ROMAN NOMENCLATURE.
By dint of many rambles I am become fairly versed in the topography of Rome; but its history, as elucidated by monuments or relics, is a perpetual riddle to the beholder. The Republic, the Empire, the Barbarian Invasions, Free Lances, Barons, Kings, and Popes—all are suggested; all come before you in confused array; not unfrequently, three or four at once. You shall go into a church to hear mass amid modern tawdriness, entering through a mediæval porch, taking your place between walls that were put up long before the Christian era, and under a roof supported by pillars whereon the sun of Phrygia has shone. Pagan and Christian—all is jumbled; until finally, unless you have the patience of Job and the zeal of an antiquarian, you begin to doubt all legendary and historic lore, andto measure what you see by its external attractiveness alone. One thing, however, is clearly marked. You are groping about, in a state of vexed uncertainty; suddenly you come upon an inscription, conspicuous, in large legible letters, often gilded. Now you are grateful. You stride up; and lo, there stands, emblazoned before you the interesting fact that such or such a Pontifex Maximus, some Benedict, or Clemens, or Pius, or Leo, or Gregory, restored, excavated, ornamented, or built, as the case may have been, the object upon which you have been pondering. Neither, in the dearth of desirable information, are you compensated by the opportunity of picking up chronological knowledge in regard to the Papacy. These fulsome records omit, not only all description that might be useful; they fail to mention the year of the World, or the year of Grace, altogether. In place thereof, you learn that the digging or decoration in question took place in a certain year of the reign of a certain Pope; but as the chair of St. Peter has had one hundred and sixteen occupants, between A.D. 1000 and A.D. 1860, "Anno VI. of Innocent VI." or "Anno II. of Julius II." does not materially aid the memory as to dates. This petty craving after chiselled or painted immortality is nowhere more contemptibly exhibited than in Raphael's famous Loggie at the Vatican, where, over each separate window, one reads in staring type, "Leo X., Pontifex Maximus." Surely there is something strangely inconsistent, in a power that boasts its remote origin and its endowment in perpetuity, thus taking infinite pains to isolate its historical fragments.
A smile only—not a grunt of indignation—is elicited by another peculiarity of Rome, which comes under the lounger's notice. Something of the same sort is perhaps also observable in all large cities; but it never struck me so strongly. I allude to the names of the streets and squares and public places, which names by the way are carefully and prominently labelled. The jumble is curious, though one starts a little at times from what to Protestant eyes seems irreverent. Take a sample, dispensing with the titles in Italian. You may stroll through the street of the Three Virgins, of the Three Robbers, of Jesus, of the Tarpeian Rock, of the Two Butchers' Shops, of the Baboon, of Divine Love, of the New Benches, of the Prefects, of the House-tops, of Jesus and Mary, of the Greeks, of the Tower of Blood, of the Triton, of the Guardian Angel, of the Strumpet, of the Soul, of the Scrofula, of the Eagle, of the Lion's Mouth, of the Five Moons, of Minerva, of the Incurables, of the Wind, of the Wolf, of St. John Beheaded. You may halt in the square of the Mouth of Truth, in that of the Field of Flowers, in that of the Satyrs, in that of Consolation, in that of the Goose. It is evident that no ruling mind or principle has regulated this public nomenclature.Tot homines, quot sententiæ.
And is it not the same thing in private affairs? What variety of tastes! Here is a specimen. Two young men of my acquaintance, who have been campaigning in India, arrived here, the other day, on theirfirst visit. One of them had a relative here, of a scholastic turn of mind, who was bringing a protracted sojourn to a close; and to him the cavalry officers were in a measure consigned. "Can you tell me what's to be seen at Ostia and Veii?" said one of them to me, forty-eight hours after their arrival. "Our friend, B., is going to take us a day's excursion to each place, to-morrow and the following day." I could scarcely keep my countenance. The poor innocents were sold to an antiquarian. Ostia is destitute of any objects that would repay a half-hour's walk. As for Veii, the learned have only agreed of late whereabouts that ancient city stood.
BRIGANDS, BEGGARS, AND SOUVENIRS.
My last communication was from Rome. It was piquant, on the day of departure thence from Naples, to dine at Terracina with a Prussian family, who had been stopped and robbed by brigands, at eight o'clock the previous morning, at a spot between Velletri and Cisterna. There was however noFra Diavoloin the case. The respectablepère de famille, who with his sons and daughters had been laid under contribution, informed us that the fellows were evidently peasants unused to the trade; that they presented guns, in exacting their demand for money; but that they were nervous in their brief operation, and that they did notransack the trunks, nor even carry off the watches and rings of the party. The chief sufferer was the vetturino, whom fright and the loss of thirty-six dollars had thrown into a fever, causing the detention which brought us into contact with the narrators. We passed on our way, without adventure; the safest period, there as elsewhere, being that which immediately follows one. I incline to think that extreme destitution induced this recourse to a practice almost obsolete, as it probably gave rise to the personal robberies, unattended with violence, which have been recently rife in Rome itself.
And in connection with this point, I may swell the laments of late travellers as to the chronic prevalence, throughout Southern Italy, of those other unceasing robberies of extortion and mendicancy, which are so much more difficult of toleration. I declare that of all the mythical personages of classic lore brought back to one's memory by local association, whether in the Elysian Fields or on the borders of Lake Avernus, the Harpies are those who alone survive, and who obtrude themselves always and everywhere, in season and out of season. The foul brood have assumed human semblance, and haunt you in all varieties. The unbidden cicerone, or the sturdy beggar—it is hard to say which is the worse.
