It was evening in Val d’Arno.  The sun was sinking behind the horizon and twilight was descending upon the glorious vale.  There lay the garden of Italy enclosed by mountains on either side, green and glowing in its verdant and luxuriant fertility, shaded by its groves of olive and cypress, with long avenues of stately trees.  Flocks and herds grazed in the fields, vineyards flourished on the mountain declivities, and in the distance arose the summits of the wooded Apennines.  The classic Arno flowed through the valley, bestowing gladness and plenty on every side, its waters rolling on in slow and most melodious motion.  On every side, on the plain, on the sides and summits of the hills, everywhere appeared the white villas of the nobles, now hidden by the thick foliage of surrounding trees, and encircled by gardens where bloomed the most gorgeous and odoriferous flowers, now standing alone and lifting up their stately marble fronts surrounded by magnificent colonnades.  In the midst of this lovely place, a queen over all around, lay Florence, the dearest and most charming city of the south-Florence, whose past glows with the brilliancy of splendid achievements in arms, arts and song, whose present state captivates the soul of every traveller, and binds around him a potent spell, making him linger long in dreamy pleasure by the gentle flow of the Arno’s waters.

“Here,” exclaimed Byron, in a rapture, as he looked down from a neighboring mountain upon this earthly paradise—­“here—­

“’—­the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps A softer feeling for her fairy halls.  Girt by her theatre of bills she reaps Her corn and wine, and oil, and plenty leaps To laughing life from her redundant horn"’

Twilight came on, and soon the moon arose, throwing a gentle glow upon the scene, and shedding around it a more bewitching influence.  It was an evening fitted for pleasing meditation, such meditation as the poet loves, and for the interview of lovers.  The gardens of Boboli never appeared more beautiful than now, for the solemn shadow of the groves was relieved by the soft illumination of the broad paths; the sheets of water glistened in the quiet moonbeams, and every statue and every sculptured form was invested with a new and indescribable beauty.  Upon the summit of a hill within these gardens, sat a youth and maiden engaged in most earnest conversation.  The maiden was exceedingly beautiful, with a face which reminded one of the Madonna of Murillo, so gentle, so tender, and so bewitchingly lovely.  The youth sat at her feet upon the green turf, and with his head turned back, gazing upon her, there was disclosed a noble and most handsome countenance.  His long hair, black as night, fell from his forehead, and his eyes burnt like stars in the paleness of his face.  There was an expression of genius stamped upon his lofty forehead, but there were care and anxiety in its frown.  The stately form of the Palazzo Pitti was near at hand, and in the distance lay the city, with the stupendous dome of the cathedral, and the lofty form of the beautiful Campanile.