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A steamer comes panting down the river, and stops near the grove of willows where I have been trying to hide myself from the all-searching, all-burning sun. I go on board and take a delicious rest under an awning for two or three hours, while the vine-covered hills on either side glide backward with their many steeples and towers.
"For here mid sepulchres were sprinkled fires, Wherewith the enkindled tombs all-burning gleamed; Metal more fiercely hot no art requires." "Che tra gli avelli flamme erano sparte, Per le quali eran si del tutto accesi, Che ferro piu non chiede verun' arte." Inferno, IX. 118-120. Does it not seem that in all these cases Mr. Longfellow, and to a slightly less extent Mr.
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