delicately written, than this charming little novella. As we do not mean to extract an additional line from Mr. Arnold's volume, we shall give this poem in a complete form, as we think any abridgment would necessarily diminish the grace and deform the symmetry of the composition:

"VIOLETTA.

"Oh! was there ever tale of human love, Which was not also tale of human tears? Died not sweet Desdemona? Sorrowedn ot Fair, patient Imogen ? and she whose

name

Lives among lovers, Sappho, silver-voiced, Was not the wailing of her passionate lyre Ended for ever in the dull, deaf sea? Must it be thus? Oh! must the cup that holds

The sweetest vintage of the vine of life Taste bitter at the dregs? Is there no story,

No legend, no love passage, which shall bend,

Even as the bow that God had bent in

heaven,

O'er the sad waste of mortal histories,
Promising respite to the rain of tears?
Meseems I do remember one! It told
Of lovers led by angel hands together,
Who met most strangely, and who loved
most strongly,

To the last kiss of life. I heard it often,
Down at Caserta, by the seven waters;
Fioretta sang the story to her lute
At the Ave-Mary. Oh! I would I had
The merry music of her easy tongue,
And the quick flash of her Italian eye,
So should ye listen to the very last.
She said-I think it was at set of sun-
Down the green hill, where the Velino
rushes,

And through the valley where he rests

and then

;

On to the village came a wayfarer
Of noble bearing; young and fair he was,
With smoothest face and forehead, where-

upon

Time had not written wrinkles. At his heels

The scabbard of his sword kept even time, Merrily clinking on the mountain stone With every stride-Oh! but he had an eye To make a lady look once and again, Where, if she looked, she could not choose but love.

The village girls dancing about the well, Stayed the quick music of the mandoline Even at the quickest, as he passed them

by; Whereat with smile, and ready compliment,

And jewelled bonnet doffed, and brown curls bowed,

He questioned of the leagues that lay between him

And the Tre Mauri.' 'Not a league, fair sir,

But you shall find the castle and the

court

Full to the roof, and it were very pity To dull such doublet with the mountain mist,

And rust your new sword ere the sun hath seen it.'

'Nay, I must on! Well, there's the haunted chamber:

If you can look a ghost into the face
As you can look a girl, I nothing question
There's sleeping-room; so farewell, signor

mine.'

Montorio left them laughing, and at night Beat with his dagger-hilt upon a door, Which opened up into the spacious court Of what was now a hostel, but had once Been Albertino's palace. Little recked he Though there were dances on the garden grass,

And rustling satins, and brocades of gold, In every alley; and the glint of gems, And quiet float of feathers in the hall; Only he cased him of his belt and sword, And after ortolans and Alban wine, Followed the torches of the seneschal Along the rushes to an ancient room, Where, after many drowsy beads, he slept Dreamless and still.

Above him in the turret There sat two sisters, beautiful-but one Most beautiful: even as the evening star Sits in her place among the silver worlds Most silvery. The Lady Violetta, On wrist and arm of rounded iv sory Resting her brow, read from the painted

page

The legend of the Milanese Manzoni, Until the night was old: close at her side

Sat Beatricé, at the broider frame, Drawing the stained silks slow and slower

still,

For that her eyes were heavy; so at last, Bidding her sister seek her in the

chamber,

Her quiet feet left Violetta reading, With bright eyes wearied, but with heart unfilled.

How long the story held her, that I know not;

But long enough it was to let the sand Slide from the thrice-turned glass, and the light flicker,

As though it strove to live and look upon

her;

So that she started, and with opened lips, As when a bud opens to be a rose, Breathed from the dying lamp its little life,

And stripping off the flowers from her forehead,

Let the great waves of gold go to the ground,

And walked in the white moonlight to her

bed.

Whose are yon sleeper's clustering curls of brown?

Brown! - She has missed the chamber, and is laid

By young Montorio, most unwittingly Wandering hither slumbrous and unlighted.

Look, they are sleeping side by side; their hearts

Beating one measure, and their warm breath meeting,

And his bright locks and her long tresses tangled,

Whose eyes have never met by daylight. Stay!

Stir not!-and speak not!-oh, how shall it end?

They sleep! the spangled night is melting off,

And still they sleep; the holy moon looks in,

In at the painted window-panes, and flings

Ruby, blue, purple, emerald, amethyst, Crystal, and orange colours on their limbs; Aud round her face a glory of white light, As one who sins not; on the tapestries Gold lights are flashing like the wings of angels,

Bringing these two hearts to be singlehearted.

They sleep! and it is morning! — Her white hand

Falls light as snow on his, and sends a dream

A quick, strange dream, into his heart, whose joy

Goes through the spirit to the sense, and lifts

The curtain of his eye. What doth he gaze on!

Is the dream vanished, but the dream's

dear glory

Left him for comfort? Ah! that hasty

cry

Hath snapped the spell! She starts-and she is gone

Rose-colour from the forehead to the foot. He thinks it is a spirit, and will kneel; But, kneeling, spies a bracelet: pearl and gold

Warm from the wearer, where her foot was last;

So bath he kissed it lovingly, and laid it Close at his heart, and when the house was up,

Asked of the busy hostess earnestly"Who holds the upper chamber of the turret ?"

"The lady Violetta and her sister,

Last night, fair sir; but when the sun was

up

66

song

Of her who knelt beside him, for she sang

The psalm of ended trials.' Presently
The veil was raised, and it was-Violetta!
Once more Montorio was by her side!
Oh! shall I tell you how he wooed and
won her,

Or when he won her, how he stamped the
kiss,

The long-delayed and life-expected kiss,
Upon her rose-leaf lips, and took her wrist
And clasped the bracelet on, and whispered
low,

With a light laugh that none might un-
derstand,

'Sweet Violetta! hadst thou not lost this, And thy dear self beside, I had not won A noble, beautiful, and gentle wife.'"

Among the remaining narrative poems there is a striking one entitled Alley;" in which, however, the author, as he himself says, has done little more than paraphrase Mrs. S. C. Hall's exquisite narration. To such of our readers as are acquainted with this tale of noble but guilty generosity, as told by our distinguished countrywoman, Mr. Arnold's poetical paraphrase will be a curious and interesting subject of comparison. The story of "Quentin Matsys," the Flemish painter, is also very pleasingly told by our poet.

Among the lyrical poems there are several distinguished for a vigorous harmony, or a tender plaintive sweetness, which is the very soul of song.