What though no more he teach thy shades to

mourn

The hapless chances that to love belong,

As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn, He charmed wild Echo with his plaintive song?

Yet still, enamoured of the tender tale,

Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom,

Yet still soft music breathes in every glade Still undecayed the fairy-garlands bloom, Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale, Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb."

-Thomas Russell.

Petrarch died at Arqua, near Padua, where his home is still preserved:

"Arqua, too, her store Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, While Florence vainly begs her banished dead, and weeps. 99

-Byron.

"Three leagues from Padua stands, and long

has stood

(The Padua student knows it, honors it) A lonely tomb, beside a mountain church

When, as alive, clothed in his canon's stole,
And slowly winding down the narrow path,
He came to rest there, nobles of the land,

Princes and prelates mingled in his train,
Anxious by any act, while yet they could
To catch a ray of glory by reflection.

And from that hour have kindred spirits flocked
From distant countries from the north, the

south,

To see where he is laid."

-Rogers.

"There is a tomb in Arqua, reared in air,
Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose
The bones of Laura's lover; here repair
Many familiar with his well-sung woes,
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose
To raise a language and his land reclaim,
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes;
Watering the tree which bears his lady's name
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to
fame.

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died;

The mountain village where his latter days Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their pride

An honest pride, and let it be their praiseTo offer to the passing stranger's gaze His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain And venerably simple, such as raise A feeling more accordant with his strain, Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane.

And the soft, quiet hamlet where he dwelt
Is one of that complexion which seems made
For those who their mortality have felt,
And sought a refuge from their hopes de-
cay'd

In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, Which shows a distant prospect far away,

Of busy cities, now in vain display'd; For they can lure no further; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday." -Byron.

ON THE TOMB OF PETRARCH.

"Ye consecrated marbles, proud and dear,
Blest, that the noblest Tuscan ye infold,
And in your walls his holy ashes hold,
Who, dying, left none greater, none his peer;
Since I, with pious hand, with soul sincere,
Can send on high no costly perfumed fold
Of frankincense, and o'er the sacred mould
Where Petrarch lies no gorgeous altars rear;
O, scorn not, if humbly I impart

My grateful offering to these lovely shades,
Here bending low in singleness of mind!
Lilies and violets sprinkling to the wind,
Thus Damon prays, while the bright hills and
glades,

Murmur, 'The gift is small, but rich the heart.""
-Benedetto Varchi.

CHAPTER VI.

THE RENAISSANCE: BOCCACCIO.

The Renaissance had many phases, one-and at first the chief one-was the desire for reading the classics; then came a revival of new interests and ideas roused by such reading. The mediaeval idea of life was that it should be nothing more than a preparation for death, with the mind fixed upon eternity. Now there came into people's consciousness with the beauty of language and thought from the great storehouse of ages, a new sense of beauty, even of this life which was erstwhile only a vale of tears, and they reveled in the new found treas

ure.

Beauty of form, beauty of thought, beauty of expression, beauty of life; an awakening, an eagerness, a new birth,-that was the Renaissance; and though the thirst for knowledge was advocated and followed by the greatest intellects of the time, still the intellectual beauty was often accompanied by many pictures of the pagan excesses in the delights of this world, "the flesh and the devil," and into that class of literature may we place the work of our Florentine writer of the age-Giovanni Boccaccio.

He was eight years old when Dante died, and was early known as a poet, a writer of songs, and a gallant, given to love and adventure, "a light o' love"; but in later life he reformed and took up the study of the classics and followed and spread the light of the "new birth," having, while Florentine ambassador, visited Rome, Avignon and Ravenna and formed a life-long friendship with Petrarch.

The following sonnet was written by him in connection with his lectures on Dante:

TO ONE WHO HAD CENSURED HIS PUBLIC EXPOSITION OF DANTE.

"If Dante mourns, there wheresoe'er he be,
That such high fancies of a soul so proud
Should be laid open to the vulgar crowd,
(As, touching my Discourse, I'm told by thee)
This were my grievous pain; and certainly
My proper blame should not be disavow'd;
Though hereof somewhat, I declare aloud,
Were due to others, not alone to me.
False hopes, true poverty, and therewithal
The blinded judgment of a host of friends,
And their entreaties, made that I did thus.
But of all this there is no gain at all
Unto the thankless souls with whose base ends
Nothing agrees that's great or generous."

-Translated by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.