by Thomas Moore
With Cupids numerous as in summer groves
The leaflets are or motes in summer beams.
’Tis for the theft of Enna’s flower from earth,
These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth
Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath —
Those that are nearest linkt in order bright,
Cheek after cheek, like rose-buds in a wreath;
And those more distant showing from beneath
The others’ wings their little eyes of light.
While see! among the clouds, their eldest brother
But just flown up tells with a smile of bliss
This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother
Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss!
Well might the Loves rejoice — and well did they
Who wove these fables picture in their weaving
That blessed truth, (which in a darker day
ORIGEN lost his saintship for believing,1) —
That Love, eternal Love, whose fadeless ray
Nor time nor death nor sin can overcast,
Even to the depths of hell will find his way,
And soothe and heal and triumph there at last!
GUERCINO’S Agar — where the bondmaid hears
From Abram’s lips that he and she must part,
And looks at him with eyes all full of tears
That seem the very last drops from her heart.
Exquisite picture! — let me not be told
Of minor faults, of coloring tame and cold —
If thus to conjure up a face so fair,2
So full of sorrow; with the story there
Of all that woman suffers when the stay
Her trusting heart hath leaned on falls away —
If thus to touch the bosom’s tenderest spring,
By calling into life such eyes as bring
Back to our sad remembrance some of those
We’ve smiled and wept with in their joys and woes,
Thus filling them with tears, like tears we’ve known,
Till all the pictured grief becomes our own —
If this be deemed the victory of Art —
If thus by pen or pencil to lay bare
The deep, fresh, living fountains of the heart
Before all eyes be Genius — it is there!
1 The extension of the Divine Love ultimately even to the regions of the damned.
2 It is probable that this fine head is a portrait, as we find it repeated in a picture by Guercino, which is in the possession of Signor Carnuccini, the brother of the celebrated painter at Rome.
EXTRACT V.
Padua.
Fancy and Reality. — Rain-drops and Lakes. — Plan of a Story. — Where to place the Scene of it. — In some unknown Region. — Psalmanazar’s Imposture with respect to the Island of Formosa.
The more I’ve viewed this world the more I’ve found,
That, filled as ’tis with scenes and creatures rare.
Fancy commands within her own bright round
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there
A single charm, that’s not from Nature won,
No more than rainbows in their pride can wear
A single hue unborrowed from the sun —
But ’tis the mental medium it shines thro’
That lends to Beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light that o’er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded raindrop, make
Colors as gay as those on Peris’ wings!
And such, I deem, the difference between real,
Existing Beauty and that form ideal
Which she assumes when seen by poets’ eyes,
Like sunshine in the drop — with all those dyes
Which Fancy’s variegating prism supples.
I have a story of two lovers, filled
With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness,
And the sad, doubtful bliss that ever thrilled
Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness.
But where to choose the region of my vision
In this wide, vulgar world — what real spot
Can be found out sufficiently Elysian
For two such perfect lovers I know not.
Oh for some fair FORMOSA, such as he,
The young Jew fabled of, in the Indian Sea,
By nothing but its name of Beauty known,
And which Queen Fancy might make all her own,
Her fairy kingdom — take its people, lands,
And tenements into her own bright hands,
And make at least one earthly corner fit
For Love to live in, pure and exquisite!
EXTRACT VI.
Venice.
The Fall of Venice not to be lamented — Former Glory. — Expedition against Constantinople. — Giustinianis. — Republic. — Characteristics of the old Government. — Golden Book. — Brazen Mouths. — Spies. — Dungeons. — Present Desolation.
Mourn not for VENICE — let her rest
In ruin, ‘mong those States unblest,
Beneath whose gilded hoofs of pride,
Where’er they trampled, Freedom died.
No — let us keep our tears for them,
Where’er they pine, whose fall hath been
Not from a blood-stained diadem,
Like that which deckt this ocean-queen,
But from high daring in the cause
Of human Rights — the only good
And blessed strife, in which man draws
His mighty sword on land or flood.
Mourn not for VENICE; tho’ her fall
Be awful, as if Ocean’s wave
Swept o’er her, she deserves it all,
And Justice triumphs o’er her grave.
Thus perish every King and State
That run the guilty race she ran,
Strong but in ill and only great
By outrage against God and man!
True, her high spirit is at rest,
And all those days of glory gone,
When the world’s waters, east and west,
Beneath her white-winged commerce shone;
When with her countless barks she went
To meet the Orient Empire’s might.1
And her Giustinianis sent
Their hundred heroes to that fight.
