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Rise like a curtain ; now the sun looks out, And reading, in the eyes that sparkled round,
Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious light

The thousand love-adventures written there.
This noble amphitheatre of mountains ;
And now appear as on a phosphor-sea

Can I forget-no, never, such a scene
Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pavia; So full of witchery! Night linger'd still,
Some sailing up, some down, and some at anchor, When, with a dying breeze, I left Bellaggio;
Lading, unlading at that small port-town

But the strain follow'd me; and still I saw
Under the promontory—its tall tower

Thy smile, Angelica; and still I heard
And long flat roofs, just such as Poussin drew, Thy voice-once and again bidding adieu.
Caught by a sun-beam slanting through a cloud;
A quay-like scene, glittering and full of life,

And doubled by reflection.

What delight,
After so long a sojourn in the wild,

The song was one that I had heard before,
To hear once more the sounds of cheerful labor! But where I knew not. It inclined to sadness;
-But in a clime like this where are they not? And, turning round from the delicious fare
Along the shores, among the hills 't is now My landlord's little daughter, Barbara,
The heyday of the Vintage; all abroad,

Had from her apron just rolld out before me,
But most the young and of the gentler sex, Figs and rock-melons at the door I saw
Busy in gathering ; all among the vines,

Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like
Some on the ladder, and some underneath, They were, and poorly clad, but not unskillid;
Filling their baskets of green wicker-work, With their small voices and an old guitar
While many a canzonet and frolic laugh

Winning their mazy progress to my heart
Come through the leaves; the vines in light festoons In that, the only universal language.
From tree to tree, the trees in avenues,

But soon they changed the measure, entering on And every avenue a cover'd walk,

A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour, Hung with black clusters. 'Tis enough to make A war of words, and waged with looks and gestures, The sad man merry, the benevolent one

Between Trappanti and his ancient dame,
Melt into tears—so general is the joy!

Mona Lucilia. To and fro it went;
While up and down the cliffs, over the lake, While many a titter on the stairs was heard,
Wains oxen-drawn, and pannier'd mules are seen, And Barbara's among them.
Laden with grapes, and dropping rosy wine.

When 't was done,

Their dark eyes flash'd no longer, yet, methought, Here I received from thee, Filippo Mori, In many a glance as from the soul, express'd One of those courtesies so sweet, so rare !

More than enough to serve them. Far or near, When, as I rambled through thy vineyard-ground Few let them pass unnoticed ; and there was not On the hill-side, thou sent'st thy little son,

A mother round about for many a league, Charged with a bunch almost as big as he, But could repeat their story. Twins they were, To press it on the stranger.

And orphans, as I learnt, cast on the world ;
May thy vats

Their parents lost in the old ferry-boat
O'erflow, and he, thy willing gift-bearer,

That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down Live to become ere-long himself a giver ;

Crossing the rough Penacus.' And in due time, when thou art full of honor,

May they live The staff of thine old age !

Blameless and happy-rich they cannot be,

In a strange land Like him who, in the days of Minstrelsy, (18) Such things, however trifling, reach the heart,

Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door, And through the heart the head, clearing away

Crying without, “ Give me a lay to sing !" The narrow notions that grow up at home,

And soon in silk (such then the power of song) And in their place grafting Good-Will 10 All.

Return'd to thank him; or like him, wayworn At least I found it so; nor less at eve,

And lost, who, by the foaming Adige
When, bidden as an English traveller

Descending from the Tyrol, as night fell,
(T was by a little boat that gave me chase Knock'd at a city-gate near the hill-foot,
With oar and sail, as homeward-bound I cross'd The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone,
The bay of Tramezzine), right readily

An eagle on a ladder, and at once
I tum'd my prow and follow'd, landing soon Found welcome-nightly in the banner'd hall
Where steps of purest marble met the wave;

Tuning his harp to tales of Chivalry
Where, through the trellises and corridors,

Before the great Mastino, (19) and his guests, Soft music came as from Armida's palace,

