[_To be continued._ * * * * * FLORENCE. BY HENRY B. HIRST. PROLOGUE. An humble cottage, overgrown With woodbine, stood beside a hill, And nigh it, murmuring through moss, Rippled a little rill. The hill was high and wore a crown Of leafiness, whence, gazing down, An eagle might behold the towers And turrets of a town. And many a pleasant country cot, Snowy, and peering through the green, With, now and then, a rivulet, Meandering, might be seen. But in the landscape, like a king, A short half mile or more away, A grim old castle stood, erect, Baronial and gray. Around it lay an ample park, With, here and there, a drove of deer; A rude old Norman edifice, Dark, desolate and drear! Perhaps it was the morning sun Which made the ancient building smile, But, nevertheless, a pleasant look Was on the agéd pile. Perhaps it was with joy it smiled That morn, the merriest of the year, Which welcomed home its youthful lord, Young Lionel De Vere. Perhaps the thought of earlier days Flitted athwart its granite brain; Perchance it dreamed it might behold Those golden hours again— Those hours when, in the tournament, Warriors, in glistering steel attired, Tilted before young demoiselles, Who blushed to be admired; Or when the forest echoes rang With many a merry bugle-horn, And stag and hounds, a baying rout, Swept by some autumn morn. But whether it was the morning sun Which made the ancient mansion smile, Or other things, a pleasant look Lit up the agéd pile. PART I. She stood among her garden flowers, The very loveliest lily there, Beauty, bloom, purity and truth Unfolding on the air. He paused among the trees and gazed, And like a bark with sails unfurled, His heaving heart went forth to seek Another and a fairer world.