L orenzo, is shown the
marble chapel, enriched with precious stones, where rise
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marble chapel, enriched with precious stones, where rise
z2
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Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
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? 332 corinne; or I taly.
chose to be my husband. A chieve your work ! I nspire him
to select me as the partner of his life! I shall never be
happy, save with him; but my fluttering heart shall not
betray its secret. O h, my God! My father, console your
child! render her worthy the esteem of O swald ! " -- " Y es,"
whispered Corinne, " k ind father, grant her prayer, and
give your other child a peaceful grave! " Thus solemnly
concluding the greatest effort of which her soul was capable,
she took from her breast the paper which contained O s-
wald' s ring, and rapidly withdrew. S he felt that in
sending this, without letting him k now where she was, she
should break all their ties, and yield him to her sister. I n
the presence of that tomb, she had been more conscious
than ever of the obstacles which separated them: her own
father, as well as O swald' s, seemed to condemn their love.
L ucy appeared deserving of him; and Corinne, at least for
the moment, was proud to sacrifice herself, that he might
live at peace with his country, his family, and his own
heart. The music which she heard from the house sus-
tained her firmness: she saw an old blind man, seated at
the foot of a tree to listen, and begged he would present
her letter to one of the servants; thus she escaped the risk
of O swald' s discovering who had brought it; for no one
could have seen her give the paper, without being assured
that it contained the fate of her whole life. H er look s, her
shak ing hand, her hollow voice, bespok e one of those awful
moments, when destiny over-rules us, and we act but as the
slaves of that fatality which so long pursued us. Corinne
watched the old man, led by his faithful dog, give her
letter to a servant of N evil' s, who, by chance, was carrying
others into the house. A ll things conspired to banish her
last hope :she made a few steps towards the gate, turning
her head to mark the servant' s entrance. W hen she no
longer saw him -- when she was on the high road, the
lights and music lost, a deathlik e damp rose to her brow,
a chill ran through her frame; she tottered on, but nature
refused the task , and she fell senseless by the way.
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? corinne; or italy.
BOOKXVIII.
TH E S O J O UR N A TF L O R E N CE .
CH A PTE R I .
Count d' E rfeuil having passed some time in S witzer-
land, wearied of nature ' mid the A lps, as he had tired of
the arts at R ome, and suddenly resolved to visit E ngland.
H e had heard that he should find much depth of thought
there, and wok e one morning to the conviction of that
being the very thing he wished to meet. This third
search after pleasure had succeeded no better than its pre-
decessors, but his regard for N evil spurred him on ; and he
assured himself, another morning, that friendship was the
greatest bliss on earth; therefore he went to S cotland.
N et seeing O swald at his home, but learning that he was
gone to L ady E dgarmond' s, the Count leaped on his horse
to follow; so much did he believe that he longed to meet
him. A sherodeq uick lyon,hesawafemaleex tended
motionless upon the road, and instantly dismounted to
assist her. W hat was his horror at recognising, through
their mortal paleness, the features of Corinne! W ith the
liveliest sympathy he helped his servant to arrange some
branches as a litter, intending to convey her to L ady E d-
garmond' s, when The' resina, who till now had remained in
her mistress' s carriage, alarmed at her absence, came to
the spot, and, certain that no one but L ord N evil could
have reduced her lady to this state, begged that she might
be borne to the neighbouring town. The Count followed
her; and for eight days, during which she suffered all the
delirium of fever, he never left her. Thus it was the fri-
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? 334 corinne; or italy
volous man who proved faithful, while the man of senti-
ment was break ing her heart. This contrast struck Co-
rinne, when she recovered her senses, and she thank ed
d' E rfeuil with great feeling: he replied by striving to
console her, more capable of noble actions than of serious
conversation. Corinne found him useful, but could not
mak e him her friend. S he strove to recall her reason, and
think over what had passed; but it was long ere she
could remember all she had done, and from what motive.
Then, perhaps, she thought her sacrifice too great; and
hoped, at least, to bid L ord N evil a last adieu, ere she left
E ngland; but the day after she regained her faculties
chance threw a newspaper in her way, which contained
the following paragraph :--
" L ady E dgarmond has lately learnt that her stepdaughter,
who she believed had died in I taly, is still enj oying great
literary celebrity at R ome, under the name of Corinne.
H er L adyship, much to her own honour, ack nowledges the
fair poet, and is desirous of sharing with her the fortune
left by L ord E dgarmond' s brother, who died in I ndia.
The marriage contract was yesterday signed, between his
L ordship' s youngest daughter (the only child of his widow)
and L ord N evil, who, on S unday nex t, leads Miss L ucy
E dgarmond to the altar. "
Unfortunately Corinne lost not her consciousness after
reading this announcement; a sudden change took place
within her; all the interests of life were lost; she felt lik e
one condemned to death, who had not k nown, till now,
when her sentence would be ex ecuted; and from this
moment the resignation of despair was the only sensation
of her breast. D' E rfeuil entered her room, and, finding
her even paler than while in her swoon, anx iously ask ed
her the news. S he replied gravely, " I am no longer ill;
to-morrow is the S abbath; I will go to Plymouth, and
embark for I taly. " -- " I shall accompany you,"
returned. " I ' ve nothing to detain me here, and shall be
he ardently
charmed at travelling with you. " -- " H ow truly good you
are! " she said: " we ought not to j udge from appear-
ances. " Then, after check ing herself, added, " I accept
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? corinne; or italy. 335
your guidance to the seaport, because I am not sure of
my own; but, once on board, the ship will bear me on,
no matter in what state I may be. " S he signed for him
to leave her, and wept long before her God, begging him
to support her beneath this sorrow. N othing was left of
the impetuous Corinne. The active powers of her life
were all ex hausted; and this annihilation, for which she
could scarcely account, restored her composure. Grief
had subdued her. S ooner or later all rebellious heads
must bow to the same yok e.
" I tisto-day! " sighedCorinne,asshewok e:" itis
to-day! " and entered her carriage with d' E rfeuil. H e
q uestioned her, but she could not reply. They passed a
church: she ask ed his leave to enter for a moment; then,
k neeling before the altar, prayed for O swald and for L ucy:
but when she would have risen she staggered, and could
not tak e onp step without the support of Theresina and
the Count, who had followed her. A ll present made way
for her, with every demonstration of pity. " I look very
miserable, then? " she said: " the young and lovely, at
this hour, are leaving such a scene in triumph. " The Count
scarcely understood these words. K ind as he was, and
much as he loved Corinne, he soon wearied of her sadness,
and strove to draw her from it, as if we had only to say
we will forget all the woes of life, and do so. S ometimes
he cried, " I
of comforting;
tastes at the ex
told you how it would be. " S trange mode
but such is the satisfaction which vanity
pense of misfortune. Corinne fruitlessly
strove to conceal her sufferings; for we are ashamed of
strong affections in the presence of the light-minded, and
bashful in all feelings that must be ex plained ere compre-
hended-- those secrets of the heart that can only be con-
soled by those who guess them. Corinne was displeased
with herself, as not sufficiently grateful for the Count' s
devotion to her service; but in his look s, his words, his
accents, there was so much which wandered in search of
amusement, that she was often on the point of forgetting
his generous actions, as he did himself. I t is doubtless
V ery magnanimous to set small price on our own good
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? 336 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
deeds, but that indifference, so admirable in itself, may be
carried to an ex treme which approaches an unfeeling levity.