How I anathematized them both at Sorrento, where there are certain souvenirs of Tasso, not so direct and tangible as those preserved in the Convent of San Onofrio at Rome, but which are worth the tracing.You will remember that the hapless poet found a resting place here in the house of his sister, after he escaped from his seven years' imprisonment at Ferrara. To be adjured, for charity, in the name of the Virgin and every Saint in the calendar—to have a jackass and a guide, or a jackass of a guide, thrust upon you,nolens volensfor an excursion that you have no mind to take, or to be importuned to "put out, put out, put out to sea," when you know that March winds and waves make the azure grotto of Capri totally inaccessible—these diversions, I say, do not assist one in gathering up one's reminiscences of Tasso, however much they may chasten and so improve the temper.
And here I may observe also upon a peculiarity that marks the research of certain travellers, somewhat akin perhaps to the taste which induces certain readers to trace history through personal memoirs, in place of studying broader narrations. If truth were told, there are a hundred who commune with Pepys and Horace Walpole, to ten who find delight in Hume. So is it—though by no means in the same proportion—with sight-seers on ground that is rich in historical associations. All their sympathies, or the larger portion of them at least, are with individuals, as though there were no grappling with a race, a nation, an age that is past. Stories, wholly or in part fictitious, are their hand-books. To them the Capitol of Rome is the scene of Rienzi's rise and fall, as interpreted by Bulwer Lytton. At Pompeii their chief care is to find out the abode of Glaucus and Ione. Nor can it be deniedthat there is an additional charm in this mode of viewing localities that are new to us, if it be not the most philosophical. In my own case, without needless parading of the degree in which I share this gentle weakness or disapprove it, I must own that its exercise gives at times an unexpected zest to a ramble. Whilst in Rome, for instance, I do not think that one's serious views of history or art are in any manner jarred upon, because here and there one stumbles upon relics that savour of individuality. At any rate I should not like to have missed the old mansion of the Anviti family, near the bridge of St. Angelo, mentioned by that old gossip, Benvenuto Cellini, as the frequent rendezvous of Michael Angelo, Raffaele, Cardinal Bembo, and other choice spirits of his day. I should have been sorry to have omitted a visit to the boudoir of Lucrezia Borgia, in the Convent close beside the church of St. Pietro in Vincolo, once the residence of Pope Alexander VI., and now mainly converted into a barrack for the troops of "the elder son of the Church." The part however in which is placed this small apartment, decorated with frescoes of the period, is still applied to conventual purposes. There is no legend about the matter, at least so far as regards the possession of the Borgia family; and the room being small in size, and unique in situation and style of ornament within and without, it is not difficult to believe that it was the chosen resort of a young lady in days when there was less gadding about than now. Still, to be candid, I must own that in musing here, as in lookingat the lock of the same amiable woman's hair preserved in the Ambrosian Library of Milan, one is apt to have one's recollections of mediæval depravity not slightly tinctured by visions of Giulia Grisi in the prime of her voice and beauty, to say nothing of Victor Hugo's grand drama, and old Mademoiselle Georges' unrivalled performance therein.
Again, and lastly—lest the reader imagine that when once I get back to Rome, I am spell-bound and cannot leave it—what traveller has not cast a pleased eye upwards towards the window whence the baker's daughter, A. D. 1515, or thereabouts, ogled the young prince of painters as he passed by on his way to, or from his work, at the Farnesina Palace? You know the precise spot, O Viator, in a small piazza very near the Ponte Sisto? The house is white-washed or yellow-washed now; but there is the old Ionic pilaster, yet embedded in the wall, and the ornamental architectural mouldings yet shut in the Fornarina's window. And here it occurs to me to make one more digression, for the purpose of suggesting a theory of my own touching one of the many portraits of La Fornarina that have come down to us, and that vary so much in expression though all evidently intended for the same person. Between the fine one in the Tribune at Florence, and the filthy one in the Sciarra Palace at Rome, there is the widest possible difference. The former is evidently enough a woman unrefined, though beautiful; but there is neither coarseness nor indelicacy in the portraiture. The latter has both these characteristics,pushed to an extreme that is repulsive. It is said to be a copy from Raffaele by Giulio Romano. Now my belief is, that it was painted as a quiz upon his master's grace and delicacy, by the scapegrace pupil who ran counter to those special attributes. Meretricious, ugly, and vulgar, this wretched creature bears emblasoned in large letters on the bracelet upon her arm the name of Raffaele Sanzio d'Urbino. This piece of impudence seems to me the crowning touch. I can't credit that such a Fornarina ever came from Raffaele's easel. I do think that a coarse-minded and coarse-handed young artist may have made fun of his superior in oil—as modern literary wags have sometimes done in ink—and that Raffaele therefore is in no way answerable for that caricature in the Sciarra, which affects to be a reproduction from himself.
LIVRES DES VOYAGEURS.
Verily there is no lack of the plainer symbols of humanity, to remind the wanderer that Childe Harold was bitterly truthful, when he appended to his inimitable descriptions of the Alps the assertion that they
"serve to show,How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below."
