It was during one of these reveries or pauses of apparent abstraction, that, in turning over a page of the poet and scholar Politian’s beautiful tragedy “The Orfeo,” (the first native Italian tragedy,) which lay near me upon an ottoman, I discovered a passage underlined in pencil.  It was a passage towards the end of the third act — a passage of the most heart-stirring excitement — a passage which, although tainted with impurity, no man shall read without a thrill of novel emotion — no woman without a sigh.  The whole page was blotted with fresh tears; and, upon the opposite interleaf, were the following English lines, written in a hand so very different from the peculiar characters of my acquaintance, that I had some difficulty in recognising it as his own:  —

     Thou wast that all to me, love,
        For which my soul did pine —
     A green isle in the sea, love,
        A fountain and a shrine,
     All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers;
        And all the flowers were mine. 
     Ah, dream too bright to last! 
        Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise
     But to be overcast! 
        A voice from out the Future cries,
     “Onward! " — but o’er the Past
        (Dim gulf! ) my spirit hovering lies,
     Mute — motionless — aghast! 
     For alas! alas! with me
        The light of life is o’er. 
     “No more — no more — no more,”
     (Such language holds the solemn sea
        To the sands upon the shore,)
     Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
        Or the stricken eagle soar! 
     Now all my hours are trances;
        And all my nightly dreams
     Are where the dark eye glances,
        And where thy footstep gleams,
     In what ethereal dances,
        By what Italian streams. 
     Alas! for that accursed time
        They bore thee o’er the billow,
     From Love to titled age and crime,
        And an unholy pillow! —
     From me, and from our misty clime,
        Where weeps the silver willow!

   That these lines were written in English — a language with which I
had not believed their author acquainted — afforded me little matter for surprise.  I was too well aware of the extent of his acquirements, and of the singular pleasure he took in concealing them from observation, to be astonished at any similar discovery; but the place of date, I must confess, occasioned me no little amazement.  It had been originally written London, and afterwards carefully overscored — not, however, so effectually as to conceal the word from a scrutinizing eye.  I say, this occasioned me no little amazement; for I well remember that, in a former conversation with a friend, I particularly inquired if he had at any time met in London the Marchesa di Mentoni, (who for some years previous to her marriage had resided in that city,) when his answer, if I mistake not, gave me to understand that he had never visited the metropolis of Great Britain.  I might as well here mention, that I have more than once heard, (without, of course, giving credit to a report involving so many improbabilities,) that the person of whom I speak, was not only by birth, but in education, an Englishman.