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,119
Urged by the love of home. -Twelve years ago,
When like an arrow from the cord we flew,
Two long, long days, silence, suspense on board,
It was to offer at thy fount, VAUCLUSE,
Entering the archéd 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?
If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
TO MODENA,123 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; through their archéd 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 sate,
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,
Enter the house-prithee, forget it not-
And look a while upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,126
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by ZAMPIERI 127 but by whom I care not.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,
As though 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, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!
Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by ANTONY of Trent
With scripture-storics from the life of Christ;
A chest that came from VENICE, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor.
it may be true or false — But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to him?
GINEVRA was his all in life,
Still as she grew, forever in his sight;
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 gayety,
Her pranks the favorite 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, preached decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to FRANCESCO.
Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sate down, the bride was wanting there.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
""Tis but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled 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
alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed
But that she was not!-Weary of his life,
FRANCESCO flew to VENICE, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
ORSINI lived; and long was to be seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained a while
Silent and tenantless then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
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?" 'Twas 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 perished-save a nuptial ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "GINEVRA.".
There, then, had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down forever!
'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 thrummed his wire And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain, Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries,1o
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