Corinne, during her delirium, had betrayed nearly all
her secrets -- the papers had since apprised d' E rfeuil of the
rest. H e often wished to talk of what he called her
" affairs,"
fidence;
breathing L
but that word alone sufficed to freeze her con-
and she entreated him to spare her the pain of
ord N evil' s name. I n parting with the
Count, Corinne k new not how to ex press herself; for she
was at once glad to anticipate being alone, and grieved to
lose a man who had behaved so well towards her. S he
strove to thank him, but he begged her so naturally not to
speak of it, that she obeyed; charging him to inform L ady
E dgarmond that she refused the legacy of her uncle; and
to do so, as if she had sent this message from I taly; for
she did not wish her stepmother to k now she had been in
E ngland. " N orN evil? " ask edtheCount. " Y oumay
tell him soon, yes, very soon;
let you k now when. " -- "
least," he added: " don'
my friends in R ome will
Tak e care of your health, at
t you k now that I am uneasy
aboutyou? " -- " R eally! " sheex claimedsmiling. -- " N ot
without cause, I believe. " H e offered her his arm to the
vessel: at that moment she turned towards E ngland, the
country she must never more behold, where dwelt the sole
obj ect of her love and grief, and her eyes filled with the
first sad tears she had ever shed in d' E rfeuil' s presence.
" L ovely Corinne ! " he said, ' ' forget that ingrate!
of the friends so tenderly attached to you, and recollect
your own advantages with pleasure. " S he withdrew her
hand from him, and stepped back some paces; then blam-
ing herself for this reproof, gently returned to bid him
adieu: but he, having perceived nothing of what passed
in her mind, got into the boat with her; recommended her
earnestly to the captain' s care; busied himself most en-
dearingly on all the details that could render her passage
agreeable; and, when rowed ashore, waved his handk er-
chief to the ship as long as he could be seen. Corinne
returned his salute. A las! was this the friend on whose
attentions she ought to have been thrown? L ight loves
last long: they are not tied so tight that they can break .
think
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? CO R I N N E ; O B H A L T. 337
They are obscured or brought to light by circumstances,
while deep affections fly, never to return; and in their
places leave but cureless wounds.
CH A PTE R I I .
A favourable breeze bore Corinne to L eghorn in less
than a month: she suffered from fever the whole time;
and her debility was such that grief of mind was confused
with the pain of illness; nothing seemed now distinct.
S he hesitated, on landing, whether she should proceed to
R ome, or no; but though her best friends awaited her,
she felt an insurmountable repugnance to living in the
scenes where she had k nown O swald. S he thought of
that door through which he came to her twice every day;
and the prospect of being there without him was too
dreary. S he decided on going to F lorence; and believing
that her life could not long resist her sorrows, thus in-
tended to detach herself by degrees from the world, by
living alone, far from those who loved her, from the city
that witnessed her success, whose inhabitants would strive
to re-animate her mind, ex pect her to appear what she had
been, while her discouraged heart found every effort odious.
I n crossing fertile Tuscany, approaching flower-breathed
F lorence, Corinne felt but an added sadness. H ow dread-
ful the despair which such sk ies fail to calm! O ne must
feel either love or religion, in order to appreciate nature;
and she had lost the first of earthly blessings, without
having yet recovered the peace which piety alone can
afford the unfortunate. Tuscany, a well-cultivated, smiling
land, strik es not the imagination as do the environs of
R ome and N aples. The primitive institutions of its early
inhabitants have been so effaced, that there scarcely re-
mains one vestige of them; but another species of historic
beauty ex ists in their stead, -- cities that bear the impress
of the middle ages. A t S ienna, the public sq uare wherein
the people assembled, the balcony from which their magistrate
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? 338 oorinne; or italy.
harangued them must catch the least reflecting eye, as proofs
that there once flourished a democratic government. I t
is a real pleasure to hear the Tuscans, even of the lowest
classes, speak : their fanciful phrases give one an idea of that
A thenian Greek , which sounded lik e a perpetual melody.
I t is a strange sensation to believe one' s self amid a people
all eq ually educated, all elegant; such is the illusion which,
for a moment, the purity of their language creates.
The sight of F lorence recalls its history, previous to the
Medicean sway. The palaces of its best families are built
lik e fortresses: without are still seen the iron rings, to
which the standards of each party were attached. A ll
things seem to have been more arranged for the support
of individual powers, than for their union in a common
cause. The city appears formed for civil war. There are
towers attached to the H all of J ustice, whence the approach
of the enemy could be discerned. S uch were the feuds
between certain houses, that you find dwellings incon-
veniently constructed, because their lords would not let
them ex tend to the ground on which that of some foe had
been pulled down. H ere the Pazzi conspired against the
De' Medici; there the Guelfs assassinated the Ghibellines.
The mark s of struggling rivalry are every where visible,
though but in senseless stones. N othing is now left for
any pretenders but an inglorious state, not worth dis-
puting. The life led in F lorence has become singularly
monotonous: its natives walk every afternoon on the bank s
of the A rno, and every evening ask one another if they
have been there. Corinne settled at a little distance from
the town; and let Prince Castel F orte k now this, in the
only letter she had strength to write: such was her horror
of all habitual actions, that even the fatigue of giving the
slightest order redoubled her distress. S he sometimes
passed her day in complete inactivity, retired to her pillow,
rose again, opened a book , without the power to compre-
hend a line of it. O ft did she remain whole hours at her
window ; then would walk rapidly in her garden, cull its
flowers, and seek to deaden her senses in their perfume;
but the consciousness of life pursued her, lik e an unrelent-
ing ghost: she strove in vain to calm the devouring faculty
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? corinne; or iTA iyr. 339
of thought, which no longer presented her with varied
images; but one lone idea, armed with a thousand stings,
that pierced her heart.
CH A PTE R I I I .
A n hour passed in S t. Peter' s had been wont to compose
her; and Corinne hoped to find the same effect from visit-
ing the churches of fair F lorence. S he walk ed beneath the
fine trees on the river' s bank , in a lovely eve of J une.
R oses embalmed the air, and every face ex pressed the
general felicity from which she felt herself ex cluded; yet
she unenvyingly blessed her God for his k ind care of man.
" I am an ex ception to universal order," she said; " there
is happiness for every one but me: this power of B uf-
fering, beneath which I die, is then peculiar to myself.
My God! wherefore was I selected for such a doom?
