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eze in bibliothecis dicantur illi, quorum immortales Hence every artist requires a broad and high wine in iisdem locis ibi loquuntur: quinimo etiam light. Hence also, in a banquet-scene, the most que non sunt, finguntur, pariuntque desideria non picturesque of all poets has thrown his light from Esi vultus, sicut in Homero evenit. Quo majus the ceiling. - Æn. i, 726. toegadem arbitror) nullum est felicitatis specimen, And hence the “starry lamps” of Milton, that quam semper omnes scire cupere, qualis fuerit ali

- from the arched roof 3.-Plix. Nat. Hist.

Pendent by subtle magic,Cicero speaks with pleasure of a little seat under

- yielded light Apstotle in the library of Atticus. “Literis sustentor

As from a sky. et recreor; maloque in illa tua sedecula, quam habes

Note 13, page 22, col. 1. ab imagine Aristotelis, sedere quam in istorum sella

Beyond the triumphs of a Loriot's art. eruli!"-Ep. ed All iv, 10. Nor should we forget that Dryden drew inspira

At the petits soupers of Choisy were first intro

duced those admirable pieces of mechanism, after. bon from the “majestic face” of Shakspeare ; and

wards carried to perfection by Loriot, the Confidente xat a portrait of Newton was the only ornament of the closet of Buffon.-Ep. to Kneller. Voyage à

and the Servante; a table and a side-board, which

descended and rose again covered with viands and Hondart In the chamber of a man of genius we

wines. And thus the most luxurious Court in Eu

rope, after all its boasted refinements, was glad to Write all down: Such and such pictures ;-there the window

return at last, by this singular contrivance, to the -the arras, figures,

quiet and privacy of humble life.- Vie privée de Why, such and such.

Louis XV, tom. ii, p. 43.
Note 9, page 21, col. 1.

Between I. 10, and ). 11, col. 1, were these lines,

since omitted : Whicb gathers round the Wise of every Tongue. Quis tantis non gaudeat et glorietur hospitibus,

Hail, sweet Society ! in crowds unknown,

Though the vain world would claim thee for its own. exclaims Petrarch.—Spectare, etsi nihil aliud, certè

Still where thy small and cheerful converse flowe, jutat-Homerus apud me mutus, imd verd ego apud Be mine to enter, ere the circle close. Llun sordus sum. Gaudeo tamen vel aspectû solo, When in retreat Fox lays his thunder by, a sepe illum amplexus ac suspirens dico: O magne

And Wit and Taste their mingled charms supply;

When Siddons, born to melt and freeze the heart, vy, etc.- Epist. Var. lib. 20.

Performs at home her more endearing part;

When he, who best interprets to mankind
Note 10, page 21, col. 2.

The winged messengers from mind to mind,
Like those blest Youths.

Leans on his spade, and, playful as profound,
See the Legend of the Seven Sleepers.-GIBBON,

His genius sheds its evening-sunshine round,

Be mine to listen ; pleased yet not elate, € 33.

Ever too modest or too proud to rate
Note 11, page 21, col. 2.

Myself by my companions, self-compell'd

To earn the station that in life I hold.
Catch the blest accents of the wiso and great.
Mr. Pope delights in enumerating his illustrious

They were written in 1796. esta Nor is this an exclusive privilege of the

Note 14, page 22, col. 1. DOEL The Medici Palace at Florence exhibits a So through the vales of Loire the bee-hives glide. long and imposing catalogue. “Semper hi parietes An allusion to the floating bee-house, or barge columnæque eruditis vocibus resonuerunt."

laden with bee-hives, which is seen in some parts Another is also preserved at Chanteloup, the seat of France and Piedmont. of the Duke of Choiseul.

Note 15, page 22, col. 1.
Note 12, page 21, col. 2.

Caught through St. James's groves at blush of day.
Sheds, like an evening-star, its ray serene.

After this line in the MS. At a Roman supper, statues were sometimes em

Groves that Belinda's star illumines still, poged to hold the lamps.

And ancient Courts and faded splendors fill -Aurea sunt juvecum simulacra per «deis,

Note 16, page 22, col. 1.
Lampadas igniferas manibus retinentia dextris.

Lucr. ii, 24.

And, with the swallow, wings the year away! A fashion as old as Homer!-Odyss. vii, 100. It was the boast of Lucullus that he changed his

On the proper degree and distribution of light, we climate with the birds of passage.—Plut. in Vit may consult a great master of effect. Il lume grande, Lucull. ed alto, e non troppo potente, sarà quello, che ren- How often must he have felt the truth here in derà le particole de' corpi molto grate.-Tratt. della culcated, that the master of many houses has no Pittura di LIONARDO DI VINCI, c. xli.

home!

31

Jacqueline.

'Twas Autumn; through Provence had ceased
The vintage, and the vintage-feast.
The sun had set behind the hill,
The moon was up, and all was still,
And from the convent's neighboring tower
The clock had toll'd the midnight-hour,
When Jacqueline came forth alone,
Her kerchief o'er her tresses thrown;
A guilty thing and full of fears,
Yet ah, how lovely in her tears!
She starts, and what has caught her eye?
What—but her shadow gliding by ?
She stops, she pants; with lips apart
She listens—to her beating heart!
Then, through the scanty orchard stealing,
The clustering boughs her track concealing,
She flies, nor casts a thought behind,
But gives her terrors to the wind;
Flies from her home, the humble sphere
Of all her joys and sorrows here,
Her father's house of mountain-stone,
And by a mountain-vine o'ergrown.
At such an hour in such a night,
So calm, so clear, so heavenly bright,
Who would have seen, and not confess'd
It looked as all within were blest ?
What will not woman, when she loves ?
Yet lost, alas, who can restore her?-
She lifts the latch, the wicket moves;
And now the world is all before her.

Up rose St. Pierre, when morning shone;
And Jacqueline, his child, was gone!
Oh what the madd’ning thought that came ?
Dishonor coupled with his name!
By Condé at Rocroy he stood;
By Turenne, when the Rhine ran blood;

And, as she pass'd her father's door,
She stood as she would stir no more.
But she is gone, and gone for ever!
No, never shall they clasp her-never!
They sit and listen to their fears;
And he, who through the breach had led
Over the dying and the dead,
Shakes if a cricket's cry he hears!

Oh! she was good as she was fair ;
None--none on earth above her!
As pure in thought as angels are,
To know her was to love her.
When little, and her eyes, her voice,
Her every gesture said “rejoice,"
Her coming was a gladness ;
And, as she grew, her modest grace,
Her down-cast look 't was heaven to trace,
When, shading with her hand her face,
She half inclined to sadness.
Her voice, whate'er she said, enchanted ;
Like music to the heart it went.
And her dark eyes-how eloquent!
Ask what they would, 't was granted.
Her father loved her as his fame;
-And Bayard's self had done the same!

Soon as the sun the glittering pane
On the red floor in diamonds threw,
His songs she sung and sung again,
Till the last light withdrew.
Every day, and all day long,
He mused or slumber'd to a song,
But she is dead to him, to all!
Her lute hangs silent on the wall;
And on the stairs, and at the door
Her fairy-step is heard no more!
At every meal an ernpty chair
Tells him that she is not there;
She, who would lead him where he went,
Charm with her converse while he leant;
Or, hovering, every wish prevent;
At eve light up the chimney-nook,
Lay there his glass within his book ;
And that small chest of curious mould,
(Queen Mab's, perchance, in days of old,)
Tusk of elephant and gold;
Which, when a tale is long, dispenses
Its fragrant dust to drowsy senses.
In her who mourn'd not, when they miss'd her
The old a child, the young a sister ?
No more the orphan runs to take
From her loved hand the barley-cake.
No more the matron in the school
Expects her in the hour of rule,
To sit amid the elfin brood,
Praising the busy and the good.
The widow trims her hearth in vain,
She comes not—nor will come again!
Not now, his little lesson done,

Aloft in Notre Dame to wave;
Nor did thy Cross, St. Louis, rest
Upon a purer, nobler breast.
He slung his old sword by his side,
And snatch'd his staff and rush'd to save;
Then sunk-and on his threshold cried,
"Oh lay me in my grave!
-Constance ! Claudine! where were ye then ?
But stand not there. Away! away!
Thou, Frederic, by thy father stay.
Though old, and now forgot of men,
Both must not leave him in a day."
Then, and he shook his hoary head,
“Unhappy in thy youth!” he said.
“Call as thou wilt, thou call'st in vain;
No voice sends back thy name again.
To mourn is all thou hast to do;
Thy play-mate lost, and teacher too."

