not acknowledge it in the few lines I wrote in the strangers' book kept at the convent, that I was somewhat disappointed at Vallombrosa. I had expected, as the name implies, a deep and narrow valley, overshadowed by inclosing hills: but the spot where the convent stands is in fact not a valley at all, but a cove or crescent open to an extensive prospect. In the book before mentioned I read the notice in the English language, that if any one would ascend the steep ground above the convent, and wander over it, he would be abundantly rewarded by magnificent views. I had not time to act upon the recommendation, and only went with my young guide to a point, nearly on a level with the site of the convent, that overlooks the Vale of Arno for some leagues.

To praise great and good men has ever been deemed one of the worthiest employments of poetry; but the objects of admiration vary so much with time and circumstances, and the noblest of mankind have been found, when intimately known, to be of characters so imperfect, that no eulogist can find a subject which he will venture upon with the animation necessary to create sympathy, unless he confines himself to a particular act, or he takes something of a one-sided view of the person he is disposed to celebrate. This is a melancholy truth, and affords a strong reason for the poetic mind being chiefly exercised in works of fiction. The poet can then follow wherever the spirit of admiration leads him, unchecked by such suggestions as will be too apt to cross his way, if all that he is prompted to utter is to be tested by fact. Some thing in this spirit I have written in the note attached to the Sonnet on the King of Sweden; and many will think, that in this poem, and elsewhere, I have spoken of the author of "Paradise Lost" in a strain of panegyric scarcely justifiable by the tenor of some of his opinions. whether theological or political, and by the temper he carried into public affairs, in which, unfortunately for his genius, he was so much concerned.

At Florence. Under the shadow of a stately pile. - Upon what evidence the belief rests, that this stone was a favorite seat of Dante, I do not know; but a man would little consult his own interest as a traveller, if he should busy him

self with doubts as to the fact. The readiness with which traditions of this character are received, and the fidelity with which they are preserved from generation to generation, are an evidence of feelings honorable to our nature. I remember now, during one of my rambles in the course of a college vacation, I was pleased at being shown, at

a seat near a

kind of rocky cell, at the source of the river -, on which it was said that Congreve wrote his "Old Bachelor." One can scarcely hit on any performance less in harmony with the scene; but it was a local tribute paid to intellect by those who had not troubled themselves to estimate the moral worth of that author's comedies. And why should they? he was a man distinguished in his day, and the sequestered neighborhood in which he often resided was perhaps as proud of him as Florence of her Dante. It is the same feeling, though proceeding from persons one cannot bring together in this way, without offering some apology to the shade of the great visionary.

The Baptist. It was very hot weather during the week we stayed at Florence; and, having never been there before, I went through much hard service, and I am not, therefore, ashamed to confess, I fell asleep before this picture, and sitting with my back towards the Venus de' Medicis. Buonaparte, in answer to one who had spoken of his being in a sleep up to the moment when one of his great battles was to be fought, as a proof of the calmness of his mind, and command over anx ious thoughts, said frankly, "that he slept because, from bodily exhaustion, he could not help it." In like manner it is noticed that criminals, on the night previous to their execation, seldom awake before they are called, a proof that the body is the master of us far more than we need be willing to allow.

66

Florence. Rapt above earth," and the following one.— - How ever, at first, these two Sonnets from M. Angelo may seem in their spirit somewhat inconsistent with each other, I have not scrupled to place them side by side, as characteristic of their great author, and others with whom he lived. I feel, nevertheless, a wish to know at what periods of his life they wers respectively composed. The latter, as it expresses, was writ

ten in his advanced years, when it was natural that the Platonism that pervades the one should give way to the Christian feeling that inspired the other. Between both there is more than poetic affinity.

Among the Ruins of a Convent in the Apennines. — The plitical revolutions of our time have multiplied on the Continent objects that unavoidably call forth reflections such as are expressed in these verses, but the ruins in those countries are too recent to exhibit in anything like an equal degree the beauty with which time and nature have invested the remains of our convents and abbeys. These verses, it will be observed, take up the beauty long before it is matured, as one cannot but wish it may be, among some of the desolations of Italy, France, and Germany.

