Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14.djvu/673

1864.] That tame it thou canst not: Christ cries to it,

As to the sick of old, Arise and walk!

'T will trample thee, if thou precede it not:

The world has other truths than of the altar,

Nor will endure a church which hideth Heaven.

Thou wast a shepherd,—be a father: men

Are tired at last of being called a flock;

Too long have they stood trembling in the path

Smit by your pastoral staff. Why in the name

Of Heaven dost trample on the race of man,

The latest offspring of the Thought Divine?"

It is not strange that the emancipated Florentines grew wild with delight when Rossi declaimed such heresy as this.

Mrs. Trollope's later translations of the patriotic poems of Dall' Ongaro, the clever Venetian, are very spirited; nor is she unknown as an original poet. "Baby Beatrice," a poem inscribed to her own fairy child, that appeared several years ago in "Household Words," is exceedingly charming; and one of her fugitive pieces, having naturally transformed itself into "la lingua del sì," has ever been attributed to her friend Niccolini.

It was as a poet that Mrs. Trollope, then Miss Garrow, began to write,—and indeed she may be called a protégée of Walter Savage Landor, for through his encouragement and instrumentality she first made her appearance in print as a contributor to Lady Blessington's "Book of Beauty." There are few who remember the old lion-poet's lines to Miss Garrow, and their insertion here cannot be considered mal-à-propos.

Unworthy are these poems of the lights

That now run over them, nor brief the doubt

In my own breast if such should interrupt

(Or follow so irreverently) the voice

Of Attic men, of women such as thou,

Of sages no less sage than heretofore,

Of pleaders no less eloquent, of souls

Tender no less, or tuneful, or devout.

Unvalued, even by myself, are they,—

Myself, who reared them; but a high command

Marshalled them in their station; hen they are;

Look round; see what supports these parasites.

Stinted in growth and destitute of odor,

They grow where young Temissa held her guide.

Where Solon awed the ruler; there they grow.

Weak as they are, on cliffs that few can climb.

None to thy steps are inaccessible,

Theodosia! wakening Italy with song

Deeper than Filicaia's, or than his,

The triple deity of plastic art.

Mindful of Italy and thee, fair maid!

I lay this sear, frail garland at thy feet."

Mrs. Trollope is still a young woman, and it is sincerely to be hoped that improved health will give her the. proper momentum for renewed exertions in a field where nobly sowing she may nobly reap.

Ah, this Villino Trollope is quaintly fascinating, with its marble pillars, its grim men in armor, starting like sentinels from the walls, and its curiosities greeting you at every step. The antiquary revels in its majolica, its old Florentine bridal chests and carved furniture, its beautiful terra-cotta of the Virgin and Child by Orgagna, its hundred oggetti of the Cinque Cento. The bibliopole grows silently ecstatic, as he sinks quietly into a mediæval chair and feasts his eyes on a model library, bubbling over with five thousand rare books, many wonderfully illuminated and enriched by costly engravings. To those who prefer (and who does not?) an earnest talk with the host and hostess on politics, art, religion, or the last new book, there is the cozy laisser-faire study where Miss Puss and Bran, the honest dog, lie side by side on Christian terms, and where the sunbeam Beatrice, when very beaming, will sing to you the canti popolari of Tuscany, like a young nightingale in voice, though with more than youthful expression. Here Anthony Trollope is to be found, when he visits Florence; and it is no ordinary pleasure to enjoy simultaneously the philosophic reasoning of Thomas Trollope,—looking half Socrates and half Galileo,—whom Mrs. Browning was wont to call