And who but she could soothe the boy,
Or turn his tears to tears of joy ?
Long had she kiss'd him as he slept,
Long o'er his pillow hung and wept;

II.

Nor spinning by the fountain-side,

Now he sigh'd heavily; and now, (Some story of the days of old,

His hand withdrawing from his brow, Barbe Bleue or Chaperon Rouge half-told

He shut the volume with a frown, To him who would not be denied ;)

To walk his troubled spirit down : Not now, to while an hour away,

-When (faithful as that dog of yore' Gone to the falls in Valombre,

Who wagg'd his tail and could no more) Where 't is night at noon of day;

Manchon, who long had snuft'd the ground, Nor Fandering up and down the wood,

And sought and sought, but never found, To all but her a solitude,

Leapt up and to the casement flew, Where once a wild deer, wild no more,

And look'd and bark'd and vanish'd through. Her chaplet on his antlers wore,

“'T is Jacqueline! "T is Jacqueline !" And at her bidding stood.

Her little brother laughing cried.
“I know her by her kirtle green,

She comes along the mountain-side ;
The day was in the golden west;

Now turning by the traveller's seat,And, curtain'd close by leaf and flower,

Now resting in the hermit's cave, The doves had cooed themselves to rest

Now kneeling, where the path ways meet, In Jacqueline's deserted bower;

To the cross on the stranger's grave. The doves—that still would at her casement peck, And, by the soldier's cloak, I know And in her walks had ever flutter'd round (There, there along the ridge they go) With purple feet and shining neck,

D'Arcy, so gentle and so brave! True as the echo to the sound.

Look up-why will you not ?" he cries That casement, underneath the trees,

His rosy hands before his eyes ; Half open to the western breeze,

For on that incense-breathing eve Look'd down, enchanting Garonnelle,

The sun shone out, as loth to leave. Thy wild and mulberry-shaded dell,

“See to the rugged rock she clings ! Round which the Alps of Piedmont rose,

She calls, she faints, and D'Arcy springs The blush of sunset on their snows :

D'Arcy so dear to us, to all; While, blithe as lark on summer-morn,

Who, for you told me on your knee, When green and yellow waves the corn,

When in the fight he saw you fall, When harebells blow in every grove,

Saved you for Jacqueline and me!" And thrushes sing “I love! I love !""

And true it was! And true the tale! Within (s0 soon the early rain

When did she sue and not prevail ? Scatters, and 't is fair again;

Five years before-it was the night Though many a drop may yet be seen

That on the village-green they parted, To tell us where a cloud has been)

The lilied banners streaming bright Within lay Frederic, o'er and o'er

O'er maids and mothers broken-hearted: Building castles on the floor,

The drum-it drown'd the last adieu. And feigning, as they grew in size,

When D'Arcy from the crowd she drew. New troubles and new dangers;

"One charge I have, and one alone, With dimpled cheeks and laughing eyes,

Nor that refuse to take, As he and Fear were strangers.

My father-if not for his own, St. Pierre sat by, nor saw nor smiled.

Oh for his daughter's sake!” His eyes were on his loved Montaigne;

Inly he vow'd—“'t was all he could !" But every leaf was turn'd in vain

And went and seal'd it with his blood. Then in that hour remorse he felt,

Nor can ye wonder. When a child, And his heart told him he had dealt

And in her playfulness she smiled, Unkindly with his child.

Up many a ladder-path? he guided A father may awhile refuse ;

Where meteor-like the chamois glided, But who can for another choose ?

Through many a misty grove. When her young blushes had reveal'd

They loved—but under Friendship's name The secret from herself conceal'd,

And Reason, Virtue fann'd the flame; Why promise what her tears denied,

Till in their houses Discord came, That she should be De Courcy's bride?

And 't was a crime to love. -Wouldst thou, presumptuous as thou art, Then what was Jacqueline to do? O'er Nature play the tyrant's part,

Her father's angry hours she knew, And with the hand compel the heart ?

And when to soothe, and when persuade; Ob rather, rather hope to bind

But now her path De Courcy cross'd, The ocean-wave, the mountain-wind;

Led by his falcon through the gladeOr fix thy foot upon the ground

He turn'd, beheld, admired the maid ; To stop the planet rolling round.

