Framing Ovidian verse, and through thy groves
Gathering wild myrtle. Such the Poet's dreams;
Yet not such only. For look round and say,
Where is the ground that did not drink warm blood,
The echo that had learnt not to articulate

The cry of murder? Fatal was the day*
To FLORENCE, when ('twas in a narrow street
North of that temple, where the truly great
Sleep, not unhonoured, not unvisited;
That temple sacred to the Holy Cross-

There is the house-that house of the DONATI,
Towerless, and left long since, but to the last
Braving assault-all rugged, all embossed
Below, and still distinguished by the rings
Of brass, that held in war and festival-time
Their family-standards) fatal was the day
TO FLORENCE, when, at morn, at the ninth hour,
A noble Dame in weeds of widowhood,

Weeds by so many to be worn so soon,

Stood at her door; and, like a sorceress, flung
Her dazzling spell.

Subtle she was, and rich,
Rich in a hidden pearl of heavenly light,
Her daughter's beauty; and too well she knew
Its virtue! Patiently she stood and watched;
Nor stood alone-but spoke not-In her breast
Her purpose lay; and, as a Youth passed by,
Clad for the nuptial rite, she smiled and said,
Lifting a corner of the maiden's veil,

This had I treasured up in secret for thee.

* See Note.

This hast thou lost!' He gazed and was undone ! Forgetting-not forgot he broke the bond,

And paid the penalty, losing his life

At the bridge-foot; and hence a world of woe!
Vengeance for vengeance crying, blood for blood;
No intermission! Law, that slumbers not,
And, like the Angel with the flaming sword,
Sits over all, at once chastising, healing,
Himself the Avenger, went; and every street
Ran red with mutual slaughter- tho' sometimes
The young forgot the lesson they had learnt,
And loved when they should hate-like thee, IMELDA,
Thee and thy PAOLO. When last ye met.

In that still hour (the heat, the glare was gone,

Not so the splendour thro' the cedar-grove

A radiance streamed like a consuming fire,

As tho' the glorious orb, in its descent,
Had come and rested there) when last ye met,
And thy relentless brothers dragged him forth,
It had been well, hadst thou slept on, IMELDA,
Nor from thy trance of fear awaked, as night
Fell on that fatal spot, to wish thee dead,
To track him by his blood, to search, to find,
Then fling thee down to catch a word, a look,
A sigh, if yet thou couldst (alas, thou couldst not)
And die, unseen, unthought of- from the wound
Sucking the poison.*

Yet, when Slavery came,
Worse followed. Genius, Valour left the land,
Indignant all that had from age to age

* See Note.

Adorned, ennobled; and headlong they fell,
Tyrant and slave. For deeds of violence,

Done in broad day and more than half redeemed
By many a great and generous sacrifice
Of self to others, came the unpledged bowl,
The stab of the stiletto. Gliding by

Unnoticed, in slouched hat and muffling cloak,
That just discovered, Caravaggio-like,

A swarthy cheek, black brow, and eye of flame,
The Bravo stole, and o'er the shoulder plunged
To the heart's core, or from beneath the ribs
Slanting (a surer path, as some averred)

Struck upward then slunk off, or, if pursued,
Made for the Sanctuary, and there along
The glimmering aisle among the worshippers
Wandered with restless step and jealous look,
Dropping thick blood.- Misnamed to lull alarm,
In every Palace was The Laboratory,

Where he within brewed poisons swift and slow,
That scattered terror 'till all things seemed poisonous,
And brave men trembled if a hand held out
A nosegay or a letter; while the Great
Drank only from the Venice-glass, that broke,
That shivered, scattering round it as in scorn,
If aught malignant, aught of thine was there,
Cruel TOPHANA; and pawned provinces
For that miraculous gem, the gem that gave
A sign infallible of coming ill,

That clouded though the vehicle of death.
Were an invisible perfume. Happy then
The guest to whom at sleeping-time 'twas said,
But in an under-voice (a lady's page

Speaks in no louder) 'Pass not on. That door
Leads to another which awaits thy coming,
One in the floor-now left, alas, unlocked.
No eye detects it-lying under-foot,

Just as thou enterest, at the threshold-stone;
Ready to fall and plunge thee into night
And long oblivion!

In that Evil Hour
Where lurked not danger? Thro' the fairy-land
No seat of pleasure glittering half-way down,
No hunting-place-but with some damning spot
That will not be washed out! There, at Caïano,
Where, when the hawks were mewed and evening came,
PULCI would set the table in a roar

With his wild lay there, where the Sun descends, And hill and dale are lost, veiled with his beams, The fair Venetian* died, she and her lord

Died of a posset drugged by him who sat

And saw them suffer, flinging back the charge;
The murderer on the murdered.

Sobs of Grief,

Sounds inarticulate suddenly stopt,
And followed by a struggle and a gasp,
A gasp in death, are heard yet in Cerreto,
Along the marble halls and staircases,
Nightly at twelve; and, at the self-same hour,
Shrieks, such as penetrate the inmost soul,
Such as awake the innocent babe to long,
Long wailing, echo thro' the emptiness
Of that old den far up among the hills,†

BIANCA CAPELLO.

† See Note.

Frowning on him who comes from Pietra-Mala;
In them, alas, within five days and less,
Two unsuspecting victims, passing fair,
Welcomed with kisses, and slain cruelly,
One with the knife, one with the fatal noose.
But, lo, the Sun is setting; earth and sky
One blaze of glory-What we saw but now,
As though it were not, though it had not been!
He lingers yet; and, lessening to a point,
Shines like the eye of Heaven-then withdraws;
And from the zenith to the utmost skirts
All is celestial red! The hour is come,
When they that sail along the distant seas,
Languish for home; and they that in the morn
Said to sweet friends farewell,' melt as at parting;
When, just gone forth, the pilgrim, if he hears,
As now we hear it- echoing round the hill,
The bell that seems to mourn the dying day,
Slackens his pace and sighs, and those he loved
Loves more than ever. But who feels it not?
And well we may, for we are far away.

THE PILGRIM.

It was an hour of universal joy.

The lark was up and at the gate of heaven,
Singing, as sure to enter when he came;
The butterfly was basking in my path,
His radiant wings unfolded. From below
The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively;
And odours, such as welcome in the day,