It is Rome's secret charm to reconcile Imagination with our long last sleep. We are resign'd ourselves, and suffer less For those we love. The people of the South Paint closing life in hues less terrible Than do the gloomy nations of the North: The sun, like glory, even warms the grave. The chill, the solitude of sepulchres 'Neath our fair sky, beside our funeral urns So numerous, less haunt the frighted soul. We deem they wait for us, yon shadowy crowd: And from our silent city's loneliness Down to the subterranean one below It is a gentle passage. The edge of grief is blunted thus, and turn'd Not by a harden'd heart, a wither'd soul, But by a yet more perfect harmony-- An air more fragrant--blending with our life. We yield ourselves to Nature with less fear-- Nature whose great Creator said of old-- "The lilies of the vale, lo! they toil not, And neither do they spin: Yet the great Solomon, in all his glory, Was not arrayed like one of these." Oswald was so enchanted by these stanzas, that he testified his transport with a vehemence unequalled by the Romans themselves; in sooth, it was to him, rather than to her countrymen, that the second improvisation of Corinne had been addressed. The generality of Italians read poetry with a kind of monotonous chant, that destroys all effect.[2] In vain the words vary, the impression is ever the same; because the accent is unchanged; but Corinne recited with a mobility of tone which increased the charm of its sustained harmony. It was like listening to different airs, all played on the same celestial organ. A language so stately and sonorous, breathed by so gentle and affecting a voice, awakened a very novel sensation in the mind of Oswald. The natural beauties of the English tongue are all melancholy; tinted by clouds, and tuned by lashing waves; but Italian, among sounds, may be compared to scarlet among colors; its words ring like clarions of victory, and glow with all the bliss a delicious clime can shower on human hearts. When, therefore, Italian is spoken by a faltering tongue, its splendor melts, its concentrated force causes an agitation resistless as unforeseen. The intents of nature seem defeated, her bounties useless or repulsed; and the expression of sorrow in the midst of enjoyment, surprises, touches us more deeply, than would despair itself, if sung in those northern languages, which it seems to have inspired. [1] For the translation of this Ode, the proprietor of the Standard Novels is indebted to the pen of Miss L. E. Landon. [2] An exception must be made in favor of Monti, who reads verse as well as he writes it. There can be few greater dramatic treats than to hear him recite the episode of Ugolino--of Francesca, or the death of Clorinda. CHAPTER IV.