Vanisht are all her pomps, ’tis true,
But mourn them not — for vanisht too
(Thanks to that Power, who soon or late,
Hurls to the dust the guilty Great,)
Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud,
The chains, the rapine, and the blood,
That filled each spot, at home, abroad,
Where the Republic’s standard stood.
Desolate VENICE! when I track
Thy haughty course thro’ centuries back;
Thy ruthless power, obeyed but curst —
The stern machinery of thy State,
Which hatred would, like steam, have burst,
Had stronger fear not chilled even hate; —
Thy perfidy, still worse than aught
Thy own unblushing SARPI2 taught; —
Thy friendship which, o’er all beneath
Its shadow, rained down dews of death;3 —
Thy Oligarchy’s Book of Gold,
Closed against humble Virtue’s name,
But opened wide for slaves who sold
Their native land to thee and shame;4 —
Thy all-pervading host of spies
Watching o’er every glance and breath,
Till men lookt in each others’ eyes,
To read their chance of life or death; —
Thy laws that made a mart of blood,
And legalized the assassin’s knife;5 —
Thy sunless cells beneath
the flood,
And racks and Leads that burnt out life; —
When I review all this and see
The doom that now hath fallen on thee;
Thy nobles, towering once so proud,
Themselves beneath the yoke now bowed, —
A yoke by no one grace redeemed,
Such as of old around thee beamed,
But mean and base as e’er yet galled
Earth’s tyrants when themselves enthralled, —
I feel the moral vengeance sweet.
And smiling o’er the wreck repeat: —
“Thus perish every King and State
“That tread the steps which VENICE trod,
“Strong but in ill and only great,
“By outrage against man and God!”
1 Under the Doge Michaeli, in 1171.
2 The celebrated Fra Paolo. The collections of Maxims which this bold monk drew up at the request of the Venetian Government, for the guidance of the Secret Inquisition of State, are so atrocious as to seem rather an over-charged satire upon despotism, than a system of policy, seriously inculcated, and but too readily and constantly pursued.
3 Conduct of Venice towards her allies and dependencies, particularly to unfortunate Padua.
4 Among those admitted to the honor of being inscribed in the Libro d’oro were some families of Brescia, Treviso, and other places, whose only claim to that distinction was the zeal with which they prostrated themselves and their country at the feet of the republic.
5 By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition, not only was assassination recognized as a regular mode of punishment, but this secret power over life was delegated to their minions at a distance, with nearly as much facility as a licence is given under the game laws of England. The only restriction seems to have been the necessity of applying for a new certificate, after every individual exercise of the power.
EXTRACT VII.
Venice.
Lord Byron’s Memoirs, written by himself. — Reflections, when about to read them.
Let me a moment — ere with fear and hope
Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope —
As one in fairy tale to whom the key
Of some enchanter’s secret halls is given,
Doubts while he enters slowly, tremblingly,
If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heaven —
Let me a moment think what thousands live
O’er the wide earth this instant who would give,
Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow
Over these precious leaves, as I do now.
How all who know — and where is he unknown?
To what far region have his songs not flown,
Like PSAPHON’S birds1 speaking their master’s name,
In every language syllabled by Fame? —
How all who’ve felt the various spells combined
Within the circle of that mastermind, —
Like spells derived from many a star and met
Together in some wondrous amulet, —
Would burn to know when first the Light awoke
In his young soul, — and if the gleams that broke
From that Aurora of his genius, raised
Most pain or bliss in those on whom they blazed;
Would love to trace the unfolding of that power,
Which had grown ampler, grander, every hour;
And feel in watching o’er his first advance
As did the Egyptian traveller2 when he stood
By the young Nile and fathomed with his lance
The first small fountains of that mighty flood.
They too who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell
In his rich fancy, tingeing all its streams, —
As if the Star of Bitterness which fell
On earth of old,3 had touched them with its beams, —
Can track a spirit which tho’ driven to hate,
From Nature’s hands came kind, affectionate;
And which even now, struck as it is with blight,
Comes out at times in love’s own native light; —
How gladly all who’ve watched these struggling rays
Of a bright, ruined spirit thro’ his lays,
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,
What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven
That noble nature into cold eclipse;
Like some fair orb that, once a sun in heaven.
And born not only to surprise but cheer
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere,
Is now so quenched that of its grandeur lasts
Naught but the wide, cold shadow which it casts.
