And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone,

And sylvan deities, with moss o'er

grown,

And fountains palpitating in the heat, And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath its feet.

Here in seclusion, as a widow may, The lovely lady whiled the hours away, Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, Herself the stateliest statue among all, And seeing more and more, with secret joy,

Her husband risen and living in her boy,

Till the lost sense of life returned again, Not as delight, but as relief from pain. Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength,

Stormed down the terraces from length to length;

The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit,

And climbed the garden trellises for fruit.

But his chief pastime was to watch the flight

Of a ger-falcon, soaring into sight, Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall,

Then downward stooping at some distant call;

And as he gazed full often wondered he Who might the master of the falcon be, Until that happy morning, when he found

Master and falcon in the cottage ground.

And now a shadow and a terror fell

On the great house, as if a passing bell Tolled from the tower, and filled each spacious room

With secret awe, and preternatural gloom;

The petted boy grew ill, and day by day Pined with mysterious malady away. The mother's heart would not be comforted!

Her darling seemed to her already

dead;

And often, sitting by the sufferer's side, "What can I do to comfort thee?" she cried.

At first the silent lips made no reply, But, moved at length by her importunate cry, "Give me, he answered, with im

ploring tone, "Ser Federigo's falcon for my own!"

No answer could the astonished mother make ;

How could she ask, e'en for her darling's sake,.

Such favour at a luckless lover's hand, Well knowing that to ask was to command?

Well knowing, what all falconers confessed,

In all the land that falcon was the best, The master's pride and passion and delight,

And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight.

But yet, for her child's sake, she could no less

Than give assent, to soothe his restlessness,

So promised, and then promising to keep

Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep.

The morrow was a bright September

The other with her hood thrown back, her hair

Making a golden glory in the air, Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush,

Her young heart singing louder than the thrush.

So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade,

Each by the other's presence lovelier made,

Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, Intent upon their errand and its end.

They found Ser Federigo at his toil, Like banished Adam, delving in the soil;

And when he looked and these fair

women spied,

The garden suddenly was glorified; His long-lost Eden was restored again, And the strange river winding through the plain

No longer was the Arno to his eyes, But the Euphrates watering Paradise! Monna Giovanna raised her stately head,

And with fair words of salutation said: "Ser Federigo, we come here as friends,

Hoping in this to make some poor amends

For past unkindness. I who ne'er before

Would even cross the threshold of your door,

I who in happier days such pride maintained,

Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained,

This morning come, a self-invited guest, To put your generous nature to the test, And breakfast with you under your own vine."

He left his guests; and to his cottage turned,

And as he entered for a moment yearned For the lost splendours of the days of old,

The ruby glass, the silver and the gold, And felt how piercing is the sting of pride,

By want embittered and intensified. He looked about him for some means or way

To keep this unexpected holiday; Searched every cupboard, and then searched again,

Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain ;

"The Signor did not hunt to-day," she said,

There's nothing in the house but wine and bread."

Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook His little bells, with that sagacious look, Which said, as plain as language to the

Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread,

Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot,

The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot; Then in the midst a flask of wine he

A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, Nor how her heart anticipates his will. And yet for this, you see me lay aside All womanly reserve and check of pride, And ask the thing most precious in your sight,

Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight,

Which if you find it in your heart to give,

My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live."

Ser Federigo listens, and replies, With tears of love and pity in his eyes: "Alas, dear lady! there can be no task So sweet to me, as giving when you ask.

One little hour ago, if I had known This wish of yours, it would have been

Than what most dear and precious was

to me,

And so my gallant falcon breathed his last

To furnish forth this morning our repast."

In mute contrition, mingled with dis may,

The gentle lady turned her eyes away, Grieving that he such sacrifice should make,

And kill his falcon for a woman's sake, Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, That nothing she could ask for was denied ;

Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate

With footstep slow and soul disconsolate.

Three days went by, and lo! a passing. bell

Tolled from the little chapel in the dell; Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said,

Breathing a prayer, "Alas! her child

is dead!'

Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chime

Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time;

The cottage was deserted, and no more Ser Federigo sat beside its door.

But now, with servitors to do his will, In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side

Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair, High-perched upon the back of which there stood

The image of a falcon carved in wood. And underneath the inscription, with a date,

All things come round to him who will but wait."

INTERLUDE.

SOON as the story reached its end, One, over eager to commend, Crowned it with injudicious praise;

And then the voice of blame found vent,
And fanned the embers of dissent
into a somewhat lively blaze.
The Theologian shook his head;
"These old Italian tales," he said,
"From the much-praised Decameron
down

Through all the rabble of the rest,
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd;
The gossip of a neighbourhood
In some remote provincial town,
A scandalous chronicle at best!
They seem to me a stagnant fen,
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds,
Where a white lily, now and then,
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds,
And deadly nightshade on its banks."
To this the Student straight replied,
"For the white lily many thanks!
One should not say, with too much pride,
Fountain, I will not drink of thee!
Nor were it grateful to forget,
That from these reservoirs and tanks
Even imperial Shakespeare drew
His Moor of Venice and the Jew,
And Romeo and Juliet,
And many a famous comedy."

Then a long pause; till some one said,
"An Angel is flying overhead!"
At these words spake the Spanish Jew,
And murmured with an inward breath:
"God grant, if what you say is true,
It may not be the Angel of Death!"

And then another pause; and then,
Stroking his beard, he said again;
"This brings back to my memory
A story in the Talmud told,
That book of gems, that book of gold,
Of wonders many and manifold,
A tale that often comes to me,
And fills my heart, and haunts my brain,
And never wearies nor grows old,"

THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE.

THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI.

RABBI BEN LEVI, on the Sabbath, read A volume of the Law, in which it said, "No man shall look upon my face and live."

And as he read, he prayed that God would give

Town,

And set him on the wall, whence, gazing

down, Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, Might look upon his place in Paradise. Then straight into the city of the Lord The Rabbi leaped with the DeathAngel's sword,

And through the streets there swept a sudden breath

Of something there unknown, which men call death.

Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried,

"Come back!" To which the Rabbi's voice replied,

"No! in the name of God, whom I adore,

I swear that hence I will depart no more!"

Then all the Angels cried, "O Holy One,

See what the son of Levi here has done! The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence,

And in Thy name refuses to go hence!" The Lord replied, 'My Angels, be not wroth;

Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath? Let him remain: for he with mortal eye Shall look upon my face and yet not die." Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death

Heard the great voice, and said, with panting breath,

"Give back the sword, and let me go my way."

Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, "Nay!

Anguish enough already has it caused Among the sons of men." And while he paused

He heard the awful mandate of the Lord Resounding through the air, "Give back the sword!"

The Rabbi bowed his head in silent

They almost feared to look, lest there,
Embodied from the impalpable air,
They might behold the Angel stand,
Holding the sword in his right hand.
At last, but in a voice subdued,
Not to disturb their dreamy mood,
Said the Sicilian, "While you spoke,
Telling your legend marvellous,
Suddenly in my memory woke
The thought of one, now gone from us,-
An old Abate, meek and mild,
My friend and teacher, when a child,
Who sometimes in those days of old
The legend of an Angel told,
Which ran, if I remember, thus."