The three-and-twenty, by some adverse fortune, Breathing enchantment o'er the woods, the waters ; By war or treason or domestic malice, And through a bright pavilion, bright as day,

Reft of their kingly crowns, reft of their all, Forms such as hers were flitting, lost among

And living on his bounty. Such as of old in sober pomp swept by,

But who now
Such as adorn the triumphs and the feasts

Enters the chamber, flourishing a scroll
Painted by Cagliari ; (16) where the world danced In his right hand, his left at every step
Under the starry sky, while I lookd on,
Admiring, listening, quaffing gramolata, (17)

1 Lago di Garda.
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Brushing the floor with what was once a hat And through the ranks, from wing to wing, are seen
Of ceremony. Gliding on, he comes,

Moving as once they were_instead of rage
Slipshod, ungarter'd; his long suit of black Breathing deliberate valor.
Dingy and thread bare, though renew'd in patches
Till it has almost ceased to be the old one.

At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads

COLL'ALTO. " "T is my necessity !” he stops and speaks, Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face.

In this neglected mirror (23) (the broad frame

Of massive silver serves to testify “I am a Poet, Signor :-give me leave

That many a noble matron of the house
To bid you welcome. Though you shrink from notice, Has sale before it) once, alas, was seen
The splendor of your name has gone before you ; What led to many sorrows. From that time
And Italy from sea to sea rejoices,

The bat came hither for a sleeping-place;
As well indeed she may! But I transgress : And he, who cursed another in his heart,
I too have known the weight of praise, and ought Said, “ Be thy dwelling through the day, the night,
To spare another.”

Shunn'd like Coil'alto." "T was in that old Castle, Saying so, he laid

Which flanks the cliff with its grey battlements His sonnet, an impromptu, on my table,

Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest, And bow'd and left me; in his hollow hand Hangs in the Trevisan, that thus the Steward, Receiving my small tribute, a zecchino,

Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left him, Unconsciously, as doctors do their fees.

Address'd me, as we enter'd what was call'd

My Lady's Chamber.” On the walls, the chairs, My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine,

Much yet remain’d of the rich tapestry; “ The very best in Bergamo!" had long

Much of the adventures of Sir Lancelot
Fled from all eyes; or, like the young Gil Blas In the green glades of some enchanted forest.
De Santillane, I had perhaps been seen

The toilet-table was of massive silver, Bartering my bread and salt for empty praise. Florentine Art, when Florence was renown'd;

A gay confusion of the elements,

Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers:

And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage,

Hung a small bird of curious workmanship,
Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius!

That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold Are those the distant turrets of Verona?

(So said at least the babbling Dame, Tradition) And shall I sup where Juliet at the Masque (20) His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again Saw her loved Montague, and now sleeps by him? The song that pleased her. While I stood and look'd, Such questions hourly do I ask myself; (21) A gleam of day yet lingering in the West, And not a singer-post by the road-side

The Steward went on. “ To Mantua"_" To Ferrara"_but excites

She had ('t is now long since) Surprise, and doubt, and self-congratulation. A gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina.

Fair as a lily, and as spotless 100; O Italy, how beautiful thou art !

None so admired, beloved. They had grown up Yet I could weep for thou art lying, alas ! As play-fellows; and some there were, who said, Low in the dust ; and they who come, admire thee Some who knew much, discoursing of Cristina, As we admire the beautiful in death.

