156 Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, by Lord Byron. Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang With a new colour as it gasps away, Another proof of the poet's sense of beauty will appear in his description of the Medicean Venus. Part of its immortality; the veil Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale And to the fond idolaters of old [Sept. 1, omitted by the critics who have thought CXXX. And only healer when the heart hath bled- and heart, and claim of CXXXI. Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrine And temple more divinely desolate, Envy the inmate flash which such a soul Ruins of years-though few, yet full of could mould. L. We gaze and turn away, and know not where, Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the Reels with its fulness; there-for ever there-- The paltry jargon of the marble mart, The following generous apostrophe to the memory of Tasso, is worthy the bard of Harold. Peace to Tarquato's injured shade! 'twas his In life and death to be the mark where Aimed with her poisoned arrow; but to miss. fate: Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne hate CXXXIV. Each year brings forth its millions, but how And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that long The tide of generations shall roll on, And not the whole combined and countless throng Compose a mind like thine? though all in one Condensed their scatter'd rays they would not form a sun. That conflict of wild and terrible emotions which would distract an ordinary mind almost to annihilation, Lord Byron can calmly and fearlessly contemplate, and like the rock which offers its unyielding breast to the ungovern able fury of the world of waters, remain himself" unhurt amid the war of elements."-His address to Time, is perhaps the finest passage in the whole poem; and as it has been industriously now I shrink from what is suffered: let him Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, CXXXV. 1818.] Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, by Lord Byron. Hopes sapped, name blighted, life's life lied away? And only not to desperation driven, Because not altogether of such clay 159 The gulph is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned; As rots into the souls of those whom I And pale but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. 160 Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. [Sept. 1, CLXXII. These might have been her destiny; but no, Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, Good without effort, great without a foe; But now a bride and mother-and now there! How many ties did that stern moment tear! From thy sire's to his humblest subject's breast, Is linked the electric chain of that despair, Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best. 11. Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. By John Hobhouse, Esq. M.A. and F.R.S. Although this book is replete with much curious and valuable information, we do not consider it by any means a necessary appendage to the volume it professes to illustrate. The notes al ready attached to the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold, are, we conceive, more than sufficient for the due understanding of that poem, and many of them, however admirable, cannot but be acknowledged as superfluous; at least as far as regards necessary explanation. It is irksome, in the midst of such poetry as Lord Byron's, to have to wade through a note of a dozen pages, when an illustration of the individual passage might probably have been conveyed in as many lines. An eloquent discussion, which would have its claims upon our attention duly allowed, were it introduced in another form, is, under such circumstances, entirely lost upon us. For instance, the stanza apostrophizing the foster-mother of Romulus and Remus, has given rise in the notes appended to Childe Harold -to a lengthy dissertation on the nu merous images of the she-wolf, at present extant in different parts of Italy. Now all this is very well, and, to the antiquary, may have more charms than any other part of the book, but we will venture to affirm, that not above one out of a hundred of the noble author's poetical admirers proceed farther than the first twenty lines in it. Nearly two thirds of his lordship's work is occupied by notes; and the very ingenious and erudite volume before us contains upwards of 500 pages illustrative of the same subject. Is it to be supposed that Childe Harold will descend to posterity with Mr. Hobhouse's "bulky octavo" lumbering at his back? Yet Lord Byron endeavours to make it necessary to his readers by constant references to it. There is something unfair in this. He should not cram his friend's prose down the throats of the public, whether they will or not. A similar expedient was adopted to bring Mr. Rogers' poem, Jacqueline," into notice, by publishing it with " Lara,” so that the admirers of the one were obliged to become the purchasers of both. There is, however, some difference in the two cases. Mr. Hobhouse's book contains a great deal of highly curious and entertaining matter, though but