Yes, many a race hath left the earth
Since first this Mausoleum rose;
So many, that the name, or birth,
Of dead, or founder, no one knows.
4.
The sculptured pictures, all may see,
Were by a skilful artist wrought;
But, Time! the secret rests with thee,
Which to unravel men have sought.
5.
Of whom were they, the honoured dead,
Whose mem'ry Love would here record?
Lift up the veil, so long o'erspread,
And tell whose dust yon fane doth guard.
6.
Name those whose love outlived the grave
And sought to give for aye to fame
Mementos of the good and brave,
Of whom thou hast effaced the name.
7.
We know but that they lived and died—
No more this stately tomb can tell:
Here come and read a lesson, Pride,
This monument can give so well.
8.
They lived—they hoped—they suffered—loved—
As all of Earth have ever done;
Were oft by wild Ambition moved,
And basked, perchance, 'neath glory's Sun.
9.
They deemed that they should leave behind
Undying names. Yet, mark this fane,
For whom it rose, by whom designed,
Learned antiquaries search in vain.
10.
Still doth it wear the form it wore,
Through the dim lapse of by-gone age;
Triumph of Art in days of yore,
Whose Hist'ry fills the classic page.
11.
To honour Victors it is said
'Twas raised, though none their names can trace;
It stands as monument instead,
Unto each long-forgotten race,
12.
Who came, like me, to gaze and brood
Upon it in this lonely spot—
Their minds with pensive thoughts imbued,
That Heroes could be thus forgot.
13.
Yet still the wind a requiem sighs,
And the blue sky above it weeps;
Thu Sun pours down its radiant dyes,
Though none can tell who 'neath it sleeps.
14.
And seasons roll, and centuries pass,
And still unchanged thou keep'st thy place;
While we, like shadows in a glass,
Soon glide away, and leave no trace.
15.
And yon proud Arch, the Victor's meed,
Is nameless as the neighbouring Tomb:
Victor, and Dead, the Fates decreed
Your memory to oblivion's gloom.
CHAPTER IV.
LYONS.
I see little alteration at Lyons since I formerly passed through it. Its manufactories are, nevertheless, flourishing, though less improvement than could be expected is visible in the external aspect of the place.
This being Sunday, and the Féte-Dieu, the garrison, with flags flying, drums beating, trumpets sounding, and all in gala dress, marched through the streets to attend Divine worship. The train was headed by our old acquaintance General Le Paultre de la Motte, (whom we left at Lyons on our route to Italy), and his staff; wearing all their military decorations, attended by a vast procession, including the whole of the clergy in their rich attires and all the different religious communities in the town.
The officers were bare-headed—their spurred heels and warlike demeanour rendering this homage to a sacred ceremony more picturesque. The gold and silver brocaded vestments and snowy robes of the priests glittering in the sun, as they marched along to the sound of martial music, looked very gorgeous; and this mixture of ecclesiastical and military pomp had an imposing effect.
The streets through which the procession passed were ornamented with rich draperies and flowers, reminding me of Italy on similar occasions; and the intense heat of a sun glowing like a fiery furnace, aided the recollection.
Since I have been on the continent, it has often struck me with surprise, that on solemn occasions like the present, sacred music has not been performed instead of military. Nay, I have heard quadrilles and waltzes played, fruitful in festive associations little suited to the feelings which ought to have been excited by solemn ceremonials.
Knowing, by experience, the effect produced on the mind by sacred music, it is much to be wished that so potent an aid to devotional sentiment should not be omitted, malgré whatever may be said against any extraneous assistance in offering up those devotions which the heart should be ever prompt to fulfil without them.
I leave to casuists to argue whether, or how far, music, sculpture, or painting, may be employed as excitements to religious fervour: but I confess, although the acknowledgment may expose me to the censure of those who differ with me in opinion, that I consider them powerful adjuncts, and, consequently, not to be resigned because some—and happy, indeed, may they be deemed—stand in no need of such incitements to devotion.
Who that has heard the "Miserere" in the Sistine chapel at Rome, and seen, while listening to it, "The Last Judgment," by Michael Angelo, on its walls, without feeling the powerful influence they exercised on the feelings?
CHAPTER V.
PARIS.
June, 1828.—A fatiguing journey, over dusty roads, and in intensely hot weather, has brought us to Paris, with no accident save the failure of one of the wheels of our large landau—a circumstance that caused the last day's travelling to be any thing but agreeable; for though our courier declared the temporary repair it received rendered it perfectly safe, I was by no means satisfied on the point.
We have taken up our abode in the Hôtel de la Terrasse, Rue de Rivoli, are well-lodged, but somewhat incommoded by the loud reverberation of the pavement, as the various vehicles roll rapidly over it. We were told that "it would be nothing when we got used to it"—an assertion, the truth of which, I trust, we shall not remain sufficiently long to test; for I have a peculiar objection to noise of every kind, and a long residence in Italy has not conquered it.
So here we are, once more, at Paris, after six years' absence from it; and I find all that has hitherto met my eyes in it in statu quo. How many places have I seen during that period; how many associations