Their dark eyes flashed no longer, yet, methought, More than enough to serve them. Far or near, And not a matron, sitting at her wheel, But could repeat their story. Twins they were, That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down, * The lake of Catullus; and now called Il lago di Garda. Its waves, in the north, lash the mountains of the Tyrol; and it was there, at the little village of Limone, that Hofer embarked, when in the hands of the enemy and on his way to Mantua, where, in the court-yard of the citadel, he was shot as a traitor. Less fortunate than Tell, yet not less illustrious, he was watched by many a mournful eye as he came down the lake; and his name will live long in the heroic songs of his country. He lies buried at Innspruck in the church of the Holy Cross ; and the statue on his tomb represents him in his habit as he lived and as he died. + Petrarch, Epist. Rer. Sen. 1. v. ep. 3. Asking, beseeching for a lay to sing, And soon in silk (such then the power of song) Found welcome-nightly in the bannered hall Before the great MASTINO, and his guests,* Mastino de la Scala, the Lord of Verona. Cortusio, the embassador and historian, saw him so surrounded. This house had been always open to the unfortunate. In the days of Can Grande all were welcome; Poets, Philosophers, Artists, Warriors. Each had his apartment, each a separate table; and at [the hour of dinner musicians and jesters went from room to room. Dante, as we learn from himself, found an asylum there. "Lo primo tuo rifugio, e'l primo ostello Che'n su la scala porta il santo uccello." Their tombs in the public street carry us back into the times of barbarous virtue; nor less so do those of the Carrara Princes at Padua, though less singular and striking in themselves. Francis Carrara, the Elder, used often to visit Petrarch in his small house at Arquà, and followed him on foot to his grave. The three-and-twenty kings, by adverse fate, Reft of their kingdoms, friendless, shelterless, And living on his bounty. But who comes, Brushing the floor with what was once, methinks, Dingy, thread-bare, tho', patch by patch, renewed At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads 'Tis my necessity!' he stops and speaks, Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face. 'Blame not a Poet, Signor, for his zeal— When all are on the wing, who would be last? As well indeed she may! But I transgress.* His sonnet, an impromptu, at my feet, (If his, then PETRARCH must have stolen it from him) * See the Heraclide of Euripides, v. 203, &c. And bowed and left me; in his hollow hand My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine, ITALY. AM I in ITALY? Is this the Mincius? Are those the distant turrets of Verona? And shall I sup where JULIET at the Masque And not a stone, in a cross-way, inscribed Yet I could weep-for thou art lying, alas, Thine was a dangerous gift, when thou wert born, That now beset thee, making thee their slave! -But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already; |