Rise like a curtain; now the sun looks out,
Filling, o'erflowing with his glorious light
This noble amphitheatre of mountains;
And now appear, as on a phosphor sea,
Numberless barks, from Milan, from Pavia;
Some sailing up, some down, and

anchor,

Lading, unlading at that small port town
Under the promontory.

some at

Samuel Rogers.

The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci

(Milan)

THOUGH searching damps and many an

envious flaw

Have marred this work, the calm ethereal grace,
The love deep-seated in the Saviour's face,
The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe
The elements; as they do melt and thaw

The heart of the beholder and erase

(At least for one rapt moment) every trace Of disobedience to the primal law.

The annunciation of the dreadful truth

Made to the twelve, survives: lip, forehead, cheek,
And hand reposing on the board in ruth
Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek
Unquestionable meanings, still bespeak
A labor worthy of eternal youth!

William Wordsworth.

From L'Inferno

(Lake Garda)

CANTO XX

USO in Italia bella giace un laco

SUSO

al piè dell' alpe, che serra Lamagna sopra Tiralli, ch' ha nome Benaco.

Per mille fonti, credo, e più si bagna,
tra Garda e Val Camonica, Apennino
dell'acqua che nel detto lago stagna.

Loco è nel mezzo là, dove il Trentino
pastore e quel di Brescia e il Veronese
segnar potria, se fesse quel cammino.

Siede Peschiera, bello e forte arnese
da fronteggiar Bresciani e Bergamaschi,
ove la riva intorno più discese.

Ivi convien che tutto quanto caschi

ciò che in grembo a Benaco star non può, e fassi fiume giù per verdi paschi.

Tosto che l'acqua a correr mette co
non più Benaco, ma Mincio si chiama
fino a Governo, dove cade in Po.

Dante Alighieri.

From The Inferno

(Lake Garda)

CANTO XX

TP in beautiful Italy there lies a lake, at the foot of the Alps which shut in Germany above the Tyrol, which is called Benacus (Lago di Garda).

Through a thousand fountains, I believe, and more, the Apennine, between Garda and Val Camonica, is irrigated by the water which stagnates in that lake.

At the middle there is a place where the Trentine pastor and he of Brescia, and the Veronese might bless, if they went that way.

Peschiera, a fortress beautiful and strong to front the Brescians and the Bergamese, sits where the shore around is lowest.

There all that in the bosom of Benacus cannot stay, has to descend and make itself a river, down through green pastures.

Soon as the water sets head to run, it is no longer named Benacus, but Mincio, to Governo where it falls into the Po.

Tr. by John Aitken Carlyle.

From Romeo and Juliet

(Verona)

ACT II, SCENE II

ROMEO

НЕ

E jests at scars that never felt a wound.
But, soft! what light through yonder
window breaks!

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That thou her maid art far more fair than she:

Be not her maid, since she is envious:

Her vestal livery is but sick and green,

And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.

It is my lady; O, it is my love:

O, that she knew she were!

She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that?
Her
eye discourses, I will answer it.

I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head:
The brightness of her cheek would shame those
stars,

As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven.
Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

But I can give thee more.

For I will raise her statue in pure gold;
That, while Verona by that name is known,
There shall no figure at such rate be set,
As that of true and faithful Juliet.

CAPULET

As rich shall Romeo by his lady lie;
Poor sacrifices of our enmity!

PRINCE

A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun for sorrow will not show his head.

Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardoned, and some punished;
For never was a story of more woe,
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

William Shakespeare.