Now as to the singularity of the circumstance, supposing it were otherwise, to what does it amount but this:  that when Italian power extended over the countries of Europe, Italian names were given them; that as this power declined, these names as naturally fell into disuse; and the different nations, actuated severally by a spirit of independence or of caprice, recurred to their own or foreign tongues for the designation of their territory.  While at Rome itself, which, though often suffering from the calamities of war, still retained a considerable share of influence, the inhabitants adhered to their native dialect, and the same city which had been the birth-place and cradle of the infant language was permitted to become its sanctuary at last.

Y.M.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

* * * * *

ELISE.

(By L.E.L.)

  O Let me love her! she has past
    Into my inmost heart—­
  A dweller on the hallowed ground
    Of its least worldly part;
  Where feelings and where memories dwell
    Like hidden music in the shell.

  She was so like the forms that float
    On twilight’s hour to me,
  Making of cloud-born shapes and thoughts
    A dear reality;
  As much a thing of light and air
    As ever poet’s visions were.

  I left smoke, vanities, and cares,
    Just far enough behind,
  To dream of fairies ’neath the moon,
    Of voices on the wind,
  And every fantasy of mine
    Was truth in that sweet face of thine.

  Her cheek was very, very pale,
    Yet it was still more fair;
  Lost were one half its loveliness,
    Had the red rose been there: 
  But now that sad and touching grace
  Made her’s seem like an angel’s face.

  The spring, with all its breath and bloom,
    Hath not so dear a flower,
  As the white lily’s languid head
    Drooping beneath the shower;
  And health hath ever waken’d less
  Of deep and anxious tenderness.

  And O thy destiny was love,
    Written in those soft eyes;
  A creature to be met with smiles. 
    And to be watch’d with sighs;
  A sweet and fragile blossom, made
  To be within the bosom laid.

  And there are some beneath whose touch
    The coldest hearts expand,
  As erst the rocks gave forth their tears
    Beneath the prophet’s hand;
  And colder than that rock must be
  The heart that melted not for thee.

  Thy voice—­thy poet lover’s song
    Has not a softer tone;
  Thy dark eyes—­only stars at night
    Such holy light have known;
  And thy smile is thy heart’s sweet sign,
  So gentle and so feminine.

  I feel, in gazing on thy face,
    As I had known thee long;
  Thy looks are like notes that recall
    Some old remembered song
  By all that touches and endears,
  Lady, I must have loved thee years.