May I not say, lik e thy Divine S on, ' F ather, let this
cupbetak enfromme? ' " Theactiveairofthein-
habitants astonished her: since she had lost all interest in
life she k new not why others seemed occupied; and slowly
pacing the large stoned pavement of F lorence, she forgot
where she had designed to go. A t last, she found herself
before the far-famed gate of brass, sculptured by Ghiberti
for the font of S t. J ohn' s which stands beside the ca-
thedral. F or some time she ex amined this stupendous
work ; where, wrought in bronze, the divers nations, though
of minute proportions, are distinctly mark ed by their varied
physiognomies; all of which ex press some thought of their
artist. " W hat patience ! " cried Corinne; " what respect
for posterity! yet how few scrutinise these doors through
which so many daily pass, in heedlessness, ignorance, or
disdain! H ow difficult it is to escape oblivion! how vast
the power of death! "
I n this cathedral was J ulian de Medicis assassinated.
N ot far thence, in the church of S t.
L orenzo, is shown the
marble chapel, enriched with precious stones, where rise
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? 340 corinne; or I taly
the tombs of that high family, and Michael A ngelo' s
statues of J ulian and L orenzo: the latter, meditating
vengeance on the murder of his brother, deserves the
honour of having been called ' la pensee de Michel A ngela! '
A t the feet of these figures are A urora and N ight. The
awak ing of the one is admirable; still more so is the other' s
sleep. A poet chose it for his theme, and concluded by saying,
" S ound as is her slumber, she lives: if you believe not,
wak e her, she will speak . " A ngelo, who cultivated letters
(without which imagination of all k inds must soon decay)
replied, --
" Grato m' e il sono e piii Tesser d' y sasso.
Mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura,
N on veder, non sentir m' ^ gran ventura;
Pero non mi destar, deh parla basso! "
" I t is well for me to sleep, still better to be stone; while
shame and inj ustice last: -- not to see, not to hear, is a
great blessing; therefore disturb me not! speak low! "
This great man was the only comparatively modern
sculptor who neither gave the human figure the beauty of
the antiq ue nor the affected air of our own day. Y ou see
the grave energy of the middle ages, its perseverance, its
passions, but no ideal beauty. H e was the genius of his
own school; and imitated no one, not even the ancients.
This tomb is in the church of S anta Croce. A t his desire
it faces a window whence may be seen the dome built by
F ilippo B runelleschi; as if his ashes would stir, even be-
neath the marble, at the sight of a cupola copied from that
of S t. Peter' s. S anta Croce contains some of the most
illustrious dead in E urope. Galileo, persecuted by man,
for having discovered the secrets of the sk y:-- Machiavel,
who revealed the arts of crime rather as an observer than
an actor; yet whose lessons are more available to the op-
pressors than the oppressed:-- A retino, who consecrated
his days to mirth, and found nothing serious in life ex -
cept its end:-- B occaccio, whose laughing fancy resisted the
united scourges of civil war and plague: -- a picture in
honour of Dante, showing that the F lorentines, who per-
mitted him to perish in ex ile, were not the less vain of his
glory{ 5), with many other worthy names, and some cele-
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 341
brated in their own day, but echoing less forcibly from age
to age, so that their sound is now almost unheard. (6 )
This church, adorned with noble recollections, rek indled
the enthusiasm of Corinne, which the living had repressed.
The silent presence of the great revived, for a moment,
that emulation which once she felt for fame. S he stepped
more steadfastly, and the high thoughts of other days arose
within her breast. S ome young priests came slowly down
the aisle, chanting in subdued tones: she ask ed the mean-
ing of this ceremony. " W e are praying for our dead,"
said one of them. " R ight," thought Corinne; " your
dead! well may you boast them; they are the only noble
relics left ye. A h! why then, O swald, have you stifled all the
gifts H eaven granted me, with which I ought to ex cite the
sympathy of k indred minds? O h God ! " she added, sink -
ing on her k nees, " it is not in vanity I dare entreat thee
to give me back my talents; doubtless the lowly saints
who lived and died for thee alone are greatest in thy sight;
but there are different careers for mortals: genius, which
illustrates our noblest virtues, devotes itself to generous
humanity and truth, may trust to be received into some
outer heaven. " S he cast her eyes to earth, and, on the
stone where she had k nelt, read this inscription, --
" A lone I rose, alone I sunk , I am alone e' en here. "
" A h! " cried Corinne, "
should embolden me to toil?
that is mine answer. W hat
what pride can I ever feel?
who would participate in my success, or interest himself
in my defeats? O h, I should need his look for my re-
ward. " A nother epitaph fix ed her attention, that of a
youth who says, --
" Pity me not, if you can guess how many pangs the grave hath
spared me. "
H ow did those words wean her from life! amid the tumult
of a city this church opened to teach mank ind the best of
secrets, if they would learn: but no; they passed it by,
and the miraculous forgetfulness of death k ept all the
world alive.
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? 342 corinne; or italy.
. >
CH A PTE R I V .
The spring of feeling which had consoled Corinne for a
few moments, led her nex t morning to the Gallery: she
hoped to recover her taste, and draw some pleasure from
her former pursuits. E ven the fine arts are republican in
F lorence. Pictures and statues are shown at all hours,
with the greatest ease. W ell informed men, paid by the
government, lik e public functionaries, ex plain all these
ehefs-d' auvre. This lingering respect for talent has ever
pervaded I taly; particularly F lorence, where the Medicii
ex torted pardon for their power over human actions, by the
free scope they left for human minds. The common people
love the arts, and blend this taste with their devotion,
which is more regular in Tuscany than in any other I talian
state; but they freq uently confound mythologic figures
with S cripture history. O ne of the guides used to show a
Minerva as J udith, and an A pollo as David; adding, when
he ex plained a bas-relief, which represented the fall of
Troy, that " Cassandra was a good Christian. " Many
days may be passed in the gallery ere half its beauties are
k nown. Corinne went from one to the other, mortified at
her own indifference and abstraction. The calm dignity
which shines through the deep grief of N iobe, however,
recalled her attention. I n such a case, the countenance of
a living mother would doubtless be more agitated; but the
ideal arts preserve beauty even in despair; and what
affects us most in work s of genius, is not grief' s self, but
the soul' s power o' er grief. N ot far from this is a head of
the dying A lex ander. These two countenances afford rich
material for thought. The conq ueror look s astonished
and indignant at not having achieved a victory even over
nature. The anguish of maternal love is depicted on all
the traits of N iobe: she presses her daughter to her heart
with the most touching eagerness; her fine face bearing
the stamp of that fatality which left the ancients no re-
source, even in religion. N iobe lifts her eyes to heaven,
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? CO riN N E ; O B I TA L Y . 343
but without hope; for the gods themselves are her
enemies.
O n her return home, Corinne strove to reflect on what
she had seen, and retrace her impressions, as she had for-
merly done; but her mental distraction was uncontrollable.
H ow far was she now from the power of improvisation!
