zon's verge,

O'er intervenient waste, through glimmering haze,

Unquestionably kenned, that cone-shaped hill

With fractured summit, no indifferent sight To travellers, from such comforts as are thine,

Bleak Radicofani! escaped with joy-
These are before me; and the varied scene
May well suffice, till noon-tide's sultry heat
Relax, to fix and satisfy the mind
Passive yet pleased. What! with this
Broom in flower

Close at my side! She bids me fly to greet
Her sisters, soon like her to be attired
With golden blossoms opening at the feet
Of my own Fairfield. The glad greeting
given,

Given with a voice and by a look returned Of old companionship, Time counts not

minutes

Ere, from accustomed paths, familiar fields, The local Genius hurries me aloft, Transported over that cloud-wooing hill, Seat Sandal, a fond suitor of the clouds, With dream-like smoothness, to Helvellyn's top,

There to alight upon crisp moss, and range Obtaining ampler boon, at every step, Of visual sovereignty-hilis multitudinous, (Not Apennine can boast of fairer) hills Pride of two nations, wood and lake and plains,

And prospect right below of deep coves shaped By skeleton arms, that, from the mountain's trunk

Extended, clasp the winds, with mutual

And downward by the skirt of Greenside fell,

And by Glenridding-screes, and low Glencoign,

Places forsaken now, though loving still The muses, as they loved them in the days Of the old minstrels and the border bards.But here am I fast bound; and let it pass, The simple rapture--who that travels far To feed his mind with watchful eyes could share

Or wish to share it ?-One there surely was, "The Wizard of the North," with anxious hope

Brought to this genial climate, when disease

Preyed upon body and mind-yet not the less

Had his sunk eye kindled at those dear

words

That spake of bards and minstrels; and his spirit

Had flown with mine to old Helvellyn's brow

Where once together, in his day of strength, We stood rejoicing, as if earth were free From sorrow, like the sky above our heads.

Years followed years, and when, upon the

eve

Of his last going from Tweed-side, thought turned,

Or by another's sympathy was led,

To this bright land, Hope was for him no friend,

Knowledge no help, Imagination shaped No promise. Still, in more than ear-deep seats,

Survives for me, and cannot but survive The tone of voice which wedded borrowed words

To sadness not their own, when, with faint smile

Forced by intent to take from speech its edge,

He said, "When I am there, although 'tis fair,

'Twill be another Yarrow." Prophecy More than fulfilled, as gay Campania's shores

Soon witnessed, and the city of seven hills, Her sparkling fountains, and her mouldering tombs ;

And more than all, that Eminence which showed

Her splendors, seen, not felt, the while he stood

A few short steps (painful they were) apart From Tasso's Convent-haven, and retired grave.

Peace to their Spirits! why should Poesy Yield to the lure of vain regret, and hover In gloom on wings with confidence outspread

To move in sunshine!-Utter thanks, my Soul

Tempered with awe, and sweetened by compassion

For them who in the shades of sorrow dwell

That I so near the term to human life
Appointed by man's common heritage,
Frail as the fraulest, one withal (if that
Deserve a thought) but little known to
fame-

Am free to rove where Nature's loveliest looks,

Art's noblest relics, history's rich bequests,
Failed to reanimate and but feebly cheered
The whole world's Darling-free to rove at
will

O'er high and low, and if requiring rest,
Rest from enjoyment only.

Of earthly hope put on with trembling hand; Nor is least pleased, we trust, when golden beams,

Reflected through the mists of age, from hours

Of innocent delight, remote or recent,
Shoot but a little way-tis all they can
Into the doubtful future. Who would keep
Power must resolve to cleave to it through
life,

Else it deserts him, surely as he lives. Saints would not grieve nor guardian angels frown

If one-while tossed, as was my jot to be, In a frail bark urged by two slender oars Over waves rough and deep, that, when they broke,

Dashed their white foam against the palace walls

Of Genoa the superb should there be led To meditate upon his own appointed tasks, However humble in themselves, with thoughts

Raised and sustained by memory of Him Who oftentimes within those narrow bounds Rocked on the surge, there tried his spirit's strength

And grasp of purpose, long ere sailed his ship

To lay a new world open.

