word might transport the arch across the Alps.

The very spirit of peace pervaded the scene around the Arco della Pace.
Peace descended from the summits of the Alps, and peace breathed upon
me from the tops of the elms. It was sweet to see the gathering of the
shadows upon the great plain; it was sweet to see the waggoner come
slowly along the great Simplon road; it was sweet to see the husbandman
unyoke his bullocks, and come wending his way homeward over the rich
ploughed land, beneath the beautiful festoonings of the vine; sweet even
were the city-stirs, as, mellowed by distance, they broke upon the ear;
but sweeter than all was it to mark the sun's departure among the Alps.
One might have fancied the mountains a wall of sapphire inclosing some
terrestrial paradise,--some blessed clime, where hunger, and thirst, and
pain, and sorrow, were unknown. Alas! if such were Lombardy, what meant
the Croat beside me, and the black eagle blazoned on the flag, that I
saw floating on the Castle of Milan? The sight of these symbols of
foreign oppression recalled the haggard faces and toil-bent frames I had
seen on my journey to Milan. I thought of the rich harvests which the
sun of Lombardy ripens only that the Austrian may reap them, and the
fertile vines which the Lombard plants only that the Croat may gather
them. I thought of the sixty thousand expatriated citizens whose lands
the Government had confiscated, and of the victims that pined in the
fortresses and dungeons of Lombardy; and I felt that truly this was no
paradise. To me, who could demand my passport and re-cross the Alps
whenever I pleased, these mountains were a superb sight; but what could
the poor Lombard, whom Radetzky might order to prison or to execution on
the instant, see in them, but the walls of a vast prison?

The light was fast fading, and I re-crossed the esplanade, on my way
back to the city. High above its roofs, rose the spires and turrets of
the Duomo, looking palely in the twilight, and reminding one of a
cluster of Norwegian pines, covered with the snows of winter. As I
slowly and musingly pursued my way, my mind went back to the better days
of Milan. Here Ambrose had lived; and how oft, at even-tide, had his
feet traversed this very plain, musing, the while, on the future
prospects of the Church. Ah! little did he think, that what he believed
to be the opening day was but a brief twilight, dividing the pagan
darkness now past from the papal night