Corinne; or, Italy. Madame de Staël
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aid; And more original his genius seem'd, When, like the powers eternal, it could be Present in every time. Our laughing climate, and our air serene Inspired our Ariosto: after war, Our many long and cruel wars, he came Like to a rainbow; varied and as bright As that glad messenger of summer hours. His light, sweet gayety is like nature's smile, And not the irony of man. Raffaële, Galileo, Angelo, Pergolese; you! intrepid voyagers, Greedy of other lands, though Nature never Could yield ye one more lovely than your own; Come ye, and to our poets join your fame: Artists, and sages, and philosophers, Ye are, like them, the children of a sun Which kindles valor, concentrates the mind, Develops fancy, each one in its turn; Which lulls content, and seems to promise all, Or make us all forget. Know ye the land where orange-trees are blooming Where all heaven's rays are fertile, and with love! Have you inhaled these perfumes, luxury! In air already so fragrant and so soft? Now, answer, strangers; Nature, in your home, Is she as generous or as beautiful? Not only with vine-leaves and ears of corn Is nature dress'd, but 'neath the feet of man, As at a sovereign's feet, she scatters flowers And sweet and useless plants, which, born to please, Disdain to serve. Here pleasures delicate, by nature nurst— Felt by a people who deserve to feel;— The simplest food suffices for their wants. What though her fountains flow with purple wine From the abundant soil, they drink them not! They love their sky, their arts, their monuments; Their land, the ancient, and yet bright with springs; Brilliant society; refined delight: Coarse pleasures, fitting to a savage race, Suit not with them. Here the sensation blends with the idea; Life ever draws from the same fountain-head; The soul, like air, expands o'er earth and heaven. Here Genius feels at ease; its reveries Are here so gentle; its unrest is soothed: For one lost aim a thousand dreams are given, And nature cherishes, if man oppress; A gentle hand consoles, and binds the wound: E'en for the griefs that haunt the stricken heart, Is comfort here: by admiration fill'd, For God, all goodness; taught to penetrate The secret of his love; not thy brief days— Mysterious heralds of eternity— But in the fertile and majestic breast Of the immortal universe!
Corinne was interrupted for some moments by impetuous applause. Oswald alone joined not in the noisy transport around him. He had bowed his head on his hand, when Corinne said——
"E'en for the sorrows of the stricken heart
Is comfort here:"
he had not raised it since. Corinne observed him; and from his features, the color of his hair, his dress, his height—indeed, from his whole appearance—recognised him as English. She was struck by the mourning which he wore, and his melancholy countenance. His gaze, then fixed upon herself, seemed gently to reproach her: she entered into his thoughts, and felt a wish to sympathize with him, by speaking of happiness with less reliance, and consecrating some few verses to Death in the midst of a festival. With this intention, she again took up her lyre; a few prolonged and touching tones silenced the assemblage, while thus she continued:——
Yet there are griefs which our consoling sky
May not efface; but where will grief convey
Noble and soft impressions to the soul,
As it does here?
Elsewhere the living cannot find them space
For all their hurrying paths, and ardent hopes;
And deserts, ruins, vacant palaces,
Leave a vast vacancy to shadows;—Rome,
Is she not now the country of the tomb?
The Coliseum, and the obelisks—
The wonders brought from Egypt and from Greece—
From the extremity of time, here met,
From Romulus to Leo—all are here,
Greatness attracting greatness, that one place
Might garner all that man could screen from time;
All consecrate to funeral monuments.
Our idle life is scarcely here perceived:
The silence of the living to the dead
Is homage: they endure, but we decay.
The dead alone are honor'd, and alone
Recorded still;—our destinies obscure
Contrast the glories of our ancestors;
Our present life leaves but the past entire,
And deep the quiet around memory:
Our trophies are the work of those no more:
Genius itself ranks 'mid th' illustrious dead.
It is Rome's secret charm to reconcile
Imagination with our long last sleep.
We are resign'd ourselves, and suffer less
For those we love. The people of the South
Paint closing life in hues less terrible
Than do the gloomy nations of the North:
The sun, like glory, even warms the grave.
The chill, the solitude of sepulchres
'Neath our fair sky, beside our funeral urns
So numerous, less haunt the frighted soul.
We deem they wait for us, yon shadowy crowd:
And from our silent city's loneliness
Down to the subterranean one below
It is a gentle passage.
The edge of grief is blunted thus, and turn'd
Not by a harden'd heart, a wither'd soul,
But by a yet more perfect harmony—
An air more fragrant—blending with our life.
We yield ourselves to Nature with less fear—
Nature whose great Creator said of old—
"The lilies of the vale, lo! they toil not,
And neither do they spin:
Yet the great Solomon, in all his glory,
Was not arrayed like one of these."
Was not arrayed like one of these."
Oswald was so enchanted by these stanzas, that he testified his transport with a vehemence unequalled by the Romans themselves; in sooth, it was to him, rather than to her countrymen, that the second improvisation of Corinne had been addressed. The generality of Italians read poetry with a kind of monotonous chant, that destroys all effect.[2] In vain the words vary, the impression is ever the same; because the accent is unchanged; but Corinne recited with a mobility of tone which increased the charm of its sustained harmony. It was like listening to different airs, all played on the same celestial organ.
A language so stately and sonorous, breathed by so gentle and affecting a voice, awakened a very novel sensation in the mind of Oswald. The natural beauties of the English tongue are all melancholy; tinted by clouds, and tuned by lashing waves; but Italian, among sounds, may be compared to scarlet among colors; its words ring like clarions of victory, and glow with all the bliss a delicious clime can shower on human hearts. When, therefore, Italian is spoken by a faltering tongue, its splendor melts, its concentrated force causes an agitation resistless as unforeseen. The intents of nature seem defeated, her bounties useless or repulsed; and the expression of sorrow in the midst of enjoyment, surprises, touches us more deeply, than would despair itself, if sung in those northern languages, which it seems to have inspired.
[1] For the translation of this Ode, the proprietor of the Standard Novels is indebted to the pen of Miss L. E. Landon.
[2] An exception must be