And all her little arts were lost! The light was on his face; and there

De Courcy, lord of Argentiere! You might have seen the passions driven

Thy poverty, thy pride, St. Pierre, Resentment, Pity, Hope, Despair

Thy thirst for vengeance sought the snare. Like clouds across the face of Heaven.

1 Argus. i Cantando “lo amo! Io amo!"'-Tasso.

2 Called in the language of the country pas de l'Echelle.

The day was named, the guests invited ;
The bridegroom, at the gate, alighted ;
When up the windings of the dell
A pastoral pipe was heard to swell,
And lo, an humble Piedmontese,
Whose music might a lady please,
This message through the lattice bore,
(She listen'd, and her trembling frame
Told her at once from whom it came)
“Oh let us fly-o part no more!"

III.

That morn ('t was in Ste Julienne's cell, As at Ste Julienne's sacred well Their dream of love began), That morn, ere many a star was set, Their hands had on the altar met Before the holy man. -And now the village gleams at last; The woods, the golden meadows pass'd, Where, when Toulouse, thy splendor shone The Troubadour would journey on Transported-or, from grove to grove, Framing some roundelay of love, Wander till the day was gone. “ All will be well, my Jacqueline ! Oh tremble not-but trust in me. The good are better made by ill, As odors crush'd are sweeter still; And gloomy as thy past has been, Bright shall thy future be!" So saying, through the fragrant shade Gently along he led the maid, While Manchon round and round her play'd : And, as that silent glen they leave, Where by the spring the pitchers stand, Where glow-worms light their lamps at eve, And fairies dance-in fairy-land, (When Lubin calls, and Blanche steals round, Her finger on her lip, to see; And many an acorn-cup is found Under the greenwood tree) From every cot above, below, They gather as they goSabot, and coif, and collerette, The housewife's prayer, the grandam's blessing! Girls that adjust their locks of jet, And look and look and linger yet, The lovely bride caressing; Babes that had learnt to lisp her name, And heroes he had led to fame.

All, all—the whilean awful distance keeping;
Save D'Arcy, who nor speaks nor stirs ;
And one, his little hand in hers,
Who weeps to see his sister weeping.

Then Jacqueline the silence broke.
She clasp'd her father's knees and spoke,
Her brother kneeling too;
While D'Arcy as before look'd on,
Though from his manly cheek was gone
Its natural hue.
" His praises from your lips I heard,
Till my fond heart was won;
And, if in aught his Sire has err'd,
Oh turn not from the Son
She, whom in joy, in grief you nursed ;
Who climb'd and callid you father first,
By that dear name conjures
On her you thought-but to be kind !
When look'd you up, but you inclined ?
These things, for ever in her mind,
Oh are they gone from yours?
Two kneeling at your feet behold;
One-one how young ;-nor yet the other old.
Oh spurn them not-nor look so cold-
If Jacqueline be cast away,
Her bridal be her dying day.
Well, well might she believe in you !
She listen'd, and she found it true."

He shook his aged locks of snow;
And twice he turn'd, and rose to go.
She hung; and was St. Pierre to blame,
If tears and smiles together came ?
" Oh no-begone! I'll hear no more."
But as he spoke, his voice relented.
“That very look thy mother wore
When she implored, and old Le Roc consented.
True, I have done as well as suffer'd wrong,
Yet once I loved him as my own!
-Nor can'st thou, D'Arcy, feel resentment long;
For she herself shall plead, and I atone.
Henceforth," he paused awhile, unmann'd,
For D'Arcy's tears bedew'd his hand;
"Let each meet each as friend to friend,
All things by all forgot, forgiven.
And that dear Saint-may she once more descend
To make our home a heaven -
But now, in my hands, your's with her's unite.
A father's blessing on your heads alight!

Nor let the least be sent away. All hearts shall sing Adieu to sorrow!' St. Pierre has found his child to-day; And old and young shall dance to-morrow.” Had Louis' then before the gate dismounted, Lost in the chase at set of sun; Like Henry, when he heard recounted? The generous deeds himself had done, (That night the miller's maid Colette Sung, while he supp'd, her chansonnette Then-when St. Pierre address'd his village-train, Then had the monarch with a sigh confess'd A joy by him unsought and unpossess'd, -Without it what are all the rest? To love and to be loved again.

