Who talk'd of vengeance; grasping by the hand
Those in their zeal (and none, alas! were wanting)
Who came to tell him of another wrong,
Done or imagined. When his father died,
'Twas whisper'd in his ear, " He died by poison!"
He wrote it on the tomb, ('tis there in marble,)
And in his ledger-book-among his debtors-
Enter'd the name "Francesco Foscari,"
And added, " For the murder of my father."
Leaving a blank-to be fill'd up hereafter.
When Foscari's noble heart at length gave way,
He took the volume from the shelf again
Calmly, and with his pen fill'd up the blank,
Inscribing, "He has paid me."
Ye who sit,
Brooding from day to day, from day to day
Chewing the bitter cud, and starting up
As though the hour was come to whet your fangs,
And, like the Pisan, gnaw the hairy scalp
Of him who had offended-if ye must,
Sit and brood on; but O! forbear to teach
The lesson to your children.
THERE is, within three leagues and less of Padua, (The Paduan student knows it, honours it,) A lonely tombstone in a mountain churchyard; And I arrived there as the sun declined Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds Singing their farewell song-the very song They sung the night that tomb received a tenant; When, as alive, clothed in his canon's habit, And, slowly winding down the narrow path, He came to rest there. Nobles of the land, Princes, and prelates mingled in his train, Anxious by any act, while yet they could, To catch a ray of glory by reflection; And from that hour have kindred spirits flock'd From distant countries, from the north, the south, To see where he is laid.
Twelve years ago, When I descended the impetuous Rhone, Its vineyards of such great and old renown, Its castles, each with some romantic tale, Vanishing fast-the pilot at the stern, He who had steer'd so long, standing aloft, His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands On what at once served him for oar and rudder, A huge misshapen plank-the bark itself Frail and uncouth, launch'd to return no more, Such as a shipwreck'd man might hope to build, Urged by the love of home-when I descended Two long, long days' silence, suspense on board, It was to offer at thy fount, Valclusa, Entering the arch'd cave, to wander where Petrarch had wander'd, in a trance to sit Where in his peasant dress he loved to sit, Musing, reciting-on some rock moss-grown, Or the fantastic root of some old fig tree, That drinks the living waters as they stream Over their emerald bed; and could I now Neglect to visit Arqua, where, at last,
When he had done and settled with the world,
When all the illusions of his youth were fled,
Indulged perhaps too long, cherish'd too fondly,
He came for the conclusion? Halfway up
He built his house, whence as by stealth he caught,
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life,
That soothed, not stirr❜d.—But knock, and enter in.
This was his chamber. 'Tis as when he left it;
As if he now were busy in his garden.
And this his closet. Here he sate and read.
This was his chair; and in it, unobserved,
Reading, or thinking of his absent friends,
He pass'd away as in a quiet slumber.
Peace to this region! Peace to all who dwell here.
They know his value-every coming step,
That gathers round the children from their play,
Would tell them if they knew not.-But could aught,
Ungentle or ungenerous, spring up
Where he is sleeping; where, and in an age
Of savage warfare and blind bigotry,
He cultured all that could refine, exalt;
Leading to better things?
Ir ever you should come to Modena,
Where among other trophies may be seen
Tassoni's bucket, (in its chain it hangs,
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina,)
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini,
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you-but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray-
And look a while upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He, who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold
Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!
Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor
That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child-her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gayety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum ;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
""Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing, and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd,
But that she was not!
Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find-he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remain'd a while
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten.
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,
Whose voice had swell'd the hubbub in his youth,
Were hush'd, Bologna; silence in the streets,
The squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs!
And soon a courier, posting as from far,
Housing and holster, boot and belted coat,
And doublet, stain'd with many a various soil,
Stopt and alighted. 'Twas where hangs aloft
That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming
All who arrive there, all, perhaps, save those
Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell,
Those on a pilgrimage; and now approach'd
Wheels, through the lofty porticoes resounding,
Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade
As the sky changes. To the gate they came;
And, ere the man had half his story done,
Mine host received the master-one long used
To sojourn among strangers, everywhere
(Go where he would, along the wildest track)
Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost,
And leaving footsteps to be traced by those
Who love the haunts of genius; one who saw,
Observed, nor shunn'd the busy scenes of life,
But mingled not, and, 'mid the din, the stir,
Lived as a separate spirit.
