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"Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooksIn Vallombrosa where Etrurian shadesHigh over-arch'd embower."- Paradise Lost. "Vallombrosa, I longed in thy shadiest woodTo 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, … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XVIII. – At Vallombrosa, By: William Wordsworth

What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in sizeEnormous, dragged, while side by side they sate,By panting steers up to this convent gate?How, with empurpled cheeks and pampered eyes,Dare they confront the lean austeritiesOf Brethren who, here fixed, on Jesu waitIn sackcloth, and God's anger deprecateThrough all that humbles flesh and mortifies?Strange contrast! verily the world … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XVII. – At The Eremite Or Upper Convent Of Camaldoli, By: William Wordsworth

The world forsaken, all its busy caresAnd stirring interests shunned with desperate flight,All trust abandoned in the healing mightOf virtuous action; all that courage dares,Labour accomplishes, or patience bearsThose helps rejected, they, whose minds perceiveHow subtly works man's weakness, sighs may heaveFor such a One beset with cloistral snares.Father of Mercy! rectify his … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XVI. – Continued, By: William Wordsworth

Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft,And seeking consolation from above;Nor grieve the less that skill to him was leftTo paint this picture of his lady-love:Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve?And oh, good Brethren of the cowl, a thingSo fair, to which with peril he must cling,Destroy in pity, or with care remove.That bloom, those eyes, can they assist to … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XV. – At The Convent Of Camaldoli, By: William Wordsworth

Under the shadow of a stately Pile,The dome of Florence, pensive and alone,Nor giving heed to aught that passed the while,I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone,The laureled Dante's favourite seat. A throne,In just esteem, it rivals; though no styleBe there of decoration to beguileThe mind, depressed by thought of greatness flown.As a true man, who long had served the lyre,I … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – XIX. – At Florence, By: William Wordsworth