That like the day diffused itself, and still

Blesses the earth- the light of genius, virtue,
Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death,
God-like example. Echoes that have slept
Since ATHENS, LACEDEMON, were Themselves,
Since men invoked by those in MARATHON!'
Awake along the EGEAN; and the dead,

They of that sacred shore, have heard the call,
And thro' the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen
Moving as once they were-instead of rage
Breathing deliberate valour.

COLL' ALTO.

"IN this neglected mirror (the broad frame
Of massy silver serves to testify

That many a noble matron of the house
Has sat before it) once, alas, was seen
What led to many sorrows. From that time
The bat came hither for a sleeping place;
And he, that cursed another in his heart,

Said, 'Be thy dwelling, thro' the day and night,
Shunned like COLL' ALTO.'"-'Twas in that old Pile,
Which flanks the cliff with its grey battlements
Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest,
Hangs in the TREVISAN, that thus the Steward,
Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left,
Addressed me, as we entered what was called
'My Lady's Chamber.' On the walls, the chairs,
Much yet remained of the rich tapestry;
Much of the adventures of SIR LANCELOT

In the green glades of some enchanted wood.
The toilet-table was of silver wrought,

Florentine Art, when Florence was renowned;
A gay confusion of the elements,

Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers:
And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage,
Hung a small bird of curious workmanship,
That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold.
(So says the babbling Dame, Tradition, there)
His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again

The song that pleased her. While I stood and looked,
A gleam of day yet lingering in the West,

The Steward went on. "She had ('tis now long since)
A gentle serving-maid, the fair CRISTINE,
Fair as a lily, and as spotless too;

None so admired, beloved. They had grown up
As play-fellows; and some there were, that said,
Some that knew much, discoursing of CRISTINE,
'She is not what she seems.' When unrequired,
She would steal forth; her custom, her delight,
To wander thro' and thro' an ancient grove
Self-planted half-way down, losing herself
Like one in love with sadness; and her veil
And vesture white, seen ever in that place,
Ever as surely as the hours came round,
Among those reverend trees, gave her below
The name of The White Lady. But the day
Is gone, and I delay thee.

In that chair
The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting,
The gentle serving-maid, the fair CRISTINE,
Combing her golden hair; and thro' this door