Part 5
PARNASSUS
Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey, Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! 5 What marvel if I thus essay to sing? The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing. Oft have I dreamed of Thee! whose glorious name Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore: 11 And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame That I in feeblest accents must adore. When I recount thy worshippers of yore I tremble, and can only bend the knee; 15 Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee!
LORD BYRON.
CORINTH
Many a vanished year and age, And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands, A fortress formed to Freedom's hands. The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock, 5 Have left untouched her hoary rock, The keystone of a land, which still, Though fallen, looks proudly on that hill, The landmark to the double tide That purpling rolls on either side, 10 As if their waters chafed to meet, Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. But could the blood before her shed, Since first Timoleon's brother bled, Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 15 Arise from out the earth which drank The stream of slaughter as it sank, That sanguine ocean would o'erflow Her isthmus idly spread below: Or could the bones of all the slain, 20 Who perished there, be piled again, That rival pyramid would rise More mountain-like, through those clear skies, Than yon tower-capped Acropolis, Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 25
LORD BYRON.
CORINNA TO TANAGRA
FROM ATHENS
Tanagra! think not I forget Thy beautifully-storied streets; Be sure my memory bathes yet In clear Thermodon, and yet greets The blithe and liberal shepherd-boy, 5 Whose sunny bosom swells with joy When we accept his matted rushes Upheaved with sylvan fruit; away he bounds and blushes.
A gift I promise: one I see Which thou with transport wilt receive, 10 The only proper gift for thee, Of which no mortal shall bereave In later times thy mouldering walls, Until the last old turret falls; A crown, a crown from Athens won, 15 A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's son.
There may be cities who refuse To their own child the honours due, And look ungently on the Muse; But ever shall those cities rue 20 The dry, unyielding, niggard breast, Offering no nourishment, no rest, To that young head which soon shall rise Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.
Sweetly where caverned Dirce flows 25 Do white-armed maidens chant my lay, Flapping the while with laurel-rose The honey-gathering tribes away; And sweetly, sweetly Attic tongues Lisp your Corinna's early songs; 30 To her with feet more graceful come The verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.
O let thy children lean aslant Against the tender mother's knee, And gaze into her face, and want 35 To know what magic there can be In words that urge some eyes to dance, While others as in holy trance Look up to heaven: be such my praise! Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphic bays.
W. S. LANDOR.
WARING
What's become of Waring Since he gave us all the slip, Chose land-travel or seafaring, Boots and chest or staff and scrip, Rather than pace up and down 5 Any longer London-town?
Ichabod, Ichabod, The glory is departed! Travels Waring East away? Who, of knowledge, by hearsay, 10 Reports a man upstarted Somewhere as a God, Hordes grown European-hearted, Millions of the wild made tame On a sudden at his fame? 15 In Vishnu-land what Avatar? Or who, in Moscow, toward the Czar, With the demurest of footfalls Over the Kremlin's pavement, bright With serpentine and syenite, 20 Steps, with five other Generals That simultaneously take snuff, For each to have pretext enough To kerchiefwise unfold his sash Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff 25 To hold fast where a steel chain snaps, And leave the grand white neck no gash? Waring, in Moscow, to those rough Cold northern natures borne, perhaps, Like the lambwhite maiden dear 30 From the circle of mute kings Unable to repress the tear, Each as his sceptre down he flings, To Dian's fane at Taurica, Where now a captive priestess, she alway 35 Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach, As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry 40 Amid their barbarous twitter? In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter! Ay, most likely 'tis in Spain That we and Waring meet again Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid 45 All fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slid Its stiff gold blazing pall From some black coffin-lid.
'When I last saw Waring....' 50 (How all turned to him who spoke-- You saw Waring? Truth or joke? In land-travel, or sea-faring?) 'We were sailing by Triest, Where a day or two we harboured: 55 A sunset was in the West, When, looking over the vessel's side, One of our company espied A sudden speck to larboard. And, as a sea-duck flies and swims 60 At once, so came the light craft up, With its sole lateen sail that trims And turns (the water round its rims Dancing, as round a sinking cup) And by us like a fish it curled, 65 And drew itself up close beside, Its great sail on the instant furled, And o'er its planks, a shrill voice cried (A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's), "Buy wine of us, you English brig? 70 Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? A pilot for you to Triest? Without one, look you ne'er so big, They'll never let you up the bay! We natives should know best." 75 I turned, and "Just those fellows' way", Our captain said, "The 'long-shore thieves Are laughing at us in their sleeves."