* She is not what she seems.' When unrequired,
T'hine was a dangerous gift, the gift of Beauty. She would steal forth ; her custom, her delight,
Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast, To wander through and through an ancient grove
Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee! Self-planted half-way down, losing herself
-But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already, Like one in love with sadness; and her veil
Twice shone among the nations of the world, (22) And vesture white, seen ever in that place,
As the sun shines among the lesser lights

Ever as surely as the hours came round,
Of heaven; and shalt again. The hour shall come, Among those reverend trees, gave her below
When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit, The name of The White Lady. But the day
Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey, Is gone, and I delay you.
Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again

In that chair
If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess

The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting, Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame Her gentle serving-maid, the fair Cristina, Bursts forth where once it burnt so gloriously, Combing her golden hair; and, through this door And, dying, left a splendor like the day,

The Count, her lord, was hastening, call'd away That like the day diffused itself, and still

By letters of great urgency to Venice; Blesses the earth—the light of genius, virtue, When in the glass she saw, as she believed, Greatness in thought and act, contempt of death, ("T was an illusion of the Evil SpiritGodlike example. Echoes that have slept

Some say he came and cross'd it at the instant) Since Athens, Lacedæmon, were themselves, A smile, a glance at parting, given and answer'd, Since men invoked “ By Those in Marathon !" That turn'd her blood to gall. That very night Awake along the Ægean; and the dead,

The deed was done. That night, ere yei the Moon T'hey of that sacred shore, have heard the call, Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf

Baying as still he does (oft do I hear him,

A vagrant crew, and careless of 10-morrow, (28) An hour and more by the old turret-clock), Careless and full of mirth. Who, in that quaver, They led her forth, the unhappy lost Cristina, Sings “ Caro, Caro ?”—"T is the Prima Donna, Helping her down in her distress to die.

And to her monkey, smiling in his face,

Who, as transported, cries, “ Brava! Ancora ?" " No blood was spilt; no instrument of death

"T is a grave personage, an old macaw, Lurkid-or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose ; Perch'd on her shoulder. But mark him who leaps Nor was a hair of her unblemish'd head

Ashore, and with a shout urges along Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower ungather'd, The lagging mules ; (29) then runs and climbs a tree And warm with life, her youthful pulses playing, That with its branches overhange the stream, She was wall'd up within the Castle-wall. (24) And, like an acorn, drops on deck again. The wall itself was hollow'd to receive her; 'Tis he who speaks not, stirs not, but we laugh ; Then closed again, and done to line and rule. That child of fun and frolic, Arlecchino. (30) Would you descend and see it?—'T is far down; And mark their Poet— with what emphasis And many a stair is gone. "T is in a vault He prompts the young Soubrette, conning her part! Under the Chapel: and there nightly now, Her tongue plays truant, and he raps his box, . As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair, And prompts again; for ever looking round And as though nothing had been done or thought of, As if in search of subjects for his wit, The stone-work rose before her, till the light His satire; and as often whispering Glimmer'd and went-there, nightly, at that hour Things, though unheard, not unimaginable. (You smile, and would it were an idle tale! Would we could say so !) at that hour she stands Had I thy pencil, Crabbe (when thou hast done,Shuddering-her eyes uplifted, and her hands Late may it be-it will, like Prospero's staff, Join'd as in prayer; then, like a Blessed Soul Be buried fifty fathoms in the earth), Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away I would portray the Italian-Now I cannot. Flies o'er the woods, the mountains. Issuing forth, (25) Subtle, discerning, eloquent, the slave The hunter meets her in his hunting track; Of Love, of Hate, for ever in extremes ; The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims Gentle when unprovoked, easily won, For still she bears the name she bore of old) But quick in quarrel-through a thousand shades "Tis the White Lady'!”

His spirit flits, chameleon-like; and mocks

The eye of the observer.

Gliding on,

At length we leave the river for the sea.

Al length a voice aloft proclaims “ Venezia !” THERE is a glorious City in the Sea.

And, as call’d forih, it comes. The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,

A few in fear, Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed

Flying away from him whose boast it was, Clings to the marble of her palaces.

