When Raphael and his school from Florence came,
Filling the land with splendor (129)-nor less oft
Watch'd her, declining, from a silent dell,
Not silent once, what time in rivalry
Tasso, Guarini, waved their wizard-wands,
Peopling the groves from Arcady, and lo,

III. ROME.

I AM in Rome! Oft as the morning-ray
Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry,
Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen me?
And from within a thrilling voice replies,
Thou art in Rome! A thousand busy thoughts
Rush on my mind, a thousand images;
And I spring up as girt to run a race!

Thou art in Rome! the City that so long
Reign'd absolute, the mistress of the world;
The mighty vision that the prophets saw,
And trembled; that from nothing, from the least,
The lowliest village (what but here and there
A reed-roof'd cabin by a river-side ?)
Grew into everything; and, year by year,
Patiently, fearlessly working her way
O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea,
Not like the merchant with his merchandise,
Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring,
But hand to hand and foot to foot, through hosts,
Through nations numberless in battle-array,
Each behind each, each, when the other fell,
Up and in arms, at length subdued them all.

Thou art in Rome! the City, where the Gauls,
Entering at sun-rise through her open gates,
And, through her streets silent and desolate,
Marching to slay, thought they saw Gods, not men;
The City that, by temperance, fortitude,
And love of glory, tower'd above the clouds,
Then fell-but, falling, kept the highest seat,
And in her loneliness, her pomp of woe,
Where now she dwells, withdrawn into the wild,
Still o'er the mind maintains, from age to age,
Her empire undiminish'd.

There, as though
Grandeur attracted Grandeur, are beheld
All things that strike, ennoble-from the depths
Of Egypt, from the classic fields of Greece,
Her groves, her temples-all things that inspire
Wonder, delight! Who would not say the Forms
Most perfect, most divine, had by consent
Flock'd thither to abide eternally,
Within those silent chambers where they dwell,
In happy intercourse?

And I am there!

Ah, little thought I, when in school I sate, A school-boy on his bench, at early dawn Glowing with Roman story, I should live To tread the Appian, (131) once an avenue Of monuments most glorious, palaces,

Dreaming and lost on that proud eminence,
Longwhile the seat of Rome, hereafter found
Less than enough (so monstrous was the brood
Engender'd there, so Titan-like) to lodge
One in his madness; and, the summit gain'd,
Inscribe my name on some broad aloe-leaf,
That shoots and spreads within those very walls
Where Virgil read aloud his tale divine,
Where his voice falter'd, (133) and a mother wept
Tears of delight!

But what a narrow space
Just underneath! In many a heap the ground
Heaves, as though Ruin in a frantic mood
Had done his utmost. Here and there appears,
As left to show his handy-work not ours,
An idle column, a half-buried arch,
A wall of some great temple.

It was once,

And long, the centre of their Universe, (134)
The Forum-whence a mandate, eagle-wing'd,
Went to the ends of the earth. Let us descend
Slowly. At every step much may be lost.
The very dust we tread, stirs as with life;
And not the lightest breath that sends not up
Something of human grandeur.

We are come,
Are now where once the mightiest spirits met
In terrible conflict; this, while Rome was free,
The noblest theatre on this side Heaven!

Here the first Brutus stood, when o'er the corse
Of her so chaste all mourn'd, and from his cloud
Burst like a God. Here, holding up the knife
That ran with blood, the blood of his own child,
Virginius call'd down vengeance.-But whence spoke
They who harangued the people; turning now
To the twelve tables, (135) now with lifted hands
To the Capitoline Jove, whose fulgent shape
In the unclouded azure shone far off,
And to the shepherd on the Alban mount (136)
Seem'd like a star new-risen? Where were ranged
In rough array as on their element,

The beaks of those old galleys, destined still 2
To brave the brunt of war-at last to know
A calm far worse, a silence as in death?
All spiritless; from that disastrous hour
When he, the bravest, gentlest of them all,'
Scorning the chains he could not hope to break,
Fell on his sword!

Along the Sacred Way
Hither the Triumph came, and, winding round
With acclamation, and the martial clang
Of instruments, and cars laden with spoil,
Stopt at the sacred stair that then appear'd,
Then through the darkness broke, ample, star-bright,
As though it led to heaven. "Twas night; but now
A thousand torches, turning night to day, (137)
Blazed, and the victor, springing from his seat,

Went up, and, kneeling as in fervent prayer,
Enter'd the Capitol. But what are they,
Who at the foot withdraw, a mournful train
In fetters? And who, yet incredulous,
Now gazing wildly round, now on his sons,
On those so young, well-pleased with all they see, (138)
Staggers along, the last? They are the fallen,
Those who were spared to grace the chariot-wheels;
And there they parted, where the road divides,
The victor and the vanquish'd-there withdrew;
He to the festal-board, and they to die.

