Recall a sister's last embrace,
His mother's neck entwine;
Nor shall forget the maiden coy
That would have loved the bright-haired boy!
My song, encouraged by the grace
That beams from his ingenuous face,
For this adventurer scruples not
To prophesy a golden lot:
Due recompense, and safe return
TO COMO's steeps, his happy bourne !
Where he, aloft in garden-glade,
Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed maid,
The towering maize, and prop the twig
That ill supports the luscious fig;
Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof
With purple of the trellis-roof,
That through the jealous leaves escapes
From Cadenabbia's pendent grapes.
Oh might he tempt that goatherd-child
To share his wanderings! him whose look
Even yet my heart can scarcely brook,
So touchingly he smiled,
As with a rapture caught from heaven,
For unasked alms in pity given.
WITH nodding plumes, and lightly drest
Like foresters in leaf-green vest,
The Helvetian mountaineers, on ground
For Tell's dread archery renowned,
Before the target stood, to claim
The guerdon of the steadiest aim.
Loud was the rifle-gun's report,
A startling thunder quick and short!
But, flying through the heights around,
Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound
Of hearts and hands alike "prepared
The treasures they enjoy to guard!"
And, if there be a favoured hour
When heroes are allowed to quit
The tomb, and on the clouds to sit
With tutelary power,
On their descendants shedding grace-
This was the hour, and that the place,
But truth inspired the bards of old
When of an iron age they told,
Which to unequal laws gave birth,
And drove Astrea from the earth.
A gentle boy (perchance with blood
As noble as the best endued,
But seemingly a thing despised;
Even by the sun and air unprized;
For not a tinge or flowery streak
Appeared upon his tender cheek)
Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes,
Apart, beside his silent goats,
Sate watching in a forest shed,
Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head;
Mute as the snow upon the hill,
And, as the saint he prays to, still.
Ah, what avails heroic deed?
What liberty? if no defence
Be won for feeble innocence.
Father of all! though wilful manhood read
His punishment in soul-distress,
Grant to the morn of life its natural blessedness!
THE LAST SUPPER, BY LEONARDO DA
VINCI, IN THE REFECTORY OF THE
CONVENT OF MARIA DELLA GRAZIA,
MILAN.
THO' searching damps and many an envious flaw
Have marred this work; the calm ethereal grace,
The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face,
The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe
The elements; as they do melt and thaw
The heart of the beholder, and erase
(At least for one rapt moment) every trace
Of disobedience to the primal law.
The annunciation of the dreadful truth
Made to the Twelve, survives: lip, forehead, cheek,
And hand reposing on the board in ruth
Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek
Unquestionable meanings, still bespeak
A labour worthy of eternal youth!
THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1820
HIGH on her speculative tower
Stood science waiting for the hour
When Sol was destined to endure
That darkening of his radiant face
Which superstition strove to chase
Erewhile, with rites impure,
Afloat beneath Italian skies,
Through regions fair as Paradise
We gaily passed, till Nature wrought
A silent and unlooked-for change,
That checked the desultory range
Of joy and sprightly thought.
Where'er was dipped the toiling oar,
The waves danced round us as before,
As lightly, though of altered hue,
'Mid recent coolness, such as falls
At noontide from umbrageous walls
That screen the morning dew.
No vapour stretched its wings; no cloud
Cast far or near a murky shroud;
The sky an azure field displayed;
"Twas sunlight sheathed and gently charmed, Of all its sparkling rays disarmed,
And as in slumber laid,
Or something night and day between,
Like moonshine, but the hue was green;
Still moonshine, without shadow, spread
On jutting rock, and curvèd shore,
Where gazed the peasant from his door,
And on the mountain's head.
It tinged the Julian steeps, it lay,
Lugano! on thy ample bay;
The solemnising veil was drawn
O'er villas, terraces, and towers;
To Albogasio's olive bowers,
Porlezza's verdant lawn.
But fancy with the speed of fire
Hath fled to Milan's loftiest spire,
And there alights 'mid that aërial host
Of figures human and divine,
White as the snows of Apennine
Indúrated by frost.
Awe-stricken she beholds the array
That guards the temple night and day;
Angels she sees, that might from heaven have
And virgin-saints, who not in vain
Have striven by purity to gain
The beatific crown,
Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings
Each narrowing above each; the wings,
The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips
The starry zone of sovereign height 1
All steeped in this portentous light!
All suffering dim eclipse!
Thus after man had fallen (if aught
These perishable spheres have wrought
1 Above the highest circle of figures is a zone of metallic stars.
May with that issue be compared)
Throngs of celestial visages,
Darkening like water in the breeze,
A holy sadness shared.
Lo! while I speak, the labouring sun
His glad deliverance has begun :
The cypress waves her sombre plume
More cheerily; and town and tower,
The vineyard and the olive-bower,
Their lustre re-assume!
O ye, who guard and grace my home
While in far-distant lands we roam,
Was such a vision given to you?
Or, while we looked with favoured eyes.
Did sullen mists hide lake and skies
And mountains from your view?
Or was it given you to behold
Like vision, pensive though not cold,
From the smooth breast of
Saw ye the soft yet awful veil
Spread over Grasmere's lovely dale,
Helvellyn's brow severe ?
I ask in vain, and know far less
If sickness, sorrow, or distress
Have spared my dwelling to this hour;
Sad blindness! but ordained to prove
Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love
And all-controlling power.
How blest the maid whose heart, yet free
From love's uneasy sovereignty,
Beats with a fancy running high,
Her simple cares to magnify;
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