And what now remains to be told?  The cardinal accompanied them to the villa, where his recovery was rapid and complete:  and the deep love which he witnessed in that youthful pair made him truly feel how great had been Giulietta’s devotion to himself.  The plague had done its worst in Genoa; and men were enabled to return to their habits, their occupations, and their duties, things ever inseparably connected.  The cardinal from that hour treated Lorenzo da Carrara as a son; and their family union was happy as self-sacrifice and enduring affection could make it.  In the picture-gallery, there is still preserved a portrait of the countess in her novice’s garb; her cheek pale, her graceful form hidden by the black serge robe, and her beautiful hair put out of sight; and the count, her husband, used to say that “she never looked more lovely.”

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THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

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ELEGY FOR THE KING OF THE GIPSIES, CHARLES LEE,

Who died in a tent near Lewes, August 16, 1832, aged 74.  He was buried in St. Ann’s Churchyard, in presence of a thousand spectators.

  Hurrah!—­hurrah!—­pile up the mould: 
    The Sun will gild its sod:—­
  The Sun,—­for threescore years and ten
    The Gipsy’s idol God!—­
  O’er field and fen,—­by waste and wild,
    He watch’d its glories rise,
  To worship at that gorgeous shrine
    The spirit of the skies.

  No brick-built dwelling caged him in;
    No lordly roof of stone;—­
  High o’er his couch the vault of Heaven
    In star-bright splendour shone! 
  The rustling leaves still murmur’d there;
    The rambling woodbine flower
  Its twilight breath, exhal’d to cheer
    The outcast’s desert bower!

  To him the forest’s pathless depths
    Their mossiest caves reveal’d;
  To him, fair Nature’s hand bequeath’d
    Her fruits of flood and field;—­
  The flower,—­the root,—­the beast,—­the bird,—­
    All living things, design’d
  To feed the craving, or delight
    The gaze of human kind!

  The pencill’d wood-flower, fair and frail,—­
    The squirrel’s cunning nest,—­
  The granite throne, with lichens wild,
    In broidered vesture drest;—­
  Sweet violets bedded in their leaves,
    The first soft pledge of Spring;—­
  Such were the gifts by Heaven’s own hand
    Shed on the Gipsy King!—­

  The snow-drop glistening in the wood,
    The crowsfoot on the lea,
  Their gold and silver coin pour’d forth
    To store his treasury;
  The springy moss, by fairies spread,
    His velvet footcloth made;
  His canopy shot up amid
    The lime-tree’s emerald shade.

  Buck,—­pheasant,—­hare,—­some lordly park
    Still yielded to his feast;
  And firing for his winter warmth,
    And forage for his beast. 
  Happier than herald-blazoned Kings,
    The monarch of the moor;—­
  He levied taxes from the rich,—­
    They wring them from the poor!