And telling, by her anxious eyes,
That, if that frail orb breaks, he flies!!

Thou, too, with touch magnificent,

PAUL of VERONA !-where are they, The oriental forms 2, that lent

Thy canvass such a bright array ? Noble and gorgeous dames, whose dress Seems part of their own loveliness; Like the sun's drapery, which, at eve, The floating clouds around him weave Of light they from himself receive! Where is there now the living face

Like those that, in thy nuptial throng," By their superb, voluptuous grace, Make us forget the time, the place,

The holy guests they smile among, Till, in that feast of heaven-sent wine, We see no miracles but thine.

If e'er, except in Painting's dream,

There bloom'd such beauty here, 'tis gone,Gone, like the face that in the stream

Of Ocean for an instant shone,
When Venus at that mirror gave
A last look, ere she left the wave.
And though, among the crowded ways,
We oft are startled by the blaze
Of eyes that pass, with fitful light,
Like fire-flies on the wing at night, 4
"Tis not that nobler beauty, giv'n
To show how angels look in heav'n.
Ev'n in its shape most pure and fair,

"Tis Beauty, with but half her zone,All that can warm the Sense is there,

And thence, as from her throne diffuses

O'er thoughts and looks so bland a reign, That not a thought or feeling loses Its freshness in that gentle chain.

EXTRACT IX.

Venice.

The English to be met with every where. — Alps and Threadneedle Street.-The Simplon and the Stocks.-Rage for travelling. Blue Stockings among the Wahabees.- Parasols and Pyramids. - Mrs. Hopkins and the Wall of China.

AND is there then no earthly place,

Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some curst, round English face, Popping up near, to break the vision? 'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet ; Nor highest Alps nor Apennines

Are sacred from Threadneedle Street!

If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As-" Baddish news from 'Change, my dear"The Funds-(phew, curse this ugly hill)— "Are low'ring fast-(what, higher still?) — "And-(zooks, we're mounting up to heaven!)

"Will soon be down to sixty-seven."

Go where we may-rest where we will,
Eternal London haunts us still.

The trash of Almack's or Fleet Ditch-
And scarce a pin's head difference which-
Mixes, though ev'n to Greece we run,
With every rill from Helicon !
And, if this rage for travelling lasts,
If Cockneys, of all sects and castes,
Old maidens, aldermen, and squires,
Will leave their puddings and coal fires,
To gape at things in foreign lands,
No soul among them understands;
If Blues desert their coteries,
To show off 'mong the Wahabees;
If neither sex nor age controls,

Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids

women may be regarded as pretty close imitations of the living models which Venice afforded in his time.

3 The Marriage of Cana.

4" Certain it is (as Arthur Young truly and feelingly says) one now and then meets with terrible eyes in Italy."

THEY tell me thou'rt the favour'd guest 2
Of every fair and brilliant throng;
No wit, like thine, to wake the jest,

No voice like thine, to breathe the song.
And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.
Alas, alas, how diff'rent flows,

With thee and me the time away. Not that I wish thee sad, heaven knowsStill, if thou canst, be light and gay; I only know that without thee The sun himself is dark for me.

Do I put on the jewels rare
Thou'st always lov'd to see me wear?
Do I perfume the locks that thou
So oft hast braided o'er my brow,
Thus deck'd, through festive crowds to run,
And all the' assembled world to see,
All but the one, the absent one,

Worth more than present worlds to me!
No, nothing cheers this widow'd heart-
My only joy, from thee apart,
From thee thyself, is sitting hours

And days, before thy pictur'd formThat dream of thee, which Raphael's pow'rs Have made with all but life-breath warm! And as I smile to it, and say

The words I speak to thee in play,

1 It was pink spencers, I believe, that the imagination of

the French traveller conjured up.

2 Utque ferunt lætus convivia læta

Et celebras lentis otia místa jocis ;

Aut cithara æstivum attenuas cantuque calorem.

Hei mihi, quam dispar nunc mea vita tuæ !

Nec mihi displiceant quæ sunt tibi grata; sed ipsa est,
Te sine, lux oculis pene inimica meis.

Non auro aut gemmâ caput exornare nitenti
Me juvat, aut Arabo spargere odore comas:

EXTRACT XI.

Florence.