Much had pass❜d,
Since last we parted; and those five short years-
Much had they told! His clustering locks were
turn'd
Gray; nor did aught recall the youth that swam
From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice,
Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought
Flash'd lightning-like, nor linger'd on the way,
Waiting for words. Far, far into the night
We sate, conversing-no unwelcome hour,
That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose,
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
"Why not remove it from its lurking-place?"
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perish'd-save a wedding ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"Ginevra."
There then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she conceal'd herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fasten'd her down for ever!
'Twas night; the noise and bustle of the day
Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought
Miraculous cures he and his stage were gone;
And he who, when the crisis of his tale
Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear,
Sent round his cap; and he who thrumm'd his wire
And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain
Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries,*
So well portray'd, and by a son of thine,
the Cries of Bologna, as drawn by Annibal Ca-
was of very humble origin; and, to correct his
ty, once sent him a portrait of their father,
ading his needle.
Rising, we climb'd the rugged Apennine.
Well I remember how the golden sun
Fill'd with its beams th' unfathomable gulfs,
As on we travell'd, and along the ridge,
'Mid groves of cork, and cistus, and wild fig,
His motley household came-Not last nor least,
Battista, who, upon the moonlight sea
Of Venice, had so ably, zealously
Served, and, at parting, flung his oar away
To follow through the world; who without stain
Had worn so long that honourable badge,*
The gondolier's, in a patrician house
Arguing unlimited trust.-Not last nor least,
Thou, though declining in thy beauty and strength,
Faithful Moretto, to the latest hour
Guarding his chamber door, and now along
The silent, sullen strand of Missolonghi
Howling in grief.
He had just left that place
Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea,t
Ravenna; where, from Dante's sacred tomb
He had so oft, as many a verse declares,+
Drawn inspiration; where, at twilight time,
Through the pine forest wandering with loose rein,
Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld§
*The principal gondolier, il fante di poppa, was almost always in the confidence of his master, and employed on occasions that required judgment and address. + Adrianum mare.-Cic.
See the prophecy of Dante.
§ See the tale as told by Boccaccio and Dryden.
(What is not visible to a poet's eye?)
And know that where we stand, stood oft and long,
The spectre knight, the hell-hounds and their Oft till the day was gone, Raphael himself,
The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth
Suddenly blasted. 'Twas a theme he loved;
But others claim'd their turn; and many a tower,
Shatter'd, uprooted from its native rock,
Its strength the pride of some heroic age,
Appear'd and vanish'd, (many a sturdy steer*
Yoked and unyoked,) while as in happier days
He pour'd his spirit forth. The past forgot,
All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured
Present or future.
And praise and blame fall on his ear alike,
Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone,
Gone like a star that through the firmament
Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course
Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks,
Was generous, noble-noble in its scorn
Of all things low or little; nothing there
Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do
Things long regretted, oft, as many know,
None more than I, thy gratitude would build
On slight foundations: and, if in thy life
Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert,-
Thy wish accomplish'd; dying in the land
Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire,
Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious!
They in thy train-ah, little did they think,
As round we went, that they so soon should sit
Mourning beside thee, while a nation mourn'd,
Changing her festal for her funeral song;
That they so soon should hear the minute-gun,
As morning gleam'd on what remain❜d of thee,
Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering
Thy years of joy and sorrow.
Thou art gone;
And he who would assail thee in thy grave,
O, let him pause! For who among us all,
Tried as thou wert-e'en from thine earliest years,
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland boy—
Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame;
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek,
Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine,
Her charmed cup-ah, who among us all
Could say he had not err'd as much, and more?
Or all the fairest cities of the earth,
None are so fair as Florence. "Tis a gem
Of purest ray, a treasure for a casket!
