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Rear crests on crests, like waves storm-driven ;
An ocean stream of silver curled
Around the ægis of the world !
And O, methinks, on peaks so bright

(But that this dull encumbered eye

Such visitings may not descry)

Angels must oft alight,
Then back to bliss, crowning in winged trains

Points where nor pulse hath beat, nor foot hath trod,
Completing link by link, the golden chains
In which this earth hangs from the throne of God.

And thus by sincere thoughts of love

They first suggest, and next improve, This Temple's marvels draw both young and old To ponder loftiest things by steps refined and bold.

Milan, July, 1844.

THE PAINTING OF THE LAST SUPPER

AT MILAN.

EXTRACT FROM MANUSCRIPT JOURNAL.

a

I

brated painting of the Cenacolo by Leonardo da Vinci, in the refectory of the deserted convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie. Prepared as I was to see it in bad condition, it was in a worse state than I had anticipated. I did not find, as I have found it to be the case with others in ruins, that this painting came out better after the eye had been accustomed to its appearance for a few minutes. It is not faint, but it is indistinct. You do not see too little, but too much. There is colour enough about it, but it is not the original colour. I had looked for an impressive sight, to wit, the ghost—the shade of a great work; but was put off with a pretended resuscitation. The whole too is miserably mildewed, and is, in fact, scarcely worth going to see; yet I made a point of devoting two mornings to it.

O that Leonardo had in this divine work employed fresco, and not oils ! On the opposite wall is a fine fresco by Montorfano of the Crucifixion, dated 1495, at the present time in a very good state. The date of the Cenacolo is 1500. Wordsworth has a sonnet upon it, to which we turned with pleasure. He has therein spoken of it as he felt; but assuredly this once grandest of works has been degraded to an ignoble relic.

Milan, July, 1844.

NIGHT, IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMONIX,

A FRAGMENT.

PINE-FORESTS, torrent beds, loose rocks, firm

crags-
Steps in the scale by which the untutored sight
Is schooled to height and distance—where are ye?
All melted into darkness. Yet, from peaks
Whose dreamy outlines mingle with the stars,
The glaciers stream into the vale below
With dubious light, beheld like comets, such
As have been seen with mystic train to sweep
From zenith to horizon. In night-frost
The avalanche lies chained ; and all is hushed ;
Save where the Arveiron, ceaselessly renewed
From his well-head of ice, raves with a voice
So uniform, it soothes like silence; nay,
Grows almost musical.

Chamonix, August, 1844.

PASSAGE OF THE COL DU GEANT.

EXTRACT FROM MANUSCRIPT JOURNAL.

“The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around :
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,

Like noises in a swound.”

ANCIENT MARINER.

HAY

AVING, whilst at Chamonix, made successful

excursions, favoured by the finest weather, to the summit of the Breven, to the Jardin, and to the summit of the Buet, I resolved not to quit the neighbourhood of Mont Blanc without attempting the passage from Chamonix to Courmayeur by the Col du Géant. Accordingly, on the 30th of July I signified my wishes to the Chef des guides at Chamonix, who readily appointed three guides to accompany me, and we had hopes of being able to start that same afternoon. But the weather in a few hours changed for the worse ; and continued very unfavourable, with snow, rain, and frequent thunder, for some days. Without inserting in this place a meteorological journal for the period of

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