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When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fasten'a her down for ever!



It haunts me still, though 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 AncestorThat by the way-it may be true or falseBut don't forget the picture; and you will not, When you have heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child—her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride of an indulgent Father; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety, Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

'T was night; the noise and bustle of the day Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought Miraculous cures-he and his stage were gone; And he who, when the crisis of his tale Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear, Sent round his cap; and he who thrumm'd his wire And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries, So well pourtray'd and by a son of thine, Whiose voice had swell’d the hubbub in his youth, Were hush'd, Bologna; silence in the streets, The squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs; And soon a courier, posting as from far, Housing and holster, boot and belted coat And doublet, staind with many a various soil, Stopt and alighted. 'T was where hangs aloft That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming All who arrive there, all perhaps save those Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell, Those on a pilgrimage: and now approach'd Wheels, tlırough the lofty porticoes resounding, Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade As the sky changes. To the gate they came; And, ere the man had half his story done, Mine host received the Master-one long used To sojourn among strangers, every where (Go where he would, along the wildest track) Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, And leaving footsteps to be traced by those Who love the haunts of Genius; one who saw, Observed, nor shunn'd the busy scenes of life, But mingled not, and, mid the din, the stir, Lived as a separate Spirit.

Much had pass'd Since last we parted; and those five short yearsMuch had they told! His clustering locks were turn'd Grey; nor did aught recall the Youth that swam From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice, Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought Flash'd lightning-like, nor linger'd on the way, Waiting for words. Far, far into the night We sate, conversing-no unwelcome hour, The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose, Rising, we climb'd the rugged Apennine.


Great was the joy; but at the Nuptial feast, When all sate down, the Bride herself was wanting. Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried, " "T is but to make a trial of our love!, And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back and flying still, Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd, But that she was not!

Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived--and long might you have seen Au old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find—lie knew not what. When he was gone, the house remain'd awhile Silent and tenantless—then went to strangers,

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the Gallery,
That mouldering chest was noticed; and 't was said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,

Why not remove it from its lurking-place?»
'T was done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perishd-save a wedding-ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,

There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;

Well I remember how the golden sun Fill'd with its beams the unfathomable gulfs, As on we travell’d, and along the ridge, 'Mid groves of cork and ciscus and wild fig, His motley household came-Not last nor least, Battista, who upon the moonlight-sea Of Venice, had so ably, zealously Served, and, at parting, flung his oar away To follow through the world ; who without stain Had worn so long that honourable badge,?

* See the Cries of Bologna, as drawn by Annibal Carracci. He was of very humble origin; and, to correct his brother's vanity, once sent him a portrait of tbeir father, the tailor, threading his needle.

2 The principal gondolier, il fante di poppa, was almost always in the confidence of his master, and employed on occasions that required judgment and address.


Of all the fairest cities of the earth
None are so fair as Florence. 'T is a gem
Of purest ray, a treasure for a casket !
And what a glorious lustre did it shed,(74)
When it emerged from darkness! Search within,
Without, all is enchantment! "T is the past
Contending with the present; and in turn
Each has the mastery.

In this chapel wrought (55)
Massaccio; and he slumbers underneath.
Wouldst thou behold his monument? Look round!
And know that where we stand, stood oft and long,
Oft till the day was gone, Raphael himself,
He and his haughty Rival-patiently,
Humbly, to learn of those who came before,
To steal a spark from their authentic fire,
Theirs, who first broke the gloom, Sons of the Morning.


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The gondolier's, in a Patrician House
Arguing unlimited trust.-Not last nor least,
Thou, though declining in thy beauty and strength,
Fajthful Moretto, to the latest hour
Guarding his chamber-door, and now along
The silent, sullen strand of Missolonghi
Howling in grief.

He had just left that place
Of old renown, once in the Adrian sea,
Ravenna; where, from Dante's sacred tomb
He had so oft, as 'many a verse declares, 2
Drawn inspiration; where, at twilight-time,
Through the pine-forest wandering with loose rein,
Wandering and lost, he had so oft beheld 3
(What is not visible to a Poet's eye)
The spectre-knight, the hell-hounds, and their prey,
The chase, the slaughter, and the festal mirth
Suddenly blasted. 'T was a theme he loved,
But others claim'd their turn; and many a tower,
Shatter'd, uprooted from its native rock,
Its strength the pride of some heroic age,
Appear'd and vanish'd (many a sturdy steer 4
Yoked and unyoked), while as in happier days
He pour'd his spirit fortli. The past forgot,
All was enjoyment. Not a cloud obscured
Present or future.

lle is now at rest;
And praise and blame fall on his ear alike,
Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone,
Gone like a star that through the firmament
Shot and was lost, in its eccentric course
Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, mcthinks,
Was generous, noble-noble in its scorn
Of all things low or little; nothing there
Sordid or servile. If imagined wrongs
Pursued thee, urging thee sometimes to do
Things long regretted, oft, as many know,
None more than I, thy gratitude would build
On slight foundations: and, if in thy life
Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert,
Thy wish accomplish'd; dying in the land
Where thy young mind had caught ethereal fire,
Dying in Greece, and in a cause so glorious !

There, on the seat that runs along the wall, South of the Church, east of the belfry-tower (Thou canst not miss it), in the sultry time Would Dante sit conversing (-6), and with those Who little thought that in his hand he held The balance, and assign'd at his good pleasure To each his place in the invisible world, To some an upper, some a lower region; Reserving in his secret mind a niche For thee, Salırello, who with quirks of law Hadst plagued him sore, and carefully requiting (77) Such as ere-long condemnd his mortal part To fire. (78) Sit down awhile-then by the gates Wondrously wrought, so beautiful, so glorious, That they might serve to be the gates of Heaven, Enter the Baptistery. That place he loved, Calling it his! And in his visits there Well might he take delight! For, when a child, Playing, with venturous feet, near and yet nearer One of the fonts, fell in, he flew and saved him, (79) Flew with an energy, a violence, That broke the marble-a mishap ascribed To evil motives; his, alas! to lead A life of trouble, and ere-long to leave All things most dear to him, ere-long to know How salt another's bread is, and how toilsome The going up and down another's stairs.

They in thy train-ah, little did they think, As round we went, that they so soon should sit Mourning beside thee, while a Nation mourn'd, Changing her festal for her funeral song; That they so soon should hear the minute-gun, As morning gleam'd on what remain'd of thee, Roll o'er the sea, the mountains, numbering Thy years of joy and sorrow:

Thou art gone; And he who would assail thee in thy grave, Oh, let him pause! For who among us all, Tried as thou wert--even from thine earliest years, When wandering, yet unspoilt, a highland-boyTried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame; Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine, Her charmed cup-ah, who among us all Could say he had not err'd as much, and more?

Nor then forget that Chamber of the Dead (80), Where the gigantic forms of Night and Day, Turn'd into stone, rest everlastingly, Yet still are breathing; and shed round at noon A twofold influence-only to be feltA light, a darkness, mingling each with each; Both and yet neither. There, from age to age, Two Ghosts are sitting on their sepulchres. That is the Duke Lorenzo. Mark him well (81). He meditates, his head upon his hand. What scowls beneath his broad and helm-like bonnet ? Is it a face, or but an eyeless scull? 'T is hid in shade; yet, like the basilisk, It fascinales, and is intolerable. His mien is noble, most majestical! Then most so, when the distant choir is heard,

1 Adrianum mare.--Cic.

? See the Prophecy of DANTE. 3 See the tale as told by Boccaccio and DRYDEN. * They wait for the traveller's carriage at the foot of every bill.

At morn or evenor fail thou to attend
On that thrice-hallow'd day,(82) when all are there;
When all, propitiating with solemn songs,
With light, and frankincense, and holy water,
Visit the Dead. Then wilt thou feel his power!



ught (75)

k round!

