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Lured by thy verse, behold once more
Thy friend fair Italy explore.
And tho’ by suffering taught I shun
Her unrelenting summer sun,
Yet now I woo its beams to cheer
The gloom of an expiring year;
Where, ‘mid the ruins round her spread
Borne proudly lifts her mitred head
Once circled by th’ imperial crown
To which the conquer’d world bow’d down.
Feeble, though reverend in decay,
She claims not now her ancient sway,
But begs a homage, freely paid,
Less to the living than the dead,
Whose honoured tombs now mouldering round
Have power to consecrate the ground,
And though a thousand Domes arise,
More sees the Memory than the eyes.
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| 370 | ROGERS AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES |
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Yet here, the work of modern hands,
In state the noblest temple stands
That to his great Creator’s praise
The piety of man could raise;
Here, too, as breathing nature warm,
Dwells many a bright angelic form,
Hewn from the rock by matchless skill,
Once Gods, and almost worshipped still.
And here the pencil’s magic hues
Along the walls their spells diffuse,
Calling saints, heroes from the grave
Again to teach, again to save.
The Eternal City as I trace
The Present to the Past gives place,
The spirits of the dead appear
And sounds divine transport my ear.
I listen, heedless of the throng,
Or at the storied arch I view,
Gaze at the Triumph winding through,
Or mark the horse and horseman leap
Fearlessly down the yawning steep,
Or him who singly dares oppose
(Striding the bridge) a host of foes;
Now shuddering, the stern Consul see
His rebel sons to death decree,
Or in the Senate hail the blow
That lays the Great Usurper low,
But who, on thrones and robed in state,
Sit silently and smile at Fate,
The conscript sires. Though fierce and rude,
The conqueror is himself subdued,
Drops his red spear and bends the knee,
Esteeming each a Deity.
Oh! how in latter life it cheers
To triumph o’er the power of years!
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| SHARP'S LINES ON ITALY | 371 |
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Calm’d, not exhausted, to perceive
That we can feel, admire, believe
E’en to the last, as in our prime,
Spite of the malice of old Time;
Not more our joy than pride to know
That the chill’d blood again can glow,
That fancy still has wings to soar
As high as she was wont before,
And Hope still listens to her song
As erst, when credulous and young;
That there are vales where smiling spring
Is lovelier than the poets sing,
And Nature’s bright realities
Transcend what painting can devise,
Where May can trust, in field or bow’r,
Her blossoms to the morning hour,
Nor dreads the venomous East should breathe
To blight the flow’rets in her wreath,
And scarcely swells a bud in vain
Of blushing fruit or golden grain.
Alas, fair land, that thy rich dower
Should be the prize of lawless Power!
Yielded to Vandal, Moor, or Gaul,
Or bigot sloth, far worse than all.
Oh, grief! that blessings too profuse
Should change to curses by th’ abuse
That virtue, freedom, still must fly
For shelter to a frozen sky.
Like gold, all good requires alloy,
And man must suffer to enjoy.
Once thy possessors, great in arms,
Defended and preserved thy charms,
Well taught (alas, in times gone by!)
Bravely to conquer or to die.
Then the rude Hun rude welcome found
And with his blood manured the ground,
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| 372 | ROGERS AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES |
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Though now, his haughty banner waves
High o’er his humbled fathers’ graves.
Now must thy sons thy fate regret,
The present bear, the past forget,
Blush when they hear their fathers’ fame,
And hide in smiles their grief and shame.
Not long—soon shall the smouldering fire
Explode in thunder or expire,
Oh, not the last!—in vain they dare
(The crown’d conspirators) to share
The world between them as their prey,
Willing to own their sovereign sway.
As soon shall they forbid the sun
His daily course thro’ Heav’n to run,
Arrest the ocean tides, or bind
The pinions of the wandering wind.
But let this pass, here still we find
Much to console the cultur’d mind;
Art, Science, Letters still survive
The Liberty that bade them thrive,
And many a poet of high name
Upholds his country’s ancient fame.
Thy last great theme: well chosen by thee
The bard inspired by Memory!