Sonnets after leaving Italy. - I had proof in several instances that the Carbonari, if I may still call them so, and their favorers, are opening their eyes to the necessity of patience, and are intent upon spreading knowledge actively, but quietly as they can. May they have resolution to continue in this course, for it is the only one by which they can truly benefit their country.

We left Italy by the way which is called the "Nuova Strada d'Allemagna," to the east of the high passes of the Alps, which take you at once from Italy into Switzerland. The road leads across several smaller heights, and winds down different vales in succession, so that it was only by the accidental sound of a few German words I was aware we had quitted Italy; and hence the unwelcome shock alluded to in the two or three last lines of the sonnet with which this perfect series concludes.

Page 225.

If with old love of you, dear hills!

This and the following sonnet were composed on what we call the far terrace, at Rydal Mount, where I have mur mured out many thousands of verses.

Page 226.

The Pillar of Trajan.

These verses had better, perhaps, be transferred to the class of "Italian Poems." I had observed in the newspaper that the Pillar of Trajan was given at Oxford as a subject for a prize poem in English verse. I had a wish, perhaps, that my son, who was then an undergraduate at Oxford, should try his fortune; and I told him so: but he, not having been accustomed to write verse, wisely declined to enter on the task; whereupon I showed him these lines as a proof of what might, without difficulty, be done on such a subject.

Page 246.

The River Duddon.

It is with the little River Duddon, as it is with most other rivers, Ganges and Nile not excepted, many springs might claim the honor of being its head. In my own fancy, I have fixed its rise near the noted Shire Stones placed at the meeting point of the counties Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Lancashire. They stand by the way-side, on the top of the Wry-nose Pass, and it used to be reckoned a proud thing to say, that by touching them at the same time with feet and hands, one had been in three counties at once. At what point of its course he stream takes the name of Duddon, I do not know. I first became acquainted with the Duddon, as I have good reason to remember, in early boyhood. Upon the banks of the Derwent, I had learnt to be very fond of angling. Fish abound in that large river, not so in the small streams in the neighborhood of Hawkshead; and I fell into the common delusion, that the further from home the better sport would be had. Accordingly, one day I attached myself to a person living in the neighborhood of Hawkshead, who was going to try his fortune, as an angler, near the source of the Duddon. We fished a great part of the day with very sorry Fuccess, the rain pouring torrents; and long before we got aome, I was worn out with fatigue; and if the good man had ot carried me on his back, I must have lain down under the

best shelter 1 could find. Little did I think then it would have been my lot to celebrate, in a strain of love and admiration, the stream which for many years I never thought o without recollections of disappointment and distress.

During my college vacation, and two or three years afterwards, before taking my bachelor's degree, I was several times resident in the house of a near relative, who lived in the small town of Broughton. I passed many delightful hours upon the banks of this river, which becomes an estuary about a mile from that place. The remembrances of that period are the subject of the 21st Sonnet. The subject of the 27th Sonnet is, in fact, taken from a tradition belonging to Rydal Hall, which once stood, as is believed, upon a pretty and woody hill on the right hand as you go from Rydal to Ambleside, and was deserted, from the superstitious fear here described, and the present site fortunately chosen instead. The present hall was erected by Sir Michael le Fleming, and it may be hoped that at some future time there will be an edifice more worthy of so beautiful a position. With regard to the 30th Sonnet, it is odd enough that this imagination was realized in the year 1840, when I made a tour through this district with my wife and daughter, Miss Fenwick and her niece, and Mr. and Miss Quillinan.

I have many affecting remembrances connected with this stream. These I forbear to mention, especially things that occurred on its banks during the latter part of that visit to the sea-side, of which the former part is detailed in my Epistle to Sir George Beaumont.

Mr. Wordsworth gave the following notices of his latter excursion to the banks of the Duddon, in a letter to Lady Frederick Bentinck.

You will have wondered, dear Lady Frederick, what has become of me. I have been wandering about the country, and only returned yesterday. Our tour was by Keswick, Scale Hill, Buttermere, Loweswater, Ennerdale, Calder Abbey, Wastdale, Eskdale, the Vale of Duddon, Broughton, Furness Abbey, Peele Castle, Ulverston, &c.; we had broken weather, which kept us long upon the road, but we had also very fine intervals, and I often wished you had been present. We had