And living in its dreams beyond the rage Of death or life; while they were still arraying In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind And fleeting generations of mankind. LXXII. And she would write strange dreams upon the brain The miser in such dreams would rise and shade LXXIII. The priests would write an explanation full, And nothing more; and bid the herald stick The old cant down; they licensed all to speak Whate'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese, By pastoral letters to each diocese. LXXIV. The king would dress an ape up in his crown Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet LXXV. The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and Round the red anvils you might see them stand Beating their swords to ploughshares ;—in a band Free through the streets of Memphis; much, I wis, LXXVI. And timid lovers who had been so coy, They hardly knew whether they loved or not, Would rise out of their rest and take sweet joy, To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; And when next day the maiden and the boy Met one another, both, like sinners caught, Blushed at the thing which each believed was done Only in fancy-till the tenth moon shone; LXXVII. And then the Witch would let them take no ill: Of deep affection and of truth sincere. LXXVIII. These were the pranks she played among the cities A tale more fit for the weird winter nights- 375 1819. JULIAN AND MADDALO: A CONVERSATION. "The meadows with fresh streams, the bees with thyme, COUNT MADDOLO is a Venetian nobleman of ancient family and of great fortune, who, without mixing much in the society of his countrymen, resides chiefly at his magnificent palace in that city. He is a person of the most consummate genius; and capable, if he would direct his energies to such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his degraded country. But it is his weakness to be proud : he derives, from a comparison of his own extraordinary mind with the dwarfish intellects that surround him, an intense apprehension of the nothingness of human life. His passions and his powers are incomparably greater than those of other men, and instead of the latter having been employed in curbing the former, they have mutually lent each other strength.. His ambition preys upon itself, for want of objects which it can consider worthy of exertion. I say that Maddalo is proud, because I can find no other word to express the concentered and impatient feelings which consume him; but it is on his own hopes and affections only that he seems to trample, for in social life no human being can be more gentle, patient, and unassuming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank, and witty. His more serious conversation is a sort of intoxication; men are held by it as by a spell. He has travelled much; and there is an inexpressible charm in his relation of his adventures in different countries. Julian is an Englishman of good family, passionately attached to those philosophical notions which assert the power of man over his own mind, and the immense improvements of which, by the extinction of certain moral superstitions, human society may be yet susceptible. Without concealing the evil in the world, he is for ever speculating how good may be made superior. He is a complete infidel, and a scoffer at all things reputed holy; and Maddalo takes a wicked pleasure in drawing out his taunts against religion. What Maddalo thinks on these matters is not exactly known. Julian, in spite of his heterodox opinions, is conjectured by his friends to possess some good qualities. How far this is possible, the pious reader will determine. Julian is rather serious. Of the Maniac I can give no information. He seems by his own account to have been disappointed in love. He was evidently a very cultivated and amiable person when in his right senses: His story, told at length, might be like many other stories of the same kind: the unconnected exclamations of his agony will perhaps be found a sufficient comment for the text of every heart. I RODE one evening with Count Maddalo Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes A narrow space of level sand thereon, Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went down. This ride was my delight. I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be: Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare, Into our hearts aërial merriment. So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift thought, Winging itself with laughter, lingered not, But flew from brain to brain,-such glee was ours, Charged with light memories of remembered hours, None slow enough for sadness: till we came Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame. This day had been cheerful but cold, and now The sun was sinking, and the wind also. Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn The thoughts it would extinguish:-'twas forlorn, Thy mountains, seas, and vineyards, and the towers Of cities they encircle !-It was ours To stand on thee, beholding it: and then, Just where we had dismounted, the Count's men Were waiting for us with the gondola. As those who pause on some delightful way, A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung, ""Tis strange men change not. You were ever still |