'In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; And one, half-hidden by his side 80 Under the furled sail, soon I spied, With great grass hat and kerchief black, Who looked up with his kingly throat, Said somewhat, while the other shook His hair back from his eyes to look 85 Their longest at us; then the boat, I know not how, turned sharply round, Laying her whole side on the sea As a leaping fish does; from the lee, Into the weather, cut somehow 90 Her sparkling path beneath our bow; And so went off, as with a bound, Into the rosy and golden half Of the sky, to overtake the sun And reach the shore, like the sea-calf 95 Its singing cave; yet I caught one Glance ere away the boat quite passed, And neither time nor toil could mar Those features: so I saw the last Of Waring!'--You? Oh, never star 100 Was lost here, but it rose afar! Look East, where whole new thousands are! In Vishnu-land what Avatar?
R. BROWNING.
ON THE RHINE
Vain is the effort to forget. Some day I shall be cold, I know, As is the eternal moon-lit snow Of the high Alps, to which I go But ah, not yet! not yet! 5
Vain is the agony of grief. 'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot Ties straitly up from mine thy lot, And were it snapt--thou lov'st me not! But is despair relief? 10
Awhile let me with thought have done; And as this brimmed unwrinkled Rhine And that far purple mountain line Lie sweetly in the look divine Of the slow-sinking sun; 15
So let me lie, and calm as they Let beam upon my inward view Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent hue-- Eyes too expressive to be blue, Too lovely to be grey. 20
Ah Quiet, all things feel thy balm! Those blue hills too, this river's flow, Were restless once, but long ago. Tamed is their turbulent youthful glow: Their joy is in their calm. 25
M. ARNOLD.
THE CASTLED CRAG OF DRACHENFELS
The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees, 5 And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy wert _thou_ with me. 10
And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of grey; 15 And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine,-- Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! 20
I send the lilies given to me; Though long before thy hand they touch, I know that they must withered be, But yet reject them not as such; For I have cherished them as dear, 25 Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here, When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine! 30
The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground, And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round: The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 35 Through life to dwell delighted here: Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! 40
LORD BYRON.
'UP THE RHINE'
Why, Tourist, why With Passport have to do? Pr'ythee stay at home and pass The Port and Sherry too.
Why, Tourist, why 5 Embark for Rotterdam? Pr'ythee stay at home and take Thy Hollands in a dram.
Why, Tourist, why To foreign climes repair? 10 Pr'ythee take thy German Flute, And breathe a German air.
Why, Tourist, why The Seven Mountains view? Any one at home can tint 15 A hill with Prussian Blue.
Why, Tourist, why To old Colonia's walls? Sure, to see a _Wrenish_ Dome, One needn't leave St. Paul's. 20
T. HOOD.
COLOGNE
In Köhln, a town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches; I counted two and seventy stenches, All well defined, and several stinks! 5 Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne; But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine? 10
S. T. COLERIDGE.
THE PURSUIT OF LETTERS
The Germans for Learning enjoy great repute; But the English make _Letters_ still more a pursuit; For a Cockney will go from the banks of the Thames To Cologne for an _O_ and to Nassau for M's.
T. HOOD.
FROM 'DOVER TO MUNICH'
Farewell, farewell! Before our prow Leaps in white foam the noisy channel; A tourist's cap is on my brow, My legs are cased in tourist's flannel:
Around me gasp the invalids-- 5 (The quantity to-night is fearful) I take a brace or so of weeds, And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful.
The night wears on:--my thirst I quench With one imperial pint of porter; 10 Then drop upon a casual bench-- (The bench is short, but I am shorter)--
Place 'neath my head the _havre-sac_ Which I have stored my little all in, And sleep, though moist about the back, 15 Serenely in an old tarpaulin.
