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There a lute was engraven, and more than its numbers,

The strings that were broken appeal'd to the heart.

The bride brought her wreath of the orangeflowers hither,

And cast the sweet buds from her tresses of
gold;

Like her in their earliest beauty to wither,
Like her in their sunshine of hope to

cold.

NOTES TO THE VOW OF THE PEACOCK.
Page 169.

"For Catherine look'd what she had been,

At once the beauty and the queen." "The new king of Cyprus had been attached from early youth to Catarina, niece of Andréa Cornaro, a Venetian noble, resident on his Cypriote

estate; and no sooner was he freed from certain political and domestic obstacles, than he tendered grow law which forbade the marriage of any Venetian his hand to that lady. In order to satisfy the rigid

The wild winds and waters together bewailing,
Perpetual mourners lamented her doom;
Still sadness amid nature's sounds is prevailing,
Ah! what is all nature but one general tomb?

But vainly the spring's gentle children were
dying,

of noble birth with a foreigner, the destined royal bride was solemnly adopted by the state, and declared a daughter of St. Mark; she was then married by proxy, in the presence of the doge and signory, conducted by the bucentaur to the galley which awaited her in the port, and escorted by a squadron of ships of war, with becoming pomp, and a portion of 100,000 ducats, to the territories

And the tears of the morning amid the long of her husband." After his death the island was

grass,

And vain, vainer still was the human heart's sighing,

governed by his widow.

"Fifteen years had now passed, during which the signory had governed Cyprus, under the name That one so beloved, and so lovely, should pass. of Catarina, whose son died not long after his

The grave is an altar, whereon the heart proffers

Its feverish pleasures, its troubles, its woes; Stern, silent, and cold, the dark sanctuary proffers Its gloomy return of unbroken repose.

How much of the sorrow that life may inherit,

That early departure to slumber will save; The hope that drags onward the world-weary spirit,

birth; and the islanders, who at first chafed beneath the yoke of the republic, and earnestly sought to transfer all their allegiance to Naples, had now become accustomed to their virtual masters. There were contingencies, nevertheless, not likely to escape the sagacity of Venice, by which some other hand, after all her long intrigue, might perhaps gather its fruits. Catarina still retained more than ordinary beauty; and her picture, in widow's weeds (even now glowing with almost original

Rests but when its fever is quench'd in the freshness among the treasures of the Palazzo

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Months pass'd, and at Leoni's side
The bright Irene stood a bride;
They wore a joy somewhat subdued,
With shadows from another mood:
They gave the young, the lost, the fair,
Tears that the happy well may spare.
Here ends my lay; for what have I

With life's more sunny side to do?
From night I only ask its sigh,

From morn I only ask its dew:
My lute was only made to pine

Upon the weeping cypress tree;
Its only task and hope, Love mine,
To breathe its mournful songs to thee.

the

Manfrini,) was one of the earliest great works of
Titian, which, both from the skill of the artist and

the loveliness of the subject, extended his growing
fame beyond the borders of the Lagune. With so
great attractions, coupled to the rich dowry of a
kingdom, it was not probable that the queen of
Cyprus would long remain without suitors; and
rumour already declared her to be the intended
bride of Frederic, a son of the king of Naples. If
she married and bore children, Cyprus would be-
come their inheritance; and to prevent the pos-
sibility of such an extinction of their hopes, the
Venetian government resolved to assume its so-
vereignty directly in their own persons. The civi-
lians, therefore, were instructed to avouch the legiti-
macy of this claim; and they declared, perhaps with
less sincerity than solemnity, that the son of Giacopo
Lusignano inherited the crown from his father;
that since he died a minor, his mother inherited
from him; and that finally Venice inherited from
his mother, an adopted daughter of St. Mark.

"Giorgio Cornaro, a brother of the queen, was solicited to conduct the ungrateful process of her

