E’en on this cold and cheerless shore,
While all is dark and quiet near,
The huntsman, when his toils are o’er,
That melody may hear.
And see, faint gleaming o’er the waters’ foam,
The glories of that isle, his future home.
E. F. E.
THE ITALIAN LOVER.
Steeped in a mild unclouded moonlight, the storied domes, arches and pinnacles of Venice, once mistress of the Adriatic, and still the most interesting of Italian cities, lay sleeping in surpassing loveliness. Venice, like Melrose, is best viewed when lit up by the pale lunar beam which permits the dark shadows of its palaces to hide the decay of their crumbling foundations—which softens its few faults of architecture, and blends each airy and ethereal turret with the dusk of the deep sky itself. The soft illumination, mellowing and mingling their wave-worn halls and arches, awakes the luxurious inhabitants to life and animation. Dark gondolas, filled with masks and music begin to glide along the shadowy canals, marking the course they take by the undulating reflection of their lamps in the water. Here and there, from the windows of some haughty palace, whence a flood of radiance is poured upon the night, contrasting with the moonbeams as it falls upon the stream without, may be heard the resounding din of instrumental music, timing the steps of dancers in the halls within.
Where the shadow fell darkest from a mighty pile, shrouding all below, a noble maiden bent from a balcony, and listened to a lover’s serenade. She stood, screened from the light, and motionless, rapt in mute attention, while the cavalier beneath her struck his guitar with matchless skill, and sang a canzonet that breathed the very soul of passion. At length the music died meltingly away, and the lady was about to retire from the balcony.