And what a glorious lustre did it shed
When it emerged from darkness! Search within,
Without, all is enchantment! 'Tis the past
Contending with the present; and in turn
Each has the mastery.
In this chapel wrought
Massaccio; and he slumbers underneath.
Wouldst thou behold his monument? Look round!
He and his haughty rival-patiently,
Humbly, to learn of those who came before,
To steal a spark from their authentic fire,
Theirs, who first broke the gloom, sons of the
morning.
There, on the seat that runs along the wall,
South of the church, east of the belfry tower,
(Thou canst not miss it,) in the sultry time
Would Dante sit conversing, and with those
Who little thought that in his hand he held
The balance, and assign'd at his good pleasure
To each his place in the invisible world,
To some an upper, some a lower region;
Reserving in his secret mind a niche
For thee, Saltrello, who with quirks of law
Hadst plagued him sore, and carefully requiting
Such as ere long condemn'd his mortal part
To fire. Sit down a while-then by the gates
Wondrously wrought, so beautiful, so glorious,
That they might serve to be the gates of heaven,
Enter the baptistery. That place he loved,
Calling it his! And in his visits there
Well might he take delight! For, when a child,
Playing, with venturous feet, near and yet nearer
One of the fonts, fell in, he flew and saved him,
Flew with an energy, a violence,
That broke the marble-a mishap ascribed
To evil motives; his, alas! to lead
A life of trouble, and ere long to leave
All things most dear to him, ere long to know
How salt another's bread is, and how toilsome
The going up and down another's stairs.
Nor then forget that chamber of the dead,
Where the gigantic forms of night and day,
Turn'd into stone, rest everlastingly,
Yet still are breathing; and shed round at noon
A two-fold influence-only to be felt-
A light, a darkness, mingling each with each;
Both and yet neither. There, from age to age,
Two ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres.
That is the duke Lorenzo. Mark him well.
He meditates, his head upon his hand.
What scowls beneath his broad and helm-like
bonnet?
Is it a face, or but an eyeless skull?
"Tis hid in shade; yet, like the basilisk,
It fascinates, and is intolerable.
His mien is noble, most majestical!
Then most so, when the distant choir is heard,
At morn or eve-nor fail thou to attend
On that thrice-hallow'd day, when all are there;
When all, propitiating with solemn songs,
With light, and frankincense, and holy water,
Visit the dead. Then wilt thou feel his power
But let not sculpture, painting, poesy,
Or they, the masters of these mighty spells,
Detain us. Our first homage is to virtue.
Where, in what dungeon of the citadel
(It must be known-the writing on the wall
Cannot be gone 'twas cut in with his dagger,
Ere, on his knees to God, he slew himself,)
Where, in what dungeon, did Filippo Strozzi,
They wait for the traveller's carriage at the foot of The last, the greatest of the men of Florence, every hill. Breathe out his soul-lest in his agony,
When on the rack and call'd upon to answer,
He might accuse the guiltless.
But with a sigh, a tear for human frailty,
We may return, and once more give a loose
To the delighted spirit-worshipping,
In her small temple of rich workmanship,*
Venus herself, who, when she left the skies,
Came hither..
AMONG the awful forms that stand assembled
In the great square of Florence, may be seen
That Cosmo, not the father of his country,
Not he so styled, but he who play'd the tyrant.
Clad in rich armour like a paladin,
But with his helmet off-in kingly state,
Aloft he sits upon his horse of brass;
And they, who read the legend underneath,
Go and pronounce him happy. Yet there is
A chamber at Grosseto, that, if walls
Could speak, and tell of what is done within,
Would turn your admiration into pity.
Half of what pass'd died with him; but the rest
All he discover'd when the fit was on,
All that, by those who listen'd, could be glean'd
From broken sentences and starts in sleep,
Is told, and by an honest chronicler.
Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzìa,
(The eldest had not seen his sixteenth summer,)
Went to the chase; but one of them, Giovanni,
His best beloved, the glory of his house,
Return'd not; and at close of day was found
Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas!
