Speaks in no louder) 'Pass not on. That door
Leads to another which awaits thy coming,
One in the floor- now left, alas, unlocked.
No eye detects it-lying under-foot,

Just as thou enterest, at the threshold-stone;
Ready to fall and plunge thee into night
And long oblivion!

In that Evil Hour
Where lurked not danger? Thro' the fairy-land
No seat of pleasure glittering half-way down,
No hunting-place-but with some damning spot
That will not be washed out! There, at Caïano,
Where, when the hawks were mewed and evening came,
PULCI would set the table in a roar

With his wild lay-there, where the Sun descends,
And hill and dale are lost, veiled with his beams,
The fair Venetian* died, she and her lord —
Died of a posset drugged by him who sat
And saw them suffer, flinging back the charge;
The murderer on the murdered.

Sobs of Grief,

Sounds inarticulate suddenly stopt,
And followed by a struggle and a gasp,
A gasp in death, are heard yet in Cerreto,
Along the marble halls and staircases,
Nightly at twelve; and, at the self-same hour,
Shrieks, such as penetrate the inmost soul,
Such as awake the innocent babe to long,
Long wailing, echo thro' the emptiness
Of that old den far up among the hills,†

*BIANCA CAPEILO.

† See Note.

Frowning on him who comes from Pietra-Mala;
In them, alas, within five days and less,
Two unsuspecting victims, passing fair,
Welcomed with kisses, and slain cruelly,
One with the knife, one with the fatal noose.
But, lo, the Sun is setting; earth and sky
One blaze of glory-What we saw but now,
As though it were not, though it had not been!
He lingers yet; and, lessening to a point,
Shines like the eye of Heaven-then withdraws;
And from the zenith to the utmost skirts

All is celestial red!

When they that sail

The hour is come,

along the distant seas,

Languish for home; and they that in the morn
Said to sweet friends farewell,' melt as at parting;
When, just gone forth, the pilgrim, if he hears,
As now we hear it-echoing round the hill,
The bell that seems to mourn the dying day,
Slackens his pace and sighs, and those he loved
Loves more than ever. But who feels it not?
And well we may, for we are far away.

THE PILGRIM.

It was an hour of universal joy.

The lark was up and at the gate of heaven,
Singing, as sure to enter when he came;
The butterfly was basking in my path,
His radiant wings unfolded. From below
The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively;
And odours, such as welcome in the day,

Such as salute the early traveller,

And come and go, each sweeter than the last,
Were rising. Hill and valley breathed delight;
And not a living thing but blest the hour!
In every bush and brake there was a voice
Responsive! From the THRASYMENE, that now
Slept in the sun, a lake of molten gold,

And from the shore that once, when armies met,
Rocked to and fro unfelt, so terrible

The rage, the slaughter, I had turned away;
The path, that led me, leading through a wood,
A fairy-wilderness of fruits and flowers,
And by a brook that, in the day of strife,
Ran blood, but now runs amber-when a glade,
Far, far within, sunned only at noon-day,
Suddenly opened. Many a bench was there,
Each round its ancient elm; and many a track,
Well-known to them that from the high-way loved
Awhile to deviate. In the midst a cross
Of mouldering stone as in a temple stood,
Solemn, severe; coeval with the trees
That round it in majestic order rose;
And on the lowest step a Pilgrim knelt
In fervent prayer. He was the first I saw,
(Save in the tumult of a midnight-masque,
A revel, where none cares to play his part,
And they, that speak, at once dissolve the charm)
The first in sober truth, no counterfeit;

And, when his orisons were duly paid,

He rose, and we exchanged, as all are wont,
A traveller's greeting.-Young, and of an age
When Youth is most attractive, when a light

Plays round and round, reflected, while it lasts, From some attendant Spirit, that ere long (His charge relinquished with a sigh, a tear) Wings his flight upward-with a look he won My favour; and, the spell of silence broke, I could not but continue. Whence,' I asked, 'Whence art thou?'-' From Mont'alto,' he replied, 'My native village in the Apennines.'

'And whither journeying?'-To the holy shrine
Of Saint Antonio in the City of PADUA.
Perhaps, if thou hast ever gone so far,

Thou wilt direct my course.'-'Most willingly;
But thou hast much to do, much to endure,
Ere thou hast entered where the silver lamps
Burn ever. Tell me. I would not transgress,
Yet ask I must . . . what could have brought thee forth,
Nothing in act or thought to be atoned for?'-

'It was a vow I made in my distress.

We were so blest, none were so blest as we,

Till Sickness came. First, as death-struck, I fell;
Then my beloved Sister; and ere long,

Worn with continual watchings, night and day,
Our saint-like mother. Worse and worse she grew;
And in my anguish, my despair, I vowed,
That if she lived, if Heaven restored her to us,
I would forthwith, and in a Pilgrim's weeds,
Visit that holy shrine. My vow was heard;
And therefore am I come.'-'Blest be thy steps;
And may those weeds, so reverenced of old,
Guard thee in danger.'"They are nothing worth,
But they are worn in humble confidence;
Nor would I for the richest robe resign them,

Wrought, as they were, by those I love so well,
Lauretta and my sister; theirs the task,
But none to them, a pleasure, a delight,

To ply their utmost skill, and send me forth

As best became this service. Their last words,

"Fare thee well, Carlo. We shall count the hours!" -‘Health and strength be thine

Will not go from me.'

In thy long travel! May no sun-beam strike;
No vapour cling and wither!

May'st thou be,
Sleeping or waking, sacred and secure!

And, when again thou comest, thy labour done,
Joy be among ye! In that happy hour

All will pour forth to bid thee welcome, Carlo;

And there is one, or I am much deceived,

One thou hast named, who will not be the last.'

'Oh, she is true as Truth itself can be!

But ah, thou know'st her not. Would that thou didst!
My steps I quicken when I think of her;

For, though they take me further from her door,
I shall return the sooner.'

AN INTERVIEW.

PLEASURE, that comes unlooked-for, is thrice-welcome;

And, if it stir the heart, if aught be there,

That may hereafter in a thoughtful hour
Wake but a sigh, 'tis treasured up among

The things most precious; and the day it came
Is noted as a white day in our lives.

The sun was wheeling westward, and the cliffs

And nodding woods, that everlastingly