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FOOTNOTE:
[2] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his
works.


AUX ITALIENS
R. BULWER LYTTON

At Paris it was, at the opera there;
And she looked like a queen that night,
With a wreath of pearl in her raven hair,
And the brooch in her breast so bright.
Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
The best, to my taste, is the "Trovatore":
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,
The souls in purgatory.
The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
"_Non ti scordar di me?_"
The Emperor there in his box of state,
Looked grave; as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city gate,
Where the eagles in bronze had been.
The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye;
You'd have thought that her fancy had gone back again,
For one moment, under the old blue sky,
To that old glad life in Spain.


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