Near  the  moss-clad  tower  he  loves  to  recline,

While  visions  are  thronging  fast;
Of  the  far  distant  ages  a  glorious  line.
Where  his  name  and  fame  shall  last.
As  he  leaned  to  the  breeze  his  feverish  brow,

The  sound  of  sweet  music  came, —
First  like  whispers  of  love  all  tender  and  low,

Then  loud  like  the  trump  of  fame.
What  angel  choir  salutes  his  ear,
And  soothes  the  weary  man  to  rest  1
For  sure  no  mortal  sound  is  near,
With  accents  so  divinely  blest.
Hark !  't  is  his  muse,  his  early  choice :
Soft  as  the  breezes  from  the  west.
On  the  hung  harp  she  breathes  her  voice,
And  lulls  her  ancient  bard  to  rest.
The  curtain  of  the  night  was  drawTi,

And  ere  the  morn
Her  ancient  bard  was  lulled  to  rest.
244  THE    CARACCI    SCHOOL.
The  notes  of  Agostino  grew  fainter  as  the
last  words  trembled  on  his  tongue.
"  I  believe  I  often  dream,"  said  he,  laying
aside  the  lute,  "  when  I  appear  to  wake.
Think  you  there  are  things  more  strange
in  the  world  to  come  than  in  the  present  ?
It  is  just  six  years  since  our  father  died,  you
know,  Annibale.  Can  it  be  that  he  is  some-
times near  me  ? "

Annibale  shook  his  head.
"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  Agostino,  tena-
ciously.
"  We  know  not  the  mysteries  of  earth  or  air,
We  know  not  the  spells  that  are  round  us."

That  night  Lodovico  and  Annibale  watch-
ed by  his  bed-side,  and  in  the  morning,  when
the  sun  arose,  he  was  no  more.
