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Low in the west. The gentle airs, that breathe
Fragrance at eve, were rising, and the birds
Singing their farewell-song-the very song
They sung the night that tomb received a tenant;
When, as alive, clothed in his Canon's stole,
And slowly winding down the narrow path,
He came to rest there. Nobles of the land,
Princes and prelates mingled in his train,
Anxious by any act, while yet they could,
To catch a ray of glory by reflection;

And from that hour have kindred spirits flocked
From distant countries, from the north, the south,
To see where he is laid.

Twelve years ago,

*

When I descended the impetuous RHONE,
Its vineyards of such great and old renown,
Its castles, each with some romantic tale,
Vanishing fast-the pilot at the stern,
He who had steered so long, standing aloft,
His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands
On what was now his rudder, now his oar,
A huge misshapen plank-the bark itself
Frail and uncouth, launched to return no more,
Such as a shipwrecked man might hope to build,
Urged by the love of home-Twelve years ago,
When like an arrow from the cord we flew,

The Côte Rotie, the Hermitage, &c.

N

Two long, long days, silence, suspense on board,
It was to offer at thy fount, VAUCLUSE,
Entering the arched Cave, to wander where
PETRARCH had wandered, to explore and sit
Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit,
Musing, reciting-on some rock moss-grown,
Or the fantastic root of some old beech,

That drinks the living waters as they stream
Over their emerald-bed; and could I now
Neglect the place where, in a graver mood,
When he had done and settled with the world,
When all the illusions of his Youth were fled,
Indulged perhaps too much, cherished too long,
He came for the conclusion? Half-way up

He built his house, whence as by stealth he caught,
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life

That soothed, not stirred.But knock, and enter in.
This was his chamber. 'Tis as when he went;

As if he now were in his orchard-grove.
And this his closet. Here he sat and read.
This was his chair; and in it, unobserved,
Reading, or thinking of his absent friends,
He passed away as in a quiet slumber.

Peace to this region! Peace to each, to all!
They know his value-every coming step,
That draws the gazing children from their play,

Would tell them if they knew not.But could aught,

Ungentle or ungenerous, spring up
Where he is sleeping; where, and in an age

Of savage warfare and blind bigotry,
He cultured all that could refine, exalt;
Leading to better things?

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GINEVRA.

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
TO MODENA, where still religiously

Among her ancient trophies is preserved
BOLOGNA'S bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine)
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the ORSINI.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; thro' their arched walks,
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,

Read only part that day. *. A summer-sun

Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go,

Inferno. V.

Enter the house-prythee, forget it not—
And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by ZAMPIERI*-but I care not whom.
He, who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,
As tho' she said Beware!' her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, tho' many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by ANTONY of Trent
With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from VENICE, and had held
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor.

Commonly called DOMENICHINO.

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