The impertinences and follies that are penned by men and women in the various Livres des Voyageurs,wherein they record their names, were alone sufficient proof of this. It is true that enthusiasm and fine feeling cannot endure for an indefinite period; and that he would be a sorry companion who always brought his stilts to the dinner-table. Still, one must regret that a certain craving for notoriety seems to impel so many a tourist to write himself down an ass, whilst no sense of fairness restrains others from commenting, appropriately or inappropriately, upon the names or remarks of predecessors. There is a cowardice and cruelty herein which has, I confess, sometimes made me angry, when the identity, characters, and conduct of the individuals concerned were alike unknown or indifferent to me. In place, however, of prolonging this digression, and without the least notion of proving anything whatever by the citation, I beg to offer the reader a brace of extracts from the visitors' record book at the Montanvert.
The first tickled me exceedingly, as a genuine specimen of the so-called Irish Bull. Mr. Somebody had entered his name, and added thereto this valuable bit of information: "Walked up from Chamouni in four hours and a-half,having lost the greater part of his way?" The italics are mine, of course; but is not themotworth its space in print?
My other extract concerns some of my young countrywomen, and I trust that their countrywomen who may read it will forgive me for putting it into circulation. They are very poor laughers, who never laugh when the joke tells against themselves; in this instanceit is we who pay the piper. A party of English school girls had been lately at Montanvert with their governess, and had set down their names one after another in the big book, as is the custom there. A waggish Frenchman, waiting of course until their backs were turned, had bracketted the list, and written against the conclave this pithy and caustic criticism: "Teint rouge; appétit géant; langage embarrassé." What an ungallant scamp! Yet it must be owned that the same absurd album is rich in provocatives. A running fire of sarcasm, exchanged between English and French tourists, marks almost every page.
A SINGULAR ANAGRAM.
Among the curiosities—not of literature—but of letters, the Anagram was wont to be a favourite in the days of a by-gone generation. Who, for instance, has not smiled blandly over that famous transposition, which aptly converts "Horatio Nelson" intoHonor est à Nilo?
The taste, however, for this sort of laborious trifling has almost passed away; nor do we propose to re-open the subject of cabalistic lettering. Our only purport is to offer a new specimen of its eccentricities, which came upon us recently during a vain attempt to solve certain mysteries, that occupy just now many serious minds. It is commended alike to snappers-up of unconsidered trifles, and to readers who chance to be imbued with a little tinge of superstitious sensitiveness. We strive to hope that, though almost as curious, it is not so unimpeachably appropriate as the one quoted above. The name, so much in men's mouths, "Louis Napoleon Bonaparte," may by this method be converted into,An open plot—arouse, Albion!
Very Slightly Paraphrased.
A comparison of the following lines, with the original American Declaration of Independence, will show that the earnest and impassioned language of real life is sometimes closely assimilated to blank verse.
A comparison of the following lines, with the original American Declaration of Independence, will show that the earnest and impassioned language of real life is sometimes closely assimilated to blank verse.
When, in their course, human events compelOne people to dissolve the social bandsThat linked them with another, and to takeAmong the powers of the Earth that station,Equal and separate, to which the lawsOf Nature and of Nature's God, by right,Entitle them—respect to the opinionsOf fellow men calls on them to declareThe causes, which have rendered necessarySuch separation.We, then, hold these truthsTo be self-evident: That all mankindAre equal, and endowed by their CreatorWith certain unalienable rights:That amongst these are Life, and Liberty,And the Pursuit of Happiness: That men,To make these rights available and safe,Have instituted Governments, derivingTheir lawful power from the free consentOf those they govern: That when any formOf Government is proved to be destructiveOf these their ends, it is the People's rightTo alter, or abolish it, and foundA Government anew, with principlesSo laid for its foundation, and with powersIn such form organized, as shall to themSeem most conducive to their happinessAnd safety.Prudence will, indeed, dictateThat long-established Governments should notBe changed for any light or transient cause:And all experience, accordingly,Hath shown that men are more disposed to suffer,So long as evils are endurable,Than to assert their rights, and throw asideTheir customary forms. But when abusesAnd usurpations, in a lengthened train,Pursue an object steadfastly, evincingA firm design to bow them down beneathAbsolute despotism, it is their right,It is their bounden duty, to throw offSuch Government, and to provide new guardsFor their security in future.SuchHas been the patient sufferance of theseOur Colonies, and such is now the need,That forces them to change their present systemsOf Government. Great Britain's present KingHath made his history the historyOf usurpation, and of injuriesOften repeated, and directly tendingTo the establishment of TyrannyOver these States: to prove this, let the WorldIn candour listen to undoubted facts.He has refused to give assent to laws,Wholesome, and needful for the public good.He has denied his Governors the powerTo sanction laws of pressing urgency,Unless suspended in their operation,Till his assent should be obtained; and whenSuspended thus, he has failed wilfullyTo give them further thought. He has refusedTo sanction other laws, deemed advantageousTo districts thickly peopled, unless they,Who dwelt therein, would basely throw awayTheir right to representatives—a rightInestimable, to themselves and onlyTo Tyrants formidable. In the hopeTo weary them into a weak complianceWith his obnoxious measures, he has summonedThe Legislative Bodies to assembleAt places inconvenient, and unusual,And whence their public records were remote.He has repeatedly dissolved the HousesOf Representatives for interferingWith manly firmness, when he has invadedThe People's rights. Long time he has refused,After such dissolutions, to conveneOthers in lieu of them; whereby, the powersOf Legislation, since they might not beAnnihilated, have for