slenderly connected with its companion; whilst Mr. Rogers' poem had no claims upon the public attention beyond what arose from its appearance with the production of his illustrious friend. It is to be regretted, that with the author's qualifications for the task, he did not favour us with a more extended essay on Italian literature. Instead of confining his remarks to the last fifty years, he would have rendered an essential service to the republic of letters, had he traced its progress from a much earlier period. The short sketch he has given us is, however, a masterly one; and besides general observations, contains a survey of the writings of Melchior Cesarotti, Joseph Parini, Victor Alfieri, Hippolitus Pindemonte, Vincent Monte, and Hugo Foscolo. We quote the following account of Alfieri, as he is perhaps better known to the English reader than any of the others. "His connexion with the Countess of Albany is known to all the world, but no one is acquainted with the secret of that long intercourse. If they were ever married, Alfieri and the Countess took as much pains to conceal that fact as is usually bestowed upon its publicity. Truth might have been spoken on the tomb of the poet, but even there we only find that Louisa, Countess of Albany was his only love,quam unice dilexit.' A church, perhaps, was not the place to boast of such a passion; but after every consideration we may conclude, that the Abate Caluso, who wrote the epitaph, and received the last sighs of Alfieri, knew and did not choose to tell that his friend was never married to the widow of Charles Edward Stewart. Tacendo clamat,' his silence is eloquent. 6 1818.] Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto of Childe Harold. 161 the next day. Alfieri was sitting in his arm chair, and said, ' At present I fancy I have but a few minutes to spare;' and turning towards the Abbé entreated him to bring the Countess to him. No sooner did he see her than he stretched forth his hand, saying, Clasp my hand, my dear friend, I die."* "His latter years were divided between a haughty irascibility and a deep melancholy, which afflicted him by turns, to a degree that rendered him scarcely accountable for his actions. Alfieri was then not unfrequently seen in the churches from vespers to sunset, sitting motionless, and apparently wrapped up in listening to the psalms of the monks, as they chanted them from behind the skreen of the choir. The way in which he died would, however, lead us to conjecture, that his meditations were not those of religion, and that he chose such a retreat in search of that solemn tranquillity which alone promised him a temporary repose from the relentless furies that preyed upon his heart." "The religious opinions of Alfieri," observes Mr. Hobhouse, "cannot be collected from his writings:" a pretty obvious testimony, we think, that his mind could have received no very particular bias any way. The manner of his death too, seems almost to confirm the supposition, that religion occupied the last place in his thoughts. Besides, if we are not mistaken, he ridicules it in various passages of his writings. In one of his treatises on Tyranny he professes to believe that the indissolubility of marriage contributed to the enslavement of Italy. This we are not surprised at. Men will argue in favour of the course their own perversity or caprice inclines them to pursue; and when they build upon false principles, the greater their genius the greater will be their absurdities. We will take our leave of Alfieri, in order to present our readers with some anecdotes of a far greater poet and a much better man, TASSO. The exquisite " Lament," which Lord Byron has put into the mouth of the bard of Ferrara, has inspired the English reader with an interest in his fate which otherwise he might not probably have felt. "There seems in the Italian writers," says Mr. Hobhouse, something like a disposition to excuse the Duke of Ferrara, by extenuating the sufferings or Stringetemi, cara amica! la mano, io muojo. + One of his comedies, also, the Divorce, is a satire on Italian marriages. NEW MONTHLY MAG.-No. 56. exaggerating the derangement of the poet. He who contemplates the dungeon, or even the hospital of St. Anna, will be at a loss to reconcile either the one or the other with that "ample lodge ment" which, according to the antiquities of the house of Este, the partiality of Alfonso allotted to the man whom he loved and esteemed much, and wished to keep near his person.' Muratori confesses himself unable to define the offence of the patient; and in a short letter devoted expressly to the subject, comes to no other general conclusion, than that he could not be called insane; but was confined partly for chastisement, partly for cure, having spoken some indiscreet words of Alfonso." ex “Manso, the friend and biographer of Tasso, might have been expected to throw some light upon so important a portion of his history; but the five chapters devoted to the subject only encumbered the question with inconclusive discussion. What is still more traordinary, it appears that of seven or eight cotemporary Ferrarese