“Once” did this heart exult at coming spring, My sunny smiles were bright as April skies! Or if tears ever overflowed my eyes, They passed as showers, which April clouds do bring, And quick again my joyous soul took wing; As when the bird from out its covert flies, To welcome sunshine back with carolling, New plumes its pinions, higher yet to rise. But now, alas! I’m like the _wounded_ bird! An arrow in this bosom pierces deep— My spirit droops—my song no more is heard; My harp to mourning turned, is only stirred As with the plaintive tones of those that weep, And I am sad, while Spring her festival doth keep. * * * * * UGOLINO, A TALE OF FLORENCE. BY M. TOPHAM EVANS. I. “Dark as the mouth of Acheron, and the rain seems inclined to warrant a second deluge,” grumbled a rough voice, proceeding from one of the dark alleys which branched out from the Porta san Piero. “Silence, rascal!” sharply rejoined another voice. “Wouldst betray us with thy noise? Thou wouldst have the _bargello_ upon us, with a murrain! Dost thou think that thou art brawling over thy liquor, that thou wouldst bring the notice of the police upon us?” “Nay, I but spoke,” growled the other, and muffling himself up in his heavy cloak, leaned against the wall and held his peace. The night was truly, as the first speaker observed, as black as Tartarus. The rain plashed down in torrents; and the squalls of wind which occasionally drove the showers with accelerated rapidity across the street, whistled dismally among the tall turrets and battlemented roofs of the Porta san Piero. The street was obscured by a thick mist, through which the feeble light of the flickering lamps, hung in the centre of the thoroughfare, at long distances from each other, shone like lurid meteors. Few wayfarers lingered in the passage, and such as were to be seen, with rapid strides, and close-wrapped cloaks, hurried over the wet and slippery stones, which formed a kind of rude _pavé_. Two figures, enveloped in large mantles, the actors in the dialogue, were carefully ensconced in the thick darkness of the blind alley, apparently upon the watch for some expected comer. The turret clock of San Marco pealed the hour of ten, and as if waiting for the signal, the wind rose with increased fury, and spouts of water deluged the persons of the concealed parties. “Corpo di Baccho!” swore the first speaker, “by the clock it is ten already, and yet no signs of Ugolino. My mantle cleaves to the skin with the wet, and altogether I feel more like a half-drowned rat, than a good Catholic. By my rosary, a bright fire, and a comfortable cup of father Borachio’s Lachryma, would be an excellent exchange for a dark alley and a waterspout like this.”