exerciseBeen forced upon the body of the people;Leaving, meanwhile, the unprotected StateTo dangers of invasion from without,And inward anarchy. He has endeavouredTo check the population of these States,Thwarting the laws for naturalizationOf foreigners, withholding his assentFrom other laws, that might encourage themIn immigrating hither, and enhancingThe price of new allotments of the soil.He has obstructed the administrationOf Justice, by his veto on the lawsEstablishing judiciary powersHe has made Judges on his will aloneDependent, for the tenure of their office,For the amount, and for the proper paymentOf their emoluments. He has erectedNew offices in multitudes, and sentSwarms of his officers to harass us,And to eat out our substance. He has kept,In times of peace, among us, standing armies,Without the sanction of our Legislatures.His aim has been to place the militaryAbove the civil power, and beyondIts just control. He has combined with othersTo make us subject to a jurisdiction,In spirit foreign to our Constitution,And unacknowledged by our laws; assentingTo acts, that they have passed with semblance onlyOf legislation: Acts for quarteringAmong us bodies of armed troops: For shielding,By a mock trial, those their instrumentsFrom punishment for any murders doneOn our inhabitants: For cutting offOur trade with every quarter of the world—For laying on us taxes not approvedBy our consent: For oft-times robbing usOf any benefit that might attendTrial by jury: For transporting usBeyond the seas, to answer for offences,Imputed to us: For abolishing,Within a neighbouring province, the free systemOf English laws; establishing thereinAn arbitrary power; and enlargingIts boundaries, to render it at onceThe fit example, and the instrumentFor bringing into these our ColoniesThe same despotic rule: For taking from usOur Charters; and abolishing our lawsMost valued; changing thus, in principle,Our forms of Government: And for suspendingOur Legislatures, with the declarationThat they, themselves, in each and every case,Were vested with supreme authorityTo legislate for us.He has laid downHis sway, by holding us without the paleOf his protection, and by waging warAgainst us. He has plundered on our seas;Ravaged our coasts; our cities burnt; and takenOur people's lives. He is transporting hitherArmies composed of foreign mercenaries,To end the works of death, and desolation,And tyranny, begun with circumstancesOf cruelty and perfidy unequalledIn the most barbarous ages, and unworthyThe Ruler of a nation civilized.He has constrained our fellow-citizens,On the high seas made captive, to bear armsAgainst their country, and of friends and brothersTo be the executioners, or fallBeneath his creatures' hands. He has excitedAmongst ourselves domestic insurrection;And sought to bring on the inhabitantsOf our frontier the savage Indian,Whose code of warfare, merciless and sure,Spares not, in undistinguished massacre,Age, sex, condition.We, in every stageOf these oppressions, have in humblest termsPetitioned for redress. To our petitions,Though oft repeated, there has beenoneanswer—Repeated injury.A prince, whose lifeAnd conduct thus are marked by every actThat may define a Tyrant, is unfitTo rule o'er Freemen.Neither have we failedIn due attention to our British brethren.From time to time, we have admonished themOf efforts, by their Legislature made,Unwarrantably to extend to usTheir jurisdiction. How we emigrated,And settled here, we have reminded them.We to their native justice have appealedAnd magnanimity; and have conjured them,By common kindred ties, to disavowThese usurpations, which, inevitably,Would mar our intercourse and friendship. TheyHave also turned a deaf ear to the voiceOf Justice and of Consanguinity.So must we yield to the necessityWhich forces us to separate, and hold them—As we do hold the rest of human kind—Our enemies in War, in Peace our friends.We, therefore, who are here to representThe States United of America,In General Congress met, for rectitudeOf our intentions to the Judge SupremeOf all things here in confidence appealing,Do, in the name, and by authorityOf the good people of these Colonies,Solemnly publish and declare, that theseUnited Colonies are, and of rightOught to be, Free and Independent States:That from allegiance to the British CrownThey are absolved: That all connecting tiesOf policy between them and Great BritainAre, as they should be, totally dissolved:And that, as Free and Independent States,They have full power to levy war, concludePeace, and contract alliances, establishCommerce, and do all other acts and thingsWhich Independent States of right may do.This is our Declaration: to support it,With firm reliance on Divine protection,We to each other mutually pledgeOur lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honour.
Browning, whose household gods were plantedBeside the banks of classic Arno,Once, in a dainty ballad, chantedThe lady of thebella mano.Pass from the Arno to the Tiber,From Tuscan to a Roman lady;And let a humbler bard describe her—This fair one of thebel piede.To Roman dame, as I and you know,Is rarely given a foot symmetrical;No Cinderellas—many a Juno—Upon the Pincian we can yet recall.Those were the days when bonnets did notExpose the face to every starer;When skirts, worn short and airy, hid notThe foot and ankle of the wearer.With high arched instep, narrow, tapering,Divinely booted—none could beat hers—The foot, that set my young heart capering,Came down the broad steps of St. Peter's.Her long black veil, the crowd around me,Her swift landau, my swift emotion—She came: her fairy foot spell-bound me;She went: which way, I had no notion.Haunting all public haunts was fruitless,Mid solemn pomps, on festal hey-day;Search for those glorious boots was bootless:Rome showed no more mybel piede.In Paris next enchained it held me,Through redowa, waltz, all sorts of dances;But mask and domino repelled me—She moved, but I made no advances.Again she passed—no trace behind her—I sought, enquired, left nothing undone;But all was vain: I could not find her,And, in despair, set off for London.The sea between Boulogne and DoverWas, as it always is, terrific;Against that awful passage over,Why not invent some smooth specific?Cloaked, muffled, shawled, a form was leaningAcross the gunwale, keeping shady;I recked not what might be its meaning—I thought not, then, ofbel piede.Sudden, a lurch, a shriek, a splashing!I knew the shriek was from a lady;But horror through my brain went crashing—I saw, heels up, mybel piede!She sank. No more! But O ye mermaids,Of whose long tails we've had a surfeit,If ye were worthy to be her maids,You'd cut your tails, and copy her feet!
