At this distance their forms are dimly seen, one might almost fancy the creators of those sweet sounds to be of another mould from us.

Perhaps even thus the poetry of the Past rings on our ears--the deeper and the diviner, because removed from the clay which made the poets.

O Art, Art! how dost thou beautify and exalt us; what is nature without thee!" "You are a poet, Signor," said a soft clear voice beside the soliloquist; and Maltravers started to find that he had had unknowingly a listener in the young Cesarini.
"No," said Maltravers; "I cull the flowers, I do not cultivate the soil." "And why not ?" said Cesarini, with abrupt energy; "you are an Englishman--_you_ have a public--you have a country--you have a living stage, a breathing audience; we, Italians, have nothing but the dead." As he looked on the young man, Maltravers was surprised to see the sudden animation which glowed upon his pale features.
"You asked me a question I would fain put to you," said the Englishman, after a pause.

"_You_, methinks, are a poet ?" "I have fancied that I might be one.

But poetry with us is a bird in the wilderness--it sings from an impulse--the song dies without a listener.
Oh that I belonged to a _living_ country,--France, England, Germany, Arnerica,--and not to the corruption of a dead giantess--for such is now the land of the ancient lyre." "Let us meet again, and soon," said Maltravers, holding out his hand.
Cesarini hesitated a moment, and then accepted and returned the proffered salutation.