Ready to fall and plunge thee into night
And long oblivion !"-In that Evil Hour
Where lurked not danger? Through the fairy.
land

No seat of pleasure glittering half-way down,
No hunting-place-but with some damning spot
That will not be washed out! There, at Caïano,1
Where, when the hawks were mewed and Evening

came,

Pulci would set the table in a roar

With his wildlay 2—there, where the Sun descends,
And hill and dale are lost, veiled with his beams,
The fair Venetian 3 died, she and her lord-
Died of a posset drugged by him who sat
And saw them suffer, flinging back the charge;
The murderer on the murdered.-Sobs of Grief,
Sounds inarticulate - suddenly stopt,
And followed by a struggle and a gasp,
A gasp in death, are heard yet in Cerreto,
Along the marble halls and stair-cases,
Nightly at twelve; and, at the self-same hour,
Shrieks, such as penetrate the inmost soul,
Such as awake the innocent babe to long,
Long wailing, echo through the emptiness
Of that old den far up among the hills,+

1 Poggio-Caïano, the favourite villa of Lorenzo; where he often took the diversion of hawking. Pulci sometimes went out with him; though, it seems, with little ardour. See La Caccia col Falcone, where he is described as missing; and as gone into a wood, to rhyme there.

2 The Morgante Maggiore. He used to recite it at the table of Lorenzo in the manner of the ancient Rhapsodists.

3 Bianca Capello.

4 Caffaggiòlo, the favourite retreat of Cosmo, "the father of his country." Eleonora di Toledo was stabbed there on the 11th of July, 1576, by her husband, Pietro de' Medici; and only five days afterwards, on the 16th of the same month, Isabella de' Medici was strangled by hers, Paolo Giordano Orsini, at his villa of Cerreto. They were at Florence, when they were sent for, each in her turn, Isabella under the pretext of a hunting party; and each in her turn went to die.

Isabella was one of the most beautiful and accomplished women of the Age. In the Latin, French, and Spanish languages she spoke not

Frowning on him who comes from Pietra-Mala :
In them, alas, within five days and less,
Two unsuspecting victims, passing fair,
Welcomed with kisses, and slain cruelly,
One with the knife, one with the fatal noose.

But lo, the Sun is setting; 1 earth and sky
One blaze of glory-What we saw but now,
As though it were not, though it had not been!
He lingers yet; and, lessening to a point,
Shines like the eye of Heaven-then withdraws;
And from the zenith to the utmost skirts
All is celestial red! The hour is come,
When they that sail along the distant seas,

Languish for home; and they that in the morn Said to sweet friends " farewell," melt as at parting;

When, just gone forth, the pilgrim, if he hears, As now we hear it-wandering round the hill, The bell that seems to mourn the dying day, Slackens his pace and sighs, and those he loved Loves more than ever. But who feels it not? And well may we, for we are far away.

only with fluency, but elegance: and in her own she excelled as an Improvisatrice, accompanying herself on the lute. On her arrival at dusk, Paolo presented her with two beautiful greyhounds, that she might make a trial of their speed in the morning; and at supper he was gay beyond measure. When he retired, he sent for her into his apartment; and, pressing her tenderly to his bosom, slipped a cord round her neck. She was buried in Florence with great pomp ; but at her burial, says Varchi, the crime divulged itself. Her face was She

black on the bier.

Eleonora appears to have had a presentiment of her fate. went when required; but, before she set out, took leave of her son, then a child; weeping long and bitterly over him.

I have here endeavoured to describe an Italian sun-set as I have often seen it. The conclusion is borrowed from that celebrated passage in Dante, "Era già l'ora," &e.

THE PILGRIM.

T was an hour of universal joy.
The lark was up and at the gate of
heaven,

Singing, as sure to enter when he

came;

The butterfly was basking in my path,
His radiant wings unfolded. From below
The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively;
And odours, such as welcome in the day,
Such as salute the early traveller,
And come and go, each sweeter than the last,
Were rising. Hill and valley breathed delight;
And not a living thing but blessed the hour!
In every bush and brake there was a voice
Responsive!

From the Thrasymene, that now Slept in the sun, a lake of molten gold,

And from the shore that once, when armies met,1
Rocked to and fro unfelt, so terrible

The rage, the slaughter, I had turned away;
The path, that led me, leading through a wood,
A fairy-wilderness of fruits and flowers,
And by a brook that, in the day of strife,2
Ran blood, but now runs amber—when a glade,
Far, far within, sunned only at noon-day,
Suddenly opened. Many a bench was there,
Each round its ancient elm; and many a track,

1 The Roman and the Carthaginian. Such was the animosity, says Livy, that an earthquake, which turned the course of rivers and overthrew cities and mountains, was felt by none of the combatants. xxii. 5.

2 A tradition. It has been called from time immemorial, Il Sanguinetto.

Well-known to them that from the high-way loved
Awhile to deviate. In the midst a cross
Of mouldering stone as in a temple stood,
Solemn, severe; coeval with the trees
That round it in majestic order rose;
And on the lowest step a Pilgrim knelt
In fervent prayer. He was the first I saw,
(Save in the tumult of a midnight-masque,
A revel, where none cares to play his part,
And they, that speak, at once dissolve the charm)
The first in sober truth, no counterfeit ;

And, when his orisons were duly paid,

He rose, and we exchanged, as all are wont,
A traveller's greeting.

Young, and of an age
When Youth is most attractive, when a light
Plays round and round, reflected, while it lasts,
From some attendant Spirit, that ere long
(His charge relinquished with a sigh, a tear)
Wings his flight upward-with a look he won
My favour; and, the spell of silence broke,

I could not but continue.- —" Whence,” I asked, "Whence art thou ?"-" From Mont' alto," he replied,

"My native village in the Apennines."—
"And whither journeying?"—"To the holy
shrine

Of Saint Antonio in the City of Padua.
Perhaps, if thou hast ever gone so far,
Thou wilt direct my course."- ." Most willingly;
But thou hast much to do, much to endure,
Ere thou hast entered where the silver lamps

Burn ever.

Tell me ... I would not transgress, Yet ask I must... what could have brought thee

forth,

Nothing in act or thought to be atoned for?". "It was a vow I made in my distress.

We were so blest, none were so blest as we,
Till Sickness came. First, as death-struck, I fell;
Then my beloved Sister; and ere long,

Worn with continual watchings, night and day,
Our saint-like mother. Worse and worse she grew;
And in my anguish, my despair, I vowed,
That if she lived, if Heaven restored her to us,
I would forthwith, and in a Pilgrim's weeds,
Visit that holy shrine. My vow was heard;
And therefore am I come.”—"Blest be thy steps;
And may those weeds, so reverenced of old,
Guard thee in danger!"-" They are nothing
worth.

But they are worn in humble confidence;
Nor would I for the richest robe resign them,
Wrought, as they were, by those I love so well,
Lauretta and my sister; theirs the task,
But none to them, a pleasure, a delight,
To ply their utmost skill, and send me forth
As best became this service. Their last words,
'Fare thee well, Carlo. We shall count the hours!'
Will not go from me."—" Health and strength be

thine

In thy long travel! May no sun-beam strike;
No vapour cling and wither! May'st thou be,
Sleeping or waking, sacred and secure;
And, when again thou com'st, thy labour done,
Joy be among ye! In that happy hour

All will pour forth to bid thee welcome, Carlo;
And there is one, or I am much deceived,
One thou hast named, who will not be the last."-
“Oh, she is true as Truth itself can be!
But ah, thou know'st her not.

couldst !

Would that thou

My steps I quicken when I think of her;

For, though they take me further from her door, I shall return the sooner."