The sun was wheeling westward, and the cliffs Broiders with flowers, and, when the moon is high, Singly their depth of shadow, chequering The greensward, and, what grew in frequent tufts, 1 An allusion to the CASCATA DELLE MARMORE, a celebrated fall of the VELINO near TERNI. 2 This upper region, a country of dews and dewy lights, as described by VIRGIL and PLINY, and still, I believe, called La Rosa, is full of beautiful scenery. Who does not wish to follow the footsteps of CICERO there, to visit the Reatine Tempe and the Seven Waters? An underwood of myrtle, that by fits Sent up a gale of fragrance. Through the midst, A rainbow's splendour (somewhere in the east His falcon hooded. Like some spirit of air, Or fairy vision, such as feigned of old, The enamelled bank, bruising nor herb nor flower, That place illumined. Ah, who should she be, Some balmy eve. The rising moon we hailed, Of many an arch, o'erwrought and lavishly With many a labyrinth of sylphs and flowers, When RAPHAEL and his school from FLORENCE came, Filling the land with splendour 1-nor less oft Mossy the seats, the stage a verdurous floor, The scenery rock and shrub-wood, Nature's own; Nature the Architect. 1 Perhaps the most beautiful villa of that day was the VILLA MADAMA. It is now a ruin; but enough remains of the plan and the grotesque-work to justify Vasari's account of it. The Pastor Fido, if not the Aminta, used to be often represented there; and a theatre, such as is here described, was to be seen in the gardens very lately. 2 A fashion for ever reviving in such a climate. In the year 1783 the Nina of Paesiello was performed in a small wood near Caserta. MONTORIO. GENEROUS, and ardent, and as romantic as he could be, MONTORIO was in his earliest youth, when, on a summer evening not many years ago, he arrived at the Baths of *** With a heavy heart, and with many a blessing on his head, he had set out on his travels at daybreak. It was his first flight from home; but he was now to enter the world; and the moon was up and in the zenith when he alighted at the Three Moors,1 a venerable house of vast dimensions, and anciently a palace of the Albertini family, whose arms were emblazoned on the walls. Every window was full of light, and great was the stir, above and below but his thoughts were on those he had left so lately; and retiring early to rest, and to a couch, the very first for which he had ever exchanged his own, he was soon among them once more; undisturbed in his sleep by the music that came at intervals from a pavilion in the garden, where some of the company had assembled to dance. But, secluded as he was, he was not secure from intrusion; and Fortune resolved on that night to play a frolic in his chamber, a frolic that was to determine the colour of his life. Boccaccio himself has not recorded a wilder; nor would he, if he had known it, have left the story untold. At the first glimmering of day he awaked; and, looking round, he beheld, it could not be an illusion; yet anything so lovely, so angelical, he had never seen before-no, not even in his dreams,—a Lady still younger than himself, and in the profoundest, the sweetest slumber by his side. But, while he gazed, she was gone, and through I Tre Mauri. |