That the grass grew not where his horse had trod, No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,

Gave birth to Venice. Like the water-fowl,
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sea,
Invisible; and from the land we went,

They built their nests among the ocean-waves ;

And, where the sands were shifting, as the wind As to a floating City-steering in,

Blew from the north, the south ; where they that And gliding up her streets as in a dream,

came, So smoothly, silently—by many a dome

Had to make sure the ground they stood upon, Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,

Rose, like an exhalation, from the deep, The statues ranged along an azure sky;

A vast Metropolis, (31) with glittering spires, By many a pile in more than Eastern splendor,

With theatres, basilicas adorn'd;
of old the residence of merchant-kings;
The fronts of soine, though Time had shatter'd them, That has endured the longest among men.

A scene of light and glory, a dominion,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art, (26)
As though the wealth within them had run o'er.

And whence the talisman, by which she rose,

Towering? "T was found there in the barren sea. Thither I came, and in a wondrous Ark,

Want led to Enterprise; and, far or near, (That, long before we slipt our cable, rang

Who met not the Venetian ?-now in Cairo; As with the voices of all living things)

Ere yet the Califa came, (32) listening to hear From Padua, where the stars are, night by night,

Its bells approaching from the Red-Sea coast ;
Watch'd from the top of an old dungeon-tower,
Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelin—(27) In converse with the Persian, with the Russ,

Now on the Euxine, on the Sea of Azoph,
Not as he watch'd them, when he read his fate
And shudder'd. But of him I thought not then,

The Tartar; on his lowly deck receiving

Pearls from the gulf of Ormus, gems from Bagdad Hirn or his horoscope ; far, far from me The forms of Guilt and Fcar ; though some were From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round,

Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love, there,

When in the rich bazaar he saw, display'd, Sitting among us round the cabin-board,

Treasures from unknown climes, away he went, Some who, like him, had cried, “ Spill blood enough!" And could shake long at shadows. They had play'a And, travelling slowly upward, drew ere-long Their parts at Padua, and were now returning;

1 Attila

From the well-head, supplying all below;

Making the Imperial City of the East,

Herself, his tributary.
If we turn

He who is on his travels and loves ease,
To the black forests of the Rhine, the Danube, Ease and companionship, should hire a youth,
Where o'er each narrow glen a castle hangs, Such as thou wert, Luigi. Thee I found,
And, like the wolf that hunger'd at his door, Playing at Mora (33) on the cabin-roof
The baron lived by rapine--there we meet, With Pulcinella-crying, as in wrath,
In warlike guise, the Caravan from Venice; " Tre! Quattro! Cinque !"-'t is a game to strike
When on its march, now lost and now emerging, Fire from the coldest heart. What then from thino
A glittering file, the trumpet heard, the scout And, ere the twentieth throw, I had resolved,
Sent and recallid--but at a city-gate

Won by thy looks. Thou wert an honest lad; All gaiety, and look'd for ere it comes ;

Wert generous, grateful, not without ambition. Winning its way with all that can attract, Had it depended on thy will and pleasure, Cages, whence every wild cry of the desert, Thou wouldst have number'd in thy family Jugglers, stage-dancers. Well might Charlemain, At least six Doges and twelve Procurators. (34) And his brave peers, each with his visor up, But that was not to be. In thee I saw On their long lances lean and gaze awhile, The last of a long line of Carbonari, When the Venetian to their eyes disclosed

Who in their forest, for three hundred years, The Wonders of the East! Well might they then Had lived and labor'd, cutting, charring wood; Sigh for new Conquests !

