then burnt. But there was another loss to Spenser's kindly heart far more terrible. There was left in the burning castle in that hour of terror and confusion, a "little child new - born." It perished in the flames. The desolate father fled from disordered Ireland, and took refuge in England as a land of safety. His own pleasant home destroyed, he was thrown on the hired hospitalities of an inn. In a common inn or lodging-house the great poet ended his days. One there had been, who, if still living, would have given him shelter and protection. But the chivalrous, kind-hearted Sidney was no more. Spenser's nervous system was utterly crushed by the shock of his burning house and perishing child. He sunk and sunk. It is even said that circumstances of peculiar penury and distress attended his last days. Ben Jonson relates that the poet "died for lack of bread in King-street, and refused twenty pieces sent to him by my Lord of Essex, and said he was sorrie he had no time to spend them."" This statement, however, appears improbable. Spenser was at the height of an acknowledged fame; he had his pension of fifty pounds a year-equal to five or six times that amount at present-and he was surrounded by rich and influential friends. Nevertheless, an able writer is probably correct in saying, "Whether we adopt the version of Camden, or Jonson, or Fuller, as to the circumstances of Spenser's death, we can arrive at nothing but gloom and sadness." Let us hope that those divine words might be true of him: "Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be

comforted."

It was determined that he should be buried in Westminster Abbey. This had been his own desire. He had also wished to rest close by the tomb of Chaucer. This was accordingly the place of interment. The funeral was attended by poets, according to Camden; who adds, that "mournful elegies and poems, with the pens that wrote them, were thrown into the tomb." A monument was erected to his memory at the expense of the unfortunate Earl of Essex: It is probably familiar to many of our readers; and within the Abbey's solemn and tender gloom none other is invested with a greater degree of interest and pathos. We recall the words of the inscription:

wind,

As though it murmured tongueless legends o'er,

Waiting but an interpreter to fill
The soul with wonders. Ere we sunk to rest,
We gazed upon the setting orb, whose light
Shone slantly o'er the blackness of the place;
Their glories to the plain; vanished were all
She only was unchanged of all that gave
The golden-vaulted chambers of the kings;
The temples full of incense and of song,
The stirring incidents of ages, when
The shawled Assyrian, charioted and armed,
Dashed through the dust of battle-all was
dust,

Watching the world from her eternity.
And spirit-like she only hovered near,

Then, ere the soul was dipped in sleep,

there rose The wish, to view the splendors of the past; And looking on that sphere immutable "Oh, Moon," we said, "that gazest o'er the Shine through our dream and light the van

waste,

ished years Which thou hast looked upon along this land, Since the dusk tribes, wandering the desert o'er,

Reared their rude tents beneath the azure air Lured by the freshness of the streams; and then,

As years rolled on and temples rose with them,

To many a god, and many an armed tower Looked o'er dominion widening more and more,

The wandering nations flocked from distant climes,

And through the East and deep into the South,

As from some golden gong at sunrise swung, Sounded the name of Nineveh."

Awhile

Our spirit, lost to earth, floated along,
Enveloped in the folds of phantom clouds,
And sightless in the hollow life of night;
But soon the distance cleared as with a dawn,
And wonder light sudden before us glowed
The mighty orient capital. It stood

High in the sunset heavens, a gloried pile, With massy walls and mighty gateway towers,

And broad courts open to the fiery sun,
Gardens and shrines and skyey pyramids.
Upon the marble terraces, that looked
High o'er the river floating to the West,
Lay many a group in festal attitude,
Lulled by the tonings breathed from harp and
lute;

And every soul seemed steeped in luxury,
Effeminate as the gentle summer air
That breathed around the bowers where they
reposed;

Warrior and minstrel, prince and potentate,
In revel joined, forgetting state, and lapsed
In pleasaunce enervate, as though the clime
Infused with magic elements transformed
The soldier, once the terror of the van,
Into the smooth and ringleted Sybarite.
The trees drooped heavy with perfume, and

The booted warrior and the sandalled priest,
And many a long amasculated train,
Cunning and cold; while troops, bearded and
armed

With shield and spear and ponderous battle

axe,

In brassy glitter, followed the victor's wheels.

