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roof, an English farm-house roof— What is the train of thought that it should wake? Why cheerful evenings, when the winter cold Grows glad beside the hearth; or summer days, When round the shady porch the woodbine clings; Some aged man beneath, to hear whose words The children leave off play; for he can tell Of the wild sea, a sailor in his youth. Yet here the mind's eye pictures other scenes— A fair Italian city, in a vale, The sanctuary of summer, where the air Grows sweet in passing over myrtle groves. Glides the blue Arno, in whose tide are glassed Armed palaces, with marble battlements. Forth ride a band of princely chivalry, And at their head a gallant chieftain—he, Lorenzo the magnificent. Within this house was thy historian born, Florence, thou pictured city; and his name Calls up thy rich romance of history; And this calm English dwelling fills the mind With memories of Medici—

It is scarcely necessary to state that Mr. Roscoe's principal work was the Life of Lorenzo di Medicis.