The trembling Cosmo guess'd the deed, the doer;
And having caused the body to be borne
In secret to that chamber-at an hour
When all slept sound, save the disconsolate mother,t
Who little thought of what was yet to come,
And lived but to be told-he bade Garzia
Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand
A winking lamp, and in the other a key
Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led;
And having enter'd in and lock'd the door,
The father fix'd his eyes upon the son,
And closely questioned him. No change betray'd
Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted up
How can I spare myself, sparing none else.
Grant me the strength, the will-and O forgive
The sinful soul of a most wretched son.
'Tis a most wretched father who implores it."
Long on Garzia's neck he hung, and wept
Tenderly, long press'd him to his bosom ;
And then, but while he held him by the arm,
Thrusting him backward, turn'd away his face,
And stabb'd him to the heart.
Well might De Thou,
When in his youth he came to Cosmo's court,
Think on the past; and, as he wander'd through
The ancient palace-through those ample spaces
Silent, deserted-stop a while to dwell
Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall
Together, as of two in bonds of love,
One in a cardinal's habit, one in black,
Those of the unhappy brothers, and infer
From the deep silence that his questions drew,
The terrible truth.
Well might he heave a sigh
For poor humanity, when he beheld
That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire,
Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate,
Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick man's mess,
In the last stage-death-struck and deadly pale;
His wife, another, not his Eleonora,
At once his nurse and his interpreter.
THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE.
'Tis morning. Let us wander through the fields,
Where Cimabuè found a shepherd boy*
Tracing his idle fancies on the ground;
And let us from the top of Fiesole,
Whence Galileo's glass by night observed
The phases of the moon, look round below
On Arno's vale, where the dove-colour'd oxen
Are ploughing up and down among the vines,
While many a careless note is sung aloud,
Filling the air with sweetness-and on thee,
Beautiful Florence, all within thy walls,
Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers,
Drawn to our feet.
From that small spire, just caught
By the bright ray, that church among the rest
By one of old distinguish'd as the bride,
Let us pursue in thought (what can we better?)
The bloody sheet, "Look there! Look there!" he Those who assembled there at matin prayers ;+
"Blood calls for blood-and from a father's hand!
-Unless thyself wilt save him that sad office.
What!" he exclaim'd, when, shuddering at the sight,
The boy breathed out, "I stood but on my guard."
"Darest thou then blacken one who never wrong'd
thee,
Who would not set his foot upon a worm ?-
Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee,
And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all."
Then from Garzia's side he took the dagger,
That fatal one which spilt his brother's blood;
And, kneeling on the ground," Great God!" he cried,
"Grant me the strength to do an act of justice.
Thou knowest what it costs me; but, alas!
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Who, when vice revell'd, and along the street
Tables were set, what time the bearer's bell
Rang to demand the dead at every door,
Came out into the meadows; and, a while
Wandering in idleness, but not in folly,
Sate down in the high grass and in the shade
Of many a tree sun proof-day after day,
When all was still and nothing to be heard
But the Cicala's voice among the olives,
Relating in a ring, to banish care,
Their hundred novels.
Round the hill they went,
Round underneath-first to a splendid house,
Gherardi, as an old tradition runs,
That on the left, just rising from the vale;
A place for luxury-the painted rooms, The open galleries and middle court
Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers.
Then westward to another, nobler yet;
That on the right, now known as the Palmieri,
Where art with nature vied-a paradise,
With verdurous walls, and many a trellis'd walk
All rose and jasmine, many a forest vista
Cross'd by the deer. Then to the Ladies' Valley;
And the clear lake, that seem'd as by enchantment
To lift up to the surface every stone
Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish
Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold,
Now motionless, now glancing to the sun.
Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day?
The morning banquet by the fountain side,
The dance that follow'd, and the noontide slumber;
Then the tales told in turn, as round they lay
On carpets, the fresh waters murmuring;
And the short interval fill'd up with games
Of chess, and talk, and reading old romances,
Till supper time, when many a siren voice
Sung down the stars, and in the grass the torches
Burnt brighter for their absence.
