor Genius is;
How, with that strong, mimetic art,
Which forms its life and soul, it takes
All shapes of thought, all hues of heart,
Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakes;
How like a gem its light may smile
O'er the dark path, by mortals trod,
Itself as mean a worm, the while,
As crawls at midnight o'er the sod;
What gentle words and thoughts may fall
From its false lip, what zeal to bless,
Lie waste beneath its selfishness;
How, with the pencil hardly dry
From colouring up such scenes of love
And beauty, as make young hearts sigh,
And dream, and think through heav'n they rove,
They, who can thus describe and move,
The very workers of these charms,
Nor seek, nor know a joy, above
Some Maman's or Theresa's arms!
Of their false tongues, they want the most;
And, while with freedom on their lips,
Sounding their timbrels, to set free
This bright world, labouring in the' eclipse
Of priestcraft, and of slavery,—
They may, themselves, be slaves as low
As ever Lord or Patron made
To blossom in his smile, or grow,
Like stunted brushwood, in his shade.
Out on the craft!—I'd rather be
One of those hinds, that round me tread,
The noonday sun that's o'er his head,
Than thus, with high-built genius curst,
That hath no heart for its foundation,
Be all, at once, that's brightest, worst,
Sublimest, meanest in creation!
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