Mira il ciel com'e bello, e mira il sole,
Ch'a se par che n'inviti, e ne console.
Farewell to the Land of the South!
Farewell to the lovely clime
Where the sunny valleys smile in light,
And the piny mountains climb!
Farewell to her bright blue seas!
Farewell to her fervid skies!
O many and deep are the thoughts which crowd
On the sinking heart, while it sighs,
"Farewell to the Land of the South!"
As the look of a face beloved,
Was that bright land to me!
It enchanted my sense, it sunk on my heart
Like music's witchery!
In every kindling pulse
I felt the genial air,
For life is _life_ in that sunny clime,
--'Tis _death_ of life elsewhere:
Farewell to the Land of the South!
The poet's splendid dreams,
Have hallowed each grove and hill,
And the beautiful forms of ancient Faith
Are lingering round us still.
And the spirits of other days,
Invoked by fancy's spell,
Are rolled before the kindling thought,
While we breathe our last farewell
To the glorious Land of the South!
A long--a last adieu,
Romantic Italy!
Thou land of beauty, and love, and song
As once of the brave and free!
Alas! for thy golden fields!
Alas! for thy classic shore!
Alas! for thy orange and myrtle bowers!
I shall never behold them more--
Farewell to the Land of the South!
_Turin, May 10th._--We arrived here yesterday, after a journey to me
most trying and painful: I thought at Novi and afterwards at Asti,
that I should have been obliged to give up and confess my inability to
proceed; but we know not what we can bear till we prove ourselves; I
can live and suffer still.
* * * * *
I agree with ---- who has just left me, that nothing can be more
animating and improving than the conversation of intelligent and
clever men, and that lady-society is in general very _fade_ and
tiresome: and yet I truly believe that no woman can devote herself
exclusively to the society of men without losing some of the best and
sweetest characteristics of her sex. The conversation of men of the
world and men of gallantry, gives insensibly a taint to the mind; the
unceasing language of adulation and admiration intoxicates the head
and perverts the heart; the habit of _tête-à-têtes_, the habit of
being always either the sole or the principal object of attention, of
mingling in no conversation which is not personal, narrows the
disposition, weakens the mind, and renders it incapable of rising to
general views or principles; while it so excites the senses and the
imagination, that every thing else becomes in comparison stale, flat,
and unprofitable. The life of a coquette is very like that of a
drunkard or an opium eater, and its end is the same--the utter
extinction of intellect, of cheerfulness, of generous feeling, and of
self-respect.
* * * * *
_St. Michel, Monday._--I know not why I open my book, or why I should
keep accounts of times and places. I saw nothing of Turin but what I
beheld from my window: and as soon as I could travel we set off,
crossed Mount Cenis in a storm, slept at Lans-le-bourg, and reached
this place yesterday, where I am again ill, and worse--worse than
ever.
Is it not strange that while life is thus rapidly wasting, I should
still be so strong to suffer? the pang, the agony is not less acute at
this moment, than when, fifteen months ago, the poignard was driven to
my heart. The cup, though I have nearly drained it to the last, is not
less bitter now than when first presented to my lips. But this is not
well; why indeed should I repine? mine was but a common fate--like a
true woman, I did but stake my all of happiness upon one cast--and
lost!
* * * * *
_Lyons, 19th._--Good God! for what purpose do we feel! why within our
limited sphere of action, our short and imperfect existence have we
such boundless capacity for enjoying and suffering? no doubt for some
good purpose. But I cannot think as I used to think: my ideas are
perplexed: it is all pain of heart and confusion of mind; a sense of
bitterness, and wrong, and sorrow, which I cannot express, nor yet
quite _suppress_. If the cloud would but clear away that I might feel
and see to do what is right! but all is dark, and heavy, and vacant;
my mind is dull, and my eyes are dim, and I am scarce conscious of any
thing around me.
A few days passed here in quiet, and kind Dr. P** have revived me a
little.
All the way from Turin I have slept almost constantly, if that can be
called _sleep_, which was rather the stupor of exhaustion, and left me
still sensible of what was passing round me. I heard voices, though I
knew not what they said; and I felt myself moved from place to place
though I neither knew nor cared whither.
* * * * *
All that I have seen and heard, all that I have felt and suffered,
since I left Italy, recalls to my mind that delightful country. I
should regret what I have left behind, had I not outlived all
regrets--but one--for there, though
I vainly sought from outward forms to win
The passion and the life whose fountains are within;
all feeling was not yet worn out of my heart: I was not then blinded
nor stupified by sorrow and weakness as I have been since.
There are some places we remember with pleasure, because we have been
happy there; others, because endeared to us as the residence of
friends. We love our country because it is _our country_; our home
because it is _home_: London or Paris we may prefer, as comprehending
in themselves, all the intellectual pleasures, and luxuries of life:
but, dear Italy!--we love it, simply for its own sake: not as in
general we are attached to places and things, but as we love a friend,
and the face of a friend; there it was "_luxury to be_,"--there I
would willingly have died, if so it might have pleased God.
Till this evening we have not seen a gleam of sunshine, nor a glimpse
of the blue sky, since we crossed Mount Cenis. We entered Lyons during
a small drizzling rain. The dirty streets, the black gloomy-looking
house, the smoking manufactories, and busy looks of the people, made
me think of Florence and Genoa, and their "fair white walls" and
princely domes; and when in the evening I heard the whining organ
which some wretched Savoyard was grinding near us, I remembered even
with emotion the delightful voices I heard singing "_Di piacer mi
balza il cor_" under my balcony at Turin--my last recollection of
Italy: and to-night, when they opened the window to give me air, I
felt, on recovering, the cold chill of the night breeze; and as I
shivered, and shrunk away from it, I remembered the delicious and
genial softness of our Italian evenings--
* * * * *
22.--No letters from England.
Now that it is past, I may confess, that till now, a faint--a very
faint hope did cling to my heart. I thought it might have been just
possible; but it is over now--_all_ is over!
We leave Lyons on Tuesday, and travel by short easy stages; and they
think I may still reach Paris. I will hold up--if possible.
Yet if they would but lay me down on the road-side, and leave me to
die in quietness! to rest is all I ask.