Then robe her in a white brocade,
That gems and costly ermine aid--
Entwine her brow with snowy pearls
From which depend her raven curls,
And diamonds that a queen might grace
Upon her beating bosom place.

CANTO V.

Miserabile Visu.

ENEID.

THE PARTY-THE CALL-THE POISON.

I.

EARLY in Count GUDONI's hall,
She moved amid the festival,
Outshining all the bright and bland--
The loveliest of her lovely land.
She stands beside a marble post,

Upon her breast her small hands crossed,
Her gems and diamonds gleaming bright,
Beneath the golden lamps' full light;
Around her throng th' enchanted crowd,

The young, the fair, the brave, the proud,

Hanging upon her words divine,

That flow in mellow Florentine,

II.

"There comes Lord LEON with his Bride !”

Aloud a hundred voices cried;

"Behold how beautiful, how fair,

She with the white wreath in her hair."
While thither FLORENCE turned her face

With all a high Sultana's grace,

Lord LEON brushed her robe aside,
And from her burning glance of pride
Turned his as instantly away,
As from the sun's meridian ray;

But she, assuming mildest mien,
Stepped forward with a smile serene,-
A mask his subtlest powers defied,—
Addressed him softly, gracefully,
And prayed to know his lovely bride-
"The beauteous Belle of Sicily."

All wonted salutations past,

A gracious look upon them cast,

With words and smiles that could but charm;

Linked in the Bride's her jewelled arm,

Moved on amid the glittering throng,

Where Beauty led the dance along;

Exerted all her arts to please,

Till LEON felt himself at ease;

And ere the festival was ended,

With them amidst the dance she blended;

Lastly with his joined her fair hand,

Within the bounding Saraband ;'

And while to minstrel's sprightly tune They tripped along the gay saloon, With quivering lip, yet air most bland, A note unseen placed in his hand.

III.

The music's hushed, the dance is done,
The revellers to their homes have gone ;
And sleep enchains each weary limb,
Save her whose eyes with tears are dim.
Once more within her sumptuous room,
Her spirit whelmed in darkest gloom;
Upon the couch in silence deep,
With none her secret woe to weep,

Or lend her kindly sympathy,-
The sick heart's only remedy;
Sits that sad child of destiny,
Her head reclining on her hand,
Before her placed an ivory stand;
Two golden cups upon it, filled
With wine in her own land distilled;
A vase of freshest, purest flowers,
That day culled from Italian bowers,
Is smiling brightly, sweetly there,
In mockery of her deep despair.

IV.

A step is in the corridor,

A hand rests on the yielding door,
And to her mournful, gentle hest,

Slowly within Lord LEON came;
The feelings he would have represt

Like aspen shook his manly frame. "Be calm," the lady rising said, "There is no cause for agitation ; The note I gave thee only prayed A friendly reconciliation;

Such as our former intercourse

Upon us both would seem to force.

From childhood up we have been friends, And late methought we might be more; But lovers' bonds Fate often rends,

And bids them hallowed dreams give o'er. The change thou suddenly hast made, The love I bore thee ill repaid;

But, in the presence of high Heaven,

LEON, by me thou art forgiven.

Upon the past let neither think;

To seal for aye our friendliness, Pray, let us now together drink

The glass of sweet forgetfulness."