The "tall, beautiful lady" of the Sicilian story, reappears in a series of South Italian folk-songs which contains further evidence of this unconsciously artistic instinct. The Italian folk-poet, for the most part, lets the lore of tradition altogether alone. It does not lie in his province, which is purely lyrical. But he has seized upon Fortune as a myth very capable of lyrical treatment, and following the free bent of his genius, he has woven out of his subject the delicate fancies of these songs. A series in the sense of being designed to form a consecutive whole, they, of course, are not. No two, probably, had the same author; the perfect individuality of the figure presented, only showing how a type may be so firmly fixed that the many have no difficulty in describing it with the consistency of one man who draws the creation of his own brain. I. Once in the gloaming, Fortune met me here; Fair did she seem, and Love was on me laid, Her hair was raised, as were it half a sphere, Flowered on her breast a rose that cannot fade. Then said I, "Fortune, thou without a peer, What rule shall tell the measure of thine aid?" "The pathway of the moon through all the year, The channel of the exhaustless sea," she said. II. One night, the while I slept, drew Fortune near, At once I loved, such beauty she displayed; A crescent moon did o'er her brows appear, And in her hand a wheel that never stayed. Then said I to her, "O my mistress dear, Grant all my wishes, mine if thou wilt aid." But she turned from me with dark sullen cheer And "Never!" as she turned, was all she said. III. I saw my Fortune midst the sounding sea Sit weeping on a rocky height and steep, Said I to her, "Fortune, how is't with thee?" "I cannot help thee, child" (so answered she), "I cannot help thee more--so must I weep." How sweet were those her tears, how sweet, ah me! Even the fishes wept within the deep. IV. One day did Fortune call me to her side, "What are the things," she asked, "that thou hast done?" Then answered I, "Dear mistress, I have tried To grave them upon marble, every one." "Ah! maddest of the mad!" so she replied, "Better hadst writ on sand than wrought in stone; He who to marble should his love confide, Loves when he loves till all his wits are gone." V. There where I lay asleep came Fortune in, She came the while I slept and bid me wake, "What dost thou now?" she said, "companion mine? What dost thou now? Wilt thou then love forsake? Arise," she said, "and take this violin, And play till every stone thereat shall wake." I was asleep when Fortune came to me, And bid me rise, and led me unto thee!