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When he was gone, the house remained a while
Silent and tenantless -- then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,
That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 't was said
By one as young, as thoughtless as GINEVRA,
“Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?"
’T was done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and, lo! a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished - save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
“GINEVRA.”—There, then, had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down forever!


'Twas night; the noise and bustle of the day
Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought
Miraculous cures - he and his stage were gone;
And he who, when the crisis of his tale
Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear,
Sent round his cap; and he who thrummed his wire
And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain,
Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries, 9

So well portrayed, and by a son of thine,
Whose voice had swelled the hubbub in his youth,
Were hushed, BOLOGNA, silence in the streets,
The squares, when, hark! the clattering of fleet hoofs ;
And soon a courier, posting as from far,
Housing and holster, boot and belted coat
And doublet, stained with many a various soil,
Stopt and alighted. 'T was where hangs aloft
That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming
All who arrive there, all perhaps save those
Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell,
Those on a pilgrimage. And now approached
Wheels, through the lofty porticos resounding,
Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade
As the sky changes. To the gate they came;
And, ere the man had half his story done,
Mine host received the master

one long used
To sojourn among strangers, everywhere
(Go where he would, along the wildest track)
Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost,
And leaving footsteps to be traced by those
Who love the haunts of genius; one who saw,
Observed, nor shunned the busy scenes of life,
But mingled not, and ’mid the din, the stir,
Lived as a separate spirit.

Much had passed
Since last we parted; and those five short years —
Much had they told ! His clustering locks were turned
Gray; nor did aught recall the youth that swam
From SESTOS to ABYDOS. Yet his voice,
Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought
Flashed lightning-like, nor lingered on the way,

Waiting for words. Far, far into the night
We sat, conversing - no unwelcome hour,
The hour we met; and when Aurora rose,
Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine.

Well I remember how the golden sun
Filled with its beams the unfathomable gulfs,
As on we travelled, and along the ridge,
'Mid groves of cork and cistus and wild-fig,
His motley household came. - Not last nor least,
BATTISTA, who, upon the moonlight-sea
Of VENICE, had so ably, zealously,
Served, and, at parting, thrown his oar away
To follow through the world; who without stain
Had worn so long that honorable badge,
The gondolier's, in a patrician house
Arguing unlimited trust.18) — Not last nor least,
Thou, though declining in thy beauty and strength,
Faithful MORETTO, to the latest hour
Guarding his chamber-door, and now along
The silent, sullen strand of MissoLONGHI
Howling in grief. - He had just left that place

Of old renown, once in the ADRIAN sea, RAVENNA ! where from DANTE's sacred tomb He had so oft, as many a verse declares, Drawn inspiration ; where, at twilight-time, Through the pine-forest wandering with loose rein, Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld (What is not visible to a poet's eye ?) The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds and their prey, The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth Suddenly blasted.13 'Twas a theme he loved, But others claimed their turn; and many a tower,


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Shattered, uprooted from its native rock,
Its strength the pride of some heroic age,
Appeared and vanished (many a sturdy steer 135
Yoked and unyoked) while as in happier days
He poured his spirit forth. The past forgot,
All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured
Present or future.

He is now at rest;
And praise and blame fall on his ear alike,
Now dull in death. Yes, BYRON, thou art gone,
Gone like a star that through the firmament
Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course
Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks,
Was generous, noble — noble in its scorn
Of all things low or little ; nothing there
Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do
Things long regretted, oft, as many know,
None more than I, thy gratitude would build
On slight foundations : and, if in thy life
Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert,
Thy wish accomplished ; dying in the land
Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire -
Dying in GREECE, and in a cause so glorious !

They in thy train — ah! little did they think, As round we went, that they so soon should sit Mourning beside thee, while a nation mourned, Changing her festal for her funeral song; That they so soon should hear the minute-gun, As morning gleamed on what remained of thee, Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering Thy years of joy and sorrow.

Thou art gone ;
And he who would assail thee in thy grave,
0, let him pause! For who among us all,
Tried as thou wert - even from thine earliest

When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland-boy-
Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame;
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, ,
Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine,
Her charméd cup - ah! who among us all
Could say he had not erred as much, and more?


Of all the fairest cities of the earth,
None is so fair as FLORENCE. 'T is a gem
Of purest ray; and what a light broke forth, 198
When it emerged from darkness ! Search within,
Without; all is enchantment! Tis the Past
Contending with the Present; and in turn
Each has the mastery.

In this chapel wrought 197
One of the few, Nature's interpreters,
The few, whom genius gives as lights to shine,
MASACCIO ; and he slumbers underneath.
Wouldst thou behold his monument ? Look round !
And know that where we stand stood oft and long,
Oft till the day was gone, RAPHAEL himself;
Nor he alone, so great the ardor there,
Such, while it reigned, the generous rivalry ;
He and how many as at once called forth,
Anxious to learn of those who came before,

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