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And thou hast found at last. Were I as thou,
I in thy grasp as thou art now in ours,
Soon should I make a midnight-spectacle,
Soon, limb by limb, be mangled on a wheel,
Then gibbetted to blacken for the vultures,
But I would teach thee better-how to spare.
Write as I dictate. If thy ransom comes,
Thou livest. If not-but answer not, I pray,
Lest thou provoke me. I may strike thee dead;
And know, young man, it is an easier thing
To do it than to say it. Write, and thus.»>-

I wrote. 'T is well, he cried. A peasant-boy,
Trusty and swift of foot, shall bear it hence.
Meanwhile lie down and rest. This cloak of mine
Will serve thee; it has weather'd many a storm.»
The watch was set; and twice it had been changed,
When morning broke, and a wild bird, a hawk,
Flew in a circle, screaming. I look'd up,

And all were gone, save him who now kept guard,
And on his arms lay musing. Young he seem'd,
And sad, as though he could indulge at will
Some secret sorrow. • Thou shrink'st back, he said.
Well mayst thou, lying, as thou dost, so near
A ruffian-one for ever link'd and bound
To guilt and infamy. There was a time
When he had not perhaps been deem'd unworthy,
When he had watch'd that planet to its setting,
And dwelt with pleasure on the meanest thing
That Nature has given birth to. Now 't is past.

Wouldst thou know more? My story is an old one.

I loved, was scorn'd, I trusted, was betray'd;
And in my anguish, my necessity,

Met with the fiend, the tempter-in Rusconi.

None else were by; and, as I gazed unseen,
Her youth, her innocence and gaiety
Went to my heart; and, starting up, I cried,
'Fly-for your life! Alas, she shriek'd, she fell;
And, as I caught her falling, all rush'd forth.
'A Wood-nymph!' said Rusconi. 'By the light,
Lovely as Hebe! Lay her in the shade.'

I heard him not. I stood as in a trance.
'What,' he exclaim'd with a malicious smile,
'Wouldst thou rebel? I did as he required.
'Now bear her hence to the well-head below.
A few cold drops will animate this marble.
Go! 'T is an office all will envy thee;
But thou hast earn'd it.'

As I stagger'd down,
Unwilling to surrender her sweet body;

Her golden hair dishevell'd on a neck
Of snow, and her fair eyes closed as in sleep,
Frantic with love, with hate, 'Great God!' I cried,
(I had almost forgotten how to pray)

Why may I not, while yet-while yet I can,
Release her from a thraldom worse than death?
'Twas done as soon as said. I kiss'd her brow,
And smote her with my dagger. A short cry
She utter'd, but she stirr'd not; and to heaven
Her gentle spirit fled. 'T was where the path
In its descent turn'd suddenly. No eye
Observed me, though their steps were following fast.
But soon a yell broke forth, and all at once
Levell'd their deadly aim. Then I had ceased
To trouble or be troubled, and had now
(Would I were there!) been slumbering in my grave,
Had not Rusconi with a terrible shout

Thrown himself in between us, and exclaim'd,
Grasping my arm, T is bravely, nobly done!

'Why thus?' he cried. 'Thou wouldst be free and darest Is it for deeds like these thou wear'st a sword?

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When on a vineyard-hill we lay conceal'd
And scattered up and down as we were wont,
I heard a damsel singing to herself,
And soon espied her, coming all alone,
In her first beauty. Up a path she came,
Leafy and intricate, singing her song,
A song of love, by snatches; breaking off
If but a flower, an insect in the sun
Pleased for an instant; then as carelessly
The strain resuming, and, where'er she stopt,
Rising on tiptoe underneath the boughs
To pluck a grape in very wantonness.
Her look, her mien and maiden-ornaments
Show'd gentle birth; and, step by step, she came,
Nearer and nearer, to the dreadful snare.

