NAPLES. 633 



" I beg a thousand pardons/' cried St. Lambert, -wishing in his turn 

 to conceal the preparation which he had made, te I was just composing 

 some verses, which would not allow of the slightest distraction. At my 

 age it is no easy matter to tune the lyre ; and when it is once in order, 

 if it is not immediately played upon, it becomes silent perhaps for 

 ever." 



At length, when genius and friendship had exhausted their resources 

 in celebrating the birthday of the author of the seasons, St. Lambert 

 proposed to all who had contributed to the amusement of the evening to 

 walk as far as his modest retreat. 



The evening was calm and serene, one of those beautiful scenes which 

 resemble, or rather recal, the first days of spring. 



They all agreed, and commanding the carriages to follow, set out on 

 foot. 



As soon as they arrived at the gates of the garden of St. Lambert's 

 dwelling, they were suddenly thrown open, and discovered a roof 

 covered with flowers and verdure, and illuminated with every fancy 

 which art could devise. 



" Behold," said he in his turn, " my motive for the refusal for which 

 I have been punished so severely. I thought that two beings, who had 

 loved and cherished each other for seventy years, could have but one 

 feeling, and that the fete of the one ought to be that of the other. I 

 wished with these flowers to make you some little exchange for the bou- 

 quet which I expected you to prepare for me. But when I brought 

 you hither, you were, I could see, still unsatisfied and uneasy, and 

 perhaps doubting, for the first time, the sincerity of my affection ; but 

 that which afflicts me most, that which I can scarce pardon myself for, 

 is to have wounded your feelings for such a paltry show ; yet I must 

 acknowledge, that at the moment I felt a real pleasure in beholding 

 your surprise and disappointment; but now I hope and trust I am 

 forgiven." 



Even until this day the inhabitants of the lovely valley of Montmo- 

 rency recount this anecdote of the Fete of St. Lambert. 



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 NAPLES. 



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THE ocean -wave's innumerable smile 

 Glow'd with th' invigorating beams, which fell, 

 Like golden shafts, from heaven's blue citadel : 

 The winds were sleeping in their caverns, while 

 Sky, air, earth, ocean, summer's garment wore, 

 From the resplendent sands upon the shore, 

 To distant Caprea's purple blooming isle. 

 The lagging ships seem'd the voluptuous spoil 

 Of the soft air, whose radiant censers spill'd 

 Odours on earth, and earth with incense fill'd. 

 Naples ! my heart shall in its depths retain 

 The passing splendour of that summer day ; 

 Like light from love's sweet grave it shall remain, 

 When love has pass'd, with all its dreams, away. 



