Within the cincture of its excluding garden-walls, wrote Elia in later years, "I could have exclaimed with that garden-loving poet, "'Bind me, ye woodbines, in your twines; Curl me about, ye gadding vines;

] 415 Cinctured with gold while ten fond brothers stand, And guard the beauty on her native land, Soft breathes the gale, the current gently moves, And bears to Norway's coasts her infant-loves.

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, 245 And slowly rolled her eyes around; Then drawing in her breath aloud, Like one that shuddered, she unbound The cincture from beneath her breast: Her silken robe, and inner vest, 250 Dropt to her feet, and full in view, Behold!