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THEY—who have seen the noble Roman's scorn At Rome
Break forth at thought of laying down his head,
When the blank day is over, garreted
In his ancestral palace, where, from morn
To night, the desecrated floors are worn
By feet of purse-proud strangers; they—who have

In one meek smile, beneath a peasant's shed,
How patiently the weight of wrong is borne ;
They–who have heard some learned Patriot treat
Of freedom, with mind grasping the whole theme
From ancient Rome, downwards through that

bright dream
Of Commonwealths, each city a starlike seat
Of rival glory; they-fallen Italy,
Nor must, nor will, nor can, despair of Thee !

LONG has the dew been dried on tree and lawn: Near Rome, O'er man and beast a not unwelcome boon in sight of

St Peter's
Is shed, the languor of approaching noon ;
To shady rest withdrawing or withdrawn
Mute are all creatures, as this couchant fawn,
Save insect-swarms that hum in air afloat,
Save that the Cock is crowing, a shrill note,
Startling and shrill as that which roused the dawn.

-Heard in that hour, or when, as now, the nerve
Shrinks from the note as from a mis-timed thing,
Oft for a holy warning may it serve,
Charged with remembrance of his sudden sting,
His bitter tears, whose name the Papal Chair
And yon resplendent Church are proud to bear.

At Albano Days passed—and Monte Calvo would not clear

His head from mist; and, as the wind sobbed

Albano's dripping Ilex avenue,
My dull forebodings in a Peasant's ear
Found casual vent. She said, “Be of good cheer;
Our yesterday's procession did not sue
In vain ; the sky will change to sunny blue,
Thanks to our Lady's grace.

I smiled to hear,
But not in scorn:--the Matron's Faith


lack The heavenly sanction needed to ensure Fulfilment; but, we trust, her upward track Stops not at this low point, nor wants the lure Of Aowers the Virgin without fear may own, For by her Son's blest hand the seed was sown.

Near Anio's Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove
Stream Perched on an olive branch, and heard her cooing

'Mid new-born blossoms that softairs were wooing,
While all things present told of joy and love.
But restless Fancy left that olive grove
To hail the exploratory Bird renewing
Hope for the few, who, at the world's undoing,
On the great flood were spared to live and move.
O bounteous Heaven! signstrue as dove and bough
Brought to the ark are coming evermore,
Given though we seek them not, but, while we

This sea of life without a visible shore,
Do neither promise ask nor grace implore
In what alone is ours, the living Now.


Forgive, illustrious Country! these deep sighs, From the
Heaved less for thy bright plains and hills bestrown Alban Hills,
With monuments decayed or overthrown,

For all that tottering stands or prostrate lies, Rome
Than for like scenes in moral vision shown,
Ruin perceived for keener sympathies ;
Faith crushed, yet proud of weeds, her gaudy crown;
Virtues laid low, and mouldering energies.
Yet why prolong this mournful strain-Fallen

Thy fortunes, twice exalted, might provoke
Verse to glad notes prophetic of the hour
When thou, uprisen, shalt break thy double yoke,
And enter, with prompt

aid from the Most High, On the third stage of thy great destiny.

wa WHEN here with Carthage Rome to conflict came, Near the An earthquake, mingling with the battle’s shock, Lake of

Thrasymene Checked not its rage; unfelt the ground did rock, Sword dropped not, javelin kept its deadly aim. Now all is sun-bright peace. Of that day's shame, Or glory, not a vestige seems to endure, Save in this Rill that took from blood the name Which yet it bears, sweet Stream! as crystal pure. So may all trace and sign of deeds aloof From the true guidance of humanity, Thro' Time and Nature's influence, purify Their spirit; or, unless they for reproof Or warning serve, thus let them all, on ground That gave them being, vanish to a sound.

Near the For action born, existing to be tried, same Lake Powers manifold we have that intervene

To stir the heart that would too closely screen
Her peace from images to pain allied.
What wonder if at midnight, by the side
Of Sanguinetto, or broad Thrasymene,
The clang of arms is heard, and phantoms glide,
Unhappy ghosts in troops by moonlight seen ;

thine, Ovanquished Chief! whose corse, Unburied, lay hid under heaps of

slain :
But who is He?—the Conqueror. Would he force
His way to Rome? Ah, no-round hill and plain
Wandering, he haunts, at fancy's strong command,
This spot-his shadowy death-cup in his hand.

At the Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft,
Convent of And seeking consolation from above;

Nor grieve the less that skill to him was left
To paint this picture of his lady-love:
Can she, a blessed saint, the work approve?
And O, good Brethren of the cowl, a thing
So fair, to which with peril he must cling,
Destroy in pity, or with care remove.
That bloom-those eyes—can they assist to bind
Thoughts that would stray from Heaven? The

dream must cease
To be; by Faith, not sight, his soul must live ;
Else will the enamoured Monk too.surely find
How wide a space can part from inward peace
The most profound repose his cell can give.

The world forsaken, all its busy cares

Continued And stirring interests shunned with desperate flight, All trust abandoned in the healing might Of virtuous action ; all that courage dares, Labour accomplishes, or patience bearsThose helps rejected, they, whose minds perceive How subtly works man's weakness, sighsmay heave For such a One beset with cloistral snares. Father of Mercy! rectify his view, If with his vows this object ill agree; Shed over it thy grace, and thus subdue Imperious passion in a heart set free :That earthly love may to herself be true, Give him a soul that cleaveth unto thee.

What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size At the Enormous, dragged, while side by side they sate, