The title's bad, in point of fact,

If she left children, at her death,

I've been retained to clear the title;

And all the questions, raised above,

Are, you'll perceive, extremely vital.

DE LUNATICO.

The squadrons of the sun still hold

The western hills, their armor glances,

Their crimson banners wide unfold,

Low-levelled lie their golden lances.

The shadows lurk along the shore,

Where, as our row-boat lightly passes,

The ripples startled by our oar,

Hide murmuring 'neath the hanging grasses.

Your eyes are downcast, for the light

Is lingering on your lids—forgetting

How late it is—for one last sight

Of you the sun delays his setting.

One hand droops idly from the boat,

And round the white and swaying fingers,

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