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The boy stood on the burning deck

Whence all but he had fled ;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,

Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm,A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

The flames rolled on-he would not go

Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud :-“Say, father, say,

If yet my task is done ?
He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

“Speak, father !” once again he cried,

“If I may yet be gone ?" And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death

In still yet brave despair ;

1 Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post, in the Battle of the Nile, after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned. He perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder. 1 Affirming itself to be the very bucket which Tassoni, in his mock heroics, has celebrated as the cause of war between Bologna and Modena five hundred years ago.

And shouted but once more aloud,

“My father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapped the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound

The boy-oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea !

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perished there

Was that young faithful heart.



IF thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To Modena, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs'
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio Gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their archèd walks,
Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day.” A summer sun
Sets ere one-half is seen ; but ere thou go,
Enter the house--prithee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by Zampieri?—but by whom I care not.
He, who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,
As though she said, “ Beware !” Her vest of gold
'Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp ;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture-stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor.
That by the way-it may be true or false-
? Dante's Inferno, V.
3 Commonly called Domenichino.

But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire.
Her Mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to him ?
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy ; but at the Bridal feast, When all sate down, the Bride was wanting there. Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried : 66'Tis but to make a trial of our love !” And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, But that she was not !- Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived ; and long was to be seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find — he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile

Silent and tenantless—then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?” 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way It burst, it fell ; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold ! All else had perished-save a nuptial ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both“ Ginevra.”—There then had she found a grave ! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever !





beheld when William plunged
Young Edmund in the stream,
No human ear but William's heard

Young Edmund's drowning scream.

Submissive all the vassals owned

The murderer for their lord ;
And he as rightful heir possessed

The house of Erlingford.

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