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Among the debtors in his leger-book 114
Entered at full (nor month nor day forgot)

- for

father's death."
Leaving a blank --- to be filled up hereafter.
When FOSCARI's noble heart at length gave way,
He took the volume from the shelf again
Calmly, and with his pen filled up the blank,
Inscribing, “He has paid me."

Ye who sit
Brooding from day to day, from day to day
Chewing the bitter cud, and starting up
As though the hour was come to whet your fangs,
And, like the Pisan, 11• gnaw the hairy scalp
Of him who had offended — if ye must,
Sit and brood on; but, O! forbear to teach
The lesson to your children.


It was midnight; the great clock had struck and was still echoing through every porch and gallery in the quarter of St. MARK, when a young citizen, wrapped in his cloak, was hastening home under it from an interview with his mistress. His step was light, for his heart was so. Her parents had just consented to their marriage; and the very day was named. Lovely GIULIETTA !” he cried.

66 And shall I then call thee mine at last? Who was ever so blest as thy MARCOLINI?" But, as he spoke, he stopped; for something glittered on the pavement before him. It was a scabbard of rich workmanship; and the discovery, what was it but an earnest of good fortune ? • Rest thou there!"



he cried, thrusting it gayly into his belt. * If another claims thee not, thou hast changed masters !” And on he went as before, humming the burden of a song which he and his GIULIETTA had been singing together. But how little do we know what the next minute will bring forth ! He turned by the Church of St. GEMINIANO, and in three steps he met the watch. A murder had just been committed. The senator RENALDI had been found dead at his door, the dagger left in his heart; and the unfortunate MARCOLINI was dragged away for examination. The place, the time, everything served to excite, to justify suspicion ; and no sooner had he entered the guard-house than a damning witness appeared against him. The bravo in his flight had thrown away his scabbard; and, smeared with blood, with blood not yet dry, it was now in the belt of MARCC

Its patrician ornaments struck every eye; and, when the fatal dagger was produced and compared with it, not a doubt of his guilt remained. Still there is in the innocent an energy and a composure, an energy when they speak and a composure when they are silent, to which none can be altogether insensible; and the judge delayed for some time to pronounce the sentence, though he was a near relation of the dead. At length, however, it came; and MARCOLINI lost his life, GIULIETTA her reason.

Not many years afterwards the truth revealed itself, the real criminal in his last moments confessing the crime: and hence the custom in VENICE, a custom that long prevailed, for a crier to cry out in the court before a sentence was passed, “Ricordatevi del povero MARCOLINI!" 116

Great, indeed, was the lamentation throughout the city, and the judge, dying, directed that thenceforth and forever a mass should be sung every night in a chapel of the ducal church for his own soul, and the soul of MARCOLINI, and the souls of all who had suffered by an unjust judgment. Some land on the BRENTA was left by him for the purpose: and still is the mass sung in the chapel ; still every night, when the great square is illuminating and the casinos are filling fast with the gay and the dissipated, a bell is rung as for a service, and a ray of light seen to issue from a small Gothic window that looks toward the place of execution,— the place where, on a scaffold, MARCOLINI breathed his last.


THREE leagues from PADUA stands and long has stood
(The Paduan student knows it, honors it)
A lonely tomb beside a mountain-church;
And I arrived there as the sun declined
Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe
Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds
Singing their farewell-song - the very song
They sung the night that tomb received a tenant;
When, as alive, clothed in his canon's stole,
And slowly winding down the narrow path,
He came to rest there. Nobles of the land,
Princes and prelates, mingled in his train,
Anxious by any act, while yet they could,
To catch a ray of glory by reflection;
And from that hour have kindred spirits flocked 117
From distant countries, from the north, the south,
To see where he is laid.

Twelve years ago
When I descended the impetuous RHONE,



Its vineyards of such great and old renown,
Its castles, each with some romantic tale,
Vanishing fast — the pilot at the stern,
He who had steered so long, standing aloft,
His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands
On what was now his rudder, now his oar,
A huge misshapen plank -- the bark itself
Frail and uncouth, launched to return no more,
Such as a shipwrecked man might hope to build,"
Urged by the love of home. – Twelve years ago,
When like an arrow from the cord we flew,
Two long, long days, silence, suspense on board,
It was to offer at thy fount, VAUCLUSE,
Entering the archéd cave, to wander where
PETRARCI had wandered, to explore and sit
Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit,
Musing, reciting — on some rock moss-grown,
Or the fantastic root of some old beech,
That drinks the living waters as they stream
Over their emerald-bed; and could I now
Neglect the place where, in a graver mood,
When he had done and settled with the world,
When all the illusions of his youth were fled,
Indulged perhaps too much, cherished too long,
He came for the conclusion ? Half-way up
He built his house, 121 whence as by stealth he caught,
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life
That soothed, not stirred. - But knock, and enter in.
This was his chamber. T is as when he went;
As if he now were in his orchard-grove.
And this his closet. Here he sat and read.
This was his chair; and in it, unobserved,


Reading, or thinking of his absent friends,
He passed away as in a quiet slumber.

Peace to this region ! Peace to each, to all!
They know his value --- every coming step,
That draws the gazing children from their play,
Would tell them, if they knew not. - But could aught
Ungentle or ungenerous spring up
Where he is sleeping; where, and in an age
Of savage warfare and blind bigotry,
He cultured all that could refine, exalt; 122
Leading to better things ?


IF thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To MODENA,123 where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
BOLOGNA's bucket (in its chain it hangs 12
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the ORSINI.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their archéd walks,
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames such as in old romance,
And lovers such as in heroic song,
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sate,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day. 125 A summer-sun

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