Still moving with the moving cavalcade,
Upon a templed height we stood, and viewed
The gloried space around. Across the land
A river floated, like a stream from the sun,
And branched afar its golden tributaries
By breadths of summer gardens and by
bowers.

Along the marble quays that flanked its sides
Full many a fountain spouted amid heaps
Of colored fruits and bales of merchandise;
While painted barges floated on its wave,
Heavy with riches from Arabian shores,
And islands in the sumptuous Indian seas:
Beneath us all the city seemed alive,
As with the impulse of one joy, that spread
Like light around it, and the brazen trump
Stormed triumphing around its skyey towers,
As we approached a mighty temple porch,
Whose walls colossal crowned a height; it
stood

Armed with twin effigies of power, huge forms, Wide-winged and lion-headed, but which looked

Upon the crowd from man's immortal brow.
Before them bent the passing multitude-
Then entered filling the vast halls that yawned
With chambers like the caverned western
clouds.

Around the walls that soared to roofs of gold,
The mystic learning of the ancient time
Was graven, as with the gloomy hand of
death,

Prophetic type, symbol inscrutable
And legend long traditioned, though the
learned,

From hours when man and angel trod the earth,

Lay in the silence of unspoken tongues;
Far off, the altar shone amid the priests,
While high above them in mid-air looked
down

Dark idols with a star upon each brow.
Beneath an opening in the cedared roof,
Whence fell a burst of sunlight, the great
King

Stood with unsheathed sword; the altars flamed

With incense and the chants of victory rose From white-robed trains of priests and choristers;

Around them spread the trophies of the war, And by the portals, scribes with reed and scroll

Sat numbering the slaves and spoils of fight.
Thus for a space in sacred sacrifice
And ceremonial gorgeous passed the hours
Till night grew radiant with the summer stars;

On the Sunday before Ascension-day, in 1472, there stood upon the Rialto, the Fargest bridge of Venice, and totally built of splendid marble, three youths, amusing themselves by lively conversation and satirical remarks upon all who were passing by, and upon the persons in the numerous gondolas which crowded the grand canal. Their tasteful and costly attire, consisting of silk and velvet, the waving ostrich feathers in their hats fastened by sparkling jeweled clasps, the golden chains to which highly-tempered daggers, with diamond studded handles, were attached, but, more than all, their proud bearing, caused them to be recognized as nobles, whose fathers could not only command immense wealth, but who also, as members of the Serenissima Signoria, could influence the weal and woe of the republic. They sprang from three of the first families of the golden book, and many of their forefathers, as at the time was the case with the father of one of them, had on Ascension day wedded the Adriatic Sea, and borne the ducal crown. Marco Falieri, the son of the Doge, was one, Lucio Cornaro another, and Giovanni Anafesto the third of the haughty, scoffing trio. Judging by their intimacy, they appeared to be friends; but if the expression of their countenances were watched more narrowly, in the eyes of one at least there lurked something which by no means evinced cordiality or good fellowship.

Marco Falieri was a youth of nineteen years of age, so handsome that on seeing him, even though he could not boast of the stature of a hero, one was involuntarily reminded of what those must have been who were the originals of the admired sculptures of Grecian antiquity. He was of the middle height, and slightly

built, but not delicate looking; on the contrary, the fresh tints of health glowed upon his cheek. His countenance, notwithstanding a dash of frivolity, which was the fashionable failing amongst the young noblemen of the day, nevertheless bespoke so much good nature and honesty, that all who knew him intimately could not fail to love him.

Lucio Cornaro possessed the form of a Hercules, and that vast amount of aspiring ambition, like the daring valor of his forefathers, which had rendered the republic such signal services. He also was handsome, but his features were less finely moulded than those of Marco.

The third of this group, Giovanni Anafesto, was not one of nature's favorites. His features indicated the blackness of his heart. Vice had early placed its odious stamp upon his wan and wrinkled cheek. In his eye flashed the wild glare of sensual desires, and the never-quenching fire of revenge. Those whom he hated, he hated terribly, and for ever.

Cornaro and Falieri were friends, for the latter clung to the former, and was beloved by him in return, although their fathers cherished in their hearts a secret animosity. Falieri's father was Doge, therefore Anafesto sought his society, and forced himself upon him.