Discovering where they were, to those astray, Thus did Venice rise, By the re-echoing stroke, the crash, the fall, Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came, Or the blue wreath that travelld slowly up That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet

Into the sky. Thy nobler destinies From India, from the region of the Sun,

Led thee away to justle in the crowd ; Fragrant with spices--that a way was found, And there I found thee—by thy own prescription A channel open'd, and the golden stream

Crossing the sea to try once more a change Turn'd to enrich another. Then she felt

Of air and diet, landing and as gaily, Her strength departing, and at last she fell, Near the Dogana—on the Great Canal, Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed;

As though thou knewest where to dine and sleep She who had stood yet longer than the longest Of the Four Kingdoms—who, as in an Ark,

First didst thou practise patience in Bologna, Had floated down, amid a thousand wrecks, Serving behind a Cardinal's gouty chair, Uninjured, from the Old World to the New, Laughing at jests that were no laughing matter ; From the last trace of civilized life-to where Then teach the Art to others in Ferrara Light shone again, and with unclouded splendor. -At the Three Moors—as Guide, as Cicerone

Dealing ont largely in exchange for pence Though many an age in the mid-sea She dwelt, Thy scraps of knowledge—through the grassy street From her retreat calmly contemplating

Leading, explaining-pointing to the bars The changes of the Earth, herself unchanged. Of Tasso's dungeon, and the Latin verse, Before her pass'd, as in an awful dream,

Graven in the stone, that yet denotes the door The mightiest of the mighty. What are these, Of Ariosto. Clothed in their purple? O'er the globe they fing

Many a year is gone Their monstrous shadows; and, while yet we speak, Since on the Rhine we paried; yet, methinks, Phantom-like, vanish with a dreadful scream! I can recall thee to the life, Luigi; What—but the last that styled themselves the In our long journey ever by my side, Cæsars?

O'er rough and smooth, o'er apennine, maremma; And who in long array (look where they come ; Thy locks jet-black, and clustering round a face Their gestures menacing so far and wide) Open as day and full of manly daring. Wear the green turban and the heron's plume ? Thou hadst a hand, a heart for all that came, Who- but the Caliphs ? follow'd fast by shapes Herdsman or pedlar, monk or muleteer; As new and strange-Emperor, and King, and Czar, And few there were, that met thee not with smiles. And Soldan, each, with a gigantic stride,

Mishap pass'd o'er thee like a summer-cloud. Trampling on all the flourishing works of peace Cares thou hadst none; and they, who stood to hear To make his greatness greater, and inscribe

thee, His name in blood—some, men of steel, steel-clad; Caught the infection and forgot their own. Others, nor long, alas, the interval,

Nature conceived thee in her merriest mood,
In light and gay attire, with brow serene

Her happiest—not a speck was in the sky;
Wielding Jove's thunder, scatte sulphurous fire And at thy birth the cricket chirp'd, Luigi,
Mingled with darkness; and, among the rest, Thine a perpetual voice-at every turn
Iw, one by one, passing continually,

A larum to the echo. In a clime,
Those who assume a sway beyond them all ; Where all the world was gay, thou wert the gayest
Men grey with age, each in a triple crown, And, like a babe, hush'd only by thy slumbers,
And in his tremulous hands grasping the keys Up hill and down, morning and noon and night,
That can alune, as he would signify,

Singing or talkirig; singing to thyself Unlock Heaven's gate.

When none gave ear, but to the listener talking.


The monk, the nun, the holy legate mask'd !

To-morrow came the scaffold and the heads-man;

And he died there by torch-light, bound and gaggál, ST. MARK'S PLACE.

Whose name and crime they knew not. Underneatha

Where the Archangel, turning with the wind, OVER how many tracts, vast, measureless, Blesses the City from the topmost-tower, Nothing from day to day, from year to year, His arms extended—there continually Passes, save now and then a cloud, a meteos, Two phantom-shapes were sitting, side by side, A famish'd eagle ranging for his prey;

Or up, and, as in sport, chasing each other; While on this spot of earth, the work of man, Horror and Mirth. Both vanish'd in one hour! How much has been transacted! Emperors, Popes, But Ocean only, when again he claims Warriors, from far and wide, laden with spoil, His ancient rule, shall wash away their footsteps. Landing, have here perform'd their several parts, Then left the stage to others. Not a stone

Enter the Palace by the marble stairs ! In the broad pavement, but to him who has

Down which the grizzly head of old Faliero An eye, an ear for the Inanimate World,

Rollid from the block. (40) Pass onward through tho Tells of Past Ages.

