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Maria! blessed be the hour!

      The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft

      Have felt that moment in its fullest power

      Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,

      While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,

      Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,

      And not a breath crept through the rosy air,

      And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.

      Ave Maria! 't is the hour of prayer!

      Ave Maria! 't is the hour of love!

      Ave Maria! may our spirits dare

      Look up to thine and to thy Son's above!

      Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!

      Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove—

      What though 't is but a pictured image?—strike—

      That painting is no idol,—'t is too like.

      Some kinder casuists are pleased to say,

      In nameless print—that I have no devotion;

      But set those persons down with me to pray,

      And you shall see who has the properest notion

      Of getting into heaven the shortest way;

      My altars are the mountains and the ocean,

      Earth, air, stars,—all that springs from the great Whole,

      Who hath produced, and will receive the soul.

      Sweet hour of twilight!—in the solitude

      Of the pine forest, and the silent shore

      Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,

      Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er,

      To where the last Caesarean fortress stood,

      Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore

      And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,

      How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!

      The shrill cicadas, people of the pine,

      Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,

      Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,

      And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along;

      The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

      His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng

      Which learn'd from this example not to fly

      From a true lover,—shadow'd my mind's eye.

      O, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things—

      Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,

      To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,

      The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer;

      Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,

      Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,

      Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest;

      Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.

      Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart

      Of those who sail the seas, on the first day

      When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;

      Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way

      As the far bell of vesper makes him start,

      Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;

      Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?

      Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!

      When Nero perish'd by the justest doom

      Which ever the destroyer yet destroy'd,

      Amidst the roar of liberated Rome,

      Of nations freed, and the world overjoy'd,

      Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb:

      Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void

      Of feeling for some kindness done, when power

      Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour.

      But I 'm digressing; what on earth has Nero,

      Or any such like sovereign buffoons,

      To do with the transactions of my hero,

      More than such madmen's fellow man—the moon's?

      Sure my invention must be down at zero,

      And I grown one of many 'wooden spoons'

      Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs please

      To dub the last of honours in degrees).

      I feel this tediousness will never do—

      'T is being too epic, and I must cut down

      (In copying) this long canto into two;

      They 'll never find it out, unless I own

      The fact, excepting some experienced few;

      And then as an improvement 't will be shown:

      I 'll prove that such the opinion of the critic is

      From Aristotle passim.—See poietikes.

      CANTO THE FOURTH.

      ––––––––

      Nothing so difficult as a beginning

      In poesy, unless perhaps the end;

      For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning

      The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,

      Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning;

      Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,

      Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,

      Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

      But Time, which brings all beings to their level,

      And sharp Adversity, will teach at last

      Man,—and, as we would hope,—perhaps the devil,

      That neither of their intellects are vast:

      While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,

      We know not this—the blood flows on too fast;

      But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,

      We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

      As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow,

      And wish'd that others held the same opinion;

      They took it up when my days grew more mellow,

      And other minds acknowledged my dominion:

      Now my sere fancy 'falls into the yellow

      Leaf,' and Imagination droops her pinion,

      And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk

      Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.

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