I n vain she sought for words, or wrote unmeaning ones,
that dismayed her on perusal, as would the ravings of de-
lirium. I ncapable of turning her thoughts from her own
situation, she then strove to describe it; but no longer
could she command those universal sentiments that find
echoes in all hearts. H ers were now but long unvaried
wailings, lik e the cry of the night bird; her ex pressions
were too impetuous, too unveiled, -- they were those of
misery, not of talent. To write well, we req uire to feel
truly, but not heart-break ingly. The best melancholy
poetry is that inspired by a k ind of rapture, which still
tells of mental strength and enj oyment. R eal grief is a
foe to intellectual fertility : it produces a gloomy agitation,
that incessantly returns to the same point, lik e the k night
who, pursued by an evil genius, sought a thousand roads
for escape, yet always found himself at the spot from
whence he started.
The state of Corinne' s health completed the confusion
of her mind. The following are a few of the reflections she
wrote, while mak ing a fruitless effort to become capable of
a connected work .
CHAPTER V.
F R A GME N TS O F CO R I N N e' sTH O UGH TS .
Mr genius lives no longer: I regret
I ts death: I own I should have loved that yet
My lays had wak ed his sympathy; my name
Might still have reach' d him, heralded by fame.
Z4
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? 344CO R I N N B j O R I TA L Y .
I erred by hoping that in his own land
The thoughts, the feelings -- that our fates united
The influence of habit could withstand --
A mid such scenes love' s flower must soon be blighted.
There is so much to say ' gainst maid lik e me!
H ow futile must the only answer be!
" S uchwasherheart-- hermind; Mapoorreply
F or hosts who k now not what I was, nor why.
Y et are they wrong to fear superior mind,
The more it towers, more morally refined:
The more we k now, the better we forgive;
W hoe' er feels deeply, feels for all who live.
H ow can two beings who confided all,
W hose converse was the spirit' s griefs, its dangers,
A nd immortality, bear this swift fall,
Thus to each other become once more strangers?
W hat a mysterious sentiment is love!
N othing, if not all other ties above --
V ying in faith with all that martyrs feel --
O r -- colder than the simplest friendship' s zeal.
This most involuntary sense on earth,
Doth heaven or mortal passion give it birth?
W hat storms it raises deep within the breast!
Must we obey, or combat such wild guest?
Talent should be a refuge; as when one ?
I mprisoned to a cloister, art' s true son,
B eq ueathed its walls such traces of his doom,
That genius glorified monastic gloom!
B ut he, though captive, sufter' d from without;
H is bosom was not torn by dread or doubt;
W hen grief is there, all efforts lose their force,
The spring of comfort' s poison' d from its source.
S ometimes I view myself as one apart,
I mpartially, and pity my own heart;
W as I not mental, k ind to others' pain,
Generous, and frank ? Then why all this in vain?
I
L
?
s the world really so vile, that charms
ik e these but rob us of our needful arms?
Dominichino
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 343
' Tis pitiful! S pite all my youth hath shown,
I n spite my glory, I shall die unk nown;
N or leave one proof of what I might have been,
H ad I learnt happiness, or could defy
This all-devouring fever -- men had seen
Me contemplate them from a station high,
Track ing the hidden link s between yon heaven
A nd human nature; but the clue is riven.
H ow, how think freely, while each painful breath
B ut bids me feel the woe that weighs me down to death?
O h! why would he forbear to render blest
A heart whose secret he alone possess' d?
To him -- him only spok e my inmost soul!
' Tis easy to leave those chance may control,
The common herd -- but she who must admire,
Y et j udge ere fancy k indles love' s chaste fire,
E x pansive as it is, to soul lik e hers,
There ' s but one obj ect in the universe!
I
V
W
learnt life from the poets; ' tis not thus;
ainly they strive to change the truth, for us
ho live to wak e from their soft dreams, and see
The barrenness of life' s reality!
R emembering what I was but chafes my pride.
W hy tell me I could charm, if not for love?
W hy inspire confidence, to mak e me prove
B ut the more fearful anguish when it died?
W ill he, in any other, meet more mind
Than was mine own? a heart more true and k ind?
N o! but-- congenial with heartlessness --
H e will be more content in finding less.
I n presence of the sun, or starry spheres,
To deserve love we need but to desire --
F or love ennobles all that it endears;
Conscious of mutual worth, we look no higher.
B ut ah, society! where each must owe
H is fate but to factitious j oy or woe,--
W here what is said of him becomes the test--
J H ow soon it hardens e' en the trifler' s breast.
Could men once meet, free from this false control,
H ow pure an air were breathed into the soul!
H ow would the mind, refresh' d by feelings true,
Teem with ideas natural and new!
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? 346 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
E ' en N ature' s cruel: this praised face
I s fading: what avails it now
That still I pour affection' s vow,
W ithout one look my prayer to grace?
These tear-dimm' d eyes no more ex press,
A s once they might, my tenderness.
W ithin my bosom is a pain
N o language ever can ex plain --
I have no strength for task lik e tins;
L ove, only love, could sound the abyss.
H ow happy men! in honour' s strife
They burst the chains of hated life.
W e hope no solace from the throng;
O ur torture is to bear,
S tirless and mute, a lone life long,
The presence of Despair.
S ometimes, when listing music' s tone,
I t tells of powers so late mine own,
S ong, dance, and poesie -- I start,
A s I could fly from this sad heart,
To j oy again; a sudden chill
R eminds me that the world would say,
' B ack , lingering ghost! it fits thee ill
To brave the living, and the day! '
I wish I now could find a spell
' Gainst misery in the crowd: ' t was well
To mix there once, lest solitude
S hould bear my thoughts too far through fate.
My mind grew flex ible, imbued
W ith gay impressions; '
F eatures and feeling fix
S miles, fancies, graces!
t is too late;
for aye;
where are they?
A h! if' t were in a moment o' er,
F ain would I taste of hope once more!
B ut all is done: life can but be
A burning desert now to me;
The drop of water, lik e the river,
S
A
I
ullied with bitterness for ever.
single day' s enj oyment is
mpossible, as years of bliss.
Guilty towards me as I must deem
My love, -- compared with other men
W hat mindless things of art they seem!
H owdoesheriseanangelthen! --
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y .
347
E ' en though his sword of flame consume
My life, and devastate my doom;
H eaven lends the one beloved its power
Thus to avenge each mis-spent hour.
' Tis not first love that must endure;
I t springs but from the dreams of youth;
B ut if, with intellect mature,
W e meet the mind long sought in vain,
F ancy is then subdued by truth,
A nd we have reason to complain.
" W hat maniacs! " the many cry,
" A re those for love who live or die!
A s if, when such frail boon is reft,
A thousand blessings were not left! "
E nthusiasm, though the seed
O f every high heroic deed,
E ach pious sacrifice -- its lot
I s scorn, from those who feel it not.
A ll then is folly, if they will,
S ave their own selfish care
O f mortal life ; this nobler thrill
I s madness every where.