A Reply to Quevedo.
These lines were suggested by some sprightly verses, entitled "Who is She?" that had recently appeared inFraser's Magazine.
These lines were suggested by some sprightly verses, entitled "Who is She?" that had recently appeared inFraser's Magazine.
A Spanish writer once decided,In flippant song,That woman's lip, or tongue, or eye didAll that went wrong.Nay, that the true mode of unmaskingHer wiles would be,On all occasions simply asking—Pray, who is she?Now, why must woman's petticoatsAye be the blamables?How is't Quevedo never quotesMankind's unnamables?He rates the sex, and certès for it heMakes a good plea;But can't I, on as good authority,Ask, who is he?Quevedo swears that Eve and HelenWrought dire mishaps:That Adam and the Trojans fell inTheir deep-laid traps.Eve?—why Diabolus beguiled her;You know't, Quevedo!Helen?—that rascal Paris wiled her:That's Homer'scredo!Trust me, man causes woman's failing;And, on my life,He's always wantonly assailingMaid, widow, wife.Beneath the surface let the gazerLook deep—he'll seeSome stronger vessel that betrays her:Just ask—who's he?Is it a milk-maid drops her pailful?—Lubin's love-making:Is her fate scandalous or baleful?—Lubin's been raking!The school-girl loaths her bread and butter,Pouts o'er her tea,Mumbles her lessons in a flutter—Ask, who is he?Despite experience, what can setThe widow hoping?Why are wives sometimes gadding met,And sometimes moping?Don't talk of widows' amorous bump,Of wives too free;But pop the question to them, plump—Pray, who is he?We're mighty prompt to throw the blame onThe weaker fair sex;When justice ought to fix the shame onOurs—not on their sex.Ours the seduction and the fooling,If such there be:Come; your exception to this ruling—Pray, who is he?The old and hump-backed ply their batteryOf gold and jewels;Well-knit young fellows deal in flattery,Dance, song, oaths, duels.So, to conclude, I'll take my oath, sir,Upon the Bible,That to blame one—in place of both, sir,—Is a gross libel!
From the French of Alfred de Musset.
Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well,Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell?Love is the cause of many a pang—their source thou well can'st guess;No pity in him dwells, as thou must needs thyself confess:And yet, ah! me, thou would'st perchance chastise me ne'ertheless!Were I to tell thee that, beneath six months of silence crushed,Long-hidden torments I have borne, and vows insensate hushed;Ninon, despite thy careless air, thou hast a searching eye,That, like a Fairy's, ere it come, what's coming can espy:"I know it all, I know it all," thou would'st perchance reply.Were I to tell thee that I roam in sweet, delirious dream,Haunting thy footsteps so that I thy very shadow seem;A tinge of sadness on thy cheek, a quick, mistrustful glance,—Ninon, thou knowest well that these thy loveliness enhance:And thus, that thou believest not, thou would'st reply perchance.Were I to tell thee that my soul hoards up the lightest word,That falling from thy lips at eve in our discourse I've heard;Lady, thou know'st that, when aroused to anger or disdain,Eyes, though of azure they may be, can still their lightnings rain:And thine perchance would flashing say, "We must not meet again!"Were I to tell thee that by night I wake and think of thee,And that by day for thee I pray, and weep on bended knee,Ah! Ninon, when thou laugh'st, the bee, as well thou art aware,In hovering round thy rosy mouth, that 'twas a flower might swear:Were I to tell thee all, perchance the laugh would still be thereBut nothing shalt thou know of this. I venture, all untold,Calmly to sit beneath thy lamp, and converse with thee hold.I hear the murmur of thy voice, thy balmy breath inhale;And thou may'st doubt me, or surmise, or laugh, I shall not quail;Thine eyes shall see no cause in me, their kindly look to veil.By stealth at times, in secret joy, mysterious flowers I glean,When o'er thy harpsichord at eve enraptured I can lean,And list from thy harmonious hands what fairy accents flow;Or in voluptuous waltz, as round with flying feet we go,I feel thee in mine arms, a reed, that's waving to and fro.When from thy side I have been kept by thronged saloons at night,And in my chamber draw my bolt that shuts the world from sight,A thousand reminiscences I seize upon, and holdIn jealous grasp; and there, alone, like miser o'er his gold,To Heaven my heart, all full of thee, with greedy joy unfold.I love; and I have learned to speak in cool and careless tone.I love; nought tells of it. I love; who knows it?—I alone!Dear is my secret, dear the pain with which I am oppressed;And I have sworn to love, without a hope on which to rest;But not without a taste of joy—I see thee, and am blest.No! not for me! I was not born such bliss supreme to meet:To die within thy arms, or live contented at thy feet.Alas! all proves it—e'en the grief that fain I would dispel.Were I to tell thee, ne'ertheless, that, troth, I love thee well:Blue-eyed brunette, blue-eyed brunette, thine answer who could tell?