Chamber, In that temple-porch Where, among all drawn in their ducal robes, (The bras is gone, the porphyry remains), (35) But one is wanting—where, thrown off in heat, Did Barbarossa fling his mantle off,

A short inscription on the Doge's chair And, kneeling, on his neck receive the foot Led to another on the wall yet shorter ;(41) of the proud Pontiff (36)—thus at last consoled And thou wilt track them—wilt from halls of stato For flight, disguise, and many an aguish shake Where kings have feasted, and the festal song On his stone pillow. In that temple-porch, Rung through the fretted roof, cedar and gold, Old as he was, so near his hundredth year, Step into darkness; and be told, “ 'T was here, And blind-his eyes put out-did Dandolo Trusting, deceived, assembled but to die, Stand forth, displaying on his ducal crown To take a long embrace and part again, The cross just then assumed at the high altar. Carrara and his valiant sons were strangled; There did he stand, erect, invincible,

He first-then they, whose only crime had been Though wan his cheeks, and wet with many tears, Struggling to save their Father.-Through that door For in his prayers he had been weeping much; So soon to cry, smiting his brow, “I'm lost!” And now the pilgrims and the people wept Was shown, and with all courtesy, all honor, With admiration, saying in their hearts,

The great and noble captain, Carmagnola.—(42) "Surely those aged limbs have need of rest!" That deep descent (thou canst not yet discern

- There did he stand, with his old armor on, Aught as it is) leads to the dripping vaults Ere, gonfalon in hand, that stream'd aloft,

Under the flood, where light and warmth came never! As conscious of its glorious destiny,

Leads to a cover'd Bridge, the Bridge of Sighs; So soon to float o'er mosque and minaret,

And to that fatal closet at the foot, He sail'd away, five hundred gallant ships, Lurking for prey, which, when a victim enter'd, Their lofty sides hung with emblazon'd shields, Grew less and less, contracting to a span; Following his track to Glory. He returned not; An iron door, urged onward by a screw, But of his trophies four arrived ere-long,

Forcing out life. But let us to the roof, Snatch'd from destruction, the four steeds divine, And, when thou hast survey'd the sea, the land, That strike the ground, resounding with their feet,(37) Visit the narrow cells that cluster there, And from their nostrils snort ethereal flame As in a place of tombs. They had their tenants, Over that very portal-in the place

And each supplied with sufferings of his own. Where in an after-time Petrarch was seen There burning suns beat unrelentingly, Sitting beside the Doge, on his right hand, Turning all things to dust, and scorching up Amid the ladies of the court of Venice,

The brain, till Reason fled, and the wild yell
Their beauty shaded from the setting sun

And wilder laugh burst out on every side,
By many-color'd hangings; while, beneath, Answering each other as in mockery!
Knights of all nations, some from merry England, (38) -Few Houses of the size were better fillid;
Their lances in the rest, charged for the prize. Though many came and left it in an hour.

“ Most nights," so said the good old Nicolo Here, among other pageants, and how oft

(For three-and-thirty years his uncle kept It came, as if returning to console

The water-gate below, but seldom spoke, The least, instruct the greatest, did the Doge,

Though much was on his mind),“ most nights arrived Himself, go round, borne through the gazing crowd, The prison-boat, that boat with many oars, Once in a chair of state, once on his bier.

And bore away as to the Lower World,
They were his first appearance, and his last.

Disburdening in the Canal Orfano, (43)
That drowning-place, where never net was thrown,

Summer or Winter, death the penalty ;
The sea, that emblem of uncertainty,

And where a secret, once deposited,
Changed not so fast for many and many an age, Lay till the waters should give up their dead."
As this small spot. Today 't was full of maskers ;
And lo, the madness of the Carnival, (39)

1 Scala de' Gigapti.

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