MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY, 1837
I. MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY, 1837
YE Apennines! with all your fertile vales Deeply embosomed, and your winding shores Of either sea–an Islander by birth, A Mountaineer by habit, would resound Your praise, in meet accordance with your claims Bestowed by Nature, or from man’s great deeds Inherited:–presumptuous thought!–it fled Like vapour, like a towering cloud, dissolved. Not, therefore, shall my mind give way to sadness;– Yon snow-white torrent-fall, plumb down it drops 10 Yet ever hangs or seems to hang in air, Lulling the leisure of that high perched town, AQUAPENDENTE, in her lofty site Its neighbour and its namesake–town, and flood Forth flashing out of its own gloomy chasm Bright sunbeams–the fresh verdure of this lawn Strewn with grey rocks, and on the horizon’s verge, O’er intervenient waste, through glimmering haze, Unquestionably kenned, that cone-shaped hill With fractured summit, no indifferent sight 20 To travellers, from such comforts as are thine, Bleak Radicofani! escaped with joy– These are before me; and the varied scene May well suffice, till noon-tide’s sultry heat Relax, to fix and satisfy the mind Passive yet pleased. What! with this Broom in flower Close at my side! She bids me fly to greet Her sisters, soon like her to be attired With golden blossoms opening at the feet Of my own Fairfield. The glad greeting given, 30 Given with a voice and by a look returned Of old companionship, Time counts not minutes Ere, from accustomed paths, familiar fields, The local Genius hurries me aloft, Transported over that cloud-wooing hill, Seat Sandal, a fond suitor of the clouds, With dream-like smoothness, to Helvellyn’s top, There to alight upon crisp moss and range, Obtaining ampler boon, at every step, Of visual sovereignty–hills multitudinous, 40 (Not Apennine can boast of fairer) hills Pride of two nations, wood and lake and plains, And prospect right below of deep coves shaped By skeleton arms, that, from the mountain’s trunk Extended, clasp the winds, with mutual moan Struggling for liberty, while undismayed The shepherd struggles with them. Onward thence And downward by the skirt of Greenside fell, And by Glenridding-screes, and low Glencoign, Places forsaken now, though loving still 50 The muses, as they loved them in the days Of the old minstrels and the border bards.– But here am I fast bound; and let it pass, The simple rapture;–who that travels far To feed his mind with watchful eyes could share Or wish to share it?–One there surely was, “The Wizard of the North,” with anxious hope Brought to this genial climate, when disease Preyed upon body and mind–yet not the less Had his sunk eye kindled at those dear words 60 That spake of bards and minstrels; and his spirit Had flown with mine to old Helvellyn’s brow, Where once together, in his day of strength, We stood rejoicing, as if earth were free From sorrow, like the sky above our heads. Years followed years, and when, upon the eve Of his last going from Tweed-side, thought turned, Or by another’s sympathy was led, To this bright land, Hope was for him no friend, Knowledge no help; Imagination shaped 70 No promise. Still, in more than ear-deep seats, Survives for me, and cannot but survive The tone of voice which wedded borrowed words To sadness not their own, when, with faint smile Forced by intent to take from speech its edge, 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; 80 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, 90 That I–so near the term to human life Appointed by man’s common heritage, Frail as the frailest, one withal (if that Deserve a thought) but little known to fame– Am 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. Thanks poured forth 100 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; 110 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 120 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. Nor less prized 130 Be those impressions which incline the heart 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 140 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 midway tract there lies Of thoughtful sentiment for every mind Pregnant with good. Young, Middle-aged, and Old, 150 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 fretwork looked O’er the blank Area of sacred earth Fetched from Mount Calvary, or haply delved In precincts nearer to the Saviour’s tomb, 160 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 ought 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, 170 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. Nor less remuneration waits on him Who having left the Cemetery stands In the Tower’s shadow, of decline and fall 180 Admonished not without some sense of fear, Fear that soon vanishes before the sight Of splendour 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, 190 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 Decay submits not. But where’er my steps Shall wander, chiefly let me cull with care Those images of genial beauty, oft 200 Too lovely to be pensive in themselves But by reflection 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, 210 That, while it wore for melancholy crest A shattered Convent, yet rose proud to have Clinging to its steep sides a thousand herbs And shrubs, whose pleasant looks gave proof how kind The breath of air can be where earth had else Seemed churlish. And behold, both far and near, Garden and field all decked with orange bloom, And peach and citron, in Spring’s mildest breeze Expanding; and, along the smooth shore curved Into a natural port, a tideless sea, 220 To that mild breeze with motion and with voice Softly responsive; and, attuned to all Those vernal charms of sight and sound, appeared Smooth space of turf which from the guardian fort Sloped seaward, turf whose tender April green, In coolest climes too fugitive, might even here Plead with the sovereign Sun for longer stay Than his unmitigated beams allow, Nor plead in vain, if beauty could preserve, From mortal change, aught that is born on earth 230 Or doth on time depend. While on the brink Of that high Convent-crested cliff I stood, Modest Savona! over all did brood A pure poetic Spirit–as the breeze, Mild–as the verdure, fresh–the sunshine, bright– Thy gentle Chiabrera!