Nor less prized

Be those impressions which incline the heart

To mild, to lowly, and to seeming weak, Bend that way her desires. The dew, the

Further to force their way, endowed its trunk

With magnitude and strength fit to uphold The glorious temple-did alike proceed From the same gracious will, were both an offspring

Of bounty infinite.

Between powers that aim Higher to lift their lofty heads, impelled By no profane ambition, Powers that thrive By conflict and their opposites, that trust In lowliness a mid-way tract there lies Of thoughtful sentiment for every mind Pregnant with good. Young, Middle-aged, and Old,

From century on to century must have known

The emotion-hay, more fitly were it said
The blest tranquillity that sunk so deep
Into my spirit, when I paced, enclosed
In Pisa's Campo Santo, the smooth floor
Of its Arcades paved with sepulchral slabs,
And through each window's open fret-work
looked

O'er the blank Area of sacred earth Fetched from Mount Calvary, or haply delved

In precincts nearer to the Saviour's tomb, By hands of men, humble as brave, who fought

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For its deliverance-a capacious field
That to descendants of the dead i holds
And to all living mute memento breathes,
More touching far than aught which on the
walls

Is pictured, or their epitaphs can speak,
Of the changed City's long-departed power,
Glory, and wealth, which, perilous as they

Of splendor unextinguished, pomp unscathed,

And beauty unimpaired. Grand in itself, And for itself, the assemblage, grand and

fair

To view, and for the mind's consenting eye
A type of age in man, upon its front
Bearing the world-acknowledged evidence
Of past exploits, nor fondly after more
Struggling against the stream of destiny,
But with its peaceful majesty content.
-Oh what a spectacle at every turn
The Place unfolds, from pavement skinned
with moss,

Or grass-grown spaces, where the heaviest foot

Provokes no echoes, but must softly tread; Where Solitude with Silence paired stops short

Of Desolation, and to Ruin's scythe
Decay submits not.

But where'er my steps

Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care
Those images of genial beauty, oft
Too lovely to be pensive in themselves,
But by reflection made so, which do best
And fitliest serve to crown with fragrant
wreaths

Life's cup when almost filled with years, like mine.

-How lovely robed in forenoon light and shade,

Each ministering to each, didst thou appear Savona, Queen of territory fair

As aught that marvellous coast thro' all its length

Yields to the Stranger's eye. Remembrance holds

As a selected treasure thy one cliff,
That, while it wore for melancholy crest
A shattered Convent, yet rose proud to
have

Clinging to its steep sides a thousand herbs And shrubs, whose pleasant looks gave proof how kind

The breath of air can be where earth had

To that mild breeze with motion and with

voice

Softly responsive; and, attuned to all Those vernal charms of sight and sound, appeared

Smooth space of turf which from the guardian fort

Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April green,

In coolest climes too fugitive, might even here

Plead with the sovereign Sun for longer stay

Than his unmitigated beams allow,

Nor plead in vain, if beauty could preserve, From mortal change, aught that is born on earth

Or doth on time depend.

While on the brink Of that high Convent-crested cliff I stood, Modest Savona ! over all did brood

Paid simple tribute, such as might have flowed

From the clear spring of a plain English heart,

Say rather, one in native fellowship

With all who want not skill to couple grief
With praise, as genuine admiration prompts.
The grief, the praise, are served from their
dust,

Yet in his page the records of that worth
Survive, uninjured;-glory then to words,
Honor to word-preserving Arts, and hail
Ye kindred local influences that still,
If Hope's familiar whispers merit faith,
Await my steps when they the breezy
height

Shall range of philosophic Tusculum;
Or Sabine vales explored inspire a wish
To meet the shade of Horace by the side
Of his Bandusian fount; or I invoke
His presence to point out the spot where

once

He sate, and eulogized with earnest pen Peace, leisure, freedom, moderate desires; And all the immunities of rural life Extolled, behind Vacuna's crumbling fane.

