But what is in love with thee!

II.

The beautiful lake, the Larian lake!*
Soft lake like a silver sea,
The Huntress Queen, with her nymphs of sheen,
Never had bath like thee.
See, the Lady of night and her maids of light,
Even now are mid-deep in thee!

* The ancient name of Como.

III.

Beautiful child of the lonely hills,
Ever blest may thy slumbers be!
No mourner should tread by thy dreamy bed,
No life bring a care to thee--
Nay, soft to thy bed, let the mourner tread--
And life be a dream like thee!


Such, though uttered in the soft Italian tongue, and now imperfectly
translated--such were the notes that floated one lovely evening in
summer along the lake of Como. The boat, from which came the song,
drifted gently down the sparkling waters, towards the mossy banks of a
lawn, whence on a little eminence gleamed the white walls of a villa,
backed by vineyards. On that lawn stood a young and handsome woman,
leaning on the arm of her husband, and listening to the song. But her