"'Twas night; the noise and bustle of the day Were o'er. The mountebank no longer wrought Miraculous cures--he and his stage were gone; And he who, when the crisis of his tale Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear, Sent round his cap; and he who thrumm'd his wire And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries [62], So well portray'd and by a son of thine, Whose voice had swell'd the hubbub in his youth, Were hush'd, BOLOGNA, silence in the streets, The squares, when hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs; And soon a courier, posting as from far, Housing and holster, boot and belted coat And doublet stain'd with many a various soil, Stopt and alighted. 'Twas where hangs aloft That ancient sign, the Pilgrim, welcoming All who arrive there, all perhaps save those Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell, Those on a pilgrimage: and now approach'd Wheels, through the lofty porticoes resounding, Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade As the sky changes. To the gate they came; And, ere the man had half his story done, Mine host received the Master--one long used To sojourn among strangers, every where (Go where he would, along the wildest track) Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, And leaving footsteps to be traced by those Who love the haunts of Genius; one who saw, Observed, nor shunn'd the busy scenes of life, But mingled not; and mid the din, the stir, Lived as a separate Spirit. "Much had pass'd Since last we parted; and those five short years-- Much had they told! His clustering locks were turn'd Grey; nor did aught recall the youth that swam From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice, Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought Flash'd lightning-like, nor lingered on the way, Waiting for words. Far, far into the night We sat, conversing--no unwelcome hour, The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose, Rising, we climb'd the rugged Apennine. "Well I remember how the golden sun Fill'd with its beams the unfathomable gulfs As on we travell'd, and along the ridge, 'Mid groves of cork, and cistus, and wild fig, His motley household came.--Not last nor least, Battista, who upon the moonlight-sea Of Venice had so ably, zealously Served, and at parting, thrown his oar away To follow through the world; who without stain Had worn so long that honourable badge[63], The gondolier's, in a Patrician House Arguing unlimited trust.--Not last nor least, Thou, though declining in thy beauty and strength, Faithful Moretto, to the latest hour Guarding his chamber-door, and now along The silent, sullen strand of MISSOLONGHI Howling in grief. "He had just left that Place