expresses, was written 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.]

RAPT above earth by power of one fair face,
Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights,
I mingle with the blest on those pure heights.
Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place.
With Him who made the Work that Work accords
So well, that by its help and through his grace
I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words,
Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace.
Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn,
I feel how in their presence doth abide

Light which to God is both the way and guide;
And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn,

My noble fire emits the joyful ray

That through the realms of glory shines for aye.

XXII..

AT FLORENCE FROM M. ANGELO.

ETERNAL Lord! eased of a cumbrous load,
And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee;
Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee
To thy protection for a safe abode.

The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree,
The meek, benign, and lacerated face,

To a sincere repentance promise grace,

Yielding more perfect pardon, better cheer,

As older still I grow with lengthening time.

The Sonnets of Michael Angelo Buonarrotti and Tommaso Campanella, by John Addington Symonds, p. 110.

Compare Wordsworth's translation of other three sonnets by Michael Angelo (Vol. IV., p. 37-39).-ED.

To the sad soul give hope of pardon free.
With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine,
My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear;
Neither put forth that way thy arm severe;
Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto incline
More readily the more my years require
Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire.

XXIII.

AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE

APENNINES.

[The political revolutions of our time have multiplied, on the Continent, objects that unavoidably call forth reflection 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.]

YE Trees! whose slender roots entwine

Altars that piety neglects;

Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine.

Which no devotion now respects;
If not a straggler from the herd
Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird,
Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride
In aught that ye would grace or hide-
How sadly is your love misplaced,
Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste!

Ye, too, wild Flowers! that no one heeds,
And ye-full often spurned as weeds-

And ye,

1842.

In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness
From fractured arch and mouldering wall-
Do but more touchingly recal

Man's headstrong violence and Time's fleetness,
Making1 the precincts ye adorn
Appear to sight still more forlorn.

XXIV.

IN LOMBARDY.

SEE, where his difficult way that Old Man wins
Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves !—most hard
Appears his lot, to the small Worm's compared,
For whom his toil with early day begins.
Acknowledging no task-master, at will
(As if her labour and her ease were twins)
She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still;-
And softly sleeps within the thread she spins.
So fare they the Man serving as her Slave.
Ere long their fates do each to each conform:
Both pass into new being, but the Worm,
Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave;
His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend
To bliss unbounded, glory without end.

[I had proof in several instances that the Carbonari, if I may still call them so, and their favourers, 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 de Allmagna," to the east of the high passes of the Alps, which take you at once from Italy into Switzerland. This 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 that I was aware we had quitted Italy, and hence the unwelcome shock alluded to in the two or three last lines of the latter sonnet.]

FAIR Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few,
Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, fame,
l'art from thee without pity dyed in shame:
I could not-while from Venice we withdrew,
Led on till an Alpine strait confined our view *
Within its depths, and to the shore we came
Of Lago Morto, dreary sight and name,
Which o'er sad thoughts a sadder colouring threw.
Italia on the surface of thy spirit,

(Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake)
Shall a few partial breezes only creep?—
Be its depths quickened; what thou dost inherit
Of the world's hopes, dare to fulfil; awake,
Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like sleep!

XXVI.

CONTINUED.

As indignation mastered grief, my tongue
Spake bitter words; words that did ill agree
With those rich stores of Nature's imagery,
And divine Art, that fast to memory clung-
Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young
In the sun's eye, and in his sister's sight

They left Venice by the nuova strada de Allmagna, resting at Logerone, Sillian, Spittal (in Carinthia), and thence on to Salzburg.—ED.

How beautiful! how worthy to be sung
In strains of rapture, or subdued delight!
I feign not; witness that unwelcome shock
That followed the first sound of German speech,
Caught the far-winding barrier Alps among.
In that announcement, greeting seemed to mock*
Parting; the casual word had power to reach
My heart, and filled that heart with conflict strong.

AT BOLOGNA, IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE LATE INSURRECTIONS, 1837.†

АH why deceive ourselves! by no mere fit
Of sudden passion roused shall men attain
True freedom where for ages they have lain
Bound in a dark abominable pit,

With life's best sinews more and more unknit.
Here, there, a banded few who loathe the chain
May rise to break it: effort worse than vain.
For thee, O great Italian nation, split
Into those jarring fractions.-Let thy scope
Be one fixed mind for all; 'thy rights approve
To thy own conscience gradually renewed;
Learn to make Time the father of wise Hope;
Then trust thy cause to the arm of Fortitude,
The light of Knowledge, and the warmth of Love.

* See the Fenwick note to the last sonnet.-ED.

+ The three sonnets, At Bologna, in remembrance of the late Insurrections, 1837, are printed as a sequel to the Italian Tour of that year. Words. worth placed them amongst his "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty and Order."-ED.