The surrounding landscape--the dwelling place of the poet--his tomb facing the heavens, and disdaining even the shadow of trees--the half-effaced inscription of that hallowed shrine--all these seemed appropriate, and melted the gazer's heart.
How useless! how intrusive! are the superfluous decorations of art, amid the simpler scenes of nature.
Ornament is here misplaced. The feeling heart regrets its presence at the time, and attempts, albeit in vain, to banish it from after recollections.
George could not restrain his tears, for he thought of the dead; and they silently followed their guide to Petrarch's house, now partly used as a granary. Passing through two or three unfinished rooms, whose walls were adorned with rude frescoes of the lover and his mistress, they were shown into Petrarch's chamber, damp and untenanted.
In the closet adjoining, were the chair and table consecrated by the poet.
There did he sit--and write--and muse--and die!
George turned to a tall narrow window, and looked out on a scene, fair and luxuriant as the garden of Eden.
The rich fig trees, with their peculiar small, high scented fruit, mixed with the vines that clustered round the lattice.
The round heads of the full bearing peach trees, dipped down in a leafy slope beneath a grassy walk;--and this thicket of fruit was charmingly enlivened, by bunches of the scarlet pomegranate, now in the pride of their blossom.
The poet's garden alone was neglected--rank herbage choking up its uncultivated flowers.