Her cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise,
And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes,
Now that I used my own. She sleeps, as erst
Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours!

Immersed

In thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps?
For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps

Still plain I seem to see !— about his head

The idle cloak,-about his heart (instead

Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude
My vengeance in the cloister's solitude?
Hardly, I think! As little helped his brow
The cloak then, Father-as your grate helps now!

MEETING AT NIGHT.

I.

The gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,

As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

II.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,

And a voice less loud, thro' its joy and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each!

PARTING AT MORNING.

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun looked over the mountain's rim

And straight was a path of gold for him,

And the need of a world of men for me.

THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND.

That second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds thro' the country side,
Breathed hot and instant on my trace,—

I made six days a hiding-place

Of that dry green old aqueduct

Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked The fire-flies from the roof above,

Bright creeping thro' the moss they love.

- How long it seems since Charles was lost!

Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed

The country in my very sight;

And when that peril ceased at night

The sky broke out in red dismay

With signal-fires; well, there I lay

Close covered o'er in my recess,

Up to the neck in ferns and cress,

Thinking on Metternich our friend,

And Charles's miserable end,

And much beside, two days; the third,
Hunger o'ercame me when I heard

The peasants from the village go
To work among the maize; you know,
With us, in Lombardy, they bring
Provisions packed on mules, a string
With little bells that cheer their task,
And casks, and boughs on every cask
To keep the sun's heat from the wine;
These I let pass in jingling line,
And, close on them, dear noisy crew,
The peasants from the village, too;
For at the very rear would troop
Their wives and sisters in a group
To help, I knew; when these had passed,

I threw my glove to strike the last,
Taking the chance: she did not start,
Much less cry out, but stooped apart

One instant, rapidly glanced round,
And saw me beckon from the ground: