And heaven itself could not say nay,

As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away.

How well I call to mind,

When from those boughs the wind

Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower;

And there she sat meek-eyed,

In midst of all that pride,

Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower.

Some to her hair paid dower,

And seemed to dress the curls

Queenlike with gold and pearls ;

Some snowing on her drapery stopped,

Some on the earth, some on the water dropped;

While others, fluttering from above,

Seemed wheeling round in pomp and saying, "Here reigns love."

How often then I said,

Inward, and filled with dread,

"Doubtless this creature came from paradise!"

For at her look the while,

.

Her voice, and her sweet smile

And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes;

So that, with long-drawn sighs,

I said, as far from men,

"How came I here, and when ?"

I had forgotten; and alas!

Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was;

And from that time till this, I bear

Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest else

where.

In justice to Mr. Leigh Hunt, I add to these fine translations, of which every lover of Italian literature will perceive the merit, some extracts from his original poems, which need no previous preparation in the reader. Except Chaucer himself, no painter of processions has excelled the entrance of Paulo to Ravenna, in the story of Rimini.

'Tis morn, and never did a lovelier day
Salute Ravenna from its leafy bay;
For a warm eve and gentle rains at night
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light;
And April with his white hands wet with flowers
Dazzles the bridemaids looking from the towers :
Green vineyards and fair orchards far and near
Glitter with drops; and heaven is sapphire clear,
And the lark rings it, and the pine-trees glow,
And odours from the citrons come and go;
And all the landscape-earth and sky and sea-
Breathes like a bright-eyed face that laughs out openly.

'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and loved.
E'en sloth to-day goes quick and unreproved;
For where's the living soul, priest, minstrel, clown,
Merchant or lord, that speeds not to the town?
Hence happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scattered light;

Come gleaming up-true to the wished-for day—
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.

And well may all the world come crowding there,
If peace returning and processions rare,

And to crown all, a marriage in the spring,

Can set men's hearts and fancies on the wing:
For on this beauteous day Ravenna's pride,
The daughter of their prince, becomes a bride;
A bride to ransom an exhausted land;

And he whose victories have obtained her hand
Has taken with the dawn, so flies report,
His promised journey to the expecting court,
With knightly pomp, and squires of high degree
The bold Giovanni, Lord of Rimini.

;

The road that way is lined with anxious eyes,
And false anouncements and fresh laughters rise
The horseman hastens through the jeering crowd,
And finds no horse within the gates allowed:
And who shall tell the drive there and the din?
The bells, the drums, the crowds yet squeezing in,
The shouts from mere exuberance of delight,
And mothers with their babes in sore affright,
And armed bands making important way
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday;
Minstrels and friars and beggars many a one
That
pray and roll their blind eyes in the sun,
And all the buzzing throngs that hang like bees
On roofs and walls and tops of garden trees.

With tapestries bright the windows overflow
By lovely faces brought that come and go,

Till by their work the charmers take their seats
Themselves the sweetest pictures in the streets,
In colours by light awnings beautified;
Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied,

Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow
Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow:
Smiling and talking some, and some serene,
But all with flowers, and all with garlands green,
And most in fluttering talk impatient for the scene.

At length the approaching trumpets, with a start
On the smooth wind come dancing to the heart.
The crowd are mute; and from the southern wall
A lordly blast gives answer to the call.
Then comes the crush; and all who best can strive
In shuffling struggle toward the palace drive,
Where balustered and broad, of marble fair,
Its portico commands the public square:
For there Count Guido is to hold his state
With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate.
But far too well the square has been supplied:
And, after a rude heave from side to side,
With angry faces turned and nothing gained.
The order first found easiest is maintained;
Leaving the pathways only for the crowd,
The space within for the procession proud.

For in this manner is the square set out :-
The sides half-deep are crowded round about
And faced with guards who keep the horseway clear;
And round a fountain in the midst appear-

Seated with knights and ladies in discourse-
Rare Tuscan wits and warbling troubadours,

Whom Guido, for he loved the Muse's race,
Has set there to adorn his public place.
The seats with boughs are shaded from above
Of bays and roses-trees of wit and love.
And in the midst fresh whistling through the scene
The lightsome fountain starts from out the green
Clear and compact; till at its height o'errun
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun.

Another start of trumpets with reply;
And o'er the gate a crimson canopy
Opens to right and left its flowing shade,
And Guido issues with the princely maid
And sits. The courtiers fall on either side
But every look is fixed upon the bride,
Who seems all thought at first, and hardly hears
The enormous shout that springs as she appears;
Till, as she views the countless gaze below,
And faces that with grateful homage glow
A home to leave and husband yet to see
Are mixed with thoughts of lofty charity :
And hard it is she thinks to have no will;
But not to bless these thousands harder still.

With that a keen and quivering sense of tears

Scarces moves her sweet proud lip and disappears;
A smile is underneath and breaks away

And round she looks and breathes as best befits the day.

What need I tell of cheeks and lips and eyes

The locks that fall, and bosom's balmy rise?