"’Twas night; the noise and bustle of the day Were o’er. The mountebank no longer wrought Miraculous cures,—he and his stage were gone; And he who, when the crisis of his tale Came, and all stood breathless with hope and fear, Sent round his cap; and he who thrummed his wire And sang, with pleading look and plaintive strain Melting the passenger. Thy thousand cries, So well portrayed, and by a son of thine, Whose voice had swelled the hubbub in his youth, Were hushed, Bologna,—silence in the streets, The squares, when, hark, the clattering of fleet hoofs; And soon a courier, posting as from far, Housing and holster, boot and belted coat And doublet, stained with many a various soil, Stopt and alighted. ’Twas where hangs aloft That ancient sign, the pilgrim, welcoming All who arrive there, all perhaps save those Clad like himself, with staff and scallop-shell, Those on a pilgrimage. And now approached Wheels, through the lofty porticos resounding, Arch beyond arch, a shelter or a shade As the sky changes. To the gate they came; And, ere the man had half his story done, Mine host received the Master,—one long used To sojourn among strangers, everywhere (Go where he would, along the wildest track) Flinging a charm that shall not soon be lost, And leaving footsteps to be traced by those Who love the haunts of genius; one who saw, Observed, nor shunned the busy scenes of life, But mingled not, and mid the din, the stir, Lived as a separate spirit.Much had passed Since last we parted; and those five short years,— Much had they told! His clustering locks were turned Grey; nor did aught recall the youth that swam From Sestos to Abydos. Yet his voice, Still it was sweet; still from his eye the thought Flashed lightning-like, nor lingered on the way, Waiting for words. Far, far into the night We sat, conversing,—no unwelcome hour The hour we met; and, when Aurora rose, Rising, we climbed the rugged Apennine."