Whom he had early loved. And not in vain.
Such course he held! Bologna's learned schools
Were gladdened by the sage's voice, and hung
With fondness on these sweet Nestorian strains.
*There pleasure crowned his days, and all his thoughts
A roseate fragrance breathed. O human life,
That never art secure from dolorous change!
Behold a high injunction suddenly
To Arno's side conducts him, and he charmed
A Tuscan audience, but full soon was called
To the perpetual silence of the grave.
Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood
A champion, steadfast and invincible,
To quell the rage of literary war!
O THOU who movest onward with a mind
Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste!
"Twill be no fruitless moment. I was born
Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood.
On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate
To sacred studies; and the Roman shepherd
Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous flock.
Much did I watch, much laboured; nor had power
To escape from many strange indignities;
Was smitten by the great ones of the world,
But did not fall; for virtue braves all shocks,
Upon herself resting immovably.
Me did a kindlier fortune then invite
To serve the glorious Henry, king of France,
And in his hands I saw a high reward
Stretched out for my acceptance; but death came.
Now, reader, learn from this my fate, how false,
How treacherous to her promise is the world,
And trust in God, to whose eternal doom
Must bend the sceptred potentates of earth.
THERE never breathed a man who when his life
Was closing, might not of that life relate
Toils long and hard. The warrior will report
Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field,
And blast of trumpets. He, who hath been doomed
To bow his forehead in the courts of kings.
* Ivi vivea giocondo e i suoi pensieri
The Translator had not skill to come nearer to his original
Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate,
Envy, and heart-inquietude, derived
From intricate cabals of treacherous friends.
I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth,
Could represent the countenance horrible
Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage
Of Auster and Boötes. Forty years
Over the well-steered galleys did I rule:-
From huge Pelorus to th' Atlantic pillars,
Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown;
And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft:
Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir
I knew the force; and hence the rough sea's pride
Availed not to my vessel's overthrow.
What noble pomp and frequent have not I
On regal decks beheld! yet in the end
I learn that one poor moment can suffice
To equalize the lofty and the low.
We sail the sea of life—a calm one finds,
And one a tempest-and, the voyage o'er,
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
If more of my condition ye would know,
Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang
Of noble parents: sixty years and three
Lived I-then yielded to a slow disease.
DESTINED to war from very infancy
Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took
In Malta the white symbol of the cross;
Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun
Hazard or toil: among the sands was seen
Of Libya; and not seldom, on the banks
Of wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot
To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded.
So lived I, and repined not at such fate:
This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong,
That stripped of arms I to my end am brought
On the soft down of my paternal home.
Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause
To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt
In thy appointed way, and bear in mind
How fleeting and how frail is human life.
NOT without heavy grief of heart did he,
On whom the duty fell (for at that time
The father sojourned in a distant land),
Deposit in the hollow of this tomb
A brother's child, most tenderly beloved?
Francesco was the name the youth had borne,
Pozzobonnelli his illustrious house;
And, when beneath this stone the corse was laid,
The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears.
Alas! the twentieth April of his life
Had scarcely flowered; and at this early time,
By genuine virtue he inspired a hope
That greatly cheered his country: to his kin
He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts
His friends had in their fondness entertained,
He suffered not to languish or decay.
Now is there not good reason to break forth
Into a passionate lament ?-Oh soul !
Short while a pilgrim in our nether world,
Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air;
And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,
An everlasting spring! in memory
Of that delightful fragrance which was once,
From thy mild manners, quietly exhaled.
PAUSE, courteous spirit !-Balbi supplicates
That thou, with no reluctant voice, for him
Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer
A prayer to the Redeemer of the world.
This to the dead by sacred right belongs;
All else is nothing. Did occasion suit
To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb
Would ill suffice for Plato's lore sublime,
And all the wisdom of the Stagirite,
Enriched and beautified his studious mind:
With Archimedes also he conversed
As with a chosen friend, nor did he leave
Those laureat wreaths ungathered which the nymphs
Twine on the top of Pindus. Finally,
Himself above each lower thought uplifting,
His ears he closed to listen to the song
Which Sion's kings did consecrate of old;
And fixed his Pindus upon Lebanon.
A blessed man! who of protracted days
Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep;
But truly did he live his life.-Urbino
Take pride in him. O passenger, farewell!
In justice to the author I subjoin the original:
Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri"
COMPOSED AT GRASMERE, DURING A WALK, ONE EVENING, AFTER A STORMY DAY, THE AUTHOR HAVING JUST READ IN A NEWSPAPER THAT THE DISSOLUTION OF MR. FOX WAS HOURLY EXPECTED.
LOUD is the Vale! the voice is up
With which she speaks when storms are gone,
A mighty unison of streams!
Of all her voices, one!
Loud is the Vale !-this inland depth
In peace is roaring like the sea;
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.
Sad was I, even to pain depressed
Importunate and heavy load!*
The comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;
And many thousands now are sad-
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.
A power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss;
And when the mighty pass away,
What is it more than this-
That man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return ?-
Such ebb and flow must ever be;
Then wherefore should we mourn?
WRITTEN NOVEMBER 13, 1814, ON A BLANK LEAF, IN A COPY OF THE AUTHOR'S POEM "THE EXCURSION," Upon hearing oF THE DEATH OF THE LATE VICAR OF KENDAL.
To public notice, with reluctance strong,
Did I deliver this unfinished song;
Yet for one happy issue; and I look
With self-congratulation on the book
"Importuna e grave salma."-Michae! Angelo.
Which pious, learned Murfitt saw and read.
Upon my thoughts his saintly spirit fed;
He conned the new-born lay with grateful heart;
Foreboding not how soon he must depart,
Unwitting that to him the joy was given
Which good men take with them from earth to heaven.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.
I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile!
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
I saw thee every day; and all the while
Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there;
It trembled, but it never passed away.
How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep,
No mood, which season takes away, or brings:
I could have fancied that the mighty deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.
Ah! then, if mine had been the painter's hand,
To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream;
I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile!
Amid a world how different from this!
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss:
Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house, a mine
Of peaceful years; a chronicle of Heaven :-
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine,
The very sweetest had to thee been given.
A picture had it been of lasting ease,
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
Such picture would I at that time have made;
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