The incident, which the following stanzas attempt to describe, is historical. It is related by Gibbon in his "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire."
The incident, which the following stanzas attempt to describe, is historical. It is related by Gibbon in his "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire."
Ye, who have the ruins seenOf the Coliseum's walls,Think ye, what the sight hath beenOf Rome's highest festivals!If your fancy can restoreCrumbled arch and corridor,Call forth the dead;Bid them fill again the seats,Where now Echo only greetsThe stranger's tread.Fourteen hundred years are past,Rome hath fallen in her pride,Since the gladiator lastIn the Coliseum died.Fourteen hundred years ago,Tens of thousands thronged the show,In joyous guise,On the struggle and the strife,And the pangs of parting life,Feasting their eyes.Then ye might have heard the roarOf the noble beasts of prey,As they fought and bled, beforeMen less noble far than they.Strength is useless, courage vain,Beauty saves not—they are slain,The forest race;Whilst the still unsated crowdFor new victims shout aloud,To fill their place.Hark! the Prætor's stern commandCostlier sacrifice proclaims;Lo! the gladiatorial band,Glory of the Roman Games!As they enter, man by man,Shape and size the people scanWith eager glance;And of each ill-fated pair,That await the signal there,Foretell the chance.Hark! the trumpet's sudden sound;Lo! the work of death begun:Seas of blood shall drench the ground,Ere that deadly work be done.Ha! a moment of delay?What the lifted hand can stay?Is there a fearOf Pompeii's fiery shower?Or, doth Earthquake's giant powerMake havoc here?No—for Nature with a smileLooks upon her outraged laws,Man's indignant voice the whileBidding man in pity pause.See!—a monk, obscure, unknown,Christ's disciple, treads aloneThe arena's sand,Foe from foe intent to part,Striving with a zealous heart,But feeble hand.Would ye seek to know his fate?Listen to that savage yell!Scorn, derision, fury, hate,Doomed his death—the martyr fell.Record there is none to show,Whose the hand that dealt the blowThat laid him there;Men who gazed, and men who fought,All alike to madness wrought,The guilt must share.Whether stoned to death, or slainBy the sword, or by the spear,Little recks it—it were vainThrough the mists of time to peer.This we know—the martyr died;Nor without success had pliedHis work of peace,Since, to expiate that deed,Rome's Imperial Lord decreed,The Games should cease.Rome obeyed her Lord's commands;Never were those Games renewed:Now the priest of Jesus standsWhere the gladiator stood.Thanks, Telemachus, to thee,Sainted martyr, now we seeAltars around;And the spot, where thou of yoreDid'st thy life-blood nobly pour,Is hallowed ground.
At Salem Meeting-House, one summer day,Two lovers, Abby Purkis and John Cole,Were joined in holy wedlock. Off they startedTo spend the honey-moon, gregarious,At Trenton, Saratoga, and the Falls.Reaching this last-named wonder of the world,They went the usual round; mounted the towerThat overlooks the cataract; stood and watchedThe eddying Rapids, and the whirling Pool;Nor on thy deck, O daring "Maid of the Mist,"Failed they to buffet the tumultuous roar,The drenching spray, the seeming perilous plungeBeneath the Horse-Shoe. Every where, throughout,Abby was brave; nay, on John's stalwart armLeaning, was confident.At last they reachedThe Cavern of the Winds. Then changed her bearing.Trembling, she paused. In truth, the howling blasts,And gusty moans as of imprisoned spirits,Struck the bride's soul with terror. All aghast,She stood before the entrance, and refused,Firmly refused to trust herself within.John urged—she would not; coaxed—'twas all in vain;Laughed at, and called her "little fool"—she would not.Nay more, she prayed him by the love he bore herNot to set foot himself within a placeSo fraught with peril. John was ungallant,And only laughed the more. Not he the manTo flinch from fisticuffs with Æolus!Had he not harpooned whales in Arctic seas?Were not typhoon, white squall, and hurricaneHis some time playmates? It was her turn nowTo coax, and urge, and crave—and be denied.Chafed that her will was not a law to John,Abby was woman still, and sorely grievedThat he should run such risks. She kissed him fondly,And bade him tread with care, and hasten back.Her voice was choked with sobs. Her latest wordsWere scarcely audible, though through them breathedSalem's sound training. "John," she faltered forth,"We know not what may happen: dear, dear John,"Were it not well that you—should—leave—with—me—"Your—watch—and—pocket-book?"
Down by the side of a sweet clover-stack,On a summer night, I lie on my back.Clear space is above me; and there, as I lie,I look straight up to the stars in the sky.Once, when the King was dethroned by the mob,They swarmed to his palace, to stare or to rob,And the frightened lackies flung open the doors,And clouted shoes scraped along polished floors.Then it was I caught sight of his Majesty's bed,With its canopy, gilded and carved, overhead;—If his Majesty wishes the stars to behold,And looks up, he can see but the carving and gold!Some night, should my soul be unbound as I sleep,And downward an Angel in search of it sweep,No bar, no obstruction, would hinder his flight;—With a wave of his wings, by my corpse he would light.But what, if the soul to be loosed were the King's?Could an Angel reach that by the poise of his wings?Could he easily cleave through a palace his way?Through ceilings bedizened, through floors in decay—Through gorgeous apartments and bare attic rooms,For lords and for ladies, for valets and grooms—Through a quaint peakèd roof rising high o'er the whole—Could he enter, and tenderly waft off the soul?Better, then, is the bed by the sweet clover-stack,With the stars full in view, and the clear Angel's track!And though much be not mine of this world's pleasant things,I should care not to barter my couch for the King's!