annalists, only one has mentioned that Tasso was confined at all, and to that one Faustini has assigned a cause more laughable than instructive. The later librarian of Modena was equally disingenuous with his predecessor, and had the confidence to declare, that by prescribing a seven years confinement Alfonso consulted only the health, and honour, and advantage of Tasso, who evinced his continued obstinacy by considering himself a prisoner.' The cause assigned by Lord Byron for the confinement of Tasso-namely, his love for the Princess Leonora-is not correct, though quite enough so for poetry; which Aristotle affirms may be three removes from truth. The English author of the Life of Tasso appears, however, to believe in the poet's love for the Duke's sister, though he does not consider it as the cause of his insanity. We learn from the following extract that "The Duke had not the excuse of Tasso's presumption in aspiring to the love of the princely Leonora. The far famed kiss is certainly an invention, although not of modern date. The English were taught to believe, by a cotemporary writer, that the Lydian boy and the Goddess of Antium had precipitated Torquato into his dungeon; and Manso hinted the same probability, but with much circumspection. The tale was VOL. X. Y 162 Foliage; or, Original Poems, by Leigh Hunt. at last openly told in The Three Gondolas,' a little work published in 1662, by Girolamo Brusoni, at Venice, and immediately suppressed. Leonora of Este was thirty years old when Tasso came to Ferrara; and this, perhaps, notwithstanding that serene brow, where Love all armed was wont to expatiate, reconciled him to the reverence and wonder which succeeded to the first feelings of admiration and delight. It is true that neither her age, nor the vermilion cloud which obscured the eyes of Lucretia, rendered his muse less sensible to the pleasure of being patronized by the illustrious sisters. Perhaps his intercourse with them was not altogether free from that inclination which the charms of any female might readily excite in a temperament too warm to be a respecter of persons. But his heart was devoted to humbler and younger beauties; and more particularly to Lucretia Bendelio, who had also to rank the author of the Pastor Fido' amongst her immortal suitors. Of this passion the Princess Leonora was the confidante, and aspired to the cure by the singular expedient of persuading him to become the encomiast of one of his rivals. It appears, then, that the biographer is justified in exclaiming against the scandal which is incompatible with the rank and piety of a Princess who was a temple of honour and chastity; and a single prayer of whom rescued Ferrara from the anger of Heaven and the inundation of the Po. It is also but too certain that Leonora deserted the poet in the first days of his distress; and it is equally known that Tasso, who would not have forgotten an early flame, did not hang a single garland on the bier of his supposed mis tress." We must now conclude our notice of this interesting volume. Much valuable information is scattered in a desultory manner over its pages, which we should like to have seen arranged in a less confused form. Indeed, it contains matter which might have been extended into a work of considerable importance, but which loses a part of its interest from the want of order visible in its compilation. At the same time we must take leave to differ with the author in his opinion of "modern degeneracy. He may be assured that this is nothing but the croaking cant of republicanism. Neither are we alive to the meritorious gallantry of Mr. Bruce, in facilitating the escape of Lavalette. Our ideas may be singular, but we cannot see how the [Sept. 1, term gallant can apply to the man who favours the designs of the enemies of his country. III.-Foliage; or, Poems original and translated, by Leigh Hunt. "A sensativeness to the beauty of the external world, to the unsophisticated impulses of our nature, and above all, imagination, or the power to see, with verisimilitude, what others do not,these are the properties of poetry,“ observes Mr. Leigh Hunt, in a babbling preface to the mass of crudities, which, in imitation of the German "Leaves," he has so prettily entitled " Felage," and this secret I saw very early," &c. Truly the volume before us contains some notable specimens of the perceptive faculties of its author. He is occasionally in raptures at the sight of a "haycock," and his " spirits come dancing from out him" on beholding the "steeple" and " furmy fields" of " dear Hampstead," that spot which has haunted his youth like a smile," with "Its fine breathing prospects, its clumpwooded glades, Dark pines, and white houses, and long alleyed shades, Its fields going down, where the bard lies and sees The hills up above him with roofs in the trees."-p. 80. 66 His friend Mr. Henry Robertson, too, he do touch ;"-p. 90. The poetical qualifications of the editor of the Examiner have been very correctly described by a writer in Blackwood's Magazine of October last, and * Mr. Hunt should at least know the orthography of what he prates so much about. |