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Catching the eye in many a broken link,
In many a turn and traverse as it glides ;
And oft above and oft below appears,

Seen o'er the wall by him who journeys up,
As if it were another, through the wild
Leading along he knows not whence or whither.
Yet through its fairy-course, go where it will,
The torrent stops it not, the rugged rock
Opens and lets it in; and on it runs,
Winning its easy way from clime to clime
Thro' glens locked up before.-Not such my path!
The very path for them that dare defy

Danger, nor shrink, wear he what shape he will;
That o'er the caldron, when the flood boils up,
Hang as in air, gazing and shuddering on
Till fascination comes and the brain turns!!
The very path for them, that list, to choose
Where best to plant a monumental cross,
And live in story like Empedocles;

A track for heroes, such as he who came,
Ere long, to win, to wear the Iron Crown;
And (if aright I judge from what I felt
Over the Drance, just where the Abbot fell,
Rolled downward in an after-dinner's sleep)?
The same as Hannibal's. But now 'tis passed,
That turbulent Chaos; and the promised land
Lies at my feet in all its loveliness!

To him who starts up from a terrible dream,
And lo, the sun is shining, and the lark
Singing aloud for joy, to him is not
Such sudden ravishment as now I feel
At the first glimpses of fair Italy.

1 "J'aime beaucoup ce tournoiement, pourvu que je sois en sûrete "J.-J. ROUSSEAU, Les Confessions, 1. iv.

2 "Ou il y a environ dix ans, que l'Abbé de St.-Maurice, Mons. Cocatrix, a été précipité avec sa voiture, ses chevaux, sa cuisinière et on cocher."-Descript. du Valais.

COMO.

LOVE to sail along the Larian Lake Under the shore-though not, where'er he dwelt,'

To visit Pliny; not, in loose attire,
When from the bath or from the tennis-court,
o catch him musing in his plane-tree walk,
Or angling from his window :2 and, in truth,
Could I recall the ages past and play
The fool with Time, I should perhaps reserve
My leisure for Catullus on his Lake,3
Though to fare worse, or Virgil at his farm
A little further on the way to Mantua.
But such things cannot be. So I sit still,
And let the boatman shift his little sail,
His sail so forked and so swallow-like,
Well-pleased with all that comes. The morning-
air

Plays on my cheek how gently, flinging round
A silvery gleam: and now the purple mists
Rise like a curtain; now the sun looks out,
Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious light
This noble amphitheatre of hills;

And now appear as on a phosphor-sea
Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pavía;
Some sailing up, some down, and some at rest,
Lading, unlading at that small port-town
Under the promontory-its tall tower

1 "Hujus in littore plures villæ meæ."-Epist. ix. 7.

2 Epist. i. 3, ix. 7.

Il lago di Garda. His Peninsula he calls " the eye of Peninsulas; ' ni it is beautiful. But, whatever it was, who could pass it by? Napoleon, in the career of victory, turned aside to see it.

Of his villa there is now no more remaining than of his old pinnace, which had weathered so many storms, and which he conseerated at last as an ex-voto.

And long flat roofs, just such as Gaspar drew, Caught by a sun-beam slanting through a cloud; A quay-like scene, glittering and full of life, And doubled by reflection.

What delight,
After so long a sojourn in the wild,
To hear once more the peasant at his work!
-But in a clime like this where is he not?
Along the shores, among the hills 'tis now
The hey-day of the Vintage; all abroad,
But most the young and of the gentler sex,
Busy in gathering; all among the vines,
Some on the ladder and some underneath,
Filling their baskets of green wicker-work,
While many a canzonet and frolic laugh
Come thro' the leaves; the vines in light festoons
From tree to tree, the trees in avenues,
And every avenue a covered walk

Hung with black clusters. 'Tis enough to make
The sad man merry, the benevolent one
Melt into tears—so general is the joy!
While up and down the cliffs, over the lake,
Wains oxen-drawn and panniered mules are seen,
Laden with grapes and dropping rosy wine.
Here I received from thee, Basílico,
One of those courtesies so sweet, so rare!
When, as I rambled through thy vineyard-ground
On the hill-side, thy little son was sent,
Charged with a bunch almost as big as he,
To press it on the stranger. May thy vats
O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer,
Live to become a giver; and, at length,

When thou art full of honour and wouldst rest, 'The staff of thine old age!

In a strange land Such things, however trivial, reach the heart, And thro' the heart the head, clearing away

he narrow notions that grow up at home, nd in their place grafting Good-Will to All. t least I found it so, nor less at eve,

When, bidden as a lonely traveller,

Twas by a little boat that gave me chase
Vith oar and sail, as homeward-bound I crossed
The bay of Tramezzine,) right readily

turned my prow and followed, landing soon
Where steps of purest marble met the wave;
Where, through the trellises and corridors,
Soft music came as from Armida's palace,
Breathing enchantment o'er the woods and waters;
And thro' a bright pavilion, bright as day,
Forms such as hers were flitting, lost among
Such as of old in sober pomp swept by,
Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts
By Paolo' painted; where a Fairy-Queen,
That night her birth-night, from her throne
received

(Young as she was, no floweret in her crown,
Hyacinth or rose, so fair and fresh as she)
Our willing vows, and by the fountain-side
Led in the dance, disporting as she pleased,
Under a starry sky-while I looked on,
As in a glade of Cashmere or Shiraz,
Reclining, quenching my sherbet in snow,
And reading in the eyes that sparkled round,
The thousand love-adventures written there.
Can I forget-no never, such a scene
So full of witchery. Night lingered still,
When with a dying breeze I left Bellaggio;
But the strain followed me; and still I saw
Thy smile, Angelica; and still I heard
Thy voice-once and again bidding adieu.

1 Commonly called Paul Veronese.

BERGAMO.

HE song was one that I had heard before,

But where I knew not. It inclined to

sadness;

And, turning round from the delicious fare
My landlord's little daughter Barbara
Had from her apron just rolled out before me,
Figs and rock-melons—at the door I saw
Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like
They were, and poorly clad, but not unskilled;
With their small voices and an old guitar
Winning their way to my unguarded heart
In that, the only universal tongue.

But soon they changed the measure, entering on
A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour,

A war of words, with looks and gestures waged Between Trappanti and his ancient dame, Mona Lucilia. To and fro it went;

While many a titter on the stairs was heard, And Barbara's among them. When it ceased, Their dark eyes flashed no longer, yet, methought, In many a glance as from the soul, disclosed More than enough to serve them. Far or near, Few looked not for their coming ere they came, Few, when they went, but looked till they were gone;

And not a matron, sitting at her wheel,

But could repeat their story. Twins they were, And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world; Their parents lost in an old ferry-boat

That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down,

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