? 332 corinne; or I taly.
chose to be my husband. A chieve your work ! I nspire him
to select me as the partner of his life! I shall never be
happy, save with him; but my fluttering heart shall not
betray its secret. O h, my God! My father, console your
child! render her worthy the esteem of O swald ! " -- " Y es,"
whispered Corinne, " k ind father, grant her prayer, and
give your other child a peaceful grave! " Thus solemnly
concluding the greatest effort of which her soul was capable,
she took from her breast the paper which contained O s-
wald' s ring, and rapidly withdrew. S he felt that in
sending this, without letting him k now where she was, she
should break all their ties, and yield him to her sister. I n
the presence of that tomb, she had been more conscious
than ever of the obstacles which separated them: her own
father, as well as O swald' s, seemed to condemn their love.
L ucy appeared deserving of him; and Corinne, at least for
the moment, was proud to sacrifice herself, that he might
live at peace with his country, his family, and his own
heart. The music which she heard from the house sus-
tained her firmness: she saw an old blind man, seated at
the foot of a tree to listen, and begged he would present
her letter to one of the servants; thus she escaped the risk
of O swald' s discovering who had brought it; for no one
could have seen her give the paper, without being assured
that it contained the fate of her whole life. H er look s, her
shak ing hand, her hollow voice, bespok e one of those awful
moments, when destiny over-rules us, and we act but as the
slaves of that fatality which so long pursued us. Corinne
watched the old man, led by his faithful dog, give her
letter to a servant of N evil' s, who, by chance, was carrying
others into the house. A ll things conspired to banish her
last hope :she made a few steps towards the gate, turning
her head to mark the servant' s entrance. W hen she no
longer saw him -- when she was on the high road, the
lights and music lost, a deathlik e damp rose to her brow,
a chill ran through her frame; she tottered on, but nature
refused the task , and she fell senseless by the way.
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? corinne; or italy.
BOOKXVIII.
TH E S O J O UR N A TF L O R E N CE .
CH A PTE R I .
Count d' E rfeuil having passed some time in S witzer-
land, wearied of nature ' mid the A lps, as he had tired of
the arts at R ome, and suddenly resolved to visit E ngland.
H e had heard that he should find much depth of thought
there, and wok e one morning to the conviction of that
being the very thing he wished to meet. This third
search after pleasure had succeeded no better than its pre-
decessors, but his regard for N evil spurred him on ; and he
assured himself, another morning, that friendship was the
greatest bliss on earth; therefore he went to S cotland.
N et seeing O swald at his home, but learning that he was
gone to L ady E dgarmond' s, the Count leaped on his horse
to follow; so much did he believe that he longed to meet
him. A sherodeq uick lyon,hesawafemaleex tended
motionless upon the road, and instantly dismounted to
assist her. W hat was his horror at recognising, through
their mortal paleness, the features of Corinne! W ith the
liveliest sympathy he helped his servant to arrange some
branches as a litter, intending to convey her to L ady E d-
garmond' s, when The' resina, who till now had remained in
her mistress' s carriage, alarmed at her absence, came to
the spot, and, certain that no one but L ord N evil could
have reduced her lady to this state, begged that she might
be borne to the neighbouring town. The Count followed
her; and for eight days, during which she suffered all the
delirium of fever, he never left her. Thus it was the fri-
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? 334 corinne; or italy
volous man who proved faithful, while the man of senti-
ment was break ing her heart. This contrast struck Co-
rinne, when she recovered her senses, and she thank ed
d' E rfeuil with great feeling: he replied by striving to
console her, more capable of noble actions than of serious
conversation. Corinne found him useful, but could not
mak e him her friend. S he strove to recall her reason, and
think over what had passed; but it was long ere she
could remember all she had done, and from what motive.
Then, perhaps, she thought her sacrifice too great; and
hoped, at least, to bid L ord N evil a last adieu, ere she left
E ngland; but the day after she regained her faculties
chance threw a newspaper in her way, which contained
the following paragraph :--
" L ady E dgarmond has lately learnt that her stepdaughter,
who she believed had died in I taly, is still enj oying great
literary celebrity at R ome, under the name of Corinne.
H er L adyship, much to her own honour, ack nowledges the
fair poet, and is desirous of sharing with her the fortune
left by L ord E dgarmond' s brother, who died in I ndia.
The marriage contract was yesterday signed, between his
L ordship' s youngest daughter (the only child of his widow)
and L ord N evil, who, on S unday nex t, leads Miss L ucy
E dgarmond to the altar. "
Unfortunately Corinne lost not her consciousness after
reading this announcement; a sudden change took place
within her; all the interests of life were lost; she felt lik e
one condemned to death, who had not k nown, till now,
when her sentence would be ex ecuted; and from this
moment the resignation of despair was the only sensation
of her breast. D' E rfeuil entered her room, and, finding
her even paler than while in her swoon, anx iously ask ed
her the news. S he replied gravely, " I am no longer ill;
to-morrow is the S abbath; I will go to Plymouth, and
embark for I taly. " -- " I shall accompany you,"
returned. " I ' ve nothing to detain me here, and shall be
he ardently
charmed at travelling with you. " -- " H ow truly good you
are! " she said: " we ought not to j udge from appear-
ances. " Then, after check ing herself, added, " I accept
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? corinne; or italy. 335
your guidance to the seaport, because I am not sure of
my own; but, once on board, the ship will bear me on,
no matter in what state I may be. " S he signed for him
to leave her, and wept long before her God, begging him
to support her beneath this sorrow. N othing was left of
the impetuous Corinne. The active powers of her life
were all ex hausted; and this annihilation, for which she
could scarcely account, restored her composure. Grief
had subdued her. S ooner or later all rebellious heads
must bow to the same yok e.
" I tisto-day! " sighedCorinne,asshewok e:" itis
to-day! " and entered her carriage with d' E rfeuil. H e
q uestioned her, but she could not reply. They passed a
church: she ask ed his leave to enter for a moment; then,
k neeling before the altar, prayed for O swald and for L ucy:
but when she would have risen she staggered, and could
not tak e onp step without the support of Theresina and
the Count, who had followed her. A ll present made way
for her, with every demonstration of pity. " I look very
miserable, then? " she said: " the young and lovely, at
this hour, are leaving such a scene in triumph. " The Count
scarcely understood these words. K ind as he was, and
much as he loved Corinne, he soon wearied of her sadness,
and strove to draw her from it, as if we had only to say
we will forget all the woes of life, and do so. S ometimes
he cried, " I
of comforting;
tastes at the ex
told you how it would be. " S trange mode
but such is the satisfaction which vanity
pense of misfortune. Corinne fruitlessly
strove to conceal her sufferings; for we are ashamed of
strong affections in the presence of the light-minded, and
bashful in all feelings that must be ex plained ere compre-
hended-- those secrets of the heart that can only be con-
soled by those who guess them. Corinne was displeased
with herself, as not sufficiently grateful for the Count' s
devotion to her service; but in his look s, his words, his
accents, there was so much which wandered in search of
amusement, that she was often on the point of forgetting
his generous actions, as he did himself. I t is doubtless
V ery magnanimous to set small price on our own good
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? 336 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
deeds, but that indifference, so admirable in itself, may be
carried to an ex treme which approaches an unfeeling levity.
