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 PAVIA;
Some sailing up, some down, and some at rest,
Lading, unlading at that small port-town
Under the promontory-its tall tower

And long flat roofs, just such as GASPAR drew,
Caught by a sunbeam 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, BASILICO, 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
The narrow notions that grow up at home,
And in their place grafting Good-Will to All.
At least I found it so, nor less at eve,
When, bidden as a lonely traveller,

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

I 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 PAOLO1 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,

1 Commonly called Paul Veronese.

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.

BERGAMO.

THE 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

Crossing the rough BENACUS.-May they live
Blameless and happy-rich they cannot be,
Like him who, in the days of Minstrelsy,2
Came in a beggar's weeds to PETRARCH'S door,
Asking, beseeching for a lay to sing,

And soon in silk (such then the power of song)
Returned to thank him; or like that old man,
Old not in heart, who by the torrent side
Descending from the TYROL, as Night fell,
Knocked at a City-gate near the hill-foot,
The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone,
An eagle on a ladder, and at once

Found welcome-nightly in the bannered hall
Tuning his harp to tales of Chivalry
Before the great MASTINO and his guests,3
The three-and-twenty kings by adverse fate,
By war or treason or domestic strife,

Its waves, in the

1 The lake of Catullus; and now called Il Lago di Garda. north, lash the mountains of the Tyrol; and it was there, at the little village of Limone, that Hofer embarked, when in the hands of the enemy and on his way to Mantua, where, in the courtyard of the citadel, he was shot as a traitor. Less fortunate than Tell, yet not less illustrious, he was watched by many a mournful eye as he came down the lake; and his name will live long in the heroic songs of his country.

He lies buried at Innspruck, in the church of the Holy Cross; and the statue on his tomb represents him in his habit as he lived and as he died.

2 Petrarch, Epist. Rer. Sen. 1. v. ep. 3.

3 Mastino de la Scala, the Lord of Verona. Cortusio, the ambassador and historian, saw him so surrounded.

This house had been always open to the unfortunate. In the days of Can Grande all were welcome; poets, philosophers, artists, warriors. Each had his apartment, each a separate table; and at the hour of dinner musicians and jesters went from room to room. Dante, as we learn from himself, found an asylum there : "Lo primo tuo rifugio, e'l primo ostello

Sarà la cortesia del gran Lombardo,
Che'n su la scala porta il santo uccello."

Their tombs in the public street carry us back into the times of barbarous virtue; nor less so do those of the Carrara princes at Padua, though less singular and striking in themselves. Francis Carrara the Elder used often to visit Petrarch in his small house at Arquà, and followed him on foot to his grave.

M M