But let not Sculpture, Painting, Poesy,
Or they, the masters of these mighty spells,
Detain us.

Our first homage is to Virtue.
Where, in what dungeon of the Citadel
(It must be known-the writing on the wall (83)
Cannot be gone-'t was cut in with his dagger,
Ere, on liis knces to God, he slew himself),
Where, in what dungeon, did Filippo Strozi,
The last, the greatest of the Men of Florence,
Breathe out his soul--lest in his agony,
When on the rack and call'd upon to answer,
He might accuse the guiltless.

That debt paid,
But with a sigh, a tear for human frailty,
We may return, and once more give a loose
To the delighted spiric-worshipping,
In her small temple of rich workmanship,
Venus herself, who, when she left the skies,
Came hither.

und long,


he Morning

Or guilt or fear. Then Cosmo lifted

The bloody sheet. « Look there! Look there!. he cried,
* Blood calls for blood-and from a father's hand!
-Unless thyself wilt save him that sad office.
What!, he exclaim'd, when, shuddering at the sight,
The boy breathed out, « I stood but on my guard."
«Darest thou then blacken one who never wrong‘d thee,
Who would not set his foot upon a worm?---
Yes, thou must die, lest others fall by thee,
And thou shouldst be the slayer of us all.»
Then from Garzia's side he took the dagger,
That fatal one whichi spilt his brother's blood;
And, kneeling on the ground, « Great God!» he cried,
« Grant me the strength to do an act of Justice.
Thou knowest what it costs me; but, alas,
How can I spare myself, sparing pone else?
Grant me the strength, the will - and oh forgive
The sinful soul of a most wretched son.
'T is a most wretched father who implores it..
Long on Garzia's neck he hung, and wept
Tenderly, long press’d him to his bosom;
And then, but while he beld him by the arm,
Thrusting him backward, turn'd away his face,
And stabb'd him to the heart.

Well might De Thou,
When in his youth he came to Cosmo's court,
Think on the past; and, as he wander'd through
The Ancient Palace (87) — through those ample spaces
Silent, deserted-stop awhile to dwell
Upon two portraits there, drawn on the wall (88)
Together, as of two in bonds of love,

One in a Cardinal's habit, one in black,
| Those of the unhappy brothers, and infer
From the deep silence that his questions drew, (89)
The terrible truth.

Well might be heave a sigh
For poor humanity, when lie beheld
That very Cosmo shaking o'er his fire,
Drowsy and deaf and inarticulate,
Wrapt in his night-gown, o'er a sick-man's mess,
In the last stage-death-struck and deadly pale;
His wife, another, not his Eleonora,
Al once his nurse and luis interpreter.


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ting (77)


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ANONG the awful forms that stand assembled
In the great square of Florence, may be seen
That Cosmo,(84) not the Father of his Country,
Not he so styled, but he who play'd the tyrant.
Clad in rich armour like a paladin,
But with his helmet off-in kingly state,
Aloft he sits upon his lorse of brass ;
And they, who read the legend underneath,
Go and pronounce him happy. Yet there is
A Chamber at Grosselo, that, if walls
Could speak, and tell of what is done within,
Would turn your admiration into pily.
Half of what pass’d, died with him; but the rest,
All he discover'd when the fit was on,
All that, by those who listen'd, could be glean'd
From broken sentences and starts in sleep,
Is told, and by an honest Chronicler.(85)

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So ),


sung aloud,

Two of his sons, Giovanni and Garzia

'Tis morning. Let us wander through the fields,
(The eldest had not seen his sixteenth summer), Where Cimabue (90) found a shepherd-boy'
Went to the chase; but one of them, Giovanni,

Tracing his idle fancies on the ground;
His best beloved, the glory of his louse,

And let us from the top of Fiesole,
Return'd not; and at close of day was found

Whence Galileo's glass by night observed
Bathed in his innocent blood. Too well, alas!

