The Third BookThe Maiden, musing on the Warrior’s words,Turn’d from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach’dA cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood,In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eyeBeam’d promise, but behind, withered and old,And all unlovely. Underneath his feetLay records trampled, and the laurel wreathNow rent and faded: in his hand he heldAn hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands,So pass the lives of men. By him they pastAlong the darksome cave, and reach’d a stream,Still rolling onward its perpetual waves,Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascendA Bark unpiloted, that down the flood,Borne by the current, rush’d. The circling stream,Returning to itself, an island form’d;Nor had the Maiden’s footsteps ever reach’dThe insulated coast, eternallyRapt round the endless course; but TheodoreDrove with an angel’s will the obedient bark.They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes,Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamantThe pile was framed, for ever to abideFirm in eternal strength. Before the gateStood eager Expectation, as to listThe half-heard murmurs issuing from within,Her mouth half-open’d, and her head stretch’d forth.On the other side there stood an aged Crone,Listening to every breath of air; she knewVague suppositions and uncertain dreams,Of what was soon to come, for she would markThe paley glow-worm’s self-created light,And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown,And desolated nations; ever fill’dWith undetermin’d terror, as she heardOr distant screech-owl, or the regular beatOf evening death-watch.“Maid,” the Spirit cried,Here, robed in shadows, dwells Futurity.There is no eye hath seen her secret form,For round the Mother of Time, unpierced mistsAye hover. Would’st thou read the book of Fate,Enter.”The Damsel for a moment paus’d,Then to the Angel spake: “All-gracious Heaven!Benignant in withholding, hath deniedTo man that knowledge. I, in faith assured,That he, my heavenly Father, for the bestOrdaineth all things, in that faith remainContented.”“Well and wisely hast thou said,So Theodore replied; “and now O Maid!Is there amid this boundless universeOne whom thy soul would visit? is there placeTo memory dear, or visioned out by hope,Where thou would’st now be present? form the wish,And I am with thee, there.”His closing speechYet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stoodSwift as the sudden thought that guided them,Within the little cottage that she loved.“He sleeps! the good man sleeps!” enrapt she cried,As bending o’er her Uncle’s lowly bedHer eye retraced his features. “See the beadsThat never morn nor night he fails to tell,Remembering me, his child, in every prayer.Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man!Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hourIs come, as gently mayest thou wake to life,As when thro’ yonder lattice the next sunShall bid thee to thy morning orisons!Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin’d,He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breatheBlessings, and pleasant is the good man’s rest.Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heardThy wonderous exploits? and his aged heartHath felt the deepest joy that ever yetMade his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude!Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here,And short and soon thy passage to that worldWhere friends shall part no more!“Does thy soul ownNo other wish? or sleeps poor MadelonForgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star,”The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eyeThat look’d reproach; “seest thou that evening starWhose lovely light so often we beheldFrom yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazedInto the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul,Lost in the infinite, returned, and feltThe burthen of her bodily load, and yearnedFor freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slarLives thy departed friend. I read that glance,And we are there!”He said and they had pastThe immeasurable space.Then on her earThe lonely song of adoration rose,Sweet as the cloister’d virgins vesper hymn,Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopesAlready lives in Heaven. Abrupt the songCeas’d, tremulous and quick a cryOf joyful wonder rous’d the astonish’d Maid,And instant Madelon was in her arms;No airy form, no unsubstantial shape,She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart,Their tears of rapture mingled.She drew backAnd eagerly she gazed on Madelon,Then fell upon her neck again and wept.No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief,The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness,The languid eye: youth’s loveliest freshness nowMantled her cheek, whose every lineamentBespake the soul at rest, a holy calm,A deep and full tranquillity of bliss.“Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!”The well known voice of Madelon began,“Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimageSo short on earth? and was it painful too,Painful and short as mine? but blessed theyWho from the crimes and miseries of the worldEarly escape!”“Nay,” Theodore replied,She hath not yet fulfill’d her mortal work.Permitted visitant from earth she comesTo see the seat of rest, and oftentimesIn sorrow shall her soul remember this,And patient of the transitory woePartake the anticipated peace again.”