deposition. To his representations,--that by abandoning the care of a turbulent kingdom, and returning to her native land, in which she might pass the remainder of her life tranquilly and securely, amongst those bound to her by natural ties, she would far more consult her own happiness than by remaining exposed in a remote and foreign country to the hazards of its ambiguous friendship, she replied with confidence, that there was little which could allure a woman environed with the splendour of royalty and the observance of a court, to descend to the parsimonious habits and undistinguished level of a republican life; and that it would please her far better if the signory would await her decease before they occupied her possessions. But to arguments explanatory of the will, the power, and the inflexibility of the senate, it was not casy to find an adequate answer; and the natural eloquence, as the historian styles it, of her brother ultimately prevailed. If such,' she observed, as soon as tears permitted speech, 'be your opinion, such also shall be mine; nevertheless, it is more from you than from myself that our country will obtain a kingdom.' Having thus reluctantly consented, after a few days delay she commenced her progress to Famagosta; royal honours attended her every where as she passed, and on the 6th of February she signed the formal act of abdiction in the presence of her council; attended a solemn mass, at which the banner of St. Mark was consecrated; delivered that standard to the charge of the Venetian general; and saw it raised above her own on the towers of the citadel. On the approach of summer she embarked for Venice, where she was received as a crowned head by the doge and signory; and in return for the surrender of her sceptre, she enjoyed a privilege never before or since accorded to any of her country women, a triumphal entry to St. Mark's Piazzetta, on the deck of the Bucentaur. A revenue of 8000 ducats was assigned her for life; and the delights of the 'Paradise' of Asola, in the Trevisan mountains, in which the unqueened queen continued to assemble her little court, have been immortalized by a volume long among the most popular works of early Italian literature; and graced by the poetry, the sentiment, the piety, and the metaphysics of the illustrious historian from whom we have borrowed our narrative of Catarina's dethronement."

Page 197.

"Divinest Petrarch."

"It was on the 4th of June, that the poet, in company with the Archbishop of Patræ, was enjoying a delicious prospect of the sea from his windows, and cheating a summer evening with familiar talk, when the conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a galley in the offing, fanci

fully dressed out with green boughs. This unusual decoration, the rapid motion of the oars, the joyful shouts of the mariners, the garlands which they had twined round their caps, the streamers which floated from their masts, all betokened the arrival of some pleasing intelligence. A signal was given from the beacon-tower of the port, and the whole population of the city flocked to the water's edge, breathless with curiosity, to ascertain the news. As the bark came nearer shore, some flags of the enemy were seen hanging from her stern; and all doubt was then removed that she was the messenger of victory. What, however, was the general surprise and joy, when it was announced that the rebels were not only worsted, but conquered, that Candia was subdued, and that the war was at an end! The doge, with his court and prelates, and the whole attendant crowd of citizens, immediately repaired to St. Mark's and offered up a solemn service of thanksgiving. The festivals which succeeded lasted for many days; and they were closed by a tournament and a magnificent equestrian parade, for which Petrarch is unable to find an adequate Latin name.

In this last spectacle, a troop of four-and-twenty noble Venetian youths, headed by a Ferrarese, splendidly arrayed, and mounted on horses gorgeously caparisoned, started singly, but in quick succession, from a barrier in the Piazza di San Marco, and, coursing round to a goal, uninterruptedly renewed the same circle, brandishing lances from which silken ribands fluttered to the wind. The doge, with his brilliant train, sat in his marble gallery over St. Mark's porch, by the wellknown horses, whence the evening sun was shaded by richly embroidered canopies. On his right hand sat Petrarch himself, whose love of pleasure was satisfied by two days' attendance on the protracted festivity. The splendour of the scene was heightened by the presence of several English barons, some of them of the royal blood, who at that time were in Venice, so far as we can understand Petrarch's obscure statement, engaged in some maritime negotiation; though one of the chroniclers assures us that they had no other object than a laudable desire of seeing the world. In the court below not a grain of sand could have fallen to the pavement, so dense was the throng. A wooden scaffolding, raised for the occasion, on the right of the piazza, contained a bright store of beauty; the forty noblest dames of Venice, glittering with costly jewels. In the horse-course, honour was the sole prize; but, for the tournament, in which danger was to be encountered, more substantial rewards were proposed. For the most successful champion, a crown of solid gold, chased with precious stones; for the second, a silver belt, of choice workmanship.

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First gave the full heart's homage: then came Had look'd on Sappho, yet had wept with her.

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A shout that rose to heaven; and the hills,
The distant valleys, all rang with the name
Of the Eolian Sappho-every heart
Found in itself some echo to her song.
Low notes of love-hopes beautiful and fresh,
And some gone by forever-glorious dreams,
High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts
That dwell upon the absent and the dead,
Were breathing in her music-and these are
Chords every bosom vibrates to. But she
Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed,
Her colours varying with deep emotion-
There is a softer blush than conscious pride
Upon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile
Is all a woman's timid tenderness:

Her eye is on a Youth, and other days

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And young warm feelings have rush'd on her Which lives but in itself: her life had pass'd soul

Amid the great creations of the mind:

With all their former influence,-thoughts that Love was to her a vision-it was now

slept

Cold, calm as death, have waken'd to new lifeWhole years' existence have pass'd in that glance..