Was this the business that thou camest upon ?
-But 't is his first offence, and let it pass.
Like the young tiger he has tasted blood,
And may do much hereafter. He can strike
Home to the hilt.' Then in an under-tone,
Thus wouldst thou justify the pledge I gave,
When in the eyes of all I read distrust?
For once,' and on his cheek, methought, I saw
The blush of virtue, 'I will save thee, Albert;
Again I cannot.',

Ere his tale was told,

As on the heath we lay, my ransom came;
And in six days, with no ungrateful mind,

Albert was sailing on a quiet sea.

-But the night wears, and thou art much in need Of rest. The young Antonio, with his torch,

Is waiting to conduct thee to thy chamber.

XV. NAPLES.

THIS region, surely, is not of the earth.'
Was it not dropt from heaven? Not a grove,
Citron or pine or cedar, not a grot
Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine,
But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings
On the clear wave some image of delight,
Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers,

Un pezzo di cielo caduto in terra. -SANNAZARO.

Some ruin'd temple or fallen monument,
To muse on as the bark is gliding by,

And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide,

From day-break, when the mountain pales his fire
Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top,
Till then invisible, a smoke ascends,
Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat,
When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood,
Was with his household sacrificing there-
From day-break to that hour, the last and best,
When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth,
Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow,
And, when the nets are thrown, the evening-hymn
Steals o'er the trembling waters.

Every where

Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry,
Each her peculiar influence. Fable came,
And laugh'd and sung, arraying Truth in flowers,
Like a young child her grandam. Fable came ;
Earth, sea and sky reflecting, as she flew,

A thousand, thousand colours not their own:
And at her bidding, lo! a dark descent
To Tartarus, and those thrice happy fields,
Those fields with ether pure and purple light
Ever invested, scenes by Him described,'
Who here was wont to wander, record
What they reveal'd, and on the western shore
Sleeps in a silent grove, o'erlooking thee,
Beloved Parthenope.

Yet here, methinks,

Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape
Filling the mind by turns with awe and love,
By turns inclining to wild ecstacy,
And soberest meditation.

Here the vines

Wed, each her elm, and o'er the golden grain
Hang their luxuriant clusters, checquering
The sunshine; where, when cooler shadows fall,
And the mild moon her fairy net-work weaves,
The lute, or mandoline, accompanied
By many a voice yet sweeter than their own,
Kindles, nor slowly; and the dance2 displays
The gentle arts and witcheries of love,

Its hopes and fears and feignings, till the youth
Drops on his knee as vanquish'd, and the maid,
Her tambourine uplifting with a grace,
Nature's and Nature's only, bids him rise.

But here the mighty Monarch underneath,
He in his palace of fire, diffuses round
A dazzling splendour. Here, unseen, unheard,
Opening another Eden in the wild,

He works his wonders; save, when issuing forth
In thunder, he blots out the sun, the sky,
And, mingling all things earthly as in scorn,
Exalts the valley, lays the mountain low,
Pours many a torrent from his burning lake,
And in an hour of universal mirth,
What time the trump proclaims the festival,
Buries some capital city, there to sleep
The sleep of ages-till a plough, a spade
Disclose the secret, and the eye of day
Glares coldly on the streets, the skeletons,
Each in his place, each in his gay attire,

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And eager to enjoy.

Let us go round, And let the sail be slack, the course be slow, That at our leisure, as we coast along, We may contemplate and from every scene Receive its influence. The Cumaan towers, There did they rise, sun-gilt; and here thy groves, Delicious Baiæ. Here (what would they not?) The masters of the earth, unsatisfied, Built in the sea; and now the boatman steers O'er many a crypt and vault yet glimmering, O'er many a broad and indestructible arch, The deep foundations of their palaces; Nothing now heard ashore, so great the change, Save when the sea-mew clamours, or the owl Hoots in the temple.

What the mountainous Isle, Seen in the South? "T is where a Monster dwelt, Who hurl'd his victims from the topmost cliff; Then and then only merciful, so slow,

So subtle were the tortures they endured.
Fearing and fear'd he lived, cursing and cursed;
And still the dungeons in the rock breathe out
Darkness, distemper.-Strange, that one so vile
Should from his den strike terror through the world;
Should, where withdrawn in his decrepitude,

Say to the noblest, be they where they might,

<< Go from the earth! and from the earth they went. Yet such things were-and will be, when mankind, Losing all virtue, lose all energy;

And for the loss incur the penalty,
Trodden down and trampled.