Corinne, during her delirium, had betrayed nearly all
her secrets -- the papers had since apprised d' E rfeuil of the
rest. H e often wished to talk of what he called her
" affairs,"
fidence;
breathing L
but that word alone sufficed to freeze her con-
and she entreated him to spare her the pain of
ord N evil' s name. I n parting with the
Count, Corinne k new not how to ex press herself; for she
was at once glad to anticipate being alone, and grieved to
lose a man who had behaved so well towards her. S he
strove to thank him, but he begged her so naturally not to
speak of it, that she obeyed; charging him to inform L ady
E dgarmond that she refused the legacy of her uncle; and
to do so, as if she had sent this message from I taly; for
she did not wish her stepmother to k now she had been in
E ngland. " N orN evil? " ask edtheCount. " Y oumay
tell him soon, yes, very soon;
let you k now when. " -- "
least," he added: " don'
my friends in R ome will
Tak e care of your health, at
t you k now that I am uneasy
aboutyou? " -- " R eally! " sheex claimedsmiling. -- " N ot
without cause, I believe. " H e offered her his arm to the
vessel: at that moment she turned towards E ngland, the
country she must never more behold, where dwelt the sole
obj ect of her love and grief, and her eyes filled with the
first sad tears she had ever shed in d' E rfeuil' s presence.
" L ovely Corinne ! " he said, ' ' forget that ingrate!
of the friends so tenderly attached to you, and recollect
your own advantages with pleasure. " S he withdrew her
hand from him, and stepped back some paces; then blam-
ing herself for this reproof, gently returned to bid him
adieu: but he, having perceived nothing of what passed
in her mind, got into the boat with her; recommended her
earnestly to the captain' s care; busied himself most en-
dearingly on all the details that could render her passage
agreeable; and, when rowed ashore, waved his handk er-
chief to the ship as long as he could be seen. Corinne
returned his salute. A las! was this the friend on whose
attentions she ought to have been thrown? L ight loves
last long: they are not tied so tight that they can break .
think
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? CO R I N N E ; O B H A L T. 337
They are obscured or brought to light by circumstances,
while deep affections fly, never to return; and in their
places leave but cureless wounds.
CH A PTE R I I .
A favourable breeze bore Corinne to L eghorn in less
than a month: she suffered from fever the whole time;
and her debility was such that grief of mind was confused
with the pain of illness; nothing seemed now distinct.
S he hesitated, on landing, whether she should proceed to
R ome, or no; but though her best friends awaited her,
she felt an insurmountable repugnance to living in the
scenes where she had k nown O swald. S he thought of
that door through which he came to her twice every day;
and the prospect of being there without him was too
dreary. S he decided on going to F lorence; and believing
that her life could not long resist her sorrows, thus in-
tended to detach herself by degrees from the world, by
living alone, far from those who loved her, from the city
that witnessed her success, whose inhabitants would strive
to re-animate her mind, ex pect her to appear what she had
been, while her discouraged heart found every effort odious.
I n crossing fertile Tuscany, approaching flower-breathed
F lorence, Corinne felt but an added sadness. H ow dread-
ful the despair which such sk ies fail to calm! O ne must
feel either love or religion, in order to appreciate nature;
and she had lost the first of earthly blessings, without
having yet recovered the peace which piety alone can
afford the unfortunate. Tuscany, a well-cultivated, smiling
land, strik es not the imagination as do the environs of
R ome and N aples. The primitive institutions of its early
inhabitants have been so effaced, that there scarcely re-
mains one vestige of them; but another species of historic
beauty ex ists in their stead, -- cities that bear the impress
of the middle ages. A t S ienna, the public sq uare wherein
the people assembled, the balcony from which their magistrate
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? 338 oorinne; or italy.
harangued them must catch the least reflecting eye, as proofs
that there once flourished a democratic government. I t
is a real pleasure to hear the Tuscans, even of the lowest
classes, speak : their fanciful phrases give one an idea of that
A thenian Greek , which sounded lik e a perpetual melody.
I t is a strange sensation to believe one' s self amid a people
all eq ually educated, all elegant; such is the illusion which,
for a moment, the purity of their language creates.
The sight of F lorence recalls its history, previous to the
Medicean sway. The palaces of its best families are built
lik e fortresses: without are still seen the iron rings, to
which the standards of each party were attached. A ll
things seem to have been more arranged for the support
of individual powers, than for their union in a common
cause. The city appears formed for civil war. There are
towers attached to the H all of J ustice, whence the approach
of the enemy could be discerned. S uch were the feuds
between certain houses, that you find dwellings incon-
veniently constructed, because their lords would not let
them ex tend to the ground on which that of some foe had
been pulled down. H ere the Pazzi conspired against the
De' Medici; there the Guelfs assassinated the Ghibellines.
The mark s of struggling rivalry are every where visible,
though but in senseless stones. N othing is now left for
any pretenders but an inglorious state, not worth dis-
puting. The life led in F lorence has become singularly
monotonous: its natives walk every afternoon on the bank s
of the A rno, and every evening ask one another if they
have been there. Corinne settled at a little distance from
the town; and let Prince Castel F orte k now this, in the
only letter she had strength to write: such was her horror
of all habitual actions, that even the fatigue of giving the
slightest order redoubled her distress. S he sometimes
passed her day in complete inactivity, retired to her pillow,
rose again, opened a book , without the power to compre-
hend a line of it. O ft did she remain whole hours at her
window ; then would walk rapidly in her garden, cull its
flowers, and seek to deaden her senses in their perfume;
but the consciousness of life pursued her, lik e an unrelent-
ing ghost: she strove in vain to calm the devouring faculty
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? corinne; or iTA iyr. 339
of thought, which no longer presented her with varied
images; but one lone idea, armed with a thousand stings,
that pierced her heart.
CH A PTE R I I I .
A n hour passed in S t. Peter' s had been wont to compose
her; and Corinne hoped to find the same effect from visit-
ing the churches of fair F lorence. S he walk ed beneath the
fine trees on the river' s bank , in a lovely eve of J une.
R oses embalmed the air, and every face ex pressed the
general felicity from which she felt herself ex cluded; yet
she unenvyingly blessed her God for his k ind care of man.
" I am an ex ception to universal order," she said; " there
is happiness for every one but me: this power of B uf-
fering, beneath which I die, is then peculiar to myself.
My God! wherefore was I selected for such a doom?