From the Italian of Ternaré
"Say, who art thou, with more than mortal air,Endowed by Heaven with gifts and graces rare,Whom restless, wingèd feet for ever onward bear?"—"I am Occasion—known to few, at best;And since one foot upon a wheel I rest,Constant my movements are—they cannot be repressed."Not the swift eagle in his swiftest flightCan equal me in speed. My wings are bright;And man, who sees them waved, is dazzled by the sight."My thick and flowing locks, before me thrown,Conceal my form—nor face, nor breast is shown,That thus, as I approach, my coming be not known."Behind my head, no single lock of hairInvites the hand, that fain would it grasp there;But he, who lets me pass, to seize me may despair.""Whom, then, so close behind thee do I see?"—"Her name is Penitence; and Heaven's decreeHath made all those her prey, who profit not by me."And thou, O mortal, who dost vainly plyThese curious questions, thou dost not descry,That now thy time is lost—for I am passing by."
Captain Semmes is on a cruiseO'er the track that skippers use;From the Western Isles, to thoseNear Nantucket shoals, he goes.Woe is me, Alabama!Letters to the merchants tellWho into his clutches fell;'Tis the talk of all the town;News-boys call it up and downWoe is me, Alabama!Straight the sons of Commerce cameTo their Chamber, crying shameFor the tidings they had learned,For their ships and cargoes burned.Woe is me, Alabama!Up and spake a merchant prince:"Friends, our city well may wince,For you have, alas! to knowOf a most disastrous blow!Woe is me, Alabama!"All is sunk beneath the waves,Breadstuffs, lard, tobacco, staves;Chained have been our Captains boldIn the 'Alabama's' hold!Woe is me, Alabama!"Lawless, too, is Captain Semmes;Neutral shipments he condemns.Useless is it to appealTo Consul's signature and seal.Woe is me, Alabama!"But there's worse than this behind;Treacherous friends this blow designed.Great as is the corsair's guilt,Greater theirs his ship who built!Woe is me, Alabama!"Neutral money, neutral skill,Wrought us this outrageous ill;Neutral engines, neutral guns,Aid him as he fights or runs.Woe is me, Alabama!"Sons of Commerce, men of worth,Let these words of mine go forth!Let the British monarch knowThat to her all this we owe!"Woe is me, Alabama!So the warning words went forthTo England, from the angered North,Passed along from mouth to mouth,"No more dealings with the South!"Woe is me, Alabama!"You may sell to this our landAll we want of contraband;But have a care that nothing goes,From you, a neutral, to our foes!"Woe is me, Alabama!Now Heaven preserve us all in peace,And let these ugly squabbles cease!So fighters all, and standers-by,Shall nevermore have cause to cry,"Woe is me, Alabama!"
November, 1862.
From the French of Victor Hugo.
Man was saying: "How can we,In our little boats at sea,Pass the guarda-costas by?"—"Row!" said Woman in reply.Man was saying: "How forgetPerils that our lives beset,Strife, and Poverty's low cry?"—"Sleep!" said Woman in reply.Man was saying: "How be sureBeauty's favour to secure,Nor the subtle philtre try?"—"Love!" said Woman in reply.
A Summer's dawn and a tranquil sea;But lurid all with smoke:For a bark was burning furiously,What time the morning broke.Terrible? ay, but risk there was none,For stern the Captain's sway;And when he spoke, each mother's sonCould not but choose obey."Man the boats!"—the boats were manned,In order, one by one;To pull a hundred miles to land,All under the Summer's sun.Four stalwart rowers bend to their oars:Four sitters at the stern—Three men and a woman—silent sit,Watching the vessel burn.They were no tremblers: each had knownPerils by land and deep;But the woman alone would gently moan,And at times, perforce, would weep.Yet soon the sun was high in heaven,And the sea was a-glow: and thenThe temper of those men peered out—Of those three fearless men.One thought his white hand by the sun would be tanned;One felt they were wrong to risk it,In sweltering heat, with nothing to eatBut a bit of dry ship-biscuit.The third brooded over his handful of freightGoing down, uninsured, to the deep:But the woman alone would gently moan,And at times, perforce, would weep;Till a sense of shame the three o'ercame,And a curious wish to knowWhy, still unfearing, she gave wayTo her uncomplaining woe."Ah, Sirs!"—she faltered in reply—"The danger is easily braved:But my husband may hear that the ship is burnt—And not that we are saved!"
A Translation of La Statue, by Victor Hugo.
