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.

VIII.

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 mazy progress to my heart

In that, the only universal language.

But soon they changed the measure, entering on

A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour,

A war of words, and waged with looks and gestures,

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 'twas done,

Their dark eyes flashed no longer, yet were speaking

More than enough to serve them. Far or near,

Few let them pass unnoticed; and there was not
A mother round about for many a league,

But could repeat their story. Twins they were,
And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world;

Their parents lost in the 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,

Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door,
Crying without, "Give me a lay to sing!"

And soon in silk (such then the power of song).
Returned to thank him; or like him, way-worn

And lost, who, by the foaming ADIGÈ

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

* Lago di Garda.

Found welcome-nightly in the bannered hall

Tuning his harp to tales of Chivalry

Before the great MASTINO, and his guests,*

The three-and-twenty, by some adverse fortune,

By war or treason or domestic malice,

Reft of their kingly crowns, reft of their all,

And living on his bounty.

But who now

Enters the chamber, flourishing a scroll

In his right hand, his left at every step

Brushing the floor with what was once a hat

Of ceremony. Gliding on, he comes,

Slip-shod, ungartered; his long suit of black

Dingy and thread-bare, though renewed in patches

Till it has almost ceased to be the old one.

* See Note.