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, t

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,
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.
† See Note.

* BIANCA CAPELLO.

But lo, the Sun is setting; earth and sky One blaze of glory-What we saw but now, As tho' it were not, tho' 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-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 may we, 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 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 thro' 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,
He was the first I saw,

In fervent prayer.
(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.