May I not say, lik e thy Divine S on, ' F ather, let this
cupbetak enfromme? ' " Theactiveairofthein-
habitants astonished her: since she had lost all interest in
life she k new not why others seemed occupied; and slowly
pacing the large stoned pavement of F lorence, she forgot
where she had designed to go. A t last, she found herself
before the far-famed gate of brass, sculptured by Ghiberti
for the font of S t. J ohn' s which stands beside the ca-
thedral. F or some time she ex amined this stupendous
work ; where, wrought in bronze, the divers nations, though
of minute proportions, are distinctly mark ed by their varied
physiognomies; all of which ex press some thought of their
artist. " W hat patience ! " cried Corinne; " what respect
for posterity! yet how few scrutinise these doors through
which so many daily pass, in heedlessness, ignorance, or
disdain! H ow difficult it is to escape oblivion! how vast
the power of death! "
I n this cathedral was J ulian de Medicis assassinated.
N ot far thence, in the church of S t.
L orenzo, is shown the
marble chapel, enriched with precious stones, where rise
z2
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? 340 corinne; or I taly
the tombs of that high family, and Michael A ngelo' s
statues of J ulian and L orenzo: the latter, meditating
vengeance on the murder of his brother, deserves the
honour of having been called ' la pensee de Michel A ngela! '
A t the feet of these figures are A urora and N ight. The
awak ing of the one is admirable; still more so is the other' s
sleep. A poet chose it for his theme, and concluded by saying,
" S ound as is her slumber, she lives: if you believe not,
wak e her, she will speak . " A ngelo, who cultivated letters
(without which imagination of all k inds must soon decay)
replied, --
" Grato m' e il sono e piii Tesser d' y sasso.
Mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura,
N on veder, non sentir m' ^ gran ventura;
Pero non mi destar, deh parla basso! "
" I t is well for me to sleep, still better to be stone; while
shame and inj ustice last: -- not to see, not to hear, is a
great blessing; therefore disturb me not! speak low! "
This great man was the only comparatively modern
sculptor who neither gave the human figure the beauty of
the antiq ue nor the affected air of our own day. Y ou see
the grave energy of the middle ages, its perseverance, its
passions, but no ideal beauty. H e was the genius of his
own school; and imitated no one, not even the ancients.
This tomb is in the church of S anta Croce. A t his desire
it faces a window whence may be seen the dome built by
F ilippo B runelleschi; as if his ashes would stir, even be-
neath the marble, at the sight of a cupola copied from that
of S t. Peter' s. S anta Croce contains some of the most
illustrious dead in E urope. Galileo, persecuted by man,
for having discovered the secrets of the sk y:-- Machiavel,
who revealed the arts of crime rather as an observer than
an actor; yet whose lessons are more available to the op-
pressors than the oppressed:-- A retino, who consecrated
his days to mirth, and found nothing serious in life ex -
cept its end:-- B occaccio, whose laughing fancy resisted the
united scourges of civil war and plague: -- a picture in
honour of Dante, showing that the F lorentines, who per-
mitted him to perish in ex ile, were not the less vain of his
glory{ 5), with many other worthy names, and some cele-
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 341
brated in their own day, but echoing less forcibly from age
to age, so that their sound is now almost unheard. (6 )
This church, adorned with noble recollections, rek indled
the enthusiasm of Corinne, which the living had repressed.
The silent presence of the great revived, for a moment,
that emulation which once she felt for fame. S he stepped
more steadfastly, and the high thoughts of other days arose
within her breast. S ome young priests came slowly down
the aisle, chanting in subdued tones: she ask ed the mean-
ing of this ceremony. " W e are praying for our dead,"
said one of them. " R ight," thought Corinne; " your
dead! well may you boast them; they are the only noble
relics left ye. A h! why then, O swald, have you stifled all the
gifts H eaven granted me, with which I ought to ex cite the
sympathy of k indred minds? O h God ! " she added, sink -
ing on her k nees, " it is not in vanity I dare entreat thee
to give me back my talents; doubtless the lowly saints
who lived and died for thee alone are greatest in thy sight;
but there are different careers for mortals: genius, which
illustrates our noblest virtues, devotes itself to generous
humanity and truth, may trust to be received into some
outer heaven. " S he cast her eyes to earth, and, on the
stone where she had k nelt, read this inscription, --
" A lone I rose, alone I sunk , I am alone e' en here. "
" A h! " cried Corinne, "
should embolden me to toil?
that is mine answer. W hat
what pride can I ever feel?
who would participate in my success, or interest himself
in my defeats? O h, I should need his look for my re-
ward. " A nother epitaph fix ed her attention, that of a
youth who says, --
" Pity me not, if you can guess how many pangs the grave hath
spared me. "
H ow did those words wean her from life! amid the tumult
of a city this church opened to teach mank ind the best of
secrets, if they would learn: but no; they passed it by,
and the miraculous forgetfulness of death k ept all the
world alive.
z3
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? 342 corinne; or italy.
. >
CH A PTE R I V .
The spring of feeling which had consoled Corinne for a
few moments, led her nex t morning to the Gallery: she
hoped to recover her taste, and draw some pleasure from
her former pursuits. E ven the fine arts are republican in
F lorence. Pictures and statues are shown at all hours,
with the greatest ease. W ell informed men, paid by the
government, lik e public functionaries, ex plain all these
ehefs-d' auvre. This lingering respect for talent has ever
pervaded I taly; particularly F lorence, where the Medicii
ex torted pardon for their power over human actions, by the
free scope they left for human minds. The common people
love the arts, and blend this taste with their devotion,
which is more regular in Tuscany than in any other I talian
state; but they freq uently confound mythologic figures
with S cripture history. O ne of the guides used to show a
Minerva as J udith, and an A pollo as David; adding, when
he ex plained a bas-relief, which represented the fall of
Troy, that " Cassandra was a good Christian. " Many
days may be passed in the gallery ere half its beauties are
k nown. Corinne went from one to the other, mortified at
her own indifference and abstraction. The calm dignity
which shines through the deep grief of N iobe, however,
recalled her attention. I n such a case, the countenance of
a living mother would doubtless be more agitated; but the
ideal arts preserve beauty even in despair; and what
affects us most in work s of genius, is not grief' s self, but
the soul' s power o' er grief. N ot far from this is a head of
the dying A lex ander. These two countenances afford rich
material for thought. The conq ueror look s astonished
and indignant at not having achieved a victory even over
nature. The anguish of maternal love is depicted on all
the traits of N iobe: she presses her daughter to her heart
with the most touching eagerness; her fine face bearing
the stamp of that fatality which left the ancients no re-
source, even in religion. N iobe lifts her eyes to heaven,
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? CO riN N E ; O B I TA L Y . 343
but without hope; for the gods themselves are her
enemies.
O n her return home, Corinne strove to reflect on what
she had seen, and retrace her impressions, as she had for-
merly done; but her mental distraction was uncontrollable.
H ow far was she now from the power of improvisation!