She had once loved in very early days:
That was a thing gone by: one had call'd forth
The music of her soul: he loved her too,
But not as she did-she was unto him
As a young bird, whose early flight he train❜d,
Whose first wild song were sweet, for he had
taught

Those songs-but she look'd up to him with all
Youth's deep and passionate idolatry:
Love was her heart's sole universe-he was

Heighten'd into devotion . . . . But a soul
So gifted and so passionate as hers
Will seek companionship in vain, and find
Its feelings solitary . . . . Phaon soon
Forgot the fondness of his Lesbian maid;
And Sappho knew that genius, riches, fame,
May not soothe slighted love.

There is a dark rock looks on the blue sea; "Twas there love's last song echo'd-there She sleeps,

Whose lyre was crown'd with laurel, and whose

name

Will be remember'd long as Love or Song Are sacred-the devoted Sappho !

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BACCHUS AND ARIADNE.

LEONARDI. "Tis finish'd now: look on my picture, Love!

Her dark hair gather'd round her like a shroud, Yet far more lovely than the sparkling nymphs Dancing around that chariot. Yet how sweet, Though dimm'd with tears, those deep blue eyes, Half turn'd and half averted timidly

ALVINE. O, that sweet ring of graceful figures! From the youth's lightning glance. O tell me

one

Flings her white arms on high, and gayly strikes
Her golden cymbals-I can almost deem
I hear their beatings; one with glancing feet
Follows her music, while her crimson cheek
Is flush'd with exercise, till the red grape
'Mid the dark tresses of a sister nymph
Is scarcely brighter: there another stands,
A darker spirit yet, with joyous brow,
And holding a rich goblet: O, that child!
With eyes as blue as spring-days, and those curls
Throwing their auburn shadow o'er a brow
So arch, so playful—have you bodied forth
Young Cupid in your colours?

LEONARDI. No-O no,

I could not paint Love as a careless boy,-
That passionate Divinity, whose life
Is of such deep and intense feeling! No,
I am too true, too earnest, and too happy,
To ever image by a changeful child
That which is so unchangeable. But mark
How sweet, how pale, the light that I have thrown
Over the picture: it is just the time
When Dian's dewy kiss lights up the dreams
That make Endymion's sleep so beautiful.
Look on the calm blue sky, so set with stars:
Is it not like to what we both recall?
Those azure shadows of a summer night,
That veil'd the cautious lutanist who waked
Thy slumbers with his song. How more than
fair,

How like a spirit of that starry hour,
I used to think you, as your timid hand
Unbarr'd the casement, and you leant to hear,
Your long hair floating loose amid the vines
Around your lattice; and how very sweet
Your voice, scarce audible, with the soft fear
That mingled in its low and tender tones!
ALVINE. Nay, now I will not listen to the
tales

Our memory is so rich in. I have much
For question here. Who is this glorious shape,
That, placed on a bright chariot in the midst,
Stands radiant in his youth and loveliness?
Around his sunny locks there is a wreath
Of the green vine leaves, and his ivory brow
Shines out like marble, when a golden ray
Of summer light is on it, and his step

Scarce seems to touch his pard-drawn car, but floats

Buoyant upon the air;-and who is she

On whom his ardent gaze is turn'd? So pale,

now

One of those legends that I love so well:
Has not this picture some old history?

LEONARDI. "Tis one of those bright fictions
that have made

The name of Greece only another word
For love and poetry; with a green earth-
Groves of the graceful myrtle-summer skies,
Whose stars are mirror'd in ten thousand
streams-

Winds that move but in perfume and in music,
And, more than all, the gift of woman's beauty.
What marvel that the earth, the sky, the sea,
Were fill'd with all those fine imaginings
That love creates, and that the lyre preserves!
ALVINE. But for the history of that pale girl
Who stands so desolate on the seashore ?
LEONARDI. She was the daughter of a Cretan
king-

A tyrant. Hidden in the dark recess
Of a wide labyrinth, a monster dwelt,
And every year was human tribute paid
By the Athenians. They had bow'd in war;
And every spring the flowers of all the city,
Young maids in their first beauty-stately youths,
Were sacrificed to the fierce King! They died
In the unfathomable den of want,

Or served the Minotaur for food. At length
There came a royal Youth, who vow'd to slay
The monster or to perish!-Look, Alvine,
That statue is young Theseus.

