Or to record the anguish Guilt inflicts,

Or haply to familiarize his mind

With what he could not fly from, none can say,

For none could learn the burden of his soul.

XXI.

Ir was a Harper, wandering with his harp,

His only treasure; a majestic man,

By time and grief ennobled, not subdued;

Tho' from his height descending, day by day,

And, as his upward look at once betrayed,

Blind as old HOMER. At a fount he sate,
Well-known to many a weary traveller;

His little guide, a boy not seven years old,
But grave, considerate beyond his years,

Sitting beside him. Each had ate his crust

In silence, drinking of the virgin-spring;

And now in silence, as their custom was,

The sun's decline awaited.

But the child

Was worn with travel. Heavy sleep weighed down

His eye-lids; and the grandsire, when we came,

Emboldened by his love and by his fear,

His fear lest night oe'rtake them on the road,

Humbly besought me to convey them both

A little onward. Such small services

Who can refuse-Not I; and him who can,

Blest tho' he be with every earthly gift,

I cannot envy. He, if wealth be his,

Knows not its uses. So from noon till night,

Within a crazed and tattered vehicle,

That yet displayed, in old emblazonry,

A shield as splendid as the BArdi wear,*

We lumbered on together; the old man
Beguiling many a league of half its length,
When questioned the adventures of his life,
And all the dangers he had undergone ;

His ship-wrecks on inhospitable coasts,

And his long warfare.

They were bound, he said,

To a great fair at REGGIO; and the boy,

Believing all the world were to be there,

And I among the rest, let loose his tongue,

And promised me much pleasure. His short trance,

Short as it was, had, like a charmed cup,

See Note.

Restored his spirit, and, as on we crawled,

Slow as the snail (my muleteer dismounting,
And now his mules addressing, now his pipe,
And now Luigi) he poured out his heart,

Largely repaying me. At length the sun
Departed, setting in a sea of gold;

And, as we gazed, he bade me rest assured

That like the setting would the rising be.

Their harp-it had a voice oracular,

And in the desert, in the crowded street,

Spoke when consulted. If the treble chord

Twanged shrill and clear, o'er hill and dale they went,

The grandsire, step by step, led by the child;

And not a rain-drop from a passing cloud