Thou hast a power of melody,
To lull all sense of slavery;
Thy floral crown is blowing still to blow,
Thy eye of glory ceases not to shine,
And so long as these things be so,
I feel thee, bless thee, mine!"
There can be no desire in these lines to depreciate the high merit of the Italian political exiles of this (1831) and former years. If the intensity of their patriotic feelings be here fairly painted, the mightier has been their energy of self-sacrifice, and the heartier should be our admiration. But though
"Deh! fossi tu men bella o almen piu forte,"
may be the stifled cry of many an Italian heart,—yet the mass, in weakness and in indolence, bear with their governors; and it is with regard to these, that we should weigh, in a just measure, the physical differences between countries, where Life is worth living for its own sake, and those where all the excitement of social and political feelings is necessary to give zest and enjoyment to existence.
WRITTEN IN PETRARCH'S HOUSE AT ARQUA,
AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS.
PETRARCH! I Would that there might be
In this thy household sanctuary
No visible monument of thee :
The Fount that whilom played before thee,
The Roof that rose in shelter o'er thee,
The low fair Hills that still adore thee,-
I would no more; thy memory
Must loathe all cold reality,
Thought-worship only is for thee.
They say thy Tomb lies there below;
What want I with the marble show?
I am content,-I will not go :
For though by Poesy's high grace
Thou saw'st, in thy calm resting-place,
God, Love, and Nature face to face
Yet now that thou art wholly free,
How can it give delight to see
That sign of thy captivity?
FEELINGS EXCITED BY SOME MILITARY MANOEUVRES AT VERONA.
WHAT is the lesson I have brought away,
After the moment's palpitating glee?
What has this pomp of men, this strong array
Of thousands and ten thousands been to me?
Did I find nothing but the vision gay,
The mere phenomenon that all could see?
Did I feel nothing but the brute display
Of Power,-the show of centred energy ?
Trembling and humbled, I was taught how hard
It is for our strait minds at once to scan
The might of banded numbers, and regard
The individual soul, the living Man ;
To use mechanic multitudes, and yet
Our common human feelings not forget!
MEDITATIVE FRAGMENTS, ON VENICE.
"The ruler of the Adriatic, who never was infant nor stripling, whom God took by the right hand and taught to walk by himself the first hour."-LANDOR.
WALK in St. Mark's, the time the ample space
Lies in the freshness of the evening shade,
When, on each side, with gravely darkened face,
The masses rise above the light arcade ;
Walk down the midst with slowly-tuned pace,
But gay withal, for there is high parade
Of fair attire and fairer forms, which pass
Like varying groups on a magician's glass.
From broad-illumined chambers far within,
Or under curtains daintily outspread,
Music, and laugh, and talk, the motley din
Of all who from sad thought or toil are sped,
Here a chance hour of social joy to win,
Gush forth, but I love best, above my head
To feel nor arch nor tent, nor anything
But that pure Heaven's eternal covering.
It is one broad Saloon, one gorgeous Hall;
A chamber, where a multitude, all Kings,
May hold full audience, splendid festival,
Or Piety's most pompous ministerings;
Thus be its height unmarred,-thus be it all
One mighty room, whose form direct upsprings
To the o'er-arching sky;-it is right good,
When Art and Nature keep such brotherhood.
For where, upon the firmest sodden land,
Has ever Monarch's power and toil of slaves
Equalled the works of that self-governed band,
Who fixed the Delos of the Adrian waves;
Planting upon these strips of yielding sand
A Temple of the Beautiful, which braves
The jealous strokes of ocean, nor yet fears
The far more perilous sea, "whose waves are years?"
Walk in St. Mark's again, some few hours after,
When a bright sleep is on each storied pile,-
When fitful music, and inconstant laughter,
Give place to Nature's silent moonlight smile :
Now Fancy wants no faery gale to waft her
To Magian haunt, or charm-engirded isle,
All too content, in passive bliss, to see
This show divine of visible Poetry :-
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