bitter the disappointment! (Then, after a pause of

a few minutes),

ANSWER, ex improviso.

Yes, yes, that boon, life's richest treat,

He had, or fancied that he had;

Say, 'twas but in his own conceit

The fancy made him glad!

Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish,

The boon, prefigured in his earliest wish,

The fair fulfilment of his poesy,

When his young heart first yearned for sympathy!

But e'en the meteor offspring of the brain

Unnourished wane;

Faith asks her daily bread,

And Fancy must be fed.

Now so it chanced-from wet or dry,
It boots not how-I know not why-
She missed her wonted food; and quickly
Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly.
Then came a restless state, 'twixt yea and
nay,
His faith was fixed, his heart all ebb and flow;
Or like a bark, in som half-sheltered bay,
Above its anchor driving to and fro.
That boon, which but to have possest
In a belief, gave life a zest-
Uncertain both what it had been,
And if by error lost, or luck;

And what it was;-an evergreen
Which some insidious blight had struck,
Or annual flower, which, past its blow,
No vernal spell shall e'er revive;

Uncertain, and afraid to know,

Doubts tossed him to and fro; Hope keeping Love, Love Hope alive, Like babes bewildered in the snow, That cling and huddle from the cold In hollow tree or ruined fold.

Those sparkling colors, once his boast,
Fading one by one away,

Thin and hueless as a ghost,

Poor Fancy on her sick bed lay:

Ill at distance, worse when near,
Telling her dreams to jealous Fear!

Where was it, then, the sociable sprite

That crowned the Poet's cup and decked his dish!
Poor shadow cast from an unsteady wish,
Itself a substance by no other right

But that it intercepted Reason's light;
It dimmed his eye, it darkened on his brow
A peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow!
Thank Heaven! 'tis not so now.

O bliss of blissful hours!

The boon of Heaven's decreeing,

While yet in Eden's bowers

Dwelt the first husband and his sinless mate!

The one sweet plant, which piteous Heaven agreeing,
They bore with them, thro' Eden's closing gate!
Of life's gay summer tide the sovran rose !
Late autumn's amaranth, that more fragrant blows
When passion's flowers all fall or fade :
If this were ever his, in outward being,
Or but his own true love's projected shade,
Now that at length by certain proof he knows,
That whether real or a magic show,

Whate'er it was, it is no longer so;
Though heart be lonesome, hope laid low,
Yet, Lady! deem him not unblest;
The certainty that hope struck dead,
Hath left contentment in her stead;
And that is next to best!

THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO.

F late, in one of those most weary hours,

OF

When life seems emptied of all genial powers, A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known, May bless his happy lot, I sate alone;

And, from the numbing spell to win relief,
Called on the past for thought of glee or grief..
In vain! bereft alike of grief or glee,

I sate and cowered o'er my own vacancy!
And as I watched the dull continuous ache,
Which, all else slumb'ring, seemed alone to wake;
O Friend! long wont to notice yet conceal,
And soothe by silence what words cannot heal,
I but half saw that quiet hand of thine
Place on my desk this exquisite design,
Boccaccio's Garden and its faery,

The love, the joyance, and the gallantry!
An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm,
Framed in the silent poesy of form.
Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep
Emerging from a mist; or like a stream
Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,

But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream.

Gazed by an idle eye with silent might
The picture stole upon my inward sight.

A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest, As though an infant's finger touched my breast. And one by one (I know not whence) were brought All spirits of power that once had stirred my thought In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost

Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost;

Or charmed my youth, that, kindled from above,
Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love;
Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan

Of manhood, musing what and whence is man!
Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves
Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves;
Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids,
That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades;
Or minstrel lay, that cheered the baron's feast;
Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest,
Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array,
To high church pacing on the great saint's day.
And many a verse which to myself I sang,
That woke the tear yet stole away the pang,
Of hopes which in lamenting I renewed.
And last, a matron now, of sober mien,
Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen,
Whom as a faery child my childhood wooed
Even in my dawn of thought-Philosophy;
Though then unconscious of herself, pardie,
She bore no other name than Poesy;

And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee,
That had but newly left a mother's knee,
Prattled and played with bird, and flower, and stone,
As if with elfin play fellows well kn ›wn,

And life revealed to innocence alone.

Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descry
Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,
And all awake! And now in fixed gaze stand,
Now wander through the Eden of thy hand;
Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear
See fragment shadows of the crossing deer;
And with that serviceable nymph I stoop
The crystal from its restless pool to scoop.
I see no longer! I myself am there,

Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.
"Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,
And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings:
Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells

From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.

With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,

And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.

The brightness of the world, O thou once free,
And always fair, rare land of courtesy !
O Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills,
And famous Arno, fed with all their rills;
Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy!
Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine,
The golden corn, the olive, and the vine.
Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old,
And forests, where, beside his leafy hold.
The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn,
And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn;
Palladian palace with its storied halls;
Fountains, where Love lies listen'ng to their falls;
Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span,
And Nature makes her happy home with man;
Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed