He came to rest there. Nobles of the land,

Princes and prelates mingled in his train,

Anxious by any act, while yet they could,

To catch a ray of glory by reflection;

And from that hour have kindred spirits flocked

From distant countries, from the north, the south,

To see where he is laid.

Twelve years ago,

When I descended the impetuous RHONE,
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 at once served him for oar and rudder,

A huge misshapen plank-the bark itself

Frail and uncouth, launched to return no more, Such as a shipwrecked man might hope to build, Urged by the love of home-when I descended Two long, long days, silence, suspense on board, It was to offer at thy fount, VALclusa,

Entering the arched Cave, to wander where

PETRARCH had wandered, in a trance to sit
Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit,
Musing, reciting-on some rock moss-grown,
Or the fantastic root of some old fig-tree,
That drinks the living waters as they stream
Over their emerald-bed; and could I now

Neglect to visit ARQUA; where, at last,

When he had done and settled with the world,

When all the illusions of his Youth were fled,

Indulged perhaps too long, cherished too fondly,

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 left it;

As if he now were busy in his garden.

And this his closet. Here he sate 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 all who dwell here!

They know his value-every coming step,

That gathers round the 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?

XVIII.

IF

ever you should come to MODENA,

(Where among other relics you may see TASSONI'S bucket-but 'tis not the true one)

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 you---but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you-
And took awhile upon a picture there.