Let us turn the prow,
And in the track of him who went to die, 3 (164)
Traverse this valley of waters, landing where
A waking dream awaits us. At a step
Two thousand years roll backward, and we stand,
Like those so long within that awful place, 4
Immovable, nor asking, Can it be?

Once did I linger there alone, till day Closed, and at length the calm of twilight came, So grateful, yet so solemn! At the fount, Just where the three ways meet, I stood and look'd, ("T was near a noble house, the house of Pansa), And all was still as in the long, long night That follow'd, when the shower of ashes fell, When they that sought Pompeii, sought in vain; It was not to be found. But now a ray, Bright and yet brighter, on the pavement glanced, And on the wheel-track worn for centuries, And on the stepping-stones from side to side, O'er which the maidens, with their water-urns, Were wont to trip so lightly. Full and clear, The moon was rising, and at once reveal'd The name of every dweller, and his craft; Shining throughout with an unusual lustre, And lighting up this City of the Dead.

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Has stopt to scrawl a ship, an armed man;
And in a tablet on the wall we read
Of shows ere long to be) a sculptor wrought,
Nor meanly; blocks, half-chisell'd into life,
Waiting his call. Here long, as yet attests
The trodden floor, an olive-merchant drew
From many an ample jar, no more replenish'd;
And here from his a vintner served his guests
Largely, the stain of his o'ertlowing cups
Fresh on the marble. On the bench, beneath,
They sate and quaff'd and look'd on them that pass'd,
Gravely discussing the last news from Rome.

But lo, engraven on a threshold-stone,
That word of courtesy, so sacred once,
Hail! At a master's greeting we may enter.
And lo, a fairy palace! every where,

As through the courts and chambers we advance,
Floors of mosaic, walls of arabesque,

And columns clustering in Patrician splendour.
But hark, a footstep! May we not intrude?
And now, methinks, I hear a gentle laugh,
And gentle voices mingling as in converse!
-And now a harp-string as struck carelessly,
And now-along the corridor it comes-
I cannot err, a filling as of baths!
-Ah, no, 't is but a mockery of the sense,
Idle and vain! We are but where we were;
Still wandering in a City of the Dead!

XVI.

THE BAG OF GOLD.

I DINE Very often with the good old Cardinal *** and, I should add, with his cats; for they always sit at his table, and are much the gravest of the company. His beaming countenance makes us forget his age; nor did I ever see it clouded till yesterday, when, as we were contemplating the sun-set from his terrace, he happened, in the course of our conversation, to allude to an affecting circumstance in his early life.

He had just left the University of Palermo and was entering the army, when he became acquainted with a young lady of great beauty and merit, a Sicilian of a family as illustrious as his own. Living near each other, they were often together; and, at an age like theirs, friendship soon turns to love. But his father, for what reason I forget, refused his consent to their union; till, alarmed at the declining health of his son, he promised to oppose it no longer, if, after a separation of three years, they continued as much in love as ever.

Relying on that promise, he said, I set out on a long journey, but in my absence the usual arts were resorted to. Our letters were intercepted; and false rumours were spread-first of my indifference, then of my inconstancy, then of my marriage with a rich heiress of Sienna; and, when at length I returned to make her my own, I found her in a convent of Ursuline Nuns. She had taken the veil; and I, said he with a sigh-what else remained for me?-I went into the church.

Yet many, he continued, as if to turn the conversation, very many have been happy though we were not; and, if I am not abusing an old man's privilege, let me tell you a story with a better catastrophe. It was told to me when a boy; and you may not be unwilling to hear

it, for it bears some resemblance to that of the Merchant of Venice.

We were now arrived at a pavilion that commanded one of the noblest prospects imaginable; the mountains, the sea, and the islands illuminated by the last beams of day; and, sitting down there, he proceeded with his usual vivacity; for the sadness, that had come across him, was gone.