Well might the great, the mighty of the world, They who were wont to fare deliciously, And war but for a kingdom more or less, Shrink back, nor from their thrones endure to look, To think that way! Well might they in their state Humble themselves, and kneel and supplicate To be delivered from a dream like this!

Here Cincinnatus pass'd, his plow the while Left in the furrow, and how many more, Whose laurels fade not, who still walk the earth, Consuls, Dictators, still in Curule pomp Sit and decide; and, as of old in Rome, Name but their names, set every heart on fire!

Here, in his bonds, he whom the phalanx saved not,' The last on Philip's throne; and the Numidian," So soon to say, stript of his cumbrous robe, Stript to the skin, and in his nakedness Thrust under-ground, "How cold this bath of yours!" And thy proud queen, Palmyra, through the sands' Pursued, o'ertaken on her dromedary; Whose temples, palaces, a wondrous dream That passes not away, for many a league Illumine yet the desert. Some invoked Death, and escaped; the Egyptian, when her asp Came from his covert under the green leaf;4 And Hannibal himself; and she who said, Taking the fatal cup between her hands,* (139) "Tell him I would it had come yesterday; For then it had not been his nuptial gift."

Now all is changed; and here, as in the wild, The day is silent, dreary as the night; None stirring, save the herdsman and his herd, Savage alike; or they that would explore, Discuss and learnedly; or they that come, (And there are many who have cross'd the earth) That they may give the hours to meditation, And wander, often saying to themselves, "This was the Roman Forum!"

IV.

A FUNERAL.

Replied a soldier of the Pontiff's guard.
"And innocent as beautiful!" exclaim'd
A Matron sitting in her stall, hung round
With garlands, holy pictures, and what not?
Her Alban grapes and Tusculan figs display'd
In rich profusion. From her heart she spoke ;
And I accosted her to hear her story.
"The stab," she cried, " was given in jealousy;
But never fled a purer spirit to heaven,
As thou wilt say, or much my mind misleads,
When thou hast seen her face. Last night at dusk
When on her way from vespers-None were near,
None save her serving-boy, who knelt and wept,
But what could tears avail him, when she fell—
Last night at dusk, the clock then striking nine,
Just by the fountain-that before the church,
The church she always used, St. Isidore's-
Alas, I knew her from her earliest youth,
That excellent lady. Ever would she say,
Good even, as she pass'd, and with a voice
Gentle as theirs in heaven!"-But now by fits
A dull and dismal noise assail'd the ear,
A wail, a chant, louder and louder yet;
And now a strange fantastic troop appear'd!
Thronging, they came-as from the shades below;
All of a ghostly white! "Oh say,” I cried,
"Do not the living here bury the dead?
Do Spirits come and fetch them? What are these,
That seem not of this World, and mock the Day;
Each with a burning taper in his hand ?"-
"It is an ancient Brotherhood thou seest.
Such their apparel. Through the long, long line,
Look where thou wilt, no likeness of a man ;
The living mask'd, the dead alone uncover'd.
But mark "—And, lying on her funeral-couch,
Like one asleep, her eye-lids closed, her hands
Folded together on her modest breast,

As 't were her nightly posture, through the crowd
She came at last-and richly, gaily clad,
As for a birth-day feast! But breathes she not?
A glow is on her cheek-and her lips move!
And now a smile is there-how heavenly sweet!
"Oh no!” replied the Dame, wiping her tears,
But with an accent less of grief than anger,
No, she will never, never wake again!"

Death, when we meet the spectre in our walks, As we did yesterday, and shall to-morrow, Soon grows familiar-like most other things, Seen, not observed; but in a foreign clime, Changing his shape to something new and strange, (And through the world he changes as in sport, Affect he greatness or humility)

Knocks at the heart. His form and fashion here
To me, I do confess, reflect a gloom,

A sadness round; yet one I would not lose;
Being in unison with all things else

More in past time than present, where the ground,
League beyond league, like one great cemetery.
Is cover'd o'er with mouldering monuments;
And, let the living wander where they will,
They cannot leave the footsteps of the dead.
Oft, where the burial-rite follows so fast
The agory, oft coming, nor from far,
Must a fond father meet his darling child,

(Him who at parting climb'd his knees and clung) Clay-cold and wan, and to the bearers cry, "Stand, I conjure ye!"

