CHAPTER I.
"Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears--soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony." SHAKESPEARE.
BOAT SONG ON THE LAKE OF COMO.
I.
The Beautiful Clime!--the Clime of Love! Thou beautiful Italy! Like a mother's eyes, the earnest skies Ever have smiles for thee! Not a flower that blows, not a beam that glows, But what is in love with thee! II.
The beautiful lake, the Larian lake!* Soft lake like a silver sea, The Huntress Queen, with her nymphs of sheen, Never had bath like thee.
See, the Lady of night and her maids of light, Even now are mid-deep in thee! * The ancient name of Como.
III.
Beautiful child of the lonely hills, Ever blest may thy slumbers be! No mourner should tread by thy dreamy bed, No life bring a care to thee-- Nay, soft to thy bed, let the mourner tread-- And life be a dream like thee! Such, though uttered in the soft Italian tongue, and now imperfectly translated--such were the notes that floated one lovely evening in summer along the lake of Como.

The boat, from which came the song, drifted gently down the sparkling waters, towards the mossy banks of a lawn, whence on a little eminence gleamed the white walls of a villa, backed by vineyards.

On that lawn stood a young and handsome woman, leaning on the arm of her husband, and listening to the song.

But her delight was soon deepened into one of more personal interest, as the boatmen, nearing the banks, changed their measure, and she felt that the minstrelsy was in honour of herself.
SERENADE TO THE SONGSTRESS.
I.
CHORUS.
Softly--oh, soft! let us rest on the oar, And vex not a billow that sighs to the shore:-- For sacred the spot where the starry waves meet With the beach, where the breath of the citron is sweet.
There's a spell on the waves that now waft us along To the last of our Muses, the Spirit of Song.
RECITATIVE.
The Eagle of old renown, And the Lombard's iron crown And Milan's mighty name are ours no more; But by this glassy water, Harmonia's youngest daughter, Still from the lightning saves one laurel to our shore.
II.
CHORUS.
They heard thee, Teresa, the Teuton, the Gaul, Who have raised the rude thrones of the North on our fall; They heard thee, and bow'd to the might of thy song; Like love went thy steps o'er the hearts of the strong; As the moon to the air, as the soul to the clay, To the void of this earth was the breath of thy lay.
RECITATIVE.
Honour for aye to her The bright interpreter Of Art's great mysteries to the enchanted throng; While tyrants heard thy strains, Sad Rome forgot her chains; The world the sword had lost was conquer'd back by song! "Thou repentest, my Teresa, that thou hast renounced thy dazzling career for a dull home, and a husband old enough to be thy father," said the husband to the wife, with a smile that spoke confidence in the answer.
"Ah, no! even this homage would have no music to me if thou didst not hear it." She was a celebrated personage in Italy--the Signora Cesarini, now Madame de Montaigne.

Her earlier youth had been spent upon the stage, and her promise of vocal excellence had been most brilliant.