That did but cross a lonely road, and now Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn, Companion never lost through many a league- Maintained for me a saving intercourse
With my true self; for, though bedimmed and changed Much, as it seemed, I was no further changed Than as a clouded and a waning moon:
She whispered still that brightness would return; She, in the midst of all, preserved me still
A Poet, made me seek beneath that And that alone, my office upon earth; And, lastly, as hereafter will be shown, If willing audience fail not, Nature's self, By all varieties of human love
Assisted, led me back through opening day
To those sweet counsels between head and heart Whence grew that genuine knowledge, fraught with peace, Which, through the later sinkings of this cause, Hath still upheld me, and upholds me now In the catastrophe (for so they dream, And nothing less), when, finally to close And seal up all the gains of France, a Pope Is summoned in, to crown an Emperor- This last opprobrium, when we see a people, That once looked up in faith, as if to Heaven For manna, take a lesson from the dog Returning to his vomit; when the sun That rose in splendour, was alive, and moved In exultation with a living pomp
Of clouds-his glory's natural retinue—
Hath dropped all functions by the gods bestowed, And, turned into a gewgaw, a machine,
Sets like an Opera phantom.
Through times of honour and through times of shame Descending, have I faithfully retraced The perturbations of a youthful mind Under a long-lived storm of great events— A story destined for thy ear, who now, Among the fallen of nations, dost abide Where Etna, over hill and valley, casts His shadow stretching towards Syracuse, The city of Timoleon! Righteous Heaven! How are the mighty prostrated! They first, They first of all that breathe should have awaked When the great voice was heard from out the tombs Of ancient heroes. If I suffered grief
For ill-requited France, by many deemed A trifler only in her proudest day;
Have been distressed to think of what she once Promised, now is; a far more sober cause
Thine eyes must see of sorrow in a land, To the reanimating influence lost
Of memory, to virtue lost and hope,
Though with the wreck of loftier years bestrewn.
But indignation works where hope is not, And thou, O Friend! wilt be refreshed. There is One great society alone on earth:
The noble Living and the noble Dead.
Thine be such converse strong and sanative,
A ladder for thy spirit to reascend
To health and joy and pure contentedness ; To me the grief confined, that thou art gone From this last spot of earth, where Freedom now
Stands single in her only sanctuary; A lonely wanderer, art gone, by pain Compelled and sickness, at this latter day, This sorrowful reverse for all mankind. I feel for thee, must utter what I feel: The sympathies erewhile in part discharged, Gather afresh, and will have vent again : My own delights do scarcely seem to me My own delights; the lordly Alps themselves, Those rosy peaks, from which the Morning looks Abroad on many nations, are no more For me that image of pure gladsomeness
Which they were wont to be. Through kindred scenes, For purpose, at a time, how different!
Thou tak'st thy way, carrying the heart and soul That Nature gives to Poets, now by thought Matured, and in the summer of their strength. Oh! wrap him in your shades, ye giant woods, On Etna's side; and thou, O flowery field Of Enna! is there not some nook of thine, From the first play-time of the infant world Kept sacred to restorative delight,
When from afar invoked by anxious love?
Child of the mountains, among shepherds reared, Ere yet familiar with the classic page,
I learnt to dream of Sicily; and lo,
The gloom, that, but a moment past, was deepened At thy command, at her command gives way; A pleasant promise, wafted from her shores, Comes o'er my heart: in fancy I behold Her seas yet smiling, her once happy vales; Nor can my tongue give utterance to a name
Of note belonging to that honoured isle, Philosopher or Bard, Empedocles,
Or Archimedes, pure abstracted soul! That doth not yield a solace to my grief: And, O Theocritus,* so far have some Prevailed among the powers of heaven and earth, By their endowments, good or great, that they Have had, as thou reportest, miracles Wrought for them in old time: yea, not unmoved, When thinking on my own beloved friend,
I hear thee tell how bees with honey fed Divine Comates, by his impious lord Within a chest imprisoned; how they came Laden from blooming grove or flowery field, And fed him there, alive, month after month, Because the goatherd, blessèd man! had lips Wet with the Muses' nectar.
Thus I soothe The pensive moments by this calm fire-side, And find a thousand bounteous images
To cheer the thoughts of those I love, and mine. Our prayers have been accepted; thou wilt stand On Etna's summit, above earth and sea, Triumphant, winning from the invaded heavens Thoughts without bound, magnificent designs, Worthy of poets who attuned their harps In wood or echoing cave, for discipline Of heroes; or, in reverence to the gods,
'Mid temples, served by sapient priests, and choirs
Of virgins crowned with roses.
Those temples, where they in their ruins yet
Survive for inspiration, shall attract
Theocrit. Idyll. vii. 78.-Ed.
Thy solitary steps: and on the brink Thou wilt recline of pastoral Arethuse; Or, if that fountain be in truth no more, Then, near some other spring-which, by the name Thou gratulatest, willingly deceived—
I see thee linger a glad votary,
And not a captive pining for his home.
IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED.
LONG time have human ignorance and guilt Detained us, on what spectacles of woe Compelled to look, and inwardly oppressed With sorrow, disappointment, vexing thoughts, Confusion of the judgment, zeal decayed, And, lastly, utter loss of hope itself
And things to hope for! Not with these began Our song, and not with these our song must end. Ye motions of delight, that haunt the sides Of the green hills; ye breezes and soft airs, Whose subtle intercourse with breathing flowers, Feelingly watched, might teach Man's haughty race How without injury to take, to give
Without offence; ye who, as if to show The wondrous influence of power gently used, Bend the complying heads of lordly pines, And, with a touch, shift the stupendous clouds Through the whole compass of the sky; ye brooks,
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