There lived in the fourteenth century, near Bologna, a widow-lady of the Lambertini family, called Madonna Lucrezia, who in a revolution of the state had known the bitterness of poverty, and had even begged her bread; kneeling day after day like a statue at the gate of the cathedral; her rosary in her left hand and her right held out for charity; her long black veil concealing a face that had once adorned a court, and had received the homage of as many sonnets as Petrarch has written on Laura.

But Fortune had at last relented; a legacy from a distant relation had come to her relief; and she was now the mistress of a small inn at the foot of the Appennines; where she entertained as well as she could, and where those only stopped who were contented with a little. The house was still standing, when in my youth I passed that way; though the sign of the White Cross,' the Cross of the Hospitallers, was no longer to be seen over the door; a sign which she had taken, if we may believe the tradition there, in honour of a maternal uncle, a grand-master of that Order, whose achievements in Palestine she would sometimes relate. A mountain-stream ran through the garden; and at no great distance, where the road turned on its way to Bologna, stood a little chapel, in which a lamp was always burning before a picture of the Virgin, a picture of great antiquity, the work of some Greek artist.

Here she was dwelling, respected by all who knew her; when an event took place, which threw her into the deepest affliction. It was at noon-day in September that three foot-travellers arrived, and, seating themselves on a bench under her vine-trellis, were supplied with a flagon of Aleatico by a lovely girl, her only child, the image of her former self. The eldest spoke like a Venetian, and his beard was short and pointed after the fashion of Venice. In his demeanour he affected great courtesy, but his look inspired little confidence; for when he smiled, which he did continually, it was with his lips only, not with his eyes; and they were always turned from yours. His companions were bluff and frank in their manner, and on their tongues had many a soldier's oath. In their hats they wore a medal, such as in that age was often distributed in war; and they were evidently subalterns in one of those Free Bands which were always ready to serve in any quarrel, if a service it could be called, where a battle was little more than a mockery; and the slain, as on an opera-stage, were up and fighting to-morrow. Overcome with the heat, they threw aside their cloaks; and, with their gloves tucked under their belts, continued for some time in earnest conversation.

At length they rose to go; and the Venetian thus addressed their Hostess. « Excellent Lady, may we leave under your roof, for a day or two, this bag of gold ?» You may, she replied gaily. . But remember, we fasten only with a latch. Bars and bolts, we have none

'La Croce Bianca.

in our village; and, if we had, where would be your should divert their thoughts; a precaution in this security?»

<< In your word, Lady.»

« But what if I died to-night? Where would it be then?» said she, laughing. The money would go to the Church; for none could claim it."

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instance at least unnecessary, Lorenzo having lost his heart to another.

To him she flies in her necessity; but of what assistance can he be? He has just taken his place at the bar, but he has never spoken; and how stand up alone,

Perhaps you will favour us with an acknowledg- unpractised and unprepared as he is, against an array

ment."

If you will write it.»

An acknowledgment was written accordingly, and she signed it before Master Bartolo, the Village-physician, who had just called by chance to learn the news of the day; the gold to be delivered when applied for, but to be delivered (these were the words) not to one-nor to two-but to the three; words wisely introduced by those to whom it belonged, knowing what they knew of each other. The gold they had just released from a miser's chest in Perugia; and they were now on a scent that promised more.

They and their shadows were no sooner departed, than the Venetian returned, saying, « Give me leave to set my seal on the bag, as the others have done;» and she placed it on a table before him. But in that moment she was called away to receive a Cavalier, who had just dismounted from his horse; and, when she came back, it was gone. The temptation had proved irresistible; and the man and the money had vanished together.

« Wretched woman that I am! she cried, as in an agony of grief she fell on her daughter's neck, What will become of us! Are we again to be cast out into the wide world?-Unhappy child, would that thou hadst never been born!» and all day long she lamented; but her tears availed her little. The others were not slow in returning to claim their due; and there were no tidings of the thief: he had fled far away with his plunder. A process against her was instantly begun in Bologna; and what defence could she make; how release herself from the obligation of the bond? Wilfully or in negligence she had parted with it to one, when she should have kept it for all; and inevitable ruin awaited her!

