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Shrieks, such as penetrate the inmost soul,
Such as awake the innocent babe to long,
Long wailing, echo through the emptiness
Of that old den far up among the hills,*
Frowning on him who comes from Pietra-Mala:
In them, alas, within five days and less,

Caffaggiòlo, the favourite retreat of Cosmo, the father of his country. Eleonora di Toledo was stabbed there on the 11th of July, 1576, by her husband, Pietro de' Medici; and only five days afterwards, on the 16th of the same month, Isabella de' Medici was strangled by hers, Paolo Giordano Orsini, at his villa of Cerreto. They were at Florence, when they were sent for, each in her turn, Isabella under the pretext of a hunting party; and each in her turn went to die.

Isabella was one of the most beautiful and accomplished women of the Age. In the Latin, French, and Spanish languages she spoke not only with fluency, but elegance : and in her own she excelled as an Improvisatrice, accompanying herself on the lute. On her arrival at dusk, Paolo presented her with two beautiful greyhounds, that she might make a trial of their speed in the morning; and at supper he was gay beyond

When he retired, he sent for her into his apartment; and, pressing her tenderly to his bosom, slipped a cord round her neck. She was buried in Florence with great pomp; but at her burial, says Varchi, the crime divulged itself. Her face was black on the bier.

Eleonora appears to have had a presentiment of her fate. She went when required; but, before she set out, took leave of her son, then a child; weeping long and bitterly over hima


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 ! The hour is come,
When they that sail 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—wandering 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 may we, for we are far away.

* I have here endeavoured to describe an Italian sun-set as I have often seen it. The conclusion is borrowed from that cele. brated passage in Dante, “Era già l'ora," 8c.

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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


each sweeter than the last, Were rising. Hill and valley breathed delight; And not a living thing but blessed 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,t
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

* The Roman and the Carthaginian. Such was the animosity, says Livy, that an earthquake, which turned the course of rivers and overthrew cities and mountains, was felt by none of the combatants. xxii, 5.

+ A tradition. It has been called from time immemorial, 11 Sanguinetto.

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

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