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the trees — the cool damp breeze that played on the hectic cheek of the artist — "farewell!” he exclaimed, “farewell Maddelena, I shall meet thee again in the land of spirits!” Was it a dream that his head once more rested on her lap that her soft cheek was pressed to his, that he again heard the accents of her voice ? and that sound of “Father, dear father, we have found you !” Could it indeed be Giovanni that spoke ?

Unable to bear the tedious suspense of his delay, she had wandered forth to meet him with her children. She had found him ! One last, one long embrace, and the meeting was over ; the spirit had filed to its kindred land. Coreggio died at the age of thirtynine, in the year 1513.


In that city which sits enthroned upon the Adriatic, and which is so justly called its queen, with her spires and domes, her marble palaces and gorgeous buildings rising from the water, there might be daily seen among innumerable long dark gondolas, gliding with spirit-like motion through her hundred canals, one small boat, containing two cavaliers. It was in the year 1497. Venice was in her glory. No foreign power had desolated her churches, her commerce was as free as the winds and waves the spoils of Constantinople and of many victories, adorn-, ed her halls and public buildings — her nobles with stately step traversed her squares, or in their dark gondolas glided with haughty luxury among the innumerable isles. In the far distance, the hoary Alps raised their snow

crowned heads, and looked proudly down on the peerless sovereign of the Adriatic, while the green and fertile plains of LombardoVenetia lay stretched between.

Every morning, a boat, containing the two cavaliers before alluded to, shot from under the noble arch of the Rialto, and glided upon the water with a quiet motion soothing to the beholder.

The gondoliers rested on their oars, to listen to the music that proceeded from the boat. One of the young men drew from a flute rich full tones of harmony, while the voice of the other prolonged the cadence till sound melted into air.

Suddenly he seized a lute, and sung the following lay impromptu, and now and then accompanying his voice with the instrument :

The waves in murmurs softly flow,
The winds from heaven gently blow :
How still upon the ocean's breast
Yon beauteous island seems to rest !
By many a sparkling gem t'is bound,
An emerald set with brilliants round;
Tranquil and calm thou seest it lie,
" A cloud upon a summer's sky;"
And yet I ween the swelling tide
" Will rudely dash against its side: ”

* These lines have been before published.

I warn thee loiterer beware!
Danger and death are lurking there!
Thou will not heed ? then hear my lay,
And spread thy sail, and haste away.

The morning was bright,
And flowers were blooming;
The grass waved high,

The air perfuming.
“Awake, my love," the bridegroom cried,
"My barque is dancing on the tide;
A sailor's wife must love the sea :
Awake, my love, and come with me,
And thou my polar star stall be.”
And what was Genevieve's emotion
When borne upon the faithless ocean?
I cannot tell. Perhaps 't was fear
That wet her cheek with many a tear;
And yet methinks her heart was gay,
For smiles oft chased those tears away.

"And sad,” she said, “I will not be; My path is marked



And there is One, whose eye will keep
The vigils when thine own shall sleep;
He locks the caverns of the deep,
And holds alike the sea and land
Within the hollow of his hand.”
How sweet to land upon this isle,
And rest from noon-day beams awhile !
And now the mariner once more
Must spread his sail for yonder shore ;
But Genevieve in sportive play
Declared her purpose was to stay.
"I cannot go," she said," with thee;
Queen of this island I will be.
Go, if thou wilt, to yonder shore,

And when thy duty there is o'er,
Perhaps when thou com'st back again,
I'll make thee my high chamberlain.”

Again he spread the snowy sail;
It fluttered in the rising gale;
The mountain waters rudely cast
The foaming spray upon the blast ;
His little bark was widely driven
Before the scattering winds of heaven.
One blessed thought could still relieve -
“My wife is safe, my Genevieve!”
That mighty voice which can at will
Command the tempest to be still,
Hushed the rude sea, the rainbow spread,
Like a bright halo, o'er his head;
Again he plied the lab’ring oar
To reach the emerald isle once more.

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The minstrel ceased, and dropped his head.

Though fifty years have passed,” he said,
“ These scalding tears will still be shed;
The waters o'er the isle had swept ?
And in its hollows yet they slept.
My time is short, I will not grieve -
I soon shall join my Genevieve!”

" Who are those cavaliers ?" said the Count Grimani, when the song had ceased, and his gondola had passed them. "I have seen them every day, for many weeks; sometimes their boat is moored, and twice I have met them, arm in arm, on the Rialto.”

“I know them, my lord,” said one of the

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