The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 183

EXTRACT XII.

Florence.

_Music in Italy.--Disappointed by it.--Recollections or other Times and Friends.--Dalton.--Sir John Stevenson.--His Daughter.--Musical Evenings together_.

If it be true that Music reigns, Supreme, in ITALY'S soft shades, 'Tis like that Harmony so famous, Among the spheres, which He of SAMOS Declared had such transcendent merit That not a soul on earth could hear it; For, far as I have come--from Lakes, Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks, Thro' MILAN and that land which gave The Hero of the rainbow vest[1]-- By MINCIO'S banks, and by that wave, Which made VERONA'S bard so blest-- Places that (like the Attic sh.o.r.e, Which rung back music when the sea Struck on its marge) should be all o'er Thrilling alive with melody-- I've heard no music--not a note Of such sweet native airs as float In my own land among the throng And speak our nation's soul for song.

Nay, even in higher walks, where Art Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part, And richer if not sweeter makes The flowers she from the wild-hedge takes-- Even there, no voice hath charmed my ear, No taste hath won my perfect praise, Like thine, dear friend[2]--long, truly dear-- Thine, and thy loved OLIVIA'S lays.

She, always beautiful, and growing Still more so every note she sings-- Like an inspired young Sibyl,[3] glowing With her own bright imaginings!

And thou, most worthy to be tied In music to her, as in love, Breathing that language by her side, All other language far above, Eloquent Song--whose tones and words In every heart find answering chords!

How happy once the hours we past, Singing or listening all daylong, Till Time itself seemed changed at last To music, and we lived in song!

Turning the leaves of HAYDN o'er, As quick beneath her master hand They opened all their brilliant store, Like chambers, touched by fairy wand; Or o'er the page of MOZART bending, Now by his airy warblings cheered, Now in his mournful _Requiem_ blending Voices thro' which the heart was heard.

And still, to lead our evening choir, Was He invoked, thy loved-one's Sire[4]-- He who if aught of grace there be In the wild notes I write or sing, First smoothed their links of harmony, And lent them charms they did not bring;-- He, of the gentlest, simplest heart, With whom, employed in his sweet art, (That art which gives this world of ours A notion how they speak in heaven.) I've past more bright and charmed hours Than all earth's wisdom could have given.

Oh happy days, oh early friends, How Life since then hath lost its flowers!

But yet--tho' Time _some_ foliage rends, The stem, the Friends.h.i.+p, still is ours; And long may it endure, as green And fresh as it hath always been!

How I have wandered from my theme!

But where is he, that could return To such cold subjects from a dream, Thro' which these best of feelings burn?-- Not all the works of Science, Art, Or Genius in this world are worth One genuine sigh that from the heart Friends.h.i.+p or Love draws freshly forth.

[1] Bermago--the birthplace, it is said, of Harlequin.

[2] Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Stevenson's daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort.

[3] Such as those of Domenichino in the Palazza Borghese, at the Capitol, etc.

[4] Sir John Stevenson.

EXTRACT XIII.

Rome.

_Reflections on reading Du Cerceau's Account of the Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1347.--The Meeting of the Conspirators on the Night of the 19th of May.--Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.--Rienzi's Speech_.

'Twas a proud moment--even to hear the words Of Truth and Freedom mid these temples breathed, And see once more the Forum s.h.i.+ne with swords In the Republic's sacred name unsheathed-- That glimpse, that vision of a brighter day For his dear ROME, must to a Roman be, Short as it was, worth ages past away In the dull lapse of hopeless slavery.

'Twas on a night of May, beneath that moon Which had thro' many an age seen Time untune The strings of this Great Empire, till it fell From his rude hands, a broken, silent sh.e.l.l-- The sound of the church clock near ADRIAN'S Tomb Summoned the warriors who had risen for ROME, To meet unarmed,--with none to watch them there, But G.o.d's own eye,--and pa.s.s the night in prayer.

Holy beginning of a holy cause, When heroes girt for Freedom's combat pause Before high Heaven, and humble in their might Call down its blessing on that coming fight.

At dawn, in arms went forth the patriot band; And as the breeze, fresh from the TIBER, fanned Their gilded gonfalons, all eyes could see The palm-tree there, the sword, the keys of Heaven-- Types of the justice, peace and liberty, That were to bless them when their chains were riven.

On to the Capitol the pageant moved, While many a Shade of other times, that still Around that grave of grandeur sighing roved, Hung o'er their footsteps up the Sacred Hill And heard its mournful echoes as the last High-minded heirs of the Republic past.