Go, Gianetta, said she to her daughter, take this veil which your mother has worn and wept under so often, and implore the Counsellor Calderino to plead for us on the day of trial. He is generous, and will listen to the Unfortunate. But, if he will not, go from door to door; Monaldi cannot refuse us. Make haste, my child; but remember the chapel as you pass by it. Nothing prospers without a prayer.

Alas, she went, but in vain. These were retained against them; those demanded more than they had to give; and all bade them despair. What was to be done? No advocate; and the cause to come on tomorrow!

Now Gianetta had a lover; and he was a student of the law, a young man of great promise, Lorenzo Martelli. He had studied long and diligently under that learned lawyer, Giovanni Andreas, who, though little of stature, was great in renown, and by his contemporaries was called the Arch-doctor, the Rabbi of Doctors, the Light of the World. Under him he had studied, sitting on the same bench with Petrarch; and also under his daughter, Novella, who would often lecture to the scholars, when her father was otherwise engaged, placing herself behind a small curtain, lest her beauty

that would alarm the most experienced?- Were I as mighty as I am weak,» said he, my fears for you would make me as nothing. But I will be there, Gianetta; and may the Friend of the Friendless give me strength in that hour! Even now my heart fails me; but, come what will, while I have a loaf to share, you and your Mother shall never want. I will beg through the world for you.

The day arrives, and the court assembles. The claim is stated, and the evidence given. And now the defence is called for-but none is made; not a syllable is uttered; and, after a pause and a consultation of some minutes, the Judges are proceeding to give judgment, silence having been proclaimed in the court, when Lorenzo rises and thus addresses them.

« Reverend Signors. Young as I am, may I venture to speak before you? I would speak in behalf of one who has none else to help her; and I will not keep you long.

Much has been said; much on the sacred nature of the obligation-and we acknowledge it in its full force. Let it be fulfilled, and to the last letter. It is what we solicit, what we require. But to whom is the bag of gold to be delivered? What says the bond? Not to one not to two-but to the three. Let the three stand forth and claim it.

From that day, (for who can doubt the issue?) none were sought, none employed, but the subtle, the eloquent Lorenzo. Wealth followed Fame; nor need I say how soon he sat at his marriage-feast, or who sat beside him.

XVII.

A CHARACTER.

ONE of two things Montrioli may have,
My envy or compassion. Both he cannot.
Yet on he goes, numbering as miserics,
What least of all he would consent to lose,
What most indeed he prides himself upon,
And, for not having, most despises me.

At morn the minister exacts an hour;
At noon the king. Then comes the council-board;
And then the chase, the supper. When, ah! when,
The leisure and the liberty I sigh for?
Not when at home; at home a miscreant-crew,
That now no longer serve me, mine the service.
And then that old hereditary bore,
The steward, his stories longer than his rent-roll,
Who enters, quill in ear, and, one by one,
As though I lived to write, and wrote to live,
Unrolls his leases for my signature,>

He clanks his fetters to disturb my peace. Yet who would wear them, and become the slave

Ce pourroit étre, says Bayle, la matière d'un joli problême: on de ses auditeurs, en leur cachant son beau visage. Il y auroit cent pourroit examiner si cette hile avangoit, on si elle retardost le profit choses à dire pour et contre là-dessus.

Of wealth and power, renouncing willingly
His freedom, and the hours that fly so fast,
A burden or a curse when misemploy'd,
But to the wise how precious!-every day
A little life, a blank to be inscribed
With gentle deeds, such as in after-time
Console, rejoice, whene'er we turn the leaf
To read them? All, wherever in the scale,
Have, be they high or low, or rich or poor,
Inherit they a sheep-hook or a sceptre,
Much to be grateful for; but most has he,
Born in that middle sphere, that temperate zone,
Where Knowledge lights his lamp, there most secure,
And Wisdom comes, if ever, she who dwells
Above the clouds, above the firmament,
That Seraph sitting in the heaven of heavens.

