I have returned and found their names in the book at Como. 
  Certain it is I was right, and yet I am also in error. 
  Added in feminine hand, I read, By the boat to Bellaggio.—­
  So to Bellaggio again, with the words of her writing, to aid me. 
  Yet at Bellaggio I find no trace, no sort of remembrance. 
  So I am here, and wait, and know every hour will remove them.

  V.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE,—­from Belaggio.

  I have but one chance left,—­and that is, going to Florence. 
  But it is cruel to turn.  The mountains seem to demand me,—­
  Peak and valley from far to beckon and motion me onward. 
  Somewhere amid their folds she passes whom fain I would follow;
  Somewhere among those heights she haply calls me to seek her. 
  Ah, could I hear her call! could I catch the glimpse of her raiment! 
  Turn, however, I must, though it seem I turn to desert her;
  For the sense of the thing is simply to hurry to Florence,
  Where the certainty yet may be learnt, I suppose, from the Ropers.

  VI.—­MARY TREVELLYN, from Lucerne, TO MISS ROPER, at Florence.

  Dear Miss Roper,—­By this you are safely away, we are hoping,
  Many a league from Rome; ere long we trust we shall see you. 
  How have you travelled?  I wonder;—­was Mr. Claude your companion? 
  As for ourselves, we went from Como straight to Lugano;
  So by the Mount St. Gothard;—­we meant to go by Porlezza,
  Taking the steamer, and stopping, as you had advised, at Bellaggio;
  Two or three days or more; but this was suddenly altered,
  After we left the hotel, on the very way to the steamer. 
  So we have seen, I fear, not one of the lakes in perfection. 
    Well, he is not come; and now, I suppose, he will not come. 
  What will you think, meantime?—­and yet I must really confess it;—­
  What will you say?  I wrote him a note.  We left in a hurry,
  Went from Milan to Como three days before we expected. 
  But I thought, if he came all the way to Milan, he really
  Ought not to be disappointed; and so I wrote three lines to
  Say I had heard he was coming, desirous of joining our party;—­
  If so, then I said, we had started for Como, and meant to
  Cross the St. Gothard, and stay, we believed, at Lucerne, for the
       summer. 
  Was it wrong? and why, if it was, has it failed to bring him? 
  Did he not think it worth while to come to Milan?  He knew (you
  Told him) the house we should go to.  Or may it, perhaps, have
       miscarried? 
  Any way, now, I repent, and am heartily vexed that I wrote it. 
  There is a home on the shore of the Alpine sea, that upswelling
    High up the mountain-sides spreads in the hollow between;
  Wilderness, mountain, and snow from the land of the olive conceal it;
    Under Pilatus’s hill low by its river it lies: 
  Italy, utter one word, and the olive and vine will allure not,—­
    Wilderness, forest, and snow will not the passage impede;
  Italy, unto thy cities receding, the clue to recover,
    Hither, recovered the clue, shall not the traveller haste?