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In this poem the author has endeavored to describe his journey through a beautiful country; and it may not perhaps be uninteresting to those who have learnt to live in past times as well as present, and whose minds are familiar with the events and the people that have rendered Italy so illustrious; for, wherever he came, he could nc. but remember; nor is he conscious of having slept over any ground that has been " dignified by wisdom, bravery or virtue."

Much of it was originally published as it was written on the spot. He has since, on a second visit, revised it throughout, and added many stories from the old chroniclers, and many notes illustrative of the manners, customs and superstitions, there.



DAY glimmered in the east, and the white Moon.
Hung like a vapor in the cloudless sky,
Yet visible, when on my way I went,

Glad to be gone; a pilgrim from the North,
Now more and more attracted as I drew
Nearer and nearer. Ere the artisan

Had from his window leant, drowsy, half-clad,
To snuff the morn, or the caged lark poured forth,
From his green sod upspringing as to heaven

(His tuneful bill o'erflowing with a song
Old in the days of HOMER, and his wings
With transport quivering), on my way I went
Thy gates, GENEVA, swinging heavily,
Thy gates so slow to open, swift to shut;
As on that Sabbath-eve when he arrived,'
Whose name is now thy glory, now by thee,
Such virtue dwells in those small syllables.
Inscribed to consecrate the narrow street.
His birth-place,— when, but one short step too late,
In his despair, as though the die were cast,

He flung him down to weep, and wept till dawn; Then rose to go, a wanderer through the world.

'Tis not a tale that every hour brings with it." Yet at a city-gate, from time to time, Much may be learnt; nor, London, least at thine, Thy hive the busiest, greatest of them all, Gathering, enlarging still. Let us stand by, And note who passes. Here comes one, a youth, Glowing with pride, the pride of conscious power, A CHATTERTON in thought admired, caressed, And crowned like PETRARCH in the Capitol; Ere long to die, to fall by his own hand, And fester with the vilest.

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Less feverish, less exalted

Here come two,

soon to part,

A GARRICK and a JOHNSON; Wealth and Fame
Awaiting one, even at the gate; Neglect
And Want the other. But what multitudes,
Urged by the love of change, and, like myself,
Adventurous, careless of to-morrow's fare,
Press on though but a rill entering the sea,
Entering and lost! Our task would never end.

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Day glimmered and I went, a gentle breeze Ruffling the LEMAN Lake. Wave after wave, If such they might be called, dashed as in sport, Not anger, with the pebbles on the beach Making wild music, and far westward caught The sunbeam — where, alone and as entranced, Counting the hours, the fisher in his skiff Lay with his circular and dotted line

On the bright waters. When the heart of man Is light with hope, all things are sure to please; And soon a passage-boat swept gayly by,

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