Eventful volume! whatsoe’er the change
Of scene and clime — the adventures bold and strange —
The griefs — the frailties but too frankly told —
The loves, the feuds thy pages may unfold,
If Truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks
His virtues as his failings, we shall find
The record there of friendships held like rocks,
And enmities like sun-touched snow resigned;
Of fealty, cherisht without change or chill,
In those who served him, young, and serve him still;
Of generous aid given, with that noiseless art
Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart;
Of acts — but, no — not from himself must aught
Of the bright features of his life be sought.
While they who court the world, like Milton’s cloud,
“Turn forth their silver lining” on the crowd,
This gifted Being wraps himself in night;
And keeping all that softens and adorns
And gilds his social nature hid from sight,
Turns but its darkness on a world he scorns.
1 Psaphon, in order to attract the attention of the world, taught multitudes of birds to speak his name, and then let them fly away in various directions; whence the proverb, “Psaphonis aves.”
2 Bruce.
3 “And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third part of the waters became wormwood.” — Rev. viii.
EXTRACT VIII.
Venice.
Female Beauty at Venice. — No longer what it was in the time of Titian. — His mistress. — Various Forms in which he has painted her. — Venus. — Divine and profane Love. — La Fragilita d’Amore — Paul Veronese. — His Women. — Marriage of Cana. — Character of Italian Beauty. — Raphael’s Fornarina. — Modesty.
Thy brave, thy learned have passed away:
Thy beautiful! — ah, where are they?
The forms, the faces that once shone,
Models of grace, in Titian’s eye,
Where are they now, while flowers live on
In ruined places, why, oh! why
Must Beauty thus with Glory die?
That maid whose lips would still have moved,
Could art have breathed a spirit through them;
Whose varying charms her artist loved
More fondly every time he drew them,
(So oft beneath his touch they past,
Each semblance fairer than the last);
Wearing each shape that Fancy’s range
Offers to Love — yet still the one
Fair idol seen thro’ every change,
Like facets of some orient stone, —
In each the same bright image shown.
Sometimes a Venus, unarrayed
But in her beauty1 — sometimes deckt
In costly raiment, as a maid
That kings might for a throne select.2
Now high and proud, like one who thought
The world should at her feet be brought;
Now with a look reproachful sad,3 —
Unwonted look from brow so glad, —
And telling of a pain too deep
For tongue to speak or eyes to
weep.
Sometimes thro’ allegory’s veil,
In double semblance seemed to shine,
Telling a strange and mystic tale
Of Love Profane and Love Divine4 —
Akin in features, but in heart
As far as earth and heaven apart.
Or else (by quaint device to prove
The frailty of all worldly love)
Holding a globe of glass as thin
As air-blown bubbles in her hand,
With a young Love confined therein,
Whose wings seem waiting to expand —
And telling by her anxious eyes
That if that frail orb break he flies.5
Thou too with touch magnificent,
PAUL of VERONA! — where are they?
The oriental forms6 that lent
Thy canvas such a bright array?
Noble and gorgeous dames whose dress
Seems part of their own loveliness;
Like the sun’s drapery which at eve
The floating clouds around him weave
Of light they from himself receive!
Where is there now the living face
Like those that in thy nuptial throng7
By their superb, voluptuous grace,
Make us forget the time, the place,
The holy guests they smile among, —
Till in that feast of heaven-sent wine
We see no miracles but thine.
If e’er, except in Painting’s dream,
There bloomed such beauty here, ’tis gone, —
Gone like the face that in the stream
Of Ocean for an instant shone,
When Venus at that mirror gave
A last look ere she left the wave.
And tho’, among the crowded ways,
We oft are startled by the blaze
Of eyes that pass with fitful light.
Like fire-flies on the wing at night8
’Tis not that nobler beauty given
To show how angels look in heaven.
Even in its shape most pure and fair,
’Tis Beauty with but half her zone,
All that can warm the sense is there,
But the Soul’s deeper charm has flown: —
’Tis RAPHAEL’s Fornarina, — warm,
Luxuriant, arch, but unrefined;
A flower round which the noontide swarm
Of young Desires may buzz and wind,
But where true Love no treasure meets
Worth hoarding in his hive of sweets.
Ah no, — for this and for the hue
Upon the rounded cheek, which tells
How fresh within the heart this dew
Of love’s unrifled sweetness dwells,
We must go back to our own Isles,
