Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,
That happy wave repass me in its flow!

"The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?--
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.

"But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth.
But the distraction of a various lot,
As various as the climates of our birth.

"A stranger loves the lady of the land,
Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood
Is all meridian, as if never fann'd
By the black wind that chills the polar flood.

"My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot,
A slave again of love,--at least of thee.

"'Tis vain to struggle--let me perish young--
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved."

On arriving at Bologna and receiving no further intelligence from the
Contessa, he began to be of opinion, as we shall perceive in the annexed
interesting letters, that he should act most prudently, for all parties,
by returning to Venice.

[Footnote 33: The Po.]

* * * * *

LETTER 330. TO MR. HOPPNER.

"Bologna, June 6. 1819.

"I am at length joined to Bologna, where I am settled like a
sausage, and shall be broiled like one, if this weather continues.
Will you thank Mengaldo on my part for the Ferrara acquaintance,
which was a very agreeable one. I stayed two days at Ferrara, and
was much pleased with the Count Mosti, and the little the shortness
of the time permitted me to see of his family. I went to his
conversazione, which is very far superior to any thing of the kind
at Venice--the women almost all young--several pretty--and the men
courteous and cleanly. The lady of the mansion, who is young,
lately married, and with child, appeared very pretty by candlelight
(I did not see her by day), pleasing in her manners, and very
lady-like, or thorough-bred, as we call it in England,--a kind of
thing which reminds one