He* whose dream It was (it was no more) sleeps in Val d'Elsa, Sleeps in the church, where (in his ear I ween) The friar pour'd out his catalogue of treasures; A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone To the wise men; a phial full of sounds, The musical chimes of the great bells that hung In Solomon's temple; and, though last not least A feather from the angel Gabriel's wing Dropt in the virgin's chamber.
That dark ridge
Stretching away in the south-east, conceals it;
Not so his lowly roof and scanty farm,
His copse and rill, if yet a trace be left,
Who lived in Val di Pesa, suffering long
Exile and want, and the keen shafts of malice,
With an unclouded mind. The glimmering tower
On the gray rock beneath, his landmark once,
Now serves for ours, and points out where he ate
His bread with cheerfulness.
Who sees him not
('Tis his own sketch-he drew it from himself)
Playing the bird-catcher, and sallying forth
In an autumnal morn, laden with cages,
To catch a thrush on every lime-twig there;
Or in the wood among his woodcutters ;
Or in the tavern by the highway side
At tric-trac with the miller; or at night,
Doffing his rustic suit, and, duly clad,
Entering his closet, and, among his books,
Among the great of every age and clime,
A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased,
Questioning each why he did this or that,
And learning how to overcome the fear
Of poverty and death?
Nearer we hail
Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of old
For its green wine-dearer to me, to most,
As dwelt on by that great astronomer,‡
Seven years a prisoner at the city gate,
+ Machiavel.
Let in but in his grave clothes. Sacred be
His cottage, (justly was it call'd the Jewel!)
Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight
Glimmer'd, at blush of dawn he dress'd his vines,
Chanting aloud in gayety of heart
Some verse of Ariosto. There, unseen,
In manly beauty Milton stood before him,
Gazing with reverent awe-Milton, his guest,
Just then come forth, all life and enterprise;
He in his old age and extremity,
Blind, at noonday exploring with his staff;
His eyes upturn'd as to the golden sun,
His eyeballs idly rolling. Little then
Did Galileo think whom he bade welcome;
That in his hand he held the hand of one
Who could requite him-who would spread his name
O'er lands and seas-great as himself, nay greater;
Milton as little that in him he saw,
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As in a glass, what he himself should be,
Destined so soon to fall on evil days
And evil tongues-so soon, alas! to live
In darkness, and with dangers compass'd round,
And solitude.
Well pleased, could we pursue
The Arno, from his birthplace in the clouds,
So near the yellow Tiber's-springing up
From his four fountains on the Apennine,
That mountain ridge a sea-mark to the ships
Sailing on either sea. Downward he runs,
Scattering fresh verdure through the desolate wild,
Down by the City of Hermits, and, ere long,
The venerable woods of Vallombrosa;
Then through these gardens to the Tuscan sea,
Reflecting castles, convents, villages,
And those great rivals in an elder day,
Florence and Pisa-who have given him fame,
Fame everlasting, but who stain'd so oft
His troubled waters. Oft, alas! were seen,
When flight, pursuit, and hideous rout were there
Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring;
The man, the hero, on his foaming steed,
Borne underneath-already in the realms
Of darkness.
Nor did night or burning noon
Bring respite. Oft, as that great artist saw,*
Whose pencil had a voice, the cry "To arms!"
And the shrill trumpet, hurried up the bank
Those who had stolen an hour to breast the tide,
And wash from their unharness'd limbs the blood
And sweat of battle. Sudden was the rush,
Violent the tumult; for, already in sight,
Nearer and nearer yet the danger drew;
Each every sinew straining, every feature,
Each snatching up, and girding, buckling on,
Morion, and greave, and shirt of twisted mail,
As for his life-no more, perchance, to taste,
Arno, the grateful freshness of thy glades,
Thy waters-where, exulting, he had felt
A swimmer's transport, there, alas! to float
And welter. Nor between the gusts of war,
When flocks were feeding, and the shepherd's pipe
Gladden'd the valley, when, but not unarm❜d,
The sower came forth, and, following him who
plough'd,
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