ways in the same direction, we frequently met the Countess Guiccioli, with whom he stopped to converse a few minutes.

He dined at half an hour after sunset, (at twenty-four o'clock); then drove to Count Gamba's, the Countess Guiccioli's father, passed several hours in her society, returned to his palace, and either read or wrote till two or three in the morning; occasionally drinking spirits diluted with water as a medicine, from a dread of a nephritic complaint, to which he was, or fancied himself, subject. Such was his life at Pisa.

The Countess Guiccioli is twenty-three years of age, though she appears no more than seventeen or eighteen. Unlike most of the Italian women, her complexion is delicately fair. Her eyes, large, dark, and languishing, are shaded by the longest eyelashes in the world; and her hair, which is ungathered on her head, plays over her falling shoulders in a profusion of natural ringlets of the darkest auburn. Her figure is, perhaps, too much embonpoint for her height, but her bust is perfect; her features want little of possessing a Grecian regularity of outline; and she has the most beautiful mouth and teeth imaginable. It is im

possible to see without admiring-to hear the Guiccioli speak without being fascinated. Her amiability and gentleness shew themselves in every intonation of her voice, which, and the music of her perfect Italian, give a peculiar charm to every thing she utters. Grace and elegance seem component parts of her nature. Notwithstanding that she adores Lord Byron, it is evident that the exile and poverty of her aged father sometimes affect her spirits, and throw a shade of melancholy on her countenance, which adds to the deep interest this lovely girl creates.

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Extraordinary pains," said Lord Byron one day, were "taken with the education of Teresa. Her conversation is lively, without being frivolous; without being learned, she "has read all the best authors of her own and the French language. She often conceals what she knows, from the "fear of being thought to know too much; possibly because she knows I am not fond of blues. To use an expression "of Jeffrey's, 'If she has blue stockings, she contrives that "her petticoat shall hide them."

Lord Byron is certainly very much attached to her, without being actually in love. His description of the

Georgioni in the Manfrini palace at Venice is meant for the Countess. The beautiful sonnet prefixed to the Prophecy of Dante was addressed to her; and I cannot resist copying some stanzas written when he was about to quit Venice to join her at Ravenna, which will describe the state of his feelings at that time.

"River* that rollest by the ancient walls

"Where dwells the lady of my love, when she
"Walks by the brink, and there perchance recalls
"A faint and fleeting memory of me:

"What if thy deep and ample stream should be
"A mirror of my heart, where she may read
"The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
"Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed?

"What do I say-a mirror of my heart?
"Are not thy waters sweeping, dark and strong?
"Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;
"And such as thou art, were my passions long.

* The Po.

"Time may have somewhat tamed them, not for ever;

"Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye;

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Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!

Thy floods subside; and mine have sunk away—

"But left long wrecks behind them, and again
"Borne on our old unchanged career, we move;
"Thou tendest wildly onward to the main,
"And I to loving one I should not love.

"The current I behold will sweep beneath

"Her native walls, and murmur at her feet;

"Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe "The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heat.

"She will look on thee; I have look'd on thee,

"Full of that thought, and from that moment ne'er

"Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream;

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Yes, they will meet the wave I gaze on now:

"Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,

"That happy wave repass me in its flow.

D

"The wave that bears my tears returns no more: "Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep? "Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore; "I near thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.

"But that which keepeth us apart is not "Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,

"But the distraction of a various lot,

"As various as the climates of our birth.

"A stranger loves a lady of the land,

"Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood

"Is all meridian, as if never fann'd

"Tis vain to struggle-let me perish young" Live as I lived, and love as I have loved: "To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,

"And then at least my heart can ne'er be moved."