But what felt D'Arcy, when at length Her father's gate was open flung? Ah, then he found a giant's strength; For round him, as for life, she clung! And when, her fit of weeping o'er, Onward they moved a little space, And saw an old man sitting at the door, Saw his wan cheek, and sunken eye That seem'd to gaze on vacancy, Then, at the sight of that beloved face, At once to fall npon his neck she flow; But-not encouraged-back she drew, And trembling stood in dread suspenso, Her tears her only eloquence!

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The Voyage of Columbus.

Chi se' tu, che vieni?-
Da me stesso non vegno.

Dante.
I have seen the day,
That I have worn a visor, and could tell
A tale

Shakspeare.

PREFACE.

Yet here, in consecrated dust,

Here would I sleep, if sleep I must. THE following Poem (or to speak more properly,

From Genoa when Columnbus came, what remains of it') has here and there a lyrical

(At once her glory and her shame) turn of thought and expression. It is sudden in its

”T was here he caught the holy fame. transitions, and full of historical allusions; leaving

"T was here the generous vow he made; much to be imagined by the reader.

His banners on the altar laid.-The subject is a voyage the most memorable in the

One hallow'd morn, methought, I felt annals of mankind. Columbus was a person of ex

As if a soul within me dwelt! traordinary virtue and piety, acting under the sense of

But who arose and gave to me a diyine impulse; and his achievement the discovery

The sacred trust I keep for thee, of a New World, the inhabitants of which were shut

And in his cell at even-tide out from the light of Revelation, and given up, as

Knelt before the cross and diedthey believed, to the dominion of malignant spirits.

Inquire not now. His name no more Many of the incidents will now be thought extray

Glimmers on the chancel-foor, agant ; yet they were once perhaps received with

Near the lights that ever shine something more than indulgence. It was an age of

Before St. Mary's blessed shrine. miracles; and who can say that among the venerable

To me one little hour devote, legends in the library of the Escurial, or the more

And lay thy staff and scrip beside thee;

Read in the temper that he wrote, authentic records which fill the great chamber in the Archivo of Simancas, and which relate entirely to the

And may his gentle spirit guide thee! deep tragedy of America, there are no volumes that

My leaves forsake me, one by one; mention the marvellous things here described ? In

The book-worm through and through has gone, deed the story, as already told throughout Europe,

Oh haste-unclasp me, and unfold; admits of no heightening. Such was the religious

The tale within was never told ! enthusiasm of the early writers, that the Author had only to transfuse it into his verse ; and he appears to have done little more; though some of the circum

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. stances which he alludes to as well known, have long ceased to be so. By using the language of that day, he has called up Columbus " in his habit as he

There is a spirit in the old Spanish Chroniclers lived," and the authorities, such as exist, are care

of the sixteenth century that may be compared to the fully given by the Translator.

freshness of water at the fountain-head. Their simplicity, their sensibility to the strange and the won

derful, their very weaknesses, give an infinite value, INSCRIBED ON THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT.

by giving a life and a character to every thing they UNCLASP me, Stranger; and unfold,

touch ; and their religion, which bursts out everyWith trembling care, my leaves of gold where, addresses itself to the imagination in the Rich in Gothic portraiture

highest degree. If they err, their errors are not their If yet, alas, a leaf endure,

own. They think and feel after the fashion of the In RABIDA's monastic fane,

time; and their narratives are so many moving I cannot ask, and ask in vain.

pictures of the actions, manners, and thoughts of The language of Castile I speak;

their contemporaries. 'Mid many an Arab, many a Greek,

What they had to communicate, might well make Old in the days of Charlemain;

them eloquent; but, inasmuch as relates to ColumWhen minstrel-music wander'd round,

bus, the inspiration went no farther. No National And Science, waking, bless'd the sound. Poem appeared on the subject; no Camoëns did No earthly thought has here a place,

honor to his Genius and his Virtues. Yet the mateThe cowl let down on every face;

rials, that have descended to us, are surely not un

poetical; and a desire to avail myself of them, to 1 The Original, in the Castilian language, according to the convey in some instances as far as I could, in others inscription that follows, was found among other MSS. in an old as far as I dared, their warmth of coloring and religious house near Palos, situated on an island formed by the wildness of imagery, led me to conceive the idea of river Tinto, and dedicated to our Lady of Rábida. Tho writer describes himself as having sailed with Columbus; but his

is a Poem written not long after his death, when the style and manner are evidently of an after-time.

great consequences of the Discovery were beginning

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