“Soon be that work perform’d!” the Maid exclaimed,“O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul,Spurning the cold communion of the world,Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently,Yea even with joy, endure the allotted illsOf which the memory in this better stateShall heighten bliss. That hour of agony,When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp,And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death,The very horrors of that hour assumeA shape that now delights.”“O earliest friend!I too remember,” Madelon replied,“That hour, thy looks of watchful agony,The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eyeEndearing love’s last kindness. Thou didst knowWith what a deep and melancholy joyI felt the hour draw on: but who can speakThe unutterable transport, when mine eyes,As from a long and dreary dream, unclosedAmid this peaceful vale, unclos’d on him,My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower,A bower of rest.—See, Maiden, where he comes,His manly lineaments, his beaming eyeThe same, but now a holier innocenceSits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illumeThe enlighten’d glance.”They met, what joy was theirsHe best can feel, who for a dear friend deadHas wet the midnight pillow with his tears.Fair was the scene around; an ample valeWhose mountain circle at the distant vergeLay softened on the sight; the near ascentRose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare,Part with the ancient majesty of woodsAdorn’d, or lifting high its rocks sublime.The river’s liquid radiance roll’d beneath,Beside the bower of Madelon it woundA broken stream, whose shallows, tho’ the wavesRoll’d on their way with rapid melody,A child might tread. Behind, an orange groveIts gay green foliage starr’d with golden fruit;But with what odours did their blossoms loadThe passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweetRose from the marble’s perforated floor,Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queenInhaled the cool delight,[8]and whilst she askedThe Prophet for his promised paradise,Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys.A goodly scene! fair as that faery landWhere Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borneFrom Camlan’s bloody banks; or as the grovesOf earliest Eden, where, so legends say,Enoch abides, and he who rapt awayBy fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire,Past in his mortal form the eternal ways;And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying thereThe beatific vision, sometimes seenThe distant dawning of eternal day,Till all things be fulfilled.“Survey this scene!”So Theodore address’d the Maid of Arc,“There is no evil here, no wretchedness,It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earthTheir nature’s gentlest feelings. Yet not hereCentering their joys, but with a patient hope,Waiting the allotted hour when capableOf loftier callings, to a better stateThey pass; and hither from that better stateFrequent they come, preserving so those tiesThat thro’ the infinite progressivenessComplete our perfect bliss.“Even such, so blest,Save that the memory of no sorrows pastHeightened the present joy, our world was once,In the first æra of its innocenceEre man had learnt to bow the knee to man.Was there a youth whom warm affection fill’d,He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruitsHis toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck’dThe sunny bank, he gather’d for the maid,Nor she disdain’d the gift; for Vice not yetHad burst the dungeons of her hell, and rear’dThose artificial boundaries that divideMan from his species. State of blessedness!Till that ill-omen’d hour when Cain’s stern sonDelved in the bowels of the earth for gold,Accursed bane of virtue! of such forceAs poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon’s locks,Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-bloodCold curdle in his veins, the creeping fleshGrew stiff with horror, and the heart forgotTo beat. Accursed hour! for man no moreTo Justice paid his homage, but forsookHer altars, and bow’d down before the shrineOf Wealth and Power, the Idols he had made.Then Hell enlarged herself, her gates flew wide,Her legion fiends rush’d forth. Oppression cameWhose frown is desolation, and whose breathBlasts like the Pestilence; and Poverty,A meagre monster, who with withering touchMakes barren all the better part of man,Mother of Miseries. Then the goodly earthWhich God had fram’d for happiness, becameOne theatre of woe, and all that GodHad given to bless free men, these tyrant fiendsHis bitterest curses made. Yet for the bestHath he ordained all things, the ALL-WISE!For by experience rous’d shall man at lengthDash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-likeAnd burst his fetters, only strong whilst strongBelieved. Then in the bottomless abyssOppression shall be chain’d, and PovertyDie, and with her, her brood of Miseries;And Virtue and Equality preserveThe reign of Love, and Earth shall once againBe Paradise, whilst Wisdom shall secureThe state of bliss which Ignorance betrayed.”“Oh age of happiness!” the Maid exclaim’d,Roll fast thy current, Time till that blest ageArrive! and happy thou my Theodore,Permitted thus to see the sacred depthsOf wisdom!”