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CANTO IV.

NOTE 1, Sect. I., p. 31.

"Onward the golden stream is gliding."

"The Tiber, stained to a deep yellow by the fertilizing soil which it has washed away from its banks, glitters like a belt of gold along the plain in the sunshine that irradiates with Italian clearness the sward, the scattered trees, and the shadowy hills.-Spalding's History of Italy and the Italian Islands, Vol. I., p. 204.

NOTE 2, Sect. I., p. 31.

"Amid the myrtle and the palm."

The palm is not a native of Italy, but as I find that it was there cultivated, and still continues to ornament many of the groves and gardens at Rome, I have taken the liberty to introduce it here.

"We cross,” says Spalding, "the mouth of a canal which discharges into the sea the united waters of Virgil's rivers Ufins and Amasenus. Remains of its harbor may be traced; and considerable ruins, partly Pelasgic, partly Roman, and some belonging to the dark ages, surmount the noble rock which rises from the palm-trees of its hanging garden.

NOTE 3, Sect. I.,
p. 31.

"And ilices its margin hiding."

The majesty of the Laurentine Forest is still represented by noble groves of the pine and the dark-leaved ilex, particularly about the mouth of the Tiber, skirting the sea like a line of gigantic columns, while the laurel, the

myrtle, the arbutus, and wild olive form in many spots impervious thickets with ivy and heath."-Spalding's History of Italy and the Italian Islands, Vol. I. p. 241.

CANTO V.

NOTE 1, Sect. II., p. 46.

"Saraband."

A Spanish dance in use in Italy.

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FULL many a tale of woe is thine,
Fair Island of the Haytien Sea,
Of vows that should have been divine,
And Woman's speechless agony—

The pangs of Sorrow's ruthless darts-
The hecatombs of trusting Hearts;
Thou hast no mighty names in song-
No famed Recorders of thy wrong-

No Tweed-no storied Helicon—

Colossus neither Moslem pile, Nor gilded Temple of the Sun,

To consecrate thy name, bright Isle !— Thou hast nor classic memories,

Nor border songs of ladies fair,

Nor spirit-stirring chivalries;

But thou hast records of despair, And tales of deep, enduring love, As ever minstrel's fancy wove.

II.

Oh! what is there like that deep grief,
That finds, nor seeks on earth relief!
That stands from sympathy apart,

Unto its own fond broodings wed,
Feeding upon the writhing heart,

As the Promethean Vulture fed ! "Tis as the Aspic's poisonous stingsPiercing into the heart's fine stringsThe loathsome death-worm o'er us creeping, Ere we within the tomb are sleeping.

III.

The zephyrs sleep in NIEVA's vale—
On wave and wold each rougher gale-

While every ear along the grove

Bends down to drink the notes of love,
The weary warblings of despair,

That on the balmy evening rise,

Like diapasons of soft sighs.

The minstrel is a maiden fair,

With delicately moulded form,

As ere was wrought by Grecian masterDark eyes through which the Soul beams warm

A cheek of amber alabaster

A step, once in her native dells,

Lithe, lighter than the young gazelle's-
A smile with more than HEBE's spell-
A voice soft as the Siren's shell,

Or tones to Houri's harp-strings given,
To welcome warriors brave to Heaven.
She wears the wandering Gipsy's guise,

She sweeps the wandering Gipsy's lute-
But those who gaze on this disguise-

Of grief so eloquently mute, Know they behold no Gipsy maid, In these habiliments arrayed.

The tiny foot her garb exposes,

And little slipper close encloses—

Her fairy hand and taper fingers—

Her brow, where pensive Beauty lingers

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