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Scarce seen upon the waters, less and less,
Like hope diminishing, till wholly past.
I will not say, for you can fancy well,
Her desolate feelings as she roam'd the beach,
Hurl'd from the highest heaven of happy love!
But evening crimson'd the blue sea-a sound
Of music and of mirth came on the wind,

And radiant shapes and laughing nymphs danced by,

And he, the Theban God, look'd on the maid,
And look'd and loved, and was beloved again.
This is the moment that the picture gives:
He has just flung her starry crown on high,
And bade it there a long memorial shine
How a god loved a mortal. He is springing
From out his golden car-another bound-
Bacchus is by his Ariadne's side!

ALVINE. She loved again! O cold inconstancy!
This is not woman's love; her love should be
A feeling pure and holy as the flame
The vestal virgin kindles, fresh as flowers
The spring has but just colour'd, innocent

As the young dove, and changeless as the faith
The martyr seals in blood. "Tis beautiful
This picture, but it wakes no sympathy.

Graven by memory; but thy pale cheek,
Like a white rose on which the sun hath look'd
Too wildly warm, (is not this passion's legend?)
The drooping lid whose lash is bright with tears,
A lip which has the sweetness of a smile
But not its gayety-do not these bear
The scorch'd footprints sorrow leaves in passing
O'er the clear brow of youth ?—It may but be
An idle thought, but I have dream'd thou wert
A captive in thy hopelessness: afar
From the sweet home of thy young infancy,
Whose image unto thee is as a dream
Of fire and slaughter, I can see thee wasting
Sick for thy native air, loathing the light
And cheerfulness of men; thyself the last
Of all thy house, a stranger and a slave!

LEANDER AND HERO

Ir is a tale that many songs have told, And old, if tale of love can e'er be old; Yet dear to me this lingering o'er the fate

LEONARDI. Next time, Alvine, my pencil shall Of two so young, so true, so passionate!

but give

Existence to the memory of love's truth.

And thou, the idol of my harp, the soul

Of poetry, to me my hope, my whole

ALVINE. Do you recall a tale you told me once, Happiness of existence, there will be

Of the forsaken Nymph that Paris left
For new love and ambition; at his death
He bade them bear him to Enone's arms?

She never had forgotten him: her heart,
Which beat so faithfully, became his pillow;
She closed his eyes, and pardon'd him and died!
LEONARDI. Love, yes; I'll paint their meet-
ing the wan youth,

Dying, but yet so happy in forgiveness;
The sweet Enone, with her gentle tears,
Fill'd with meek tenderness, her pensive brow
Arching so gracefully, with deep blue eyes
Half hidden by the shadowy lash—a look
So patient, yet so fraught with tenderest feeling,
Like to an idol placed upon the shrine
Of faith, for all to worship. She shall be,
Saving thine own inimitable smile,
In all like thee, Alvine!

UNKNOWN FEMALE HEAD.

I KNOW not of thy history, thou sad Yet beautiful faced Girl :-the chestnut braid Bound darkly round thy forehead, the blue veins Wandering in azure light, the ivory chin Dimpled so archly, have no characters

Some gentlest tones that I have caught from thee
Will not each heart-pulse vibrate, as I tell

Of faith even unto death unchangeable!
Leander and his Hero! they should be,
When youthful lovers talk of constancy,
Invoked. O, for one breath of softest song,
Such as on summer evenings floats along,
To murmur low their history! every word
That whispers of them, should be like those heard
At moonlight casements, when the awaken'd maid
Sighs her soft answer to the serenade.

She stood beside the altar, like the queen,
The brighteyed queen that she was worshipping.
Her hair was bound with roses, which did fling

A perfume round, for she that morn had been To gather roses, that were clustering now Amid the shadowy curls upon her brow. One of the loveliest daughters of that land, Divinest Greece! that taught the painter's hand To give eternity to loveliness; One of those darkeyed maids, to whom belong The glory and the beauty of each song

Thy poets breathed, for it was theirs to bless
With life the pencil and the lyra's dreams,
Giving reality to vision'd gleams

Of bright divinities. Amid the crowd
That in the presence of young Hero bow'd,
Was one who knelt with fond idolatry,
As if in homage to some deity,

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