The phases of the moon, look round below
The trembling Cosmo guess'd the deed, the doer; On Arno's vale, where the dove-colourd oxen
And having caused the body to be borne

Are ploughing up and down among the vines,
In secret to that clamber-alan bour

While many a careless note is
When all slept sound, save the disconsolate Mother,2(86) Filling the air willi sweetness—and on thee,
Who little thought of what was yet to come,

Beautiful Florence, (91) all within thy walls,
And lived but to be told-he bade Garzia

| Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers,
Arise and follow him. Holding in one hand

Drawn to our feet.
A winking lamp, and in the other a kcy

From that small spire, just caught
Massive and dungeon-like, thither he led;

By the bright ray, that church among the rest (92)
And, having enter'd in and lock'd the door,

By One of Old distinguish'd as The Bride,
The father fix'd his eyes upon the son,

Let us pursue in thought (what can we better?)
And closely question d him. No change betray'd

'Those who assembled there at matin-prayers;2 (93) 1 The Tribune. 2 Eleonora di Toledo.

* See the Decameron. First Day.


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Who, when Vice revell'd apd along the street
Tables were set, what time the bearer's bell
Rang to demand the dead at every door,
Came out into the meadows;(94) and, awhile
Wandering in idleness, but not in folly,
Sate down in the high grass and in the shade
Of many a tree sun-proof-day after day,
When all was still and nothing to be heard
But the cicala's voice among the olives,
Relating in a ring, to banish care,
Their hundred novels.

Round the hill they went, (95)
Round underneath—first to a splendid house,
Gherardi, as an old tradition runs,
That on the left, just rising from the vale;
A place for Luxury-the painted rooms,

open galleries and middle court
Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers.
Then west-ward to another, nobler yet;
That on the right, now known as the Palmieri,
Where Art with Nature vied-a Paradise,
With verdurous walls, and many a trelliss'd walk
All rose and jasmine, many a forest-vista
Cross'd by the deer. Then to the Ladies' Valley;
And the clear lake, that seem'd as by enchantment
To lift up to the surface every stone
Of Justre there, and the diminutive fish
Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold,
Now motionless, now glancing to the sun.

Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day? The inorning-banquet by the fountain-side, (96) The dance that follow'd, and the noon-tide slumber; Then the tales told in turn, as round they lay On carpets, the fresh waters murmuring; And the short interval filld up with games Of Chess, and talk, and reading old Romances, Till supper-time, when many a syren-voice Sung down the stars, and in the grass the torches Burnt brighter for their absence.

He, 'whose dream It was (it was no more ) sleeps in Val d'Elsa, Sleeps in the church, where (in his ear, I ween) The Friar poured out his catalogue of treasures ; (97) A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone To the Wise Men; a phial-full of sounds, The musical chimes of the great bells that liung In Solomon's Temple ; and, though last not least, A feather from the Angel Gabriel's wing, Dropt in the Virgin's chamber.

That dark ridge, Stretching away in the South-east, conceals it; Not so luis lowly roof and scanty farm, (98) Dis copse and rill, if yet a trace be left, Who lived in Val di Pesa, suffering long Exile and want, and the keen shafts of Malice, With an unclouded mind. The glimmering tower On the grey rock beneath, his land-mark once, Now serves for ours, and points out where he ate His bread with cheerfulness.

Who sees him not ('T is his own sketch -- he drew it from himself) (99) Playing the bird-catcher, and sallying forth In an autumnal morn, laden with cages,

To catch a thrush on every lime-twig there;
Or in the wood


his wood-cutters;
Or in the tavern by the biglıway-side
At tric-trac with the miller; or at night,
Doffing h's rustic suit, and, duly clad,
Entering his closet, and, among his books,
Among the Great of every age and clime,
A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased,
Questioning each why he did this or thal,
And learning how to overcome the fear
poverty and death?

