Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed,
But that she was not!
FRANCESCO flew to VENICE, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
ORSINI lived; and long might'st thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find-he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
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 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as GINEVRA,
'Why not remove it from its lurking place?'
'Twas 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 for ever!
'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,*
So well pourtrayed, 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. 'Twas where hangs aloft
That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming
* See the Cries of Bologna, as drawn by Annibal Carracci. very humble origin; and, to correct his brother's vanity, once sent him a portrait of their father, the tailor, threading his needle.
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 porticoes 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, every where
(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.
Since last we parted; and those five short years-
Much had they told! His clustering locks were turned
Grey; 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 moon-light sea
Of VENICE, had so ably, zealously,
Served, and, at parting, thrown his oar away
To follow thro' the world; who without stain
Had worn so long that honourable badge,
The gondolier's, in a Patrician House
Arguing unlimited trust.*-Not last nor least,
Thou, tho' 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
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,
Thro' the pine-forest wandering with loose rein,
* The principal gondolier, il fante di poppa, was almost always in the confidence of his master, and employed on occasions that required judgment and address.
See the Prophecy of Dante.
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