He seemed to shiver, for the wind was keen.'Twas a poor statue underneath a massOf leafless branches, with a blackened backAnd green foot—an old isolated FaunIn old deserted park, who, bending forward,Half merged himself in the entangled boughs,Half in his marble settings. He was there,Pensive, and bound to the earth; and, as all things,Devoid of movement, he was there—forgotten.Trees were around him, whipped by the icy blasts—Gigantic chestnuts, without leaf or bird,And, like himself, grown old in that same place.Through the dark network of their undergrowth,Pallid his aspect; and the earth was brown.Starless and moonless, a rough winter's nightWas letting down her lappets o'er the mist.Trees more remote, with sombre shafts upreared,Each other crossed; and trees remoter still,By distance blurred, threw up to the grey skyTheir thousand twigs sharp-pointed, intricate;And posed themselves around; and through the fogTook, on the horizon's verge, the shadowy formOf mighty porcupines in countless herd.This—nothing more: old Faun, dull sky, dark wood.Piercing the mist, perchance there might be seenA distant terrace—its long layers of stoneTinted with slimy green; or group of Nymphs,Dimly defined beside a wide-spread basin,And shrinking—fitly in this desolate park—As once from gazers, from neglect to-day.The old Faun was laughing. In their dubious hazeLeaving the shamed Nymphs and their dreary basin—The old Faun was laughing—'twas to him I cameMoved to compassion, for these sculptors allAre pitiless ever, and, content with praise,Doom Nymphs to shame, condemn the Fauns to laughter.Poor helpless marble, how I've pitied itLess often man—the harder of the two.So then, without a word that might offendHis ear difformed—for well the marble hearsThe voice of thought—I said to him: "You hailFrom the gay amorous age; O Faun, what saw you,When you were happy? Were you of the Court?Did you take part in fêtes?—For your diversionThese Nymphs were fashioned. In this wood, for you,Capable hands mingled the gods of GreeceWith Roman Cæsars; made rare vases peerInto clear waters; and this garden vextWith tortuous labyrinths. When you were happy,O Faun, what saw you? All the secrets tellOf that too vain yet captivating past,Thick set with prudent love-makers, a pastIn which great poets jostled mighty Kings.How fresh your memory—you are laughing still!Speak to me, comely Faun, as you would speakTo tree, or zephyr, or untrodden grass.From end to end of this well-shaded alley,When near you, with the handsome Lautrec, passedThe soft-eyed Marguerite, the Bearnaise Queen,Have you, O Greek, O mocker of old days,Have you not sometimes with that oblique eyeWinked at the Farnese Hercules?—Alone,In cave as it were of foliage green and moist,Have you, O Faun, considerately turnedFrom side to side when counsel-seekers came,And now advised as shepherd; now as satyr?Have you sometimes upon this very benchSeen at mid-day, Vincent de Paul instillingGrace into Gondi?—Have you ever thrownThat searching glance on Louis with Fontange,On Anne with Buckingham; and did they notStart, with flushed cheeks, to hear your laugh ring forthFrom corner of the wood?—Was your adviceAs to the thyrsis or the ivy asked,When, the grand ballet of fantastic form,God Phœbus, or god Pan, and all his courtTurned the fair head of the fair Montespan,Calling her Amaryllis?—La Fontaine,Flying the courtiers' ears of stone, came he,Tears in his eyelids, to reveal to youThe sorrows of his Nymphs of Vaux?—What saidBoileau to you, to you, O lettered Faun,Who once with Virgil, in the Eclogue, heldThat charming dialogue, and deftly made—Couched on the turf—the heavy spondee danceTo the light dactyl's step?—Say, have you seenYoung beauties sporting on the sward: ChevreuseOf the swimming eyes, Thiange of airs superb?Have they sometimes, in rosy-tinted group,Girt you so fondly round, that all at onceA straggling sunbeam on a fluttering bosomMarked your lascivious profile?—Has your treeReceived beneath the quiet of its shadePale Mazarin's scarlet winding sheet?—Have youBeen honoured with a sight of MolièreIn dreamy mood? Has he perchance at times,Dropping at random a melodious verse,In tone familiar—as is the wont'Twixt demi-gods—addressed you?—When at eveHomeward hereby the thinker went, has heWho—seeing souls all naked—could not fearYour nudity, in his enquiring mindConfronted you with Man? And did he deemYou, spectral cynic, the less sad, less cold,Less wicked, less ironical—comparingYour laugh in marble with our human laugh?"Under the thickly tangled branches, thusDid I speak to him; he no answer gave—Not even a murmur. On the pedestalLeaning, I listened; but the past stirred not.Dumb to my words and to my pity deaf,The Satyr, motionless, was vaguely blanchedBy the wan glimmer of the dying day.To see him there, sinister, half drawn outFrom his dark framing, and by damp discoloured,Brought to one's mind the handle of a swordIn torso chiselled—an old rusty sword,Left for long years neglected in its sheath.I shook my head, and moved myself away.Then, from the copses, from the dried up boughsPendent above him, from secret cavesHid in the wood, methought a ghostly voiceCame forth and woke an echo in my soul,As in the hollow of an amphora."Imprudent poet," thus it seemed to say,"What dost thou here? Leave the forsaken FaunsIn peace beneath their trees! Dost thou not know,Poet, that ever it is impious deemed,In desert spots where drowsy shades repose—Though love itself might prompt thee—to shake downThe moss that hangs from ruined centuries,And, with the vain noise of thine ill-timed words,To mar the recollections of the dead?"Then to the gardens all enwrapped in mistI hurried, dreaming of the vanished days.And still the tree-tops were with mystery rife;And still, behind me—hieroglyph obscureOf antique alphabet—the lonely FaunHeld to his laughter, through the falling night.I went my way; but yet—in saddened spiritPondering on all that had my vision crossed,Floating in air or scattered under foot,Confused and blent, beauty and spring and morn,Leaves of old summers, fair ones of old time—Through all, at distance would my fancy see,In the woods, statues; shadows in the past!