Even so, and unblamed, we rejoice as we may Who, gathering true pleasures wherever they grow, XIX. AT FLORENCE. [Upon what evidence the belief rests that this stone was a favourite seat of Dante, I do not know; but a man would little consult his own interest as a traveller, if he should busy himself with doubts as to the fact. The readiness with which traditions of this character are received, and the fidelity with which they are preserved from generation to generation, are an evidence of feelings honourable to our nature. I remember how, during one of my rambles in the course of a college vacation, I was pleased on being shown a seat near a kind of rocky cell at the source of the river, on which it was said that Congreve wrote his "Old Bachelor." One can scarcely hit on any performance less in harmony with the scene; but it was a local tribute paid to intellect by those who had not troubled themselves to estimate the moral worth of that author's comedies; and why should they? He was a man distinguished in his day; and the sequestered neighbourhood in which he often resided was perhaps as proud of him as Florence of her Dante : it is the same feeling, though proceeding from persons one cannot bring together in this way without offering some apology to the Shade of the great Visionary.] * UNDER the shadow of a stately Pile, The dome of Florence, pensive and alone, Nor giving heed to aught that passed the while, I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone, The laurell'd Dante's favourite seat.* A throne, The Sasso di Dante is built into the wall of the house, No. 29 Casa dei Canonici, close to the Duomo.-ED. In just esteem, it rivals; though no style Be there of decoration to beguile The mind, depressed by thought of greatness flown. I gazed with earnestness, and dared no more. But in his breast the mighty Poet bore A Patriot's heart, warm with undying fire. XX. BEFORE THE PICTURE OF THE BAPTIST, BY RAPHAEL, IN THE GALLERY AT FLORENCE.* [It was very hot weather during the week we stayed at Florence; and, never having been there before, I went through much hard service, and am not therefore ashamed to confess I fell asleep before this picture and sitting with my back towards the Venus de Medicis. Buonaparte— in answer to one who had spoken of his being in a sound sleep up to the moment when one of his great battles was to be fought, as a proof of the calmness of his mind and command over anxious thoughts-said frankly, that he slept because from bodily exhaustion he could not help it. In like manner it is noticed that criminals on the night previous to their execution seldom awake before they are called, a proof that the body is the master of us far more than we need be willing to allow. Should this note by any possible chance be seen by any of my countrymen who might have been in the gallery at the time (and several persons were there) and witnessed such an indecorum, I hope he will give up the opinion which he might naturally have formed to my prejudice.] THE Baptist might have been ordain'd to cry Forth from the towers of that huge Pile, wherein *This Sonnet refers to the picture of the young St John the Baptist, now in the Tribuna, Florence, designed about the same time as the Madonna di San Sisto, for Cardinal Colonna, who is said to have presented it to his doctor, Jacopo da Carpi. It has been much admired, and often copied; but it is inferior, both in drawing and in colouring, to the great works of Raphael. How much of it was actually from his hand is uncertain; and the Baptist is painted rather like a Bacchus than a Saint.-ED. His Father served Jehovah; but how win The obstinate pride and wanton revelry And folly, if they with united din Drown not at once mandate and prophecy? Therefore the Voice spake from the Desert, thence To Her, as to her opposite in peace, Silence, and holiness, and innocence, To Her and to all Lands its warning sent, XXI. AT FLORENCE FROM MICHAEL ANGELO. [However at first these two sonnets from Michael Angelo may seem in their spirit somewhat inconsistent with each other, I have not scrupled to place them side by side as characteristic of their great author, and others with whom he lived. I feel, nevertheless, a wish to know at what periods of his life they were respectively composed.* The latter, as it *The second of the two sonnets translated by Wordsworth is No. lxxiii. in Signor Cesare Guasti's edition of Michael Angelo (1863) AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS. Scaro d'un' importuna. It was evidently written in old age. The following is Mr John Addington Symond's translation of the same sonnet. Freed from a burden sore and grievous band, Dear Lord, and from this wearying world untied, Like a frail bark I turn me to Thy side, As from a fierce storm to a tranquil land. Let not Thy holy eyes be just to see My evil part, Thy chastened ears to hear, And stretch the arm of judgment to my crime : Let Thy blood only love and succour me, expresses, was written in his advanced years, when it was natural that the Platonism that pervades the one should give way to the christian feeling that inspired the other: between both there is more than poetic affinity.] RAPT above earth by power of one fair face, With Him who made the Work that Work accords Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn, Light which to God is both the way and guide; My noble fire emits the joyful ray That through the realms of glory shines for aye. XXII. AT FLORENCE FROM M. ANGELO. ETERNAL Lord! eased of a cumbrous load, The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree, To a sincere repentance promise grace, Yielding more perfect pardon, better cheer, As older still I grow with lengthening time. The Sonnets of Michael Angelo Buonarrotti and Tommaso Campanella, by John Addington Symonds, p. 110. Compare Wordsworth's translation of other three sonnets by Michael Angelo (Vol. IV., p. 37-39).-Ed. To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. XXIII. AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN THE APENNINES. [The political revolutions of our time have multiplied, on the Continent, objects that unavoidably call forth reflection such as are expressed in these verses, but the Ruins in those countries are too recent to exhibit, in anything like an equal degree, the beauty with which time and nature have invested the remains of our Convents and Abbeys. These verses, it will be observed, take up the beauty long before it is matured, as one cannot but wish it may be among some of the desolations of Italy, France, and Germany.] YE Trees whose slender roots entwine Altars that piety neglects; Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine Which no devotion now respects; Ye, too,1 wild Flowers! that no one heeds, And ye, 1842. |