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THE FOUNTAIN.

T was a well

Of whitest marble, white as from the

quarry;

And richly wrought with many a high

relief,

Greek sculpture—in some earlier day perhaps
A tomb, and honoured with a hero's ashes.
The water from the rock filled and o'erflowed;
Then dashed away, playing the prodigal,

And soon was lost-stealing unseen, unheard,
Thro' the long grass, and round the twisted roots
Of aged trees; discovering where it ran
By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat,
I threw me down; admiring, as I lay,
That shady nook, a singing-place for birds,
That grove so intricate, so full of flowers,
More than enough to please a child a-Maying.

The sun had set, a distant convent-bell
Ringing the Angelus; and now approached
The hour for stir and village-gossip there,
The hour Rebekah came, when from the well
She drew with such alacrity to serve
The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard
Footsteps; and lo, descending by a path
Trodden for ages, many a nymph appeared,
Appeared and vanished, bearing on her head
Her earthen pitcher. It called up the day
Ulysses landed there; and long I gazed,
Like one awaking in a distant time.1

The place here described is near Mola di Gaëta in the kingdom of Naples.

At length there came the loveliest of them all, er little brother dancing down before her; and ever as he spoke, which he did ever, urning and looking up in warmth of heart nd brotherly affection. Stopping there, he joined her rosy hands, and, filling them With the pure element, gave him to drink ; nd, while he quenched his thirst, standing on tip-toe,

ooked down upon him with a sister's smile, Nor stirred till he had done, fixed as a statue.

Then hadst thou seen them as they stood, Canova, Thou hadst endowed them with immortal youth; And they had evermore lived undivided, Winning all hearts of all thy works the fairest.

BANDITTI.

IS a wild life, fearful and full of change,
The mountain robber's. On the watch

he lies,

Levelling his carbine at the passenger; And, when his work is done, he dares not sleep. Time was, the trade was nobler, if not honest; When they that robbed, were men of better faith1 Than kings or pontiffs; when, such reverence The Poet drew among the woods and wilds, A voice was heard, that never bade to spare,2

1 Alluding to Alfonso Piccolomini. "Stupiva ciascuno che, mentre un bandito osservava rigorosamente la sua parola, il Papa non avesse ribrezzo, di mancare alla propria."-GALLUZZI, ii. 364. He was hanged at Florence, March 16, 1591.

2 Tasso was returning from Naples to Rome, and had arrived at Mola di Gaëta, when he received this tribute of respect. The captain of the troop was Marco di Sciarra. See Manso, Vita del Tasso. Ariosto had a similar adventure with Filippo Pacchione. See Garofalo.

Crying aloud," Hence to the distant hills!
Tasso approaches; he, whose song beguiles
The day of half its hours; whose sorcery
Dazzles the sense, turning our forest-glades
To lists that blaze with gorgeous armoury,
Our mountain-caves to regal palaces.

Hence, nor descend till he and his are gone.
Let him fear nothing."-When along the shore,
And by the path that, wandering on its way,
Leads through the fatal grove where Tully fell,
(Grey and o'ergrown, an ancient tomb is there)
He came and they withdrew, they were a race
Careless of life in others and themselves,
For they had learnt their lesson in a camp;
But not ungenerous. 'Tis no longer so.
Now crafty, cruel, torturing ere they slay
The unhappy captive, and with bitter jests
Mocking Misfortune; vain, fantastical,
Wearing whatever glitters in the spoil;

And most devout, though, when they kneel and

pray,

With every bead they could recount a murder ;
As by a spell they start up in array,1

As by a spell they vanish—theirs a band,
Not as elsewhere of outlaws, but of such
As sow and reap, and at the cottage-door
Sit to receive, return the traveller's greeting;
Now in the garb of peace, now silently
Arming and issuing forth, led on by men
Whose names on innocent lips are words of fear,
Whose lives have long been forfeit.-Some there

are

That, ere they rise to this bad eminence,

Lurk, night and day, the plague-spot visible, The guilt that says, Beware; and mark we now

pays.

"Cette race de bandits a ses racines dans la population même du La police ne sait où les trouver."-Lettres de Chateauvieur.

im, where he lies, who couches for his prey
It the bridge-foot in some dark cavity
cooped by the waters, or some gaping tomb,
Tameless and tenantless, whence the red fox
lunk as he entered.

There he broods, in spleen

Gnawing his beard; his rough and sinewy frame
D'erwritten with the story of his life :

On his wan cheek a sabre-cut, well earned
In foreign warfare; on his breast the brand
Endelible, burnt in when to the port

He clanked his chain, among a hundred more
Dragged ignominiously; on every limb
Memorials of his glory and his shame,
Stripes of the lash and honourable scars,
And channels here and there worn to the bone
By galling fetters.

He comes slowly forth,
Unkennelling, and up that savage dell

Anxiously looks; his cruise, an ample gourd,
(Duly replenished from the vintner's cask)
Slung from his shoulder; in his breadth of belt
Two pistols and a dagger yet uncleansed,

A parchment scrawled with uncouth characters,
And a small vial, his last remedy,

His cure, when all things fail.

No noise is heard,

Save when the rugged bear and the gaunt wolf
Howl in the upper region, or a fish

Leaps in the gulf beneath. But now he kneels ;
And (like a scout, when listening to the tramp
Of horse or foot) lays his experienced ear
Close to the ground, then rises and explores,
Then kneels again, and, his short rifle-gun
Against his cheek, waits patiently.

Two Monks, Portly, grey-headed, on their gallant steeds,

Descend where yet a mouldering cross o'erhangs
The grave of one that from the precipice
Fell in an evil hour. Their bridle-bells
Ring merrily; and many a loud, long laugh
Re-echoes; but at once the sounds are lost.
Unconscious of the good in store below,
The holy fathers have turned off, and now
Cross the brown heath, ere long to wag their beards
Before my lady-abbess, and discuss

Things only known to the devout and pure
O'er her spiced bowl-then shrive the sister-hood,
Sitting by turns with an inclining ear

In the confessional.

He moves his lips

As with a curse—then paces up and down,
Now fast, now slow, brooding and muttering on;
Gloomy alike to him Future and Past.

But hark, the nimble tread of numerous feet! "Tis but a dappled herd, come down to slake Their thirst in the cool wave.

He turns and aims;

Then checks himself, unwilling to disturb
The sleeping echoes.—Once again he earths ;
Slipping away to house with them beneath,
His old companions in that hiding-place,
The bat, the toad, the blind-worm, and the newt;
And hark, a footstep, firm and confident,
As of a man in haste. Nearer it draws;
And now is at the entrance of the den.
Ha! 'tis a comrade, sent to gather in
The band for some great enterprise.

Who wants

A sequel, may read on. The unvarnished tale,
That follows, will supply the place of one.
'T was told me by the Count St. Angelo,
When in a blustering night he sheltered me
In that brave castle of his ancestors

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