Bed at Ostend at 5 a.m. Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30, Tickets to Königswinter (mem. The seats objectionably dirty). 20
And onward through those dreary flats We move, with scanty space to sit on, Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats, And waists that paralyse a Briton;--
By many a tidy little town, 25 Where tidy little Fraus sit knitting, (The men's pursuits are, lying down, Smoking perennial pipes, and spitting;)
And doze, and execrate the heat, And wonder how far off Cologne is, 30 And if we shall get aught to eat, Till we get there, save raw polonies;
Until at last the 'grey old pile' Is seen, is past, and three hours later We're ordering steaks, and talking vile 35 Mock-German to an Austrian waiter.
* * * * *
On, on the vessel steals; Round go the paddle wheels, And now the tourist feels As he should; 40 For king-like rolls the Rhine, And the scenery's divine, And the victuals and the wine Rather good.
From every crag we pass 'll 45 Rise up some hoar old castle; The hanging fir-groves tassel Every slope; And the vine her lithe arm stretches O'er peasants singing catches-- 50 And you'll make no end of sketches, I should hope.
We've a nun here (called Therèse), Two couriers out of place, One Yankee with a face 55 Like a ferret's: And three youths in scarlet caps Drinking chocolate and schnapps-- A diet which perhaps Has its merits. 60
And day again declines: In shadow sleep the vines, And the last ray through the pines Feebly glows, Then sinks behind yon ridge; 65 And the usual evening midge Is settling on the bridge Of my nose.
And keen's the air and cold, And the sheep are in the fold, 70 And Night walks sable-stoled Through the trees; And on the silent river The floating starbeams quiver;-- And now, the saints deliver 75 Us from fleas.
* * * * *
Avenues of broad white houses, Basking in the noontide glare;-- Streets, which foot of traveller shrinks from, As on hot plates shrinks the bear;-- 80
Elsewhere lawns, and vistaed gardens, Statues white, and cool arcades, Where at eve the German warrior Winks upon the German maids;--
Such is Munich:--broad and stately, 85 Rich of hue, and fair of form; But, towards the end of August, Unequivocally _warm_.
C. S. CALVERLEY.
NUREMBERG
In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands.
Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng:
Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, 5 Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;
And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.
In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand; 10
On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise.
Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;
And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone, 15 By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.
In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust;
In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. 20
Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived and laboured Albrecht Dürer, the Evangelist of Art;
Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.
_Emigravit_ is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; 25 Dead he is not, but departed,--for the artist never dies.
Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!
Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Master-singers, chanting rude poetic strains. 30
From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.
As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil's chime;
Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. 36
Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed.
But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; 40
Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman's song, As the old man grey and dove-like, with his great beard white and long.
And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair.
Vanished is the ancient splendour, and before my dreamy eye 45 Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.
Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard; But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard.
Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away, As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay:
Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, 51 The nobility of labour,--the long pedigree of toil.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
AGED CITIES
I have known cities with the strong-armed Rhine Clasping their mouldered quays in lordly sweep; And lingered where the Maine's low waters shine Through Tyrian Frankfort; and been fain to weep 'Mid the green cliffs where pale Mosella laves 5 That Roman sepulchre, imperial Treves. Ghent boasts her street, and Bruges her moonlight square; And holy Mechlin, Rome of Flanders, stands, Like a queen-mother, on her spacious lands; And Antwerp shoots her glowing spire in air. 10 Yet have I seen no place, by inland brook, Hill-top, or plain, or trim arcaded bowers, That carries age so nobly in its look, As Oxford with the sun upon her towers.
F. W. FABER.
BRUGES
The Spirit of Antiquity--enshrined In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, In picture, speaking with heroic tongue, And with devout solemnities entwined-- Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind: 5 Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease along, Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng, To an harmonious decency confined: As if the streets were consecrated ground, The city one vast temple, dedicate 10 To mutual respect in thought and deed; To leisure, to forbearances sedate; To social cares from jarring passions freed; A deeper peace than that in deserts found!
W. WORDSWORTH.
THE BELFRY OF BRUGES
In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town.
As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. 4
Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapours gray, Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.
At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, Wreaths of snow-white smoke ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air.
Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. 10
From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky.
Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, With their strange unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes,
Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir; And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar. 16
Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;
All the Foresters of Flanders,--mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre. 20
I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old; Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold.
Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease.
I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; 25 I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;
And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, And the armèd guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between.
I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold; 30
Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest.
And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat;
Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, 35 'I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!'
Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more.