Or let me loiter, soothed with what is given
Nor asking more, on that delicious Bay,
Parthenope's Domain-Virgilian haunt,
Illustrated with never-dying verse,
And, by the Poet's laurel-shaded tomb,
Age after age to Pilgrims from all lands
Endeared.
And who-if not a man as cold
In heart as dull in brain-while pacing
ground

Chosen by Rome's legendary Bards, high minds

Out of her early struggles well inspired
To localize heroic acts-could look
Upon the spots with undelighted eye,
Though even to their last syllable the Lays
And very names of those who gave them
birth

Have perished?- Verily, to her utmost depth,

Imagination feels what Reason fears not
To recognize, the lasting virtue lodged
In those bold fictions, that, by deeds as-
signed

To the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race,
And others like in fame, created Powers
With attributes from History derived,
By Poesy irradiate, and yet graced,
Through marvellous felicity of skill,
With something more propitious to high

aims

Than either, pent within her separate sphere,

Can oft with justice claim.

And not disdaining Union with those primeval energies To virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your height

Christian Traditions! at my Spirit's call Descend, and, on the brow of ancient Rome As she survives in ruin, manifest

Your glories mingled with the brightest hues

Of her memorial halo, fading, fading, But never to be extinct while Earth endures.

O come, if undishonored by the prayer, From all her Sanctuaries!-Open for my feet

Ye Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse Of the Devout, as, mid your glooms convened

For safety, they of yore enclasped the Cross

On knees that ceased from trembling, or intoned

Their orisons with voices half-suppressed,

heard,

Even at this hour.

And thou Mamertine prison, Into that vault receive me from whose depth

Issues, revealed in no presumptuous vision, Albeit, lifting human to divine,

A Saint, the Church's Rock, the mystic Keys

Grasped in his hand; and lo! with upright sword

Prefiguring his own impendent doom,
The Apostle of the Gentiles; both prepared
To suffer pains with heathen scorn and hate
Inflicted-blessed Men, for so to Heaven
They follow their dear Lord!

Time flows-nor winds,
Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course,
But many a benetit borne upon his breast
For human-kind sinks out of sight, is gone,
No one knows how; nor seidom is put forth
An angry arm that snatches good away,
Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream
Has to our generation brought and brings
Innumerable gains; yet we, who now
Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely
To a chilled age, most pitiably shut out
From that which is and actuates, by forms,
Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact
Minutely linked with diligence uninspired,
Unrectified, unguided, unsustained,
By godlike insight. To this tate is doomed
Science, wide-spread and spreading still as
be

Her conquests, in the world of sense made

known.

So with the internal mind it fares; and so
With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear
Of vital principle's controlling law,
To her purblind guide Expediency; and so
Suffers religious faith. Elate with view
Of what is won, we overlook or scorn
The best that should keep pace with it, and
must,

Else more and more the general mind will droop,

Even as if bent on perishing. There lives
No faculty within us which the Soul
Can spare, and humblest earthly Weal
demands,

For dignity not placed beyond her reach,
Zealous co-operation of all means
Given or acquired, to raise us from the mire,
And liberate our hearts from low pursuits.
By gross Utilities enslaved we need
More of ennobling impulse from the past,

Sounder and therefore holier than the ends Which, in the giddiness of self-applause. We covet as supreme. O grant the crown That Wisdom wears, or take his treacherous staff

From Knowledge!-If the Muse, whom I have served

This day, be mistress of a single pearl
Fit to be placed in that pure diadem;
Then, not in vain, under these chestnut
boughs

Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul
To transports from the secondary founts
Flowing of time and place, and paid to
both

Due homage; nor shall fruitlessly have striven,

By love of beauty moved, to enshrine in