I have not myself had the patience here boasted by M. Marc-Monnier; but three or four volumes of Prati's have sufficed to teach me the spirit and purpose of his poetry. Born in 1815, and breathing his first inspirations from that sense of romance blowing into Italy with every northern gale,--a son of the Italian Tyrol, the region where the fire meets the snow,--he has some excuse, if not a perfect reason, for being half-German in his feeling. It is natural that Prati should love the ballad form above all, and should pour into its easy verse the wild legends heard during a boyhood passed among mountains and mountaineers. As I read his poetic tales, with a little heart-break, more or less fictitious, in each, I seem to have found again the sweet German songs that fluttered away out of my memory long ago. There is a tender light on the pages; a mistier passion than that of the south breathes through the dejected lines; and in the ballads we see all our old acquaintance once more,--the dying girls, the galloping horsemen, the moonbeams, the familiar, inconsequent phantoms,--scarcely changed in the least, and only betraying now and then that they have been at times in the bad company of Lara, and Medora, and other dissipated and vulgar people. The following poem will give some proof of all this, and will not unfairly witness of the quality of Prati in most of the poetry he has written: THE MIDNIGHT RIDE. I. Ruello, Ruello, devour the way! On your breath bear us with you, O winds, as ye swell! My darling, she lies near her death to-day,-- Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! That my spurs have torn open thy flanks, alas! With thy long, sad neighing, thou need'st not tell; We have many a league yet of desert to pass,-- Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! Hear'st that mocking laugh overhead in space? Hear'st the shriek of the storm, as it drives, swift and fell? A scent as of graves is blown into my face,-- Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! Ah, God! and if that be the sound I hear Of the mourner's song and the passing-bell! O heaven! What see I? The cross and the bier?-- Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! Thou falt'rest, Ruello? Oh, courage, my steed! Wilt fail me, O traitor I trusted so well? The tempest roars over us,--halt not, nor heed!-- Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! Gallop, Ruello, oh, faster yet! Good God, that flash! O God! I am chill,-- Something hangs on my eyelids heavy as death,-- Gallop, gallop, gallop, Ruel! II. Smitten with the lightning stroke, From his seat the cavalier Fell, and forth the charger broke, Rider-free and mad with fear,-- Through the tempest and the night, Like a winged thing in flight.