Nearer we hail
Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of Old
For its green wine (100) —dearer to me, to most,
As dwelt on by that great Astronomer,'
Seven years a prisoner at the city-gate, (101)
Let in but in his grave-clothes. Sacred be
His cottage (justly was it calla The Jewel!) (102)
Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight
Glimmer'd, at blush of dawn lie dress'd his vines,
Chanting aloud in gaiety of heart
Some verse of Ariosto. There, unseen, (103)
In manly beanty Milton stood before him,
Gazing with reverent awe-Milton, his quest,
Just then come forth, all life and enterprise;
He in his old age and extremity,
Blind, at noon-day exploring with his staff;
His eyes upturn'd as to the golden sun,
llis eye-balls idly rolling. Little then
Did Galileo think whom he bade welcome;
That in his hand he held the hand of one
Who could requite him-wlio would spread his name
O'er lands and seas-great as himself, pay greater ;
Milton as little that in him he saw,
As in a glass, what he himself should be,
Destined so soon to fall on evil days
And evil tongues--so soon, alas, to live
In darkness, and withi dangers compassid round,
And solitude.

Well pleased, could we pursue
The Arno, from his birth-place in the clouds,
So near the yellow Tiber's (104)---springing up
From his four fountains on the Apennine,
That mountain-ridge a sea-mark to the ships
Sailing on either sea. Downward he runs,
Scattering fresh verdure through the desolate wild,
Down by the City of Hermits, (105) and, ere-long,
The venerable woods of Vallombrosa ;
Then through these gardens to the Tuscan sca,
Reflecting castles, convenis, villages,
And those great Rivals in an elder day,
Florence and Pisa—who have given him fame,
Fame everlasting, but who stain's so oft
His troubled waters. Oft, alas, were seen,
When flight, pursuit, and hideous rout were there,
Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring; (106)
The man, the hero, on his foaming stced,
Borne underneath-already in the realms
Of Darkness.

Nor did night or burning noon
Bring respite. Oft, as that great Artist saw,2 (107)
Whose pencil had a voice, the cry - To arms!,
And the shrill trumpet, hurried up the bank
Those who had stolen an hour to breast the tide,

I Boccaccio.

> Machiavel.


• Michael Angelo.


ye met

He spurs,

And wash from thcir unharness'd limbs the blood Stood at her door; and, like a sorceress, flung
And sweat of battle. Sudden was the rush,

ller dazzling spell. Subtle she was, and rich,
Violent the tumult; for, already in sight,

Rich in a hidden pearl of heavenly light,
Nearer and nearer yet the danger drew;

Her daughter's beauty; and too well she knew
Each every sinew straining, every feature,

Its virtuc! Patiently she stood and watch'd;
Each snatching up, and girding, buckling on

Nor stood alone--but spoke nol-In her breast
Morion and greave and shirt of twisted mail,

ller purpose lay; and, as a youth pass'd by,
As for his life-no more perchance to taste,

Clad for the nuptial rite, she smiled and said,
Arno, the grateful freshness of thy glades,

Lifting a corner of the maiden's veil,
Thy waters—where, exulting, he had felt

• This had I treasured up in secret for thee.
A swimmer's transport, there, alas, to float

This liast thou lost!, He gazed and was undone!
And welter. Nor between the gusts of War,

Forgetting-not forgor--he broke the bond,
When flocks were feeding, and the shepherd's pipe And paid the penalty, losing his life
Gladden'd the valley, when, but not unarm’d,

At the bridge-foot; (111) and hence a world of woe!
The sower came forth, and, following him who plough'd, Vengeance for vengeance crying, blood for blood;
Threw in the seed- did thy indignant waves

No intermission! Law, that slumbers not,
Escape pollution. Sullen was the splash,

And, like the Angel with the faming sword,
Tieavy and swift the plunge, when they received Sits over all, at once chastising, healing,
The key that just had grated on the ear

Ilimself the Avenger, went; and every street
Of Ugolino--closing up for ever

Ran red with mutual slaughter-though sometimes
That dismal dungcon henceforth to be named

The young forgot the lessons they had learnt,
The Tower of Famine.