And greatly shall thy lasting lay
Her hospitality o’erpay,
Long long the rival to remain
Ev’n of her noblest native strain.
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‘My dear Friend,—I have detained these newly born
natives of Italy some weeks in the hope of their improving, but I find them
incorrigible. They stammer sadly, and when they speak plainly they often talk
nonsense. I now send them to you chiefly because I do not wish to appear to
want respect for the country that you have
| AN ITALIAN LOVE STORY | 373 |
‘I verified, on this visit, the Venetian story which I told you in 1821, and saw every evening the lamp and the torches in St. Mark’s Place. On the lake of Como I heard of a recent tragedy well known to the inhabitants of its shores.
‘An old lady and her daughter
Rosalia lived at Domaso in narrow circumstances. The
latter was very young and very beautiful, the glory of the lake. At a sort of
half fair, half religious fête, Vincenzo, a young man
of Menagio, saw her, fell in love with her, watched her all day at a distance,
and at length was fortunate enough to become known to her by saving her from a
wild heifer that pursued her. Intimacy and mutual love followed, but
Vincenzo’s father was rich and refused his
consent. The young man fell dangerously ill on being thwarted in his affection,
and wrote to her, as he thought on his death bed, to pray for a last interview;
the mother allowed her to go, but would accompany her, and being fearful of the
water, they took a lad for a sort of guide along the narrow path. In one place
it ascends a rocky precipice called Sasso rancio where
in 1799, some years before, a company of Russian foot soldiers fell into the
water and were drowned. The mother being feeble leaned on the boy, but suddenly
hearing a shriek looked round and saw Rosalia sink for
ever into the lake. Vincenzo after a severe struggle for
life recovered, but became unsettled in his mind. The first thought that
occurred to him was to fly to the Sasso rancio and to
throw himself down
| 374 | ROGERS AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES |
‘We were hardly five months at Rome, in excellent
apartments once tenanted by Miss Berrys,
and basked in the sun almost the whole winter. It was troublesome to get out of
the way of invitations, for Rome was a sort of Brighton in that respect;
Lord Kinnaird, Lord Dudley, the late Duchess of
Devonshire, and Lady Mary
Durham almost kept open house, so did many others. Lord and Lady
Normanby and Lord and
Lady Belfast acted private plays every
week, and great was the canvassing to procure tickets. Fazakerley was my daily companion,
| SHARP AT ROME AND NAPLES | 375 |
‘My sister’s health and spirits had induced her to beg, or rather to make it a sort of condition, not to visit, and Maria is not come out, but her time was fully occupied by sights, music, and masters. The latter came daily, and I got a young Italian lady, known to Fazakerley, to go about with us in the morning and to dine with us, &c., that she might acquire facility in speaking Italian. However, much as I liked every thing, I must own, to speak out, that I greatly prefer home to travelling (except for short tours), and my own country to the Continent. What compensation is there for the absence of friends? None; not even the Alps and the Vatican. What society is there abroad to be compared, for instance, to Holland House or to the little dinners in St. James’s Place, or to be mentioned when the conversation of London is thought of? What is the Pincian to our little strollings from your window in the Green Park?
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Ecquid erat tanti Romam vidisse sepultam,
Ut te tam dulci possem caruisse sodale!1
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1 Silvarum Liber, ‘Epitaphium Damonis,’ lines 115 and 118 |
| 376 | ROGERS AND HIS CONTEMPORARIES |
‘I dislike quotation, but these lines are Milton’s, and they so exactly express what I felt that I could not resist the temptation of using them. He laments in them his absence from Charles Deodatus, his friend, and Rome is his instance.
‘I am obliged to count over my riches of this kind that are left, having lost so much in the little year of my absence. Our warm-hearted friend Lord Erskine was so young at his age that I somehow considered him as immortal. Payne Knight too! Ricardo! but I thank God still nearer friends are left. I send this by a private courier either to Paris or to London, and I hope to take you by the hand about June 10. So do not trouble yourself to write. You have, I hope, been well, happy and diligent during my absence.
‘Pray mention my remembrances to Miss Rogers.’