–not a stone, Mural or level with the trodden floor, In Church or Chapel, if my curious quest Missed not the truth, retains a single name Of young or old, warrior, or saint, or sage, 240 To whose dear memories his sepulchral verse Paid simple tribute, such as might have flowed From the clear spring of a plain English heart, Say rather, one in native fellowship With all who want not skill to couple grief With praise, as genuine admiration prompts. The grief, the praise, are severed from their dust, Yet in his page the records of that worth Survive, uninjured;–glory then to words, Honour to word-preserving Arts, and hail 250 Ye kindred local influences that still, If Hope’s familiar whispers merit faith, Await my steps when they the breezy height Shall range of philosophic Tusculum; Or Sabine vales explored inspire a wish To meet the shade of Horace by the side Of his Bandusian fount; or I invoke His presence to point out the spot where once He sate, and eulogized with earnest pen Peace, leisure, freedom, moderate desires; 260 And all the immunities of rural life Extolled, behind Vacuna’s crumbling fane. Or let me loiter, soothed with what is given Nor asking more, on that delicious Bay, Parthenope’s Domain–Virgilian haunt, Illustrated with never-dying verse, And, by the Poet’s laurel-shaded tomb, Age after age to Pilgrims from all lands Endeared. And who–if not a man as cold In heart as dull in brain–while pacing ground 270 Chosen by Rome’s legendary Bards, high minds Out of her early struggles well inspired To localize heroic acts–could look Upon the spots with undelighted eye, Though even to their last syllable the Lays And very names of those who gave them birth Have perished?–Verily, to her utmost depth, Imagination feels what Reason fears not To recognize, the lasting virtue lodged In those bold fictions that, by deeds assigned 280 To the Valerian, Fabian, Curian Race, And others like in fame, created Powers With attributes from History derived, By Poesy irradiate, and yet graced, Through marvellous felicity of skill, With something more propitious to high aims Than either, pent within her separate sphere, Can oft with justice claim. And not disdaining Union with those primeval energies To virtue consecrate, stoop ye from your height 290 Christian Traditions! at my Spirit’s call Descend, and, on the brow of ancient Rome As she survives in ruin manifest Your glories mingled with the brightest hues Of her memorial halo, fading, fading, But never to be extinct while Earth endures. O come, if undishonoured by the prayer, From all her Sanctuaries!–Open for my feet Ye Catacombs, give to mine eyes a glimpse Of the Devout, as, ‘mid your glooms convened 300 For safety, they of yore enclasped the Cross On knees that ceased from trembling, or intoned Their orisons with voices half-suppressed, But sometimes heard, or fancied to be heard, Even at this hour. And thou Mamertine prison, Into that vault receive me from whose depth Issues, revealed in no presumptuous vision, Albeit lifting human to divine, A Saint, the Church’s Rock, the mystic Keys Grasped in his hand; and lo! with upright sword 310 Prefiguring his own impendent doom, The Apostle of the Gentiles; both prepared To suffer pains with heathen scorn and hate Inflicted;–blessed Men, for so to Heaven They follow their dear Lord! Time flows–nor winds, Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course, But many a benefit borne upon his breast For human-kind sinks out of sight, is gone, No one knows how; nor seldom is put forth An angry arm that snatches good away, 320 Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream Has to our generation brought and brings Innumerable gains; yet we, who now Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely To a chilled age, most pitiably shut out From that which ‘is’ and actuates, by forms, Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact Minutely linked with diligence uninspired, Unrectified, unguided, unsustained, By godlike insight. To this fate is doomed 330 Science, wide-spread and spreading still as be Her conquests, in the world of sense made known, So with the internal mind it fares; and so With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear Of vital principle’s controlling law, To her purblind guide Expediency; and so Suffers religious faith. Elate with view Of what is won, we overlook or scorn The best that should keep pace with it, and must, Else more and more the general mind will droop, 340 Even as if bent on perishing. There lives No faculty within us which the Soul Can spare, and humblest earthly Weal demands, For dignity not placed beyond her reach, Zealous co-operation of all means Given or acquired, to raise us from the mire, And liberate our hearts from low pursuits. By gross Utilities enslaved, we need More of ennobling impulse from the past, If to the future aught of good must come 350 Sounder and therefore holier than the ends Which, in the giddiness of self-applause, We covet as supreme. O grant the crown That Wisdom wears, or take his treacherous staff From Knowledge!–If the Muse, whom I have served This day, be mistress of a single pearl Fit to be placed in that pure diadem; Then, not in vain, under these chestnut boughs Reclined, shall I have yielded up my soul To transports from the secondary founts 360 Flowing of time and place, and paid to both Due homage; nor shall fruitlessly have striven, By love of beauty moved, to enshrine in verse Accordant meditations, which in times Vexed and disordered, as our own, may shed Influence, at least among a scattered few, To soberness of mind and peace of heart Friendly; as here to my repose hath been This flowering broom’s dear neighbourhood, the light And murmur issuing from yon pendent flood, 370 And all the varied landscape. Let us now Rise, and to-morrow greet magnificent Rome.