"Blessed are ye, Peace-makers:"-said my heart : And quick as thought Love answer'd: "Let us try."

I groped my way down through the darken'd house,
In sleep and silence hush'd; unbarr'd the door,
And, issuing by the garden, overleapt

The party-wall, an easy dwarfish thing
That raised no envious obstacle to Love,
And gave me ready access to the yard
Where, mindful of his promise overnight,
Stood Renzo with the brown Calabrian.
He waited on the off-side of the horse,
And I, with rein in hand, in act to mount,
Confronting him, spoke thus reproachfully :
"Renzo, my friend, beware of Jealousy:
True Love is not a jailor, not a spy
On innocent familiarities

That blood of kindred warrants, but a god
Of pleasant ways in social intercourse,

Who lives on smiles, and breathes an air of joy

Beside him what a churl seems Jealousy!"

He rubb'd his chin, and shook a doubtful head;
I, setting foot in stirrup, lightly sprang

Across the saddle, laid a friendly arm

Upon his shoulder, and renew'd my plea,
Close to his ear, in guise of confidence:

"She danced with him too long? But you were by,

To see how well and gracefully she danced.
Her eyes met his half-way? O purblind man,
They drop their lids when they encounter yours:
Poor little Rita loves you, heart and soul."

Along his lips a smile ran in and out,
And play'd around the corners of his mouth :
Seeing the wedge was in, I said no more,
But left my comrade, Love, to drive it home.

How glorious was the rising of the sun,
How crisp the morning air from off the sea!
We both were ripe for sport, my horse and I.
He shook his mane and forelock to the breeze,
And, starting at a gallop, hurl'd the sand
A score of yards behind him; then he stood,
Wide-nostrill'd, snorting at the salt sea-foam.
Or, wheeling in large circuit from the wave,
With forward ears and neck superbly arch'd,
Broke off again at speed along the shore.
So, merrily, the morning hour went by.
At hand was Renzo, prompt on our return
To hold the stirrup and to take my horse;
And as he slacken'd the Calabrian's girth
And set the saddle back upon his loins,
Bashful, with half-averted face, he spoke :-
"Padrone, you are right, and I'm to blame:
If at the ventiquattro Rita comes,

And she comes often, to the garden wall,
Why, then and there, I will confession make
And do whatever penance she enjoins."
I gave his hand a hearty English shake,
And hasten'd in to break my hungry fast.

There, on a snowy cloth, had Rita piled
The gold and purple clusters of her vines,
With strawberries blushing in their ducal leaves
And figs in sugar'd ripeness all agape;

And now, imprison'd in a crystal bell,
She set the cheese of cheeses in the midst,
Strachino of Milan, with galantine

In amber jelly laid, and speckled trout

Bright from the mountain streamlet, nor forgot
The flask of sparkling Asti that I loved.
Then, as I smoothed the napkin on my knee,
As one clothed with authority I spoke :
"Rita, my child, I love you well enough

To rate you soundly for your last night's work."-
True woman-like, to justify herself

She broke in here, and fairly proved my case:
"Ah! me; that Renzo should be so unkind;
And all because my playmate Guido smiles
And dances with me as in bygone days,
And vows the woman's fairer than the child,
Even as the rose is sweeter than the bud.
Oh yes, I know what jealous Renzo says,
I heard that song about his horse and me:
He keeps all loving-kindness for his nag,

But curb and spur are what poor Rita needs!
Ah! me, that Renzo should be so unkind."
She ceased, with pouted lips, impenitent;
And I went on:-"You wrong yourself and him
To weigh the tinsel of mere compliment
Against the jewel of a loving heart.

But flattery is a springe that takes you all.
O foolish girl! Be warn'd, be warn'd in time;
Playmates in youth may play at mates too long;
He that beguiles the ear may force the lips,
And then, mayhap, che so io? a stab in the dark."
Up went her hands, in terror, to her eyes
To shut the spectre out my words had raised;
Her bosom rose and fell with sobs suppress'd,
And Rita vanish'd in a shower of tears.

Though not unsympathetic, let me own
To breakfasting that day with appetite:
I chuckled at the tickling of a trout,
Joked on the bedding of fair galantine,
And ate my bread and cheese with carefulness.
Grapes bring their gold and purple gifts to kings,
And strawberries crown the feast of lesser lords;
But ripe figs are ambrosia of the gods,
And Asti sparkles bright as Hippocrene.
So, giving thanks, I lit my morning pipe.
Poor Rita brought me coffee, while I smoked;
And as she placed the salver by my side
Half sadly, half reproachfully, she spoke:
"Caro Lei, never think so ill of me
As to believe that I am false of heart,

Or I shall shame your judgment by good deeds.

If at the ventiquattro Renzo comes,

He will come, surely to the garden wall,

I'll make him sweet amends, in truth I will,

For what his jealous fancy took amiss."

"Sad brow and true maid, will you?"-"Nay," she said, "I cannot tell how sad my brow may be,

But true maid will I prove, and truer wife."-
"Well said, my pretty Rita; you shall have
That bunch of coral charms you covet so,
I kept them from you for a parting gift.
See, this to shield you from the evil eye,
And this to ward the calentura off,

And this but take them all-Faith, Hope, and Love,
These three will help you more than all the rest."-
"Much thanks, I kiss your Signoria's hand,

They will be valued doubly for your sake."-
And Rita's April face was wreath'd in smiles.

Now, all the long and sultry afternoon,
Tranced in the dim siesta of the South,
'Twixt sleeping and awake I lay, and caught
At intervals the touch of Rita's lute,

And snatches of her clear soprano voice
In words I fail'd to catch; and yet I dreamt
That she was conning o'er some tender song,
To please her truant Renzo, if he came.

I sat out on the balcony, at night,
Impregnating the air of Italy

With puffs of fragrance from th' Habaña drawn,
And, leaning forward to knock off my ash,
A pretty picture met my eyes below.
For Renzo, stretch'd upon the dwarfish wall,
Gazed down at Rita on the garden-seat;
And Rita's downcast eyes were on her lap
Where, spoil'd of all their freshness, lay the rose
And sweet verbena sprigs of yesterday.

Then, drawing some short prelude from her lute,
She sang her pretty song to Flower and Leaf:

"Faded Flower! Your empty cup
Droops athirst, soon withering up:
Wither'd Leaf! Your fading breath
Keeps its fragrance, ev'n in death.

"Come and gone! your term is brief,
Faded Flower and wither'd Leaf;
Joy and Friendship, brief as you,
Must they fade and wither, too?

"Wither'd Leaf and faded Flower
Die at their appointed hour;
But the joy that Friendship brings,
Dying, to remembrance clings."

She ended, sighing: yet they sat and talk'd
A sweet hour by the moon; at last, I heard,
Amid the silence of the summer night,
A rustle-a whisper-and a gentle snap,
Like purse-lips closing on fresh-minted gold;
And then a pattering of little feet

Across the gravel, but they paused midway,
While Rita kiss'd her gather'd finger-tips
And toss'd them back to Renzo, who replied,
Laughing: "To-morrow, at the ventiquattro."
Then Rita, flitting in, made fast the door,
And all the house was still. So I, to bed;
Conceiting, like the silly fly on the wheel,
That I, and Love, had made their quarrel up.

BARON BUNSEN.1

BY THE REV. F. D. MAURICE.