What men most covet, wealth, distinction, power,
Are baubles nothing worth, that only serve
To rouse us up, as children in the schools
Are roused up to exertion. The reward
Is in the race we run, not in the prize;

And they, the few, that have it ere they earn it,
Having by favour or inheritance,

These dangerous gifts placed in their idle hands,
And all that should await on worth well-tried,
All in the glorious days of old reserved
For manhood most mature or reverend age,
Know not, nor ever can, the generous pride
That glows in him who on himself relies,
Entering the lists of life.

XVIII. SORRENTO.

He who sets sails from Naples, when the wind
Blows fragrance from Posilipo, may soon,
Crossing from side to side that beautiful lake,
Land underneath the cliff, where once among
The children gathering shells along the shore,
One laugh'd and play'd, unconscious of his fate; '
His to drink deep of sorrow, and, through life,
To be the scorn of them that knew him not,
Trampling alike the giver and his gift,
The gift a pearl precious, inestimable,
A lay divine, a lay of love and war,
To charm, ennoble, and, from age to age,
Sweeten the labour, when the oar was plied
Or on the Adrian or the Tuscan sea.

There would I linger-then go forth again, And hover round that region unexplored, Where to Salvator (when, as some relate, By chance or choice he led a bandit's life, Yet oft withdrew, alone and unobserved, To wander through those awful solitudes) Nature reveal'd herself. Unveil'd she stood, In all her wildness, all her majesty,

As in that elder time, ere Man was made.

There would I linger-then go forth again; And he who steers due east, doubling the cape, Discovers, in a crevice of the rock,

The fishing-town, Amalfi. (165) Haply there

1 Tasso.

A heaving bark, an anchor on the strand, May tell him what it is; but what it was, Cannot be told so soon.

The time has been,

When on the quays along the Syrian coast, 'T was ask'd and eagerly, at break of dawn, << What ships are from Amalfi ?» when her coins, Silver and gold, circled from clime to clime; From Alexandria southward to Sennaar, And eastward, through Damascus and Cabul And Samarcand, to thy great wall, Cathay.

Then were the nations by her wisdom sway'd;
And every crime on every sea was judged
According to her judgments. In her port
Prows, strange, uncouth, from Nile and Niger met,
People of various feature, various speech;
And in their countries many a house of prayer,
And many a shelter, where no shelter was,
And many a well, like Jacob's in the wild,
Rose at her bidding. Then in Palestine,
By the way-side, in sober grandeur stood
An Hospital, that, night and day, received
The pilgrims of the west; (166) and, when 't was ask'd;
« Who are the noble founders?» every tongue
At once replied, « The merchants of Amalfi. »
That Hospital, when Godfrey scaled the walls,
Sent forth its holy men in complete steel;
And hence, the cowl relinquish'd for the helm,
That chosen band, valiant, invincible,
So long renown'd as champions of the Cross,
In Rhodes, in Malta.

For three hundred years
There unapproach'd but from the deep, they dwelt;
Assail'd for ever, yet from age to age
Acknowledging no master. From the deep
They gather'd in their harvests; bringing home,
In the same ship, relics of ancient Greece, (167)
That land of glory where their fathers lay,
Grain from the golden vales of Sicily, (168)
And Indian spices. When at length they fell,
Losing their liberty, they left mankind

A legacy, compared with which the wealth
Of Eastern kings-what is it in the scale ?
The mariner's compass.

.

They are now forgot, And with them all they did, all they endured, Struggling with fortune. When Sicardi stood, And, with a shout like thunder, cried, Come forth, And serve me in Salerno! Forth they came, Covering the sea, a mournful spectacle; The women wailing, and the heavy oar Falling unheard. Not thus did they return, The tyrant slain; (169) though then the grass of years Grew in their streets.

There now to him who sails Under the shore, a few white villages, Scatter'd above, below, some in the clouds, Some on the margin of the dark blue sea, And glittering through their lemon-groves, announce The region of Amalfi. Then half-fallen,

A lonely watch-tower on the precipice,

Their ancient land-mark, comes. Long may it last;

And to the seaman in a distant age,

Though now he little thinks how large his debt,
Serve for their monument! (170)

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