And loved when they should hate-like thee, Imelda,
Once indeed 't was thine, They and thy Paolo. When last
When many a winter-flood, thy tributary,

In that still hour (the heat, the glare was gone,
Was through its rocky glen rushing, resounding, Not so the splendour-through the cedar-grove
And thou wert in thy might, to save, restore

A radiance stream'd like a consuming fire,
A charge most precious. To the nearest ford,

As though the glorious orb, in its descent,
Hastening, a horseman from Arezzo came,

Had come and rested there) when last ye met,
Careless, impatient of delay, a babe

And those relentless brothers draged him forth,
Slung in a basket to the knotty staff

It had been well, hadst thou slept on, Imelda, (112)
That lay athwari his saddle-bow.

Nor from thy trance of fear awaked, as night
He enters; and his horse, alarm'd, perplex'd,

Fell on that fatal spot, to wish thec dead,
Halts in the midst. Great is the stir, the strife; To track him by his blood, to scarch, to find,
And lo, an atom on that dangerous sca, (108)

Then Ding thee down to catch a word, a look,
The babe is floating! Fast and far he flies;

A sigh, if yet thou couldst (alas, thou couldst not)
Now tempest-rock'd, now whirling round and round, And die, unseen, unthought of-from the wound
But not to perish. By thy willing waves

Sucking the poison. (113)
Borne to the shore, among the bulrushes

Yet, when Slavery came,
The ark has rested ; and unhurt, secure,

Worse follow'd. (114) Genius, valour left the land.
As on his mother's breast he sleeps within,

Indignant-all that had from age to age
All peace! or never had the nations heard

Adornd, ennobled; and bead-long they fell,
That voice so sweet, which still enchants, inspires; Tyrant und slave. For deeds of violence,
That voice, which sung of love, of liberty.

Done in broad day and more than half redeem à
Petrarch lay there!--And such the images

By many a great and generous sacrifice
That cluster'd round our Milton, when at eve

Of self to others, came the unpledged bowl,
Reclined beside thee, (109) Arno; when at eve,

The stab of the stiletto. Gliding by
Led on by thee, he wander'd with delight,

Unnoticed, in sloucli'd hat and muffling cloak,
Framing Ovidian verse, and through thy groves That just discover'd, Caravaggio-like,
Gathering wild myrtle. Such the Poet's dreams; A swarthy cheek, black brow, and


of llame, Yet not such only. For look round and say,

The Bravo took his stand, and o'er the shoulder
Where is the ground that did not drink warm blood, Plunged to the hilt, or from beneath the ribs
The echo that had learnt not to articulate

Slanting (a surer path, as some averr'd)
The cry of murder ?-Fatal was the day'

Struck upward--then slupk off, or, if pursued,
To Florence, when ('t was in a street behind

Made for the Sanctuary, and there along
The church and convent of the Holy Cross-

The glimmering aisle among the worshippers
There is the house, that house of the Dopati,

Wanderd with restless step and jealous look,
Towerless, (110) and left long since, but to the last Dropping thick gore.
Braving assault-all rugged, all emboss'd

Misnamed to lull suspicion,
Below, and still distinguish'd by the rings

In every Palace was The Laboratory, (15)
Of brass, that held in war and festival-time

Where he within brew'd poisons swift and slow,
Their family-standards) fatal was the day

That scatter'd terror till all things seem'd poisonous,
To Florence, when, at morn, at the ninth hour, And brave men trembled if a hand held out
A noble Dame in weeds of widowhood,

A nosegay or a letter; while the Great
Weeds to be worn hereafter by so many,

Drank from the Venice-glass, that broke, that shiver'd,

Jf aught malignant, auglit of thine was there,
I See Note.

Cruel Tophana ;(116) and pawn d provinces

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