II.

They passed away-that strange and solemn train:
The pealing music murmured through the trees,
Breathing its faint farewell upon the breeze,
And to its distant home returned again.

They passed away-the sun-beams brightly shone,
And o'er me smiled the cloudless, azure sky,
Where late the fretted roof's proud canopy

Rose o'er the torch-lit crowd. I was alone:-
Where late the golden censers high had flung
Their fragrant clouds around the imaged throne,
The wall-flower shed its perfume, as it clung

And waved in wild luxuriance o'er the stone

Chafed by the storms of years; an emblematic bloom, A halo-coronal of light o'er grandeur's tomb.

III.

Around me all was calm and still; the wind,
Even that" chartered brawler," seemed to feel
A strange, unwonted awe, and strove to steal
With gentler voice amid the hills that shrined
A scene so tranquil. Th' ivy's foliage twined
The air-hung arch-the column's lofty height,
Wreathing fantastically round the light

And traceried shaft, (2) that seemed too frail to bear
One circling change of seasons, yet can dare

The wintry storms and tempests in their might, Surviving ages. While yon sculptured knight, (3) With falchion, helmed brow, and hauberk'd breast,

Unknown, defaced and prostrate lies, despite

His lineage high, proud name, and noble crest.

IV.

On his carved shield the moss and lichens gay
Bear on each leaf a volume of deep thought
And meditation-solemn, yet o'erwrought
With dreams and fantasies in strange array;
Now sad and mournful—anon, fancy-fraught,
And calling up, as with the wizard's sway,
Scenes of a distant and a mightier day,

That, e'en as dreams and visions of the night,
Flee hence for ever with the morning light,
Borne on by circling ages, passed away

To the dim confines of oblivion's wave;

And now wake only 'neath the transient ray

That mem'ry's beacon sheds, as o'er a grave,

Calling them back to life, from darkness and decay.

EXTEMPORANEOUS SONNETTA,

WITH VARIATIONS, COMPOSED FOR AND INSCRIBED TO

THE BARON PAGANINI.

Envy doth Merit as its shade pursue,

And, like the shadow, proves the substance true.

GREAT hero of the fiddlestick!-whose sway
O'er half the world asserts its wizard might,
Enchaining ears with almost crazed delight,
And rapture passing words:-great master, say
Art of this worth or t'other, far away?

Art thou, indeed, a disembodied sprite, 66 Revisiting the glimpses of"-gas-light— “Making night” musical?-Or dost thou play With human finger each surpassing strain, Which from that wand of power, thy fiddle-bow, Flies forth like sound's swift lightning,-then again Melts, soft as distant vespers, or the flow

Of glad, bright streams that sparkle o'er the plain, Or solemn dirges, wailing faint and low,

G

Then bursting forth, as with the trumpet's blast,
Loud, shrill, and spirit-stirring? They do say
Things "passing strange" of thee-and round thee cast
Dim shades and tragic myst'ries ;-therefore, pray,
"Most potent, grave, and gifted signor," tell

If Orpheus was another name for thee?

And if, whene'er thou play'd'st by mount or dell, Whirled round in one vast waltz, rock, stream, and

tree?

And have you really such choice fiddlestrings? (1)
When do you reckon on a fresh supply?
Suppose you should be out of these queer things
Before another Pope should choose to die-
Can't you contrive, by some dark midnight spell,
To make the Czar of Russia's do as well?