MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN ITALY
"Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
In Vallombrosa where Etrurian shades
High over-arch'd embower."
I must confess, though of course I did not acknowledge it in the
few lines I wrote in the Strangers' book kept at the convent, that
I was somewhat disappointed at Vallombrosa. I had expected, as the
name implies, a deep and narrow valley overshadowed by enclosing
hills; but the spot where the convent stands is in fact not a
valley at all, but a cove or crescent open to an extensive
prospect. In the book before mentioned, I read the notice in the
English language that if any one would ascend the steep ground
above the convent, and wander over it, he would be abundantly
rewarded by magnificent views. I had not time to act upon this
recommendation, and only went with my young guide to a point,
nearly on a level with the site of the convent, that overlooks the
vale of Arno for some leagues. To praise great and good men has
ever been deemed one of the worthiest employments of poetry, but
the objects of admiration vary so much with time and
circumstances, and the noblest of mankind have been found, when
intimately known, to be of characters so imperfect, that no
eulogist can find a subject which he will venture upon with the
animation necessary to create sympathy, unless he confines himself
to a particular art or he takes something of a one-sided view of
the person he is disposed to celebrate. This is a melancholy
truth, and affords a strong reason for the poetic mind being
chiefly exercised in works of fiction: the poet can then follow
wherever the spirit of admiration leads him, unchecked by such
suggestions as will be too apt to cross his way if all that he is
prompted to utter is to be tested by fact. Something in this
spirit I have written in the note attached to the sonnet on the
king of Sweden; and many will think that in this poem and
elsewhere I have spoken of the author of "Paradise Lost" in a
strain of panegyric scarcely justifiable by the tenor of some of
his opinions, whether theological or political, and by the temper
he carried into public affairs in which, unfortunately for his
genius, he was so much concerned.
"VALLOMBROSA--I longed in thy shadiest wood
To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor!"
Fond wish that was granted at last, and the Flood,
That lulled me asleep bids me listen once more.
Its murmur how soft! as it falls down the steep,
Near that Cell--yon sequestered Retreat high in air--
Where our Milton was wont lonely vigils to keep
For converse with God, sought through study and prayer.
The Monks still repeat the tradition with pride,
And its truth who shall doubt? for his Spirit is here;
In the cloud-piercing rocks doth her grandeur abide,
In the pines pointing heavenward her beauty austere;
In the flower-besprent meadows his genius we trace
Turned to humbler delights, in which youth might confide,
That would yield him fit help while prefiguring that Place
Where, if Sin had not entered, Love never had died.
When with life lengthened out came a desolate time,
And darkness and danger had compassed him round,
With a thought he would flee to these haunts of his prime
And here once again a kind shelter be found.
And let me believe that when nightly the Muse
Did waft him to Sion, the glorified hill,
Here also, on some favoured height, he would choose
To wander, and drink inspiration at will.
Vallombrosa! of thee I first heard in the page
Of that holiest of Bards, and the name for my mind
Had a musical charm, which the winter of age
And the changes it brings had no power to unbind.
And now, ye Miltonian shades! under you
I repose, nor am forced from sweet fancy to part,
While your leaves I behold and the brooks they will strew,
And the realised vision is clasped to my heart.
Even so, and unblamed, we rejoice as we may
In Forms that must perish, frail objects of sense;
Unblamed--if the Soul be intent on the day
When the Being of Beings shall summon her hence.
For he and he only with wisdom is blest
Who, gathering true pleasures wherever they grow,
Looks up in all places, for joy or for rest,
To the Fountain whence Time and Eternity flow.
Title: 'At Vallombrosa.'
The name of Milton is pleasingly connected with Vallombrosa in
many ways. The pride with which the monk, without any previous
question from me, pointed out his residence, I shall not readily
forget. It may be proper here to defend the Poet from a charge
which has been brought against him, in respect to the passage in
"Paradise Lost," where this place is mentioned. It is said, that
he has erred in speaking of the trees there being deciduous,
whereas they are, in fact, pines. The fault-finders are themselves
mistaken; the 'natural' woods of the region of Vallombrosa are
deciduous, and spread to a great extent; those near the convent
are, indeed, mostly pines; but they are avenues of trees 'planted'
within a few steps of each other, and thus composing large tracts
of wood; plots of which are periodically cut down. The appearance
of those narrow avenues, upon steep slopes open to the sky, on
account of the height which the trees attain by being 'forced' to
grow upwards, is often very impressive. My guide, a boy of about
fourteen years old, pointed this out to me in several places.
Epigraph: See for the two 'first lines', "Stanzas composed in the