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My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine,“
Pure as the virgin-spring, had happily
Fled from all eyes; or, in a waking dream,
I might have sat as many a great man has,
And many a small, like him of Santillane,
Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise.*



AM I in ITALY? Is this the Mincius?

Are those the distant turrets of Verona?


And shall I sup where JULIET at the masque
Saw her loved MONTAGUE, and now sleeps by him?
Such questions hourly do I ask myself;


And not a stone, in a cross-way, inscribed

"To Mantua" "To Ferrara " 45- but excites Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation.

O ITALY, how beautiful thou art!

Yet I could

weep for thou art lying, alas!

Low in the dust; and we admire thee now

As we admire the beautiful in death.

Thine was a dangerous gift, when thou wert born,
The gift of Beauty. Would thou hadst it not;
Or wert as once, awing the caitiffs vile

That now beset thee, making thee their slave!

Would they had loved thee less, or feared thee more 46 ! But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already;" Twice shone among the nations of the world,

As the sun shines among the lesser lights

Of heaven; and shalt again. The hour shall come, When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit,

Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey,

Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess


Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame
Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously,
And, dying, left a splendor like the day,
That like the day diffused itself, and still

Blesses the earth the light of genius, virtue,

Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death,
Godlike example. Echoes that have slept
Since ATHENS, LACEDEMON, were themselves,
Since men invoked "By those in MARATHON!"
Awake along the EGEAN; and the dead,

They of that sacred shore, have heard the call,
And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen

Moving as once they were

Breathing deliberate valor.

instead of rage


"IN this neglected mirror (the broad frame


massy silver serves to testify


That many a noble matron of the house
Has sat before it) once, alas! was seen
What led to many sorrows. From that time
The bat came hither for a sleeping place;
And he, who cursed another in his heart,
Said, 'Be thy dwelling, through the day and night,
Shunned like COLL'ALTO."-T was in that old pile,
Which flanks the cliff with its gray battlements
Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest,

Hangs in the TREVISAN, that thus the steward,
Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left,
Addressed me, as we entered what was called
"My Lady's Chamber." On the walls, the chairs,
Much yet remained of the rich tapestry;
Much of the adventures of SIR LAUNCELOT
In the green glades of some enchanted wood.
The toilet-table was of silver wrought,
Florentine art, when Florence was renowned;
A gay confusion of the elements,

Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers: And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage,

Hung a small bird of curious workmanship, That, when his mistress bade him, would unfold (So says the babbling dame, Tradition, there)

His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again

The song that pleased her. While I stood and looked,
A gleam of day yet lingering in the west,

The steward went on. "She had ('t is now long since)
A gentle serving-maid, the fair CRISTINE,
Fair as a lily, and as spotless too;

None so admired, beloved. They had grown up
As play-fellows; and some there were, that said,
Some that knew much, discoursing of CRISTINE,
'She is not what she seems.' When unrequired,
She would steal forth; her custom, her delight,
To wander through and through an ancient grove
Self-planted half-way down, losing herself
Like one in love with sadness; and her veil
And vesture white, seen ever in that place,
Ever as surely as the hours came round,
Among those reverend trees, gave her below

The name of The White Lady.
Is gone, and I delay thee.

-But the day

In that chair

The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting,
Her gentle serving-maid, the fair CRISTINE,
Combing her golden hair; and through this door
The Count, her lord, was hastening, called away
By letters of great urgency to VENICE;
When in the glass she saw, as she believed
('T was an illusion of the Evil One-
Some say he came and crossed it at the time),
A smile, a glance at parting, given and answered,
That turned her blood to gall. That very night
The deed was done. That night, ere yet the moon
Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf

Baying as still he does (oft is he heard,
An hour and more, by the old turret-clock),
They led her forth, the unhappy lost CRISTINE,
Helping her down in her distress to die.

"No blood was spilt; no instrument of death Lurked or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose;

Nor was a hair of her anblemished head

Hurt in that hour Fresh as a flower just blown,
And warm with life, her youthful pulses playing,
She was walled up within the castle-wall.
The wall itself was hollowed secretly;

Then closed again, and done to line and rule.
Wouldst thou descend? -'T is in a darksome vault
Under the chapel and there nightly now,

As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair,
And as if nothing had been done or thought,

The stone-work rose before her, till the light

Glimmered and went there, nightly at that hour, (Thou smil'st, and would it were an idle tale!) In her white veil and vesture white she stands Shuddering her eyes uplifted, and her hands Joined as in prayer; then, like a blessed soul Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away Flies o'er the woods and mountains. Issuing forth, The hunter meets her in his hunting-track;" The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims (For still she bears the name she bore of old) "T is the White Lady!""


THERE is a glorious city in the sea.
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea,
Invisible; and from the land we went,
As to a floating city-steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently - by many a dome,
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than Eastern pride,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings;

The fronts of some, though Time had shattered them,

Still glowing with the richest hues of art,"

As though the wealth within them had run o'er.

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