No-'tis not the region where Love's to be foundThey have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove,

They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,

But it is not this, only ;-born full of the light

Of a sun, from whose fount the luxuriant festoons Of these beautiful valleys drink lustre so bright, That, beside him, our suns of the north are but moons,

-

By which souls are together attracted and bound, Is laid open, for ever, to heart, ear, and eye;—

Where nought of that innocent doubt can exist, That ignorance, even than knowledge more bright,

And that Love, though unus'd, in this region of spring,

To be thus to a tame Household Deity turn'd,

Would yet be all soul, when abroad on the wing.

mist,

And curtains them round in their own native light;;

Where Experience leaves nothing for Love to reveal, Or for Fancy, in visions, to gleam o'er the thought;

From the maiden's young heart, are the only ones taught.

No, no, 'tis not here, howsoever we sigh,

Whether purely to Hymen's one planet we pray, Or adore, like Sabæans, each light of Love's sky, Here is not the region, to fix or to stray.

For faithless in wedlock, in gallantry gross,

Without honour to guard, or reserve to restrain, What have they, a husband can mourn as a loss? What have they, a lover can prize as a gain?

EXTRACT XII.

Florence.

Music in Italy. - Disappointed by it. — Recollections of other Times and Friends. - Dalton. — Sir John Stevenson. — His

Daughter.- - Musical Evenings together.

IF it be true that Music reigns,

Supreme, in ITALY'S soft shades, 'Tis like that Harmony, so famous, Among the spheres, which, He of SAMOS Declar'd, had such transcendent merit, That not a soul on earth could hear it; For, far as I have come-from Lakes, Whose sleep the Tramontana breaks, Through MILAN, and that land, which gave The Hero of the rainbow vest-1 By MINCIO'S banks, and by that wave,? Which made VERONA'S bard so blestPlaces, that (like the Attic shore,

Which rung back music, when the sea Struck on its marge) should be, all o'er,

Thrilling alive with melody

I've heard no music-not a note
Of such sweet native airs as float.

2 The Lago di Garda.

In my own land, among the throng, And speak our nation's soul for song.

Nay, ev'n in higher walks, where Art
Performs, as 'twere, the gardener's part,
And richer, if not sweeter, makes

The flow'rs she from the wild-hedge takes -
Ev'n there, no voice hath charm'd my ear,

No taste hath won my perfect praise, Like thine, dear friend-long, truly dearThine, and thy lov'd OLIVIA's lays. She, always beautiful, and growing

Still more so ev'ry note she singsLike an inspir'd young Sibyl, glowing With her own bright imaginings! And thou, most worthy to be tied

In music to her, as in love, Breathing that language by her side,

All other language far above, Eloquent Song-whose tones and words In ev'ry heart find answering chords!

How happy once the hours we past,

Singing or list'ning all day long,
Till Time itself seem'd chang'd, at last,
To music, and we liv'd in song!
Turning the leaves of HAYDN o'er,

As quick, beneath her master hand,
They open'd all their brilliant store,

Like chambers, touch'd by fairy wand; Or o'er the page of MOZART bending,

Now by his airy warblings cheer'd, Now in his mournful Requiem blending Voices, through which the heart was heard.

And still, to lead our ev'ning choir,
Was He invok'd, thy lov'd-one's Sire-3
He, who, if aught of grace there be

In the wild notes I write or sing,

First smooth'd their links of harmony,

And lent them charms they did not bring;He, of the gentlest, simplest heart, With whom, employ'd in his sweet art, (That art, which gives this world of ours A notion how they speak in heav'n,) I've pass'd more bright and charmed hours Than all earth's wisdom could have giv'n. Oh happy days, oh early friends,

How Life, since then, hath lost its flow'rs!

1 Edward Tuite Dalton, the first husband of Sir John Stevenson's daughter, the late Marchioness of Headfort. 2 Such as those of Domenichino in the Palazzo Borghese at the Capitol, &c.

3 Sir John Stevenson.

4 The "Conjuration de Nicolas Gabrini, dit de Rienzi," by the Jesuit Du Cerceau, is chiefly taken from the much more

authentic work of Fortifiocca on the same subject. Rienzi | was the son of a laundress,

5 It is not easy to discover what church is meant by Da Cerceau here: “ Il fit crier dans les rues de Rome, à son de trompe, que chacun eût à se trouver, sans armes, la nuit da lendemain, dix-neuvième, dans l'église du château de SaintAnge, au son de la cloche, afin de pourvoir au Bon Eʼtat."