ter from the Court of Loveliness; and perhaps," she added, with a
soft look from her large dark eyes, "of Love?"

"Dare I, in truth, believe you, Lady?" said Adrian, all delighted, yet
still half doubting.

"Would I deceive a true lover, as methinks you are? Be assured. Nay,
Queen, receive your subject."

The Queen extended her hand to Adrian, and led him to the group that
still stood on the grass at a little distance. They welcomed him as a
brother, and soon forgave his abstracted courtesies, in compliment to
his good mien and illustrious name.

The Queen clapped her hands, and the party again ranged themselves
on the sward. Each lady beside each gallant. "You, Mariana, if not
fatigued," said the Queen, "shall take the lute and silence these noisy
grasshoppers, which chirp about us with as much pretension as if they
were nightingales. Sing, sweet subject, sing; and let it be the song our
dear friend, Signor Visdomini, (I know not if this be the same Visdomini
who, three years afterwards, with one of the Medici, conducted so
gallant a reinforcement to Scarperia, then besieged by Visconti
d'Oleggio.) made for a kind of inaugural anthem to such as we admitted
to our court."

Mariana, who had reclined herself by the side of Adrian, took up the
lute, and, after a short prelude, sung the words thus imperfectly
translated:--

The Song of the Florentine Lady.

Enjoy the more the smiles of noon If doubtful be the morrow; And know
the Fort of Life is soon Betray'd to Death by Sorrow!

Death claims us all--then, Grief, away! We'll own no meaner master; The
clouds that darken round the day But bring the night the faster.

Love--feast--be merry while on earth, Such, Grave, should be thy moral!
Ev'n Death himself is friends with Mirth, And veils the tomb with
laurel. (At that time, in Italy, the laurel was frequently planted over
the dead.)

While gazing on the eyes I love, New life to mine is given--If joy the
lot of saints above, Joy fits us best for Heaven.

To this song, which was much applauded, succeeded those light and witty
tales in which the Italian novelists furnished Voltaire and Marmontel
with a model--each, in his or her turn, taking up the discourse, and
with an equal dexterity avoiding every lugubrious image or mournful
reflection that might remind those graceful idlers of the vicinity of
Death. At any other time the temper and accomplishments of the young
Lord di Castello would have fitted him to enjoy