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 splendours, 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, S
Frail as the frailest, one withal (if that
Deserve a thought) but little known to fame-
And 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.
* These words were quotod to me from "Yarrow Unvisited," by Sir Walter Scott, when I visited him at Abbotsford, a day or two before his departure for Italy: and the affecting condition in which he was when he looked upon Rome from the Janicular Mount, was reported to me by a lady who had the honour of conducting him thither.-W. W. 1842.-See also the Fenwick note to this poem.-ED.
The Janicular Mount.-ED.
See the Fenwick note prefixed to this poem.- ED.
§ He was then sixty-seven years of age. -ED.
For what thus far hath blessed my wanderings, thanks
Fervent but humble as the lips can breathe
Where gladness seems a duty-let me guard
Those seeds of expectation which the fruit
Already gathered in this favoured Land
Enfolds within its core. The faith be mine,
That He who guides and governs all, approves
When gratitude, though disciplined to look
Beyond these transient spheres, doth wear a crown
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 lot 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.
Be those impressions which incline the heart
* See the Fenwick note.- ED.
To mild, to lowly, and to seeming weak,
Bend that way her desires. The dew, the storm
The dew whose moisture fell in gentle drops
On the small hyssop destined to become,
By Hebrew ordinance devoutly kept,
A purifying instrument-the storm.
That shook on Lebanon the cedar's top,
And as it shook, enabling the blind roots
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-nay, 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
* The Campo Santo, or Burial Ground, founded by Archbishop Ubaldo (1188-1200).-ED.
"There are forty-three flat arcades, resting on forty-four pilasters. . . . In the interior there is a spacious hall, the open round-arched windows of which, with their beautiful tracery, sixty-two in number, look out upon a green quadrangle. . . . The walls are covered with frescoes by the Tuscan School of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, below which is a collection of Roman, Etruscan, and mediæval sculptures. . The tombstones of persons interred here form the pavement." (Bædeker's Northern Italy, p. 324.)---ED.
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
For its deliverance-a capacious field
That to descendants of the dead it 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 are,
Here did not kill, but nourished, Piety.
And, high above that length of cloistral roof,
Peering in air and backed by azure sky,
To kindred contemplations ministers
The Baptistery's dome,† and that which swells
From the Cathedral pile; ‡ and with the twain
Conjoined in prospect mutable or fixed
(As hurry on in eagerness the feet,
Or pause) the summit of the Leaning-tower.§
Nor1 less remuneration waits on him
Who having left the Cemetery stands
In the Tower's shadow, of decline and fall
Admonished not without some sense of fear,
* Ubaldo conveyed hither fifty-three ship-loads of earth from Mount Calvary, in the Holy Land, in order that the dead might repose in holy ground.-- ED.
+ The Baptistery in Pisa was begun in 1153 by Diotisalvi, and completed in 1278. It is a circular structure, covered by a conical dome, 190 feet high.-ED.
The Cathedral of Pisa is a basilica, built in 1063, in the Tuscan style, and has an elliptical dome.-ED.
§ The Campanile, or Clock-Tower, rises in eight storeys to the height of 179 feet, and (from its oblique position) is known as the Leaning-Tower. -ED.
Fear that soon vanishes before the sight
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
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 reflections 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
* See the Fenwick note to this poem. Savona is a town on the Gulf of Genoa, capital of the Montenotte Department under Napoleon.-ED.
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