The entire night was spent in these reflections, and when day began to dawn the heavy tramp of horses was heard in the courtyard, and soon, in the cold fog of morning, there issued from the castle gate a troop of armed men wearing long cloth cloaks and caps. It was the earl’s retainers, whom he had assembled during the night from all the surrounding country. He rode in the midst of them in profound silence; even Sir Walsh, reading in his countenance the melancholy dejection under which he labored, had simply pressed his hand without daring to address him a word. As to the followers of Northumberland, they were astonished at this sudden departure; they were completely ignorant of whither their master was carrying them, having learned nothing from old Henry himself, to whom Lord Percy had deemed it inexpedient to reveal the destination, and still less the object, of this expedition. The old man felt singularly anxious on the subject, as he was every day becoming more and more accustomed to regard himself as the guardian and adviser of him whom he called his son. Therefore, after having closed the gate of the castle upon the travellers, he went sadly and took his station on the highest tower, to see in what direction his master was going. A few moments only he followed them with his eyes; for, the valley once crossed, their route conducted them into the depths of the forest, and the cavalcade was soon lost to view. TO BE CONTINUED. VAGO ANGELLETTO CHE CANTANAS VAI. FROM PETRARCH. Sweet bird, that, singing under altered skies, Art mourning for thy season of delight— For lo! the cheerful months forsake thee quite, And all thy sunshine into shadow dies— O thou who art acquainted with unrest! Could thy poor wit my kindred mood divine, How wouldst thou fold thy wings upon my breast, And blend thy melancholy plaint with mine! I know not if with thine my songs would rhyme, For haply she thou mournest is not dead: Less kind are death and heaven unto me; But the chill twilight, and the sullen time, And thinking of the sweet years and the sad, Move me, wild warbler, to discourse with thee. ITALIAN COMMERCE IN THE MIDDLE AGES. “Your mind is tossing on the ocean; There, where your argosies with portly sail, Like signiors and rich burghers of the flood, Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea, Do overpeer the petty traffickers, That curt’sy to them, do them reverence, As they fly by them with their woven wings.” —_Merchant of Venice_, act i. sc. i.