BOOK IIL

Ω 'πόλλων οὐ παντὶ φαέινεται,

Ος μιν ἴδη, μέγας οὗτος.

CALLIM.-Ex hymno in Apollinem

“Not to all men Apollo shows himself-
Who sees him-he is great!"

VOL. I.-K

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

'Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears-soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony."

SHAKSPEARE.

BOAT SONG ON THE LAKE OF COMO.

I.

THE beautiful clime! the clime of love!

Thou beautiful Italy!

Like a mother's eyes, the earnest skies

Ever have smiles for thee!

Not a flower that blows, not a beam that glows,
But what is in love with thee!

II.

The beautiful lake, the Larian lake!*

Soft lake like a fairy sea,

The huntress queen, with her nymphs of sheen,
Never had bath like thee.

See, the lady of night and her maids of light
Even now are middeep in thee.

III.

Beautiful child of the lonely hills,

Ever bless'd may thy slumbers be;

The tears of the earth, since thy harmless birth,
Never sadden'd the smile on thee;

All cradled in flowers, the beelike hours
Bring nothing but sweets to thee!

Such, though uttered in the soft Italian tongue, and now imperfectly translated-such were the notes that floated one lovely evening in summer along the Lake of Como. The boat from which came the song drifted gently down the sparkling waters towards the mossy banks of a lawn, whence, on a little eminence, gleamed the white walls of the villa backed by vineyards. On

* The ancient name for Como.

112

THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

that lawn stood a young and handsome woman leaning on the arm of her husband, and listening to the song. But her delight was soon deepened into one of more personal interest, as the boatmen, nearing the banks, changed their measure, and she felt that the minstrelsy was in honour of herself.

SERENADE TO THE SONGSTRESS.

I.

"Softly-oh soft; let us rest on the oar,

And vex not a billow that sighs to the shore:

For sacred the spot where the starry waves meet

With the beach, where the breath of the citron is sweet,
There's a spell on the waves that now waft us along
To the last of our muses, the spirit of song.

The eagle of old renown,

And the Lombard's iron crown,

And Milan's mighty name are ours no more;
But by this glassy water,
Harmonia's youngest daughter,

Still from the lightning saves one laurel to our shore.

II.

They heard thee, Teresa, the Teuton, the Gaul,

Who have raised the rude thrones of the North on our fall.
They heard thee, and bow'd to the might of thy song,
Like love went thy steps o'er the hearts of the strong:
As the moon to the air, as the soul to the clay,
To the void of this earth was the breath of thy lay.
Honour for aye to her,

The bright interpreter

Of art's great mysteries to the enchanted throng;
While tyrants heard thy strains,

Sad Rome forgot her chains;

The world the sword had lost was conquer'd back by song!

Thou repentest, my Teresa, that thou hast renounced thy dazzling career for a dull home and a husband old enough to be thy father," said the husband to the wife, with a smile that spoke confidence in the answer. "Ah, no! even this homage would have no music to me if thou didst not hear it."

She was a celebrated personage in Italy-the Signora Cæsarini, now Madame de Montaigne. Her earlier youth had been spent upon the stage, and her promise of vocal excellence had been most brilliant. But, after a brief though splendid career, she married a French gentleman of good birth and fortune, retired from the stage, and spent her life alternately in the gay saloons

of Paris and upon the banks of the dreamy Como, on which her husband had purchased a small but beautiful villa. She still, however, exercised in private her fascinating art, to which-for she was a woman of singular accomplishment and talent-she added the gift of the improvisatrice. She had just returned for the summer to this lovely retreat, and a party of enthusiastic youths from Milan had sought the Lake of Como to welcome her arrival with the suitable homage of song and music. It is a charming relic, that custom of the brighter days of Italy-and I myself have listened on the still waters of the same lake to a similar greeting to a greater genius -the queenlike and unrivalled Pasta-the Semiramis of song! And while my boat paused and I caught something of the enthusiasm of the serenaders, the boatman touched me, and pointing to a part of the lake on which the setting sun shed its rosiest smile, he said, "There, signor, was drowned one of your countrymen-'bellissimo uomo che fu bello!' yes, there, in the pride of his promising youth, of his noble and almost godlike beauty, before the very windows-the very eyes-of his bride-the waves, without a frown, had swept over the idol of many hearts-the graceful and gallant L- -e; and above his grave was the voluptuous sky, and over it floated the triumphant music. It was as the moral of the Roman poets-calling the living to a holiday over the oblivion of the dead."

As the boat now touched the bank, Madame de Montaigne accosted the musicians, thanked them with a sweet and unaffected earnestness for the compliment so delicately offered, and invited them ashore. The Milanese, who were six in number, accepted the invitation, and moored their boat to the jutting shore. It was then that Monsieur de Montaigne pointed out to the notice of his wife a boat that had lingered under the shadow of the bank, tenanted by a young man who had seemed to listen with rapt attention to the music, and who had once joined in the chorus (as it was twice repeated) with a voice so exquisitely attuned, and so rich in its deep power, that it had awakened the admiration even of the serenaders themselves.

"Does not that gentleman belong to your party?" De Montaigne asked of the Milanese.

"No, signor, we know him not," was the answer; "his boat came unaware upon us as we were singing."