I n vain she sought for words, or wrote unmeaning ones,
that dismayed her on perusal, as would the ravings of de-
lirium. I ncapable of turning her thoughts from her own
situation, she then strove to describe it; but no longer
could she command those universal sentiments that find
echoes in all hearts. H ers were now but long unvaried
wailings, lik e the cry of the night bird; her ex pressions
were too impetuous, too unveiled, -- they were those of
misery, not of talent. To write well, we req uire to feel
truly, but not heart-break ingly. The best melancholy
poetry is that inspired by a k ind of rapture, which still
tells of mental strength and enj oyment. R eal grief is a
foe to intellectual fertility : it produces a gloomy agitation,
that incessantly returns to the same point, lik e the k night
who, pursued by an evil genius, sought a thousand roads
for escape, yet always found himself at the spot from
whence he started.
The state of Corinne' s health completed the confusion
of her mind. The following are a few of the reflections she
wrote, while mak ing a fruitless effort to become capable of
a connected work .
CHAPTER V.
F R A GME N TS O F CO R I N N e' sTH O UGH TS .
Mr genius lives no longer: I regret
I ts death: I own I should have loved that yet
My lays had wak ed his sympathy; my name
Might still have reach' d him, heralded by fame.
Z4
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? 344CO R I N N B j O R I TA L Y .
I erred by hoping that in his own land
The thoughts, the feelings -- that our fates united
The influence of habit could withstand --
A mid such scenes love' s flower must soon be blighted.
There is so much to say ' gainst maid lik e me!
H ow futile must the only answer be!
" S uchwasherheart-- hermind; Mapoorreply
F or hosts who k now not what I was, nor why.
Y et are they wrong to fear superior mind,
The more it towers, more morally refined:
The more we k now, the better we forgive;
W hoe' er feels deeply, feels for all who live.
H ow can two beings who confided all,
W hose converse was the spirit' s griefs, its dangers,
A nd immortality, bear this swift fall,
Thus to each other become once more strangers?
W hat a mysterious sentiment is love!
N othing, if not all other ties above --
V ying in faith with all that martyrs feel --
O r -- colder than the simplest friendship' s zeal.
This most involuntary sense on earth,
Doth heaven or mortal passion give it birth?
W hat storms it raises deep within the breast!
Must we obey, or combat such wild guest?
Talent should be a refuge; as when one ?
I mprisoned to a cloister, art' s true son,
B eq ueathed its walls such traces of his doom,
That genius glorified monastic gloom!
B ut he, though captive, sufter' d from without;
H is bosom was not torn by dread or doubt;
W hen grief is there, all efforts lose their force,
The spring of comfort' s poison' d from its source.
S ometimes I view myself as one apart,
I mpartially, and pity my own heart;
W as I not mental, k ind to others' pain,
Generous, and frank ? Then why all this in vain?
I
L
?
s the world really so vile, that charms
ik e these but rob us of our needful arms?
Dominichino
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? corinne; O R I TA L Y . 343
' Tis pitiful! S pite all my youth hath shown,
I n spite my glory, I shall die unk nown;
N or leave one proof of what I might have been,
H ad I learnt happiness, or could defy
This all-devouring fever -- men had seen
Me contemplate them from a station high,
Track ing the hidden link s between yon heaven
A nd human nature; but the clue is riven.
H ow, how think freely, while each painful breath
B ut bids me feel the woe that weighs me down to death?
O h! why would he forbear to render blest
A heart whose secret he alone possess' d?
To him -- him only spok e my inmost soul!
' Tis easy to leave those chance may control,
The common herd -- but she who must admire,
Y et j udge ere fancy k indles love' s chaste fire,
E x pansive as it is, to soul lik e hers,
There ' s but one obj ect in the universe!
I
V
W
learnt life from the poets; ' tis not thus;
ainly they strive to change the truth, for us
ho live to wak e from their soft dreams, and see
The barrenness of life' s reality!
R emembering what I was but chafes my pride.
W hy tell me I could charm, if not for love?
W hy inspire confidence, to mak e me prove
B ut the more fearful anguish when it died?
W ill he, in any other, meet more mind
Than was mine own? a heart more true and k ind?
N o! but-- congenial with heartlessness --
H e will be more content in finding less.
I n presence of the sun, or starry spheres,
To deserve love we need but to desire --
F or love ennobles all that it endears;
Conscious of mutual worth, we look no higher.
B ut ah, society! where each must owe
H is fate but to factitious j oy or woe,--
W here what is said of him becomes the test--
J H ow soon it hardens e' en the trifler' s breast.
Could men once meet, free from this false control,
H ow pure an air were breathed into the soul!
H ow would the mind, refresh' d by feelings true,
Teem with ideas natural and new!
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? 346 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
E ' en N ature' s cruel: this praised face
I s fading: what avails it now
That still I pour affection' s vow,
W ithout one look my prayer to grace?
These tear-dimm' d eyes no more ex press,
A s once they might, my tenderness.
W ithin my bosom is a pain
N o language ever can ex plain --
I have no strength for task lik e tins;
L ove, only love, could sound the abyss.
H ow happy men! in honour' s strife
They burst the chains of hated life.
W e hope no solace from the throng;
O ur torture is to bear,
S tirless and mute, a lone life long,
The presence of Despair.
S ometimes, when listing music' s tone,
I t tells of powers so late mine own,
S ong, dance, and poesie -- I start,
A s I could fly from this sad heart,
To j oy again; a sudden chill
R eminds me that the world would say,
' B ack , lingering ghost! it fits thee ill
To brave the living, and the day! '
I wish I now could find a spell
' Gainst misery in the crowd: ' t was well
To mix there once, lest solitude
S hould bear my thoughts too far through fate.
My mind grew flex ible, imbued
W ith gay impressions; '
F eatures and feeling fix
S miles, fancies, graces!
t is too late;
for aye;
where are they?
A h! if' t were in a moment o' er,
F ain would I taste of hope once more!
B ut all is done: life can but be
A burning desert now to me;
The drop of water, lik e the river,
S
A
I
ullied with bitterness for ever.
single day' s enj oyment is
mpossible, as years of bliss.
Guilty towards me as I must deem
My love, -- compared with other men
W hat mindless things of art they seem!
H owdoesheriseanangelthen! --
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y .
347
E ' en though his sword of flame consume
My life, and devastate my doom;
H eaven lends the one beloved its power
Thus to avenge each mis-spent hour.
' Tis not first love that must endure;
I t springs but from the dreams of youth;
B ut if, with intellect mature,
W e meet the mind long sought in vain,
F ancy is then subdued by truth,
A nd we have reason to complain.
" W hat maniacs! " the many cry,
" A re those for love who live or die!
A s if, when such frail boon is reft,
A thousand blessings were not left! "
E nthusiasm, though the seed
O f every high heroic deed,
E ach pious sacrifice -- its lot
I s scorn, from those who feel it not.
A ll then is folly, if they will,
S ave their own selfish care
O f mortal life ; this nobler thrill
I s madness every where.