'Twas then that thou, their Tribune,[1] (name which brought Dreams of lost glory to each patriot's thought,) Didst, with a spirit Rome in vain shall seek To wake up in her sons again, thus speak:-- "ROMANS, look round you--on this sacred place "There once stood shrines and G.o.ds and G.o.dlike men.

"What see you now? what solitary trace "Is left of all that made ROME'S glory then?

"The shrines are sunk, the Sacred Mount bereft "Even of its name--and nothing now remains "But the deep memory of that glory, left "To whet our pangs and aggravate our chains!

"But _shall_ this be?--our sun and sky the same,-- "Treading the very soil our fathers trod,-- "What withering curse hath fallen on soul and frame, "What visitation hath there come from G.o.d "To blast our strength and rot us into slaves, "_Here_ on our great forefathers' glorious graves?

"It cannot be--rise up, ye Mighty Dead,-- "If we, the living, are too weak to crush "These tyrant priests that o'er your empire tread, "Till all but Romans at Rome's tameness blus.h.!.+

"Happy, PALMYRA, in thy desert domes "Where only date-trees sigh and serpents hiss; "And thou whose pillars are but silent homes "For the stork's brood, superb PERSEPOLIS!

"Thrice happy both, that your extinguisht race "Have left no embers--no half-living trace-- "No slaves to crawl around the once proud spot, "Till past renown in present shame's forgot.

"While ROME, the Queen of all, whose very wrecks, "If lone and lifeless thro' a desert hurled, "Would wear more true magnificence than decks "The a.s.sembled thrones of all the existing world-- "ROME, ROME alone, is haunted, stained and curst, "Thro' every spot her princely TIBER laves, "By living human things--the deadliest, worst, "This earth engenders--tyrants and their slaves!

"And we--oh shame!--we who have pondered o'er "The patriot's lesson and the poet's lay;[2]

"Have mounted up the streams of ancient lore, "Tracking our country's glories all the way-- "Even _we_ have tamely, basely kist the ground "Before that Papal Power,--that Ghost of Her, "The World's Imperial Mistress--sitting crowned "And ghastly on her mouldering sepulchre![3]

"But this is past:--too long have lordly priests "And priestly lords led us, with all our pride "Withering about us--like devoted beasts, "Dragged to the shrine, with faded garlands tied.

"'Tis o'er--the dawn of our deliverance breaks!

"Up from his sleep of centuries awakes "The Genius of the Old Republic, free "As first he stood, in chainless majesty, "And sends his voice thro' ages yet to come, "Proclaiming ROME, ROME, ROME, Eternal ROME!"

[1] Rienzi.

[2] The fine Canzone of Petrarch, beginning _"Spirto gentil,"_ is supposed, by Voltaire and others, to have been addressed to Rienzi; but there is much more evidence of its having been written, as Ginguene a.s.serts, to the young Stephen Colonna, on his being created a Senator of Rome.

[3] This image is borrowed from Hobbes, whose words are, as near as I can recollect:--"For what is the Papacy, but the Ghost of the old Roman Empire, sitting crowned on the grave thereof?"

EXTRACT XIV.

Rome.

_Fragment of a Dream.--The great Painters supposed to be Magicians.--The Beginnings of the Art.--Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.-- Improvements under Giotto, etc.--The first Dawn of the true Style in Masaccio.--Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.--Leonardo da Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.--His Knowledge of Mathematics and of Music.--His female heads all like each other.-- Triangular Faces.--Portraits of Mona Lisa, etc.--Picture of Vanity and Modesty.--His_ chef-d'oeuvre, _the Last Supper.--Faded and almost effaced_.

Filled with the wonders I had seen In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls, I felt the veil of sleep serene Come o'er the memory of each scene, As twilight o'er the landscape falls.

Nor was it slumber, sound and deep, But such as suits a poet's rest-- That sort of thin, transparent sleep, Thro' which his day-dreams s.h.i.+ne the best.

Methought upon a plain I stood, Where certain wondrous men, 'twas said, With strange, miraculous power endued, Were coming each in turn to shed His art's illusions o'er the sight And call up miracles of light.

The sky above this lonely place, Was of that cold, uncertain hue, The canvas wears ere, warmed apace, Its bright creation dawns to view.

But soon a glimmer from the east Proclaimed the first enchantments nigh;[1]

And as the feeble light increased, Strange figures moved across the sky, With golden glories deckt and streaks Of gold among their garments' dyes;[2]

And life's resemblance tinged their cheeks, But naught of life was in their eyes;-- Like the fresh-painted Dead one meets, Borne slow along Rome's mournful streets.

But soon these figures past away; And forms succeeded to their place With less of gold in their array, But s.h.i.+ning with more natural grace, And all could see the charming wands Had past into more gifted hands.