The young men found rich materials for their amusement until the arrival of Cornaro's galley, for which they were waiting, and on which they expected a very different occupation. The soft wind wafted from the sea had cooled the air of the unusually hot May day, and as divine service had long since ended, and the canals were swarming with gondolas, and the song of the gondoliers, and the sweet tones of the guitars were already audible, a countless mass of human beings streamed backwards and forwards across the high Rialto, some merely hurrying homewards, while others were intent on business or pleasure. The eyes of the young men rambled now over the canal, now over the crowd, sweeping past them, and in all directions objects to call forth their wit, and butts for their bitter satire, presented themselves. If Giovanni Anafesto became too ill natured, Cornaro, who was older than he, enjoined peace and quiet, but to no purpose. Common people and nobles,

men and women, all received their by no means flattering epithets. And just when there was arising among the people murmurs of dissatisfaction against the three scoffers, and they overheard words of menace, and beheld flashing eyes around them, a loud cannon-shot came booming from the roads that made the very air tremble again.

"Hark!" cried Cornaro; "that is our galley which brings my sister!"

A second report immediately followed; the young men hastened from the bridge, sprang into Cornaro's richly ornamented gondola, and glided merrily down the canal towards the lagoons. And as they thus glided along between the rows of houses, and palaces, and ornamented gondolas, Cornaro became serious and sad. His sister was all that was left to him; in giving her existence, his beloved mother had lost her life; therefore his deeply-afflicted father had sent the child of sorrow to a sister in Corfu, where she was brought up. Lucio had not seen his sister since her earliest childhood. But he possessed a portrait of her, which he always carried about with him, because his father told him that it was the most perfect image of his departed mother.

66 Lucio,' at length began Marco Falieri, "tell me, what is your sister like, that I may not be confused when I present myself to her!"

"They say this picture is a striking resemblance," replied he, as he offered the miniature to him. "It was painted by one named Calopulo, a Greek from Cyprus, who is doctor and artist, and the gods know what not!"

Marco seized it eagerly, and exclaimed, after gazing on it with eyes in which his whole soul lay:

" with

By my patron saint! this is a more lovely, angelic face than I have ever seen in Rome or Florence! Andan inward shudder he added, murmuring to himself, "I forgive my father for loving that Jessica so madly, if she resembled this miniature."

With eyes eager and longing, such as those with which Satan may be supposed to gaze up at paradise, Giovanni Anafesto looked over Marco's shoulder at Catharine's picture, while he said to Lucio, with a strange, malicious side glance at Marco:

"Your mother was a beautiful a very beautiful woman!"

His tone of voice had something sneering in it, which smote painfully on Marco's soul, and he fancied that this disagreeable Anafesto was acquainted with a secret which his father had onco confided to him. He glanced quickly back, but encountered a face apparently open and smiling, behind him.

Meanwhile they had reached the lagoons. Proudly floated the elegant galley along, with waving flags and pennons, and beneath a purple canopy three ladies were distinctly to be discerned. The gondoliers rowed with redoubled vigor, and the hurrahs of the crew greeted the new-comers.

Lucio quickly gave the captain a sign that he did not wish to be recognized, and, as the galley lay-to, he whispered into Marco's ear, "Do you first ascend its side."

The ladder of ropes was let down. Marco stepped upon deck, after him came Giovanni, lastly Lucio. The young men walked forward, bowing to the ladies, who had risen from their Turkisk cushions to greet them. Catharine Cornaro cast a searching glance upon the features of the three youths, and then, her fair face glowing with blushes, she approached Marco Falieri, offering him her hand and her cheek as a welcome, while with a soft, flute-like voice she greeted him as Lucio.

But Marco blushed as crimson as the damsel herself, and disengaged himself from her encircling arms, while he replied:

"Forgive me, dear signora, this is your brother!"

The lady suddenly turned pale; Lucio held out his arms to her, the tears in the eyes of her brother removed her doubt, and she lay weeping upon his breast.

Fortunately for the embarrassed Catharine, her father's bark approached at that moment, and she flew to meet her beloved parent. But Giovanni stood there like a statue of envy, while his eyes, with a truly voluptuous expression, rested upon Catharine's lovely form, or rather wandered about, contemplating her charming figure. Marco involuntarily laid his hand upon his heart. He felt that that moment would influence his life, and he murmured to himself, "Oh,