Seen thus destitute, What are the greatest? They must speak beyond A thousand homilies. When Raphael went, His heavenly face the mirror of his mind, His mind a temple for all lovely things To flock to and inhabit-when He went, Wrapt in his sable cloak, the cloak he wore, To sleep beneath the venerable Dome,' By those attended, who in life had loved, Had worshipp'd, following in his steps to Fame, ("T was on an April-day, when Nature smiles) All Rome was there. But, ere the march began, Ere to receive their charge the bearers came, Who had not sought him? And when all beheld Him, where he lay, how changed from yesterday, Him in that hour cut off, and at his head

at their excesses; remembering that nations are nat urally patient and long-suffering, and seldom rise in rebellion till they are so degraded by a bad government as to be almost incapable of a good one.

Hate them, perhaps," you may say, "we should not; but despise them we must, if enslaved, like the people of Rome, in mind as well as body; if their religion be a gross and barbarous superstition."-I respect knowledge; but I do not despise ignorance. They think only as their fathers thought, worship as they worshipped. They do no more; and, if ours had not burst their bondage, braving imprisonment and death, might not we at this very moment have been exhibiting, in our streets and our churches, the same processions, ceremonials, and mortifications?

Nor should we require from those who are in an earlier stage of society, what belongs to a later? They are only where we once were; and why hold them in derision? It is their business to cultivate the

look'd

Now on the dead, then on that master-piece,
Now on his face, lifeless and colorless,

Then on those forms divine that lived and breathed,
And would live on for ages-all were moved;
And sighs burst forth, and loudest lamentations.

V.

NATIONAL PREJUDICES.

"ANOTHER Assassination! This venerable City," I exclaimed, "what is it, but as it began, a nest of robbers and murderers? We must away at sun-rise, Luigi." But before sun-rise I had reflected a little, and in the soberest prose. My indignation was gone; and, when Luigi undrew my curtain, crying, " Up, Signor, up! The horses are at the door."-"Luigi," I replied, "if thou lovest me, draw the curtain." 2

It would lessen very much the severity with which men judge of each other, if they would but trace effects to their causes, and observe the progress of things in the moral as accurately as in the physical world. When we condemn millions in the mass as vindictive and sanguinary, we should remember that, wherever Justice is ill-administered, the injured will redress themselves. Robbery provokes to robbery; murder to assassination. Resentments become heredi

tary; and what began in disorder, ends as if all Hell

had broke loose.

Laws create a habit of self-restraint, not only by the influence of fear, but by regulating in its exercise the passion of revenge. If they overawe the bad by the prospect of a punishment certain and well-defined, they console the injured by the infliction of that punishment; and, as the infliction is a public act, it excites and entails no enmity. The laws are offended; and the community, for its own sake, pursues and overtakes the offender; often without the concurrence of the sufferer, sometimes against his wishes. Now those who were not born, like ourselves, to such advantages, we should surely rather pity than hate; and, when at length they venture to turn against their rulers, we should lament, not wonder

1 The Pantheon.

2 A dialogue, which is said to have passed many years ago at Lyons (Mem. de Grammont, I, 3.) and which may still be heard in almost every hôtellerie at day-break.

3 As the descendants of an illustrious people have lately done.

and in many of the last what are we as a nation, when compared to others that have passed away? Unfortunately, it is too much the practice of governments to nurse and keep alive in the governed their national prejudices. It withdraws their attention from what is passing at home, and makes them better tools in the hands of Ambition. Hence next-door neighbors are held up to us from our childhood as natural enemies; and we are urged on like curs to worry each other.'

In like manner we should learn to be just to individuals. Who can say, "In such circumstances I should have done otherwise?" Who, did he but reflect by what slow gradations, often by how many strange concurrences, we are led astray; with how much reluctance, how much agony, how many efforts to escape, how many self-accusations, how many sighs, how many tears-Who, did he but reflect for a moment, would have the heart to cast a stone? Fortunately, these things are known to Him, from whom no secrets are hidden; and let us rest in the assurance that his judgments are not as ours are.

VI.

THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME. HAVE none appear'd as tillers of the ground, (141) None since They went-as though it still were theirs, And they might come and claim their own again? Was the last plow a Roman's?

From this Seat, (142) Sacred for ages, whence, as Virgil sings, The Queen of Heaven, alighting from the sky, Look'd down and saw the armies in array,2

Can it be believed that there are many among us, who, from a desire to be thought superior to commonplace sentiments and vulgar feelings, affect an indifference to their cause! "If the Greeks," they say, "had the probity of other nations-but they are false to a proverb!" And is not falsehood the characteristic of slaves? ties of a freeman; enslaved, those of a slave. Man is the creature of circumstances. Free, he has the quali

1 Candor, generosity, how rare are they in the world; and how much is to be deplored the want of them! When a minister in our parliament consents at last to a measure, which, for many reasons perhaps existing no longer, he had before refused to adopt, there should be no exultation as over the fallen, no taunt, no jeer. How often may the resistance be continued lest an enemy should triumph, and the result of conviction be received as a symptom of fear!

2 Æneid, xii, 134.