Can I forget-no never, such a scene So full of witchery. Night lingered still, When, with a dying breeze, I left BELLAGGIO; But the strain followed me; and still I saw Thy smile, Angelica; and still I heard Thy voice-once and again bidding adieu. VIII. THE song was one that I had heard before, But where I knew not. It inclined to sadness; And, turning round from the delicious fare My landlord's little daughter Barbara, Had from her apron just rolled out before me, Figs and rock-melons-at the door I saw Two boys of lively aspect. Peasant-like They were, and poorly clad, but not unskilled; With their small voices and an old guitar Winning their mazy progress to my heart In that, the only universal language. But soon they changed the measure, entering on A pleasant dialogue of sweet and sour, A war of words, and waged with looks and gestures, Between Trappanti and his ancient dame, Mona Lucilia. To and fro it went; While many a titter on the stairs was heard, And Barbara's among them. When 'twas done, Their dark eyes flashed no longer, yet were speaking More than enough to serve them. Far or near, Few let them pass unnoticed; and there was not But could repeat their story. Twins they were, Their parents lost in the old ferry-boat That, three years since, last Martinmas, went down Crossing the rough BENACUS.* May they live Blameless and happy-rich they cannot be, Came in a beggar's weeds to Petrarch's door, And soon in silk (such then the power of song). And lost, who, by the foaming ADIGÈ Descending from the TYROL, as Night fell, Knocked at a City-gate near the hill-foot, The gate that bore so long, sculptured in stone, * Lago di Garda. Found welcome-nightly in the bannered hall Tuning his harp to tales of Chivalry Before the great MASTINO, and his guests,* The three-and-twenty, by some adverse fortune, By war or treason or domestic malice, Reft of their kingly crowns, reft of their all, And living on his bounty. But who now Enters the chamber, flourishing a scroll In his right hand, his left at every step Brushing the floor with what was once a hat Of ceremony. Gliding on, he comes, Slip-shod, ungartered; his long suit of black Dingy and thread-bare, though renewed in patches Till it has almost ceased to be the old one. * See Note. |