“Such,” the blessed Spirit replied,Beloved! such our lot; allowed to rangeThe vast infinity, progressive stillIn knowledge and encreasing blessedness,This our united portion. Thou hast yetA little while to sojourn amongst men:I will be with thee! there shall not a breezeWanton around thy temples, on whose wingI will not hover near! and at that hourWhen from its fleshly sepulchre let loose,Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved!I will be with thee in thine agonies,And welcome thee to life and happiness,Eternal infinite beatitude!”He spake, and led her near a straw-roof’d cot,Love’s Palace. By the Virtues circled there,The cherub listen’d to such melodies,As aye, when one good deed is register’dAbove, re-echo in the halls of Heaven.Labour was there, his crisp locks floating loose,Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye,And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph HealthStill follow’d on his path, and where he trodFresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was Hope,The general friend; and Pity, whose mild eyeWept o’er the widowed dove; and, loveliest form,Majestic Chastity, whose sober smileDelights and awes the soul; a laurel wreathRestrain’d her tresses, and upon her breastThe snow-drop hung its head,[9]that seem’d to growSpontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maidLove went submiss, wilh eye more dangerousThan fancied basilisk to wound whoe’erToo bold approached; yet anxious would he readHer every rising wish, then only pleasedWhen pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais’d.“Glory to thee whose vivifying powerPervades all Nature’s universal frame!Glory to thee Creator Love! to thee,Parent of all the smiling Charities,That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers!Glory to thee Preserver! to thy praiseThe awakened woodlands echo all the dayTheir living melody; and warbling forthTo thee her twilight song, the NightingaleHolds the lone Traveller from his way, or charmsThe listening Poet’s ear. Where Love shall deignTo fix his seat, there blameless Pleasure shedsHer roseate dews; Content will sojourn there,And Happiness behold Affection eyeGleam with the Mother’s smile. Thrice happy heWho feels thy holy power! he shall not drag,Forlorn and friendless, along Life’s long pathTo Age’s drear abode; he shall not wasteThe bitter evening of his days unsooth’d;But Hope shall cheer his hours of Solitude,And Vice shall vainly strive to wound his breast,That bears that talisman; and when he meetsThe eloquent eye of Tenderness, and hearsThe bosom-thrilling music of her voice;The joy he feels shall purify his Soul,And imp it for anticipated Heaven.”[8]In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this apartment.—Sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to Florian’s Gonsalvo of Cordova.[9]“The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems to grow on the breast of the Virgin.”—P.H.
The Maiden, musing on the Warrior’s words,Turn’d from the Hall of Glory. Now they reach’dA cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood,In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eyeBeam’d promise, but behind, withered and old,And all unlovely. Underneath his feetLay records trampled, and the laurel wreathNow rent and faded: in his hand he heldAn hour-glass, and as fall the restless sands,So pass the lives of men. By him they pastAlong the darksome cave, and reach’d a stream,Still rolling onward its perpetual waves,Noiseless and undisturbed. Here they ascendA Bark unpiloted, that down the flood,Borne by the current, rush’d. The circling stream,Returning to itself, an island form’d;Nor had the Maiden’s footsteps ever reach’dThe insulated coast, eternallyRapt round the endless course; but TheodoreDrove with an angel’s will the obedient bark.They land, a mighty fabric meets their eyes,Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamantThe pile was framed, for ever to abideFirm in eternal strength. Before the gateStood eager Expectation, as to listThe half-heard murmurs issuing from within,Her mouth half-open’d, and her head stretch’d forth.On the other side there stood an aged Crone,Listening to every breath of air; she knewVague suppositions and uncertain dreams,Of what was soon to come, for she would markThe paley glow-worm’s self-created light,And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown,And desolated nations; ever fill’dWith undetermin’d terror, as she heardOr distant screech-owl, or the regular beatOf evening death-watch.“Maid,” the Spirit cried,Here, robed in shadows, dwells Futurity.There is no eye hath seen her secret form,For round the Mother of Time, unpierced mistsAye hover. Would’st thou read the book of Fate,Enter.”The Damsel for a moment paus’d,Then to the Angel spake: “All-gracious Heaven!Benignant in withholding, hath deniedTo man that knowledge. I, in faith assured,That he, my heavenly Father, for the bestOrdaineth all things, in that faith remainContented.”“Well and wisely hast thou said,So Theodore replied; “and now O Maid!Is there amid this boundless universeOne whom thy soul would visit? is there placeTo memory dear, or visioned out by hope,Where thou would’st now be present? form the wish,And I am with thee, there.”His closing speechYet sounded on her ear, and lo! they stoodSwift as the sudden thought that guided them,Within the little cottage that she loved.“He sleeps! the good man sleeps!” enrapt she cried,As bending o’er her Uncle’s lowly bedHer eye retraced his features. “See the beadsThat never morn nor night he fails to tell,Remembering me, his child, in every prayer.Oh! quiet be thy sleep, thou dear old man!Good Angels guard thy rest! and when thine hourIs come, as gently mayest thou wake to life,As when thro’ yonder lattice the next sunShall bid thee to thy morning orisons!Thy voice is heard, the Angel guide rejoin’d,He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breatheBlessings, and pleasant is the good man’s rest.Thy fame has reached him, for who has not heardThy wonderous exploits? and his aged heartHath felt the deepest joy that ever yetMade his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on old Claude!Peaceful, pure Spirit, be thy sojourn here,And short and soon thy passage to that worldWhere friends shall part no more!“Does thy soul ownNo other wish? or sleeps poor MadelonForgotten in her grave? seest thou yon star,”The Spirit pursued, regardless of her eyeThat look’d reproach; “seest thou that evening starWhose lovely light so often we beheldFrom yonder woodbine porch? how have we gazedInto the dark deep sky, till the baffled soul,Lost in the infinite, returned, and feltThe burthen of her bodily load, and yearnedFor freedom! Maid, in yonder evening slarLives thy departed friend. I read that glance,And we are there!”He said and they had pastThe immeasurable space.Then on her earThe lonely song of adoration rose,Sweet as the cloister’d virgins vesper hymn,Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopesAlready lives in Heaven. Abrupt the songCeas’d, tremulous and quick a cryOf joyful wonder rous’d the astonish’d Maid,And instant Madelon was in her arms;No airy form, no unsubstantial shape,She felt her friend, she prest her to her heart,Their tears of rapture mingled.She drew backAnd eagerly she gazed on Madelon,Then fell upon her neck again and wept.No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief,The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness,The languid eye: youth’s loveliest freshness nowMantled her cheek, whose every lineamentBespake the soul at rest, a holy calm,A deep and full tranquillity of bliss.“Thou then art come, my first and dearest friend!”The well known voice of Madelon began,“Thou then art come! and was thy pilgrimageSo short on earth? and was it painful too,Painful and short as mine? but blessed theyWho from the crimes and miseries of the worldEarly escape!”“Nay,” Theodore replied,She hath not yet fulfill’d her mortal work.Permitted visitant from earth she comesTo see the seat of rest, and oftentimesIn sorrow shall her soul remember this,And patient of the transitory woePartake the anticipated peace again.”“Soon be that work perform’d!” the Maid exclaimed,“O Madelon! O Theodore! my soul,Spurning the cold communion of the world,Will dwell with you! but I shall patiently,Yea even with joy, endure the allotted illsOf which the memory in this better stateShall heighten bliss. That hour of agony,When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp,And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death,The very horrors of that hour assumeA shape that now delights.”“O earliest friend!I too remember,” Madelon replied,“That hour, thy looks of watchful agony,The suppressed grief that struggled in thine eyeEndearing love’s last kindness. Thou didst knowWith what a deep and melancholy joyI felt the hour draw on: but who can speakThe unutterable transport, when mine eyes,As from a long and dreary dream, unclosedAmid this peaceful vale, unclos’d on him,My Arnaud! he had built me up a bower,A bower of rest.—See, Maiden, where he comes,His manly lineaments, his beaming eyeThe same, but now a holier innocenceSits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illumeThe enlighten’d glance.”They met, what joy was theirsHe best can feel, who for a dear friend deadHas wet the midnight pillow with his tears.Fair was the scene around; an ample valeWhose mountain circle at the distant vergeLay softened on the sight; the near ascentRose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare,Part with the ancient majesty of woodsAdorn’d, or lifting high its rocks sublime.The river’s liquid radiance roll’d beneath,Beside the bower of Madelon it woundA broken stream, whose shallows, tho’ the wavesRoll’d on their way with rapid melody,A child might tread. Behind, an orange groveIts gay green foliage starr’d with golden fruit;But with what odours did their blossoms loadThe passing gale of eve! less thrilling sweetRose from the marble’s perforated floor,Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queenInhaled the cool delight,[8]and whilst she askedThe Prophet for his promised paradise,Shaped from the present scene its utmost joys.A goodly scene! fair as that faery landWhere Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borneFrom Camlan’s bloody banks; or as the grovesOf earliest Eden, where, so legends say,Enoch abides, and he who rapt awayBy fiery steeds, and chariotted in fire,Past in his mortal form the eternal ways;And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying thereThe beatific vision, sometimes seenThe distant dawning of eternal day,Till all things be fulfilled.“Survey this scene!”So Theodore address’d the Maid of Arc,“There is no evil here, no wretchedness,It is the Heaven of those who nurst on earthTheir nature’s gentlest feelings. Yet not hereCentering their joys, but with a patient hope,Waiting the allotted hour when capableOf loftier callings, to a better stateThey pass; and hither from that better stateFrequent they come, preserving so those tiesThat thro’ the infinite progressivenessComplete our perfect bliss.“Even such, so blest,Save that the memory of no sorrows pastHeightened the present joy, our world was once,In the first æra of its innocenceEre man had learnt to bow the knee to man.Was there a youth whom warm affection fill’d,He spake his honest heart; the earliest fruitsHis toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck’dThe sunny bank, he gather’d for the maid,Nor she disdain’d the gift; for Vice not yetHad burst the dungeons of her hell, and rear’dThose artificial boundaries that divideMan from his species. State of blessedness!Till that ill-omen’d hour when Cain’s stern sonDelved in the bowels of the earth for gold,Accursed bane of virtue! of such forceAs poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon’s locks,Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-bloodCold curdle in his veins, the creeping fleshGrew stiff with horror, and the heart forgotTo beat. Accursed hour! for man no moreTo Justice paid his homage, but forsookHer altars, and bow’d down before the shrineOf Wealth and Power, the Idols he had made.Then Hell enlarged herself, her gates flew wide,Her legion fiends rush’d forth. Oppression cameWhose frown is desolation, and whose breathBlasts like the Pestilence; and Poverty,A meagre monster, who with withering touchMakes barren all the better part of man,Mother of Miseries. Then the goodly earthWhich God had fram’d for happiness, becameOne theatre of woe, and all that GodHad given to bless free men, these tyrant fiendsHis bitterest curses made. Yet for the bestHath he ordained all things, the ALL-WISE!For by experience rous’d shall man at lengthDash down his Moloch-Idols, Samson-likeAnd burst his fetters, only strong whilst strongBelieved. Then in the bottomless abyssOppression shall be chain’d, and PovertyDie, and with her, her brood of Miseries;And Virtue and Equality preserveThe reign of Love, and Earth shall once againBe Paradise, whilst Wisdom shall secureThe state of bliss which Ignorance betrayed.”“Oh age of happiness!” the Maid exclaim’d,Roll fast thy current, Time till that blest ageArrive! and happy thou my Theodore,Permitted thus to see the sacred depthsOf wisdom!”“Such,” the blessed Spirit replied,Beloved! such our lot; allowed to rangeThe vast infinity, progressive stillIn knowledge and encreasing blessedness,This our united portion. Thou hast yetA little while to sojourn amongst men:I will be with thee! there shall not a breezeWanton around thy temples, on whose wingI will not hover near! and at that hourWhen from its fleshly sepulchre let loose,Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved!I will be with thee in thine agonies,And welcome thee to life and happiness,Eternal infinite beatitude!”He spake, and led her near a straw-roof’d cot,Love’s Palace. By the Virtues circled there,The cherub listen’d to such melodies,As aye, when one good deed is register’dAbove, re-echo in the halls of Heaven.Labour was there, his crisp locks floating loose,Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye,And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph HealthStill follow’d on his path, and where he trodFresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was Hope,The general friend; and Pity, whose mild eyeWept o’er the widowed dove; and, loveliest form,Majestic Chastity, whose sober smileDelights and awes the soul; a laurel wreathRestrain’d her tresses, and upon her breastThe snow-drop hung its head,[9]that seem’d to growSpontaneous, cold and fair: still by the maidLove went submiss, wilh eye more dangerousThan fancied basilisk to wound whoe’erToo bold approached; yet anxious would he readHer every rising wish, then only pleasedWhen pleasing. Hymning him the song was rais’d.“Glory to thee whose vivifying powerPervades all Nature’s universal frame!Glory to thee Creator Love! to thee,Parent of all the smiling Charities,That strew the thorny path of Life with flowers!Glory to thee Preserver! to thy praiseThe awakened woodlands echo all the dayTheir living melody; and warbling forthTo thee her twilight song, the NightingaleHolds the lone Traveller from his way, or charmsThe listening Poet’s ear. Where Love shall deignTo fix his seat, there blameless Pleasure shedsHer roseate dews; Content will sojourn there,And Happiness behold Affection eyeGleam with the Mother’s smile. Thrice happy heWho feels thy holy power! he shall not drag,Forlorn and friendless, along Life’s long pathTo Age’s drear abode; he shall not wasteThe bitter evening of his days unsooth’d;But Hope shall cheer his hours of Solitude,And Vice shall vainly strive to wound his breast,That bears that talisman; and when he meetsThe eloquent eye of Tenderness, and hearsThe bosom-thrilling music of her voice;The joy he feels shall purify his Soul,And imp it for anticipated Heaven.”
[8]In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this apartment.—Sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to Florian’s Gonsalvo of Cordova.
[9]“The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems to grow on the breast of the Virgin.”—P.H.