During the few days that intervened between this conversation and the
departure for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to Emily. His looks sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he should
forbear to renew a mention of the subject of it, exceedingly surprised
her, who was no less astonished, that, during three days, Count Morano
neither visited Montoni, nor was named by him. Several conjectures
arose in her mind. Sometimes she feared that the dispute between them
had been revived, and had ended fatally to the Count. Sometimes she was
inclined to hope, that weariness, or disgust at her firm rejection of
his suit had induced him to relinquish it; and, at others, she
suspected that he had now recourse to stratagem, and forbore his
visits, and prevailed with Montoni to forbear the repetition of his
name, in the expectation that gratitude and generosity would prevail
with her to give him the consent, which he could not hope from love. Thus passed the time in vain conjecture, and alternate hopes and fears,
till the day arrived when Montoni was to set out for the villa of
Miarenti, which, like the preceding ones, neither brought the Count,
nor the mention of him. Montoni having determined not to leave Venice, till towards evening,
that he might avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes of night,
embarked about an hour before sunset, with his family, in a barge, for
the Brenta. Emily sat alone near the stern of the vessel, and, as it
floated slowly on, watched the gay and lofty city lessening from her
view, till its palaces seemed to sink in the distant waves, while its
loftier towers and domes, illumined by the declining sun, appeared on
the horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in more northern climes,
often linger on the western verge, and catch the last light of a
summer’s evening. Soon after, even these grew dim, and faded in
distance from her sight; but she still sat gazing on the vast scene of
cloudless sky, and mighty waters, and listening in pleasing awe to the
deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glanced over the Adriatic,
towards the opposite shores, which were, however, far beyond the reach
of sight, she thought of Greece, and, a thousand classical remembrances
stealing to her mind, she experienced that pensive luxury which is felt
on viewing the scenes of ancient story, and on comparing their present
state of silence and solitude with that of their former grandeur and
animation. The scenes of the Illiad illapsed in glowing colours to her
fancy—scenes, once the haunt of heroes—now lonely, and in ruins; but
which still shone, in the poet’s strain, in all their youthful
splendour. As her imagination painted with melancholy touches, the deserted plains
of Troy, such as they appeared in this after-day, she reanimated the
landscape with the following little story. STANZAS

O’er Ilion’s plains, where once the warrior bled,
And once the poet rais’d his deathless strain,
O’er Ilion’s plains a weary driver led
His stately camels:  For the ruin’d fane

Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,
For now the red cloud faded in the west,
And twilight o’er the silent landscape drew
Her deep’ning veil; eastward his course he prest:

There, on the grey horizon’s glimm’ring bound,
Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,
And wandering shepherds now a shelter found
Within those walls, where princes wont to joy. Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass’d,
Then, from his camels heav’d the heavy load;
Partook with them the simple, cool repast,
And in short vesper gave himself to God. From distant lands with merchandise he came,
His all of wealth his patient servants bore;
Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim
To reach, again, his happy cottage door;

For there, his wife, his little children, dwell;
Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour:
Ev’n now warm tears to expectation swell,
As fancy o’er his mind extends her pow’r. A death-like stillness reign’d, where once the song,
The song of heroes, wak’d the midnight air,
Save, when a solemn murmur roll’d along,
That seem’d to say—“for future worlds prepare.”

For Time’s imperious voice was frequent heard
Shaking the marble temple to its fall,
(By hands he long had conquer’d, vainly rear’d),
And distant ruins answer’d to his call. While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,
Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled;
And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay,
And there, the flute that chear’d him in the wild. The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,
For o’er the waste, at eve, he watch’d his train;
Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control? Who calls on him for mercy—calls in vain! A poison’d poignard in his belt he wore,
A crescent sword depended at his side,
The deathful quiver at his back he bore,
And infants—at his very look had died! The moon’s cold beam athwart the temple fell,
And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;
But soft!—a startled camel shook his bell,
Then stretch’d his limbs, and rear’d his drowsy head. Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter’d high! Swift from his couch he sprung, and ’scap’d the blow;
When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,
That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low. He groan’d, he died! from forth a column’d gate
A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept,
Who, as he watch’d his folded flock star-late,
Had mark’d the robber steal where Hamet slept. He fear’d his own, and sav’d a stranger’s life! Poor Hamet clasp’d him to his grateful heart;
Then, rous’d his camels for the dusty strife,
And, with the shepherd, hasten’d to depart. And now, aurora breathes her fresh’ning gale,
And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;
And now, the sun, from under twilight’s veil,
Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud. Wide o’er the level plains, his slanting beams
Dart their long lines on Ilion’s tower’d site;
The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,
And old Scamander winds his waves in light. All merry sound the camel bells, so gay,
And merry beats fond Hamet’s heart, for he,
E’er the dim evening steals upon the day,
His children, wife and happy home shall see. As Emily approached the shores of Italy she began to discriminate the
rich features and varied colouring of the landscape—the purple hills,
groves of orange pine and cypress, shading magnificent villas, and
towns rising among vineyards and plantations. The noble Brenta, pouring
its broad waves into the sea, now appeared, and, when she reached its
mouth, the barge stopped, that the horses might be fastened which were
now to tow it up the stream. This done, Emily gave a last look to the
Adriatic, and to the dim sail,

that from the sky-mix’d wave
Dawns on the sight,


and the barge slowly glided between the green and luxuriant slopes of
the river.