And thou hast found at last. Were I as thou, I wrote. ""Tis well," he cried. "A peasant-boy, None else were by; and, as I gazed unseen, As I stagger'd down, "Wouldst thou know more? My story is an old one. darest not. Come and assert thy birth-right while thou canst. Dost thou ask How I have kept my oath? Thou shalt be told, Two months ago, 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, When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood, Everywhere Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry, Yet here, methinks, Truth wants no ornament, in her own shape Here the vines Wed, each her elm, and o'er the golden grain Its hopes and fears and feignings, till the youth But here the mighty Monarch underneath, He works his wonders; save, when issuing forth 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 clamors, or the owl Hoots in the temple. What the mountainous Isle,1 Seen in the South? "Tis 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out Darkness, distemper.-Strange, that one so vile Should from his den strike terror through the world; Should, where withdrawn in his decrepitude, Say to the noblest, be they where they might, "Go from the earth!"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,^ 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. Here lived a miller; silent and at rest His mill-stones now. In old companionship Still do they stand as on the day he went, Each ready for its office-but he comes not. And here, hard by, (where one in idleness Has stopt to scrawl a ship, an armed man; But lo, engraven on a threshold-stone, As through the courts and chambers we advance, -Ah, no, 't is but a mockery of the sense, 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. 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 son. nets 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 Apennines; 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 honor 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, He had just left the University of Palermo and seating themselves on a bench under her vine-trellis, was entering the army, when he became acquainted were supplied with a flagon of Aleatico by a lovely with a young lady of great beauty and merit, a girl, her only child, the image of her former self. Sicilian of a family as illustrious as his own. Living The eldest spoke like a Venetian, and his beard was near each other, they were often together; and, at short and pointed after the fashion of Venice. In his 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. demeanor 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. Relying on that promise, he said, I set out on a In their hats they wore a medal, such as in that age long journey, but in my absence the usual arts were was often distributed in war; and they were eviresorted to. Our letters were intercepted; and false dently subalterns in one of those Free Bands which rumors were spread-first of my indifference, then were always ready to serve in any quarrel, if a ser of my inconstancy, then of my marriage with a rich vice it could be called, where a battle was little more heiress of Sienna; and, when at length I returned than a mockery; and the slain, as on an opera-stage, to make her my own, I found her in a convent of were up and fighting to-morrow. Overcome with the Ursuline Nuns. She had taken the veil; and I, said heat, they threw aside their cloaks; and, with their he with a sigh-what else remained for me?—I went gloves tucked under their belts, continued for some into the church. time in earnest conversation. Yet many, he continued, as if to turn the conver- At length they rose to go; and the Venetians thus sation, very many have been happy though we were addressed their Hostess. "Excellent Lady, may we not; and, if I am not abusing an old man's privilege, leave under your roof, for a day or two, this bag of let me tell you a story with a better catastrophe. It gold?" "You may," she replied gaily. "But rememwas told to me when a boy; and you may not be ber, we fasten only with a latch. Bars and bolts, we have none in our village; and, if we had, where curtain, lest her beauty should divert their thoughts; would be your 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." "Perhaps you will favor us with an acknowledg ment." "If you will write it." a precaution in this 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, unpractised and unprepared as he is, against an array that would alarm the most experienced ?— Were I as mighty as I am weak," said he, "my An acknowledgment was written accordingly, and fears for you would make me as nothing. But I will she signed it before Master Bartolo, the village phy-be there, Gianetta; and may the Friend of the sician who had just called by chance to learn the news Friendless give me strength in that hour! Even now of the day; the gold to be delivered when applied my heart fails me; but, come what will, while I have for, but to be delivered (these were the words) not to a loaf to share, you and your mother shall never want. one-nor to two-but to the three; words wisely I will beg through the world for you." introduced by those to whom it belonged, knowing The day arrives, and the court assembles. The what they knew of each other. The gold they had claim is stated, and the evidence given. And now the just released from a miser's chest in Perugia; and defence is called for-but none is made; not a sylthey were now on a scent that promised more. lable is uttered; and, after a pause and a consultaThey and their shadows were no sooner departed, tion of some minutes, the Judges are proceeding to than the Venetian returned, saying, “Give me leave give judgment, silence having been proclaimed in to set my seal on the bag, as the others have done;" the court, when Lorenzo rises and thus addresses and she placed it on a table before him. But in that them. 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! 66 take "Go, Gianetta," said she to her daughter, 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 to-morrow! "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 miseries, 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, Now Gianetta had a lover; and he was a student The steward, his stories longer than his rent-roll, of the law, a young man of great promise, Lorenzo Who enters, quill in ear, and, one by one, Martelli. He had studied long and diligently under As though I lived to write and wrote to live, that learned lawyer, Giovanni Andreas, who, though Unrolls his leases for my signature." 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 He clanks his fetters to disturb my peace. 1 Ce pourroit être, says Bayle, la matière d'un joli problême: profit de ses auditeurs, en leur cachant son beau visage. lly on pourroit examiner si cette fille avançoit, ou si elle retardoit auroit cent choses à dire pour et contre là-dessus. le Of wealth and power, renouncing willingly That Seraph sitting in the heaven of heavens. A heaving bark, an anchor on the strand, Then were the nations by her wisdom sway'd; What men most covet, wealth, distinction, power, And in their countries many a house of prayer, Are baubles nothing worth, that only serve And they, the few, that have it ere they earn it, These dangerous gifts placed in their idle hands, XVIII. He who sets sail from Naples, when the wind There would I linger-then go forth again, 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. And many a shelter, where no shelter was, ask'd, "Who are the noble founders ?" every tongue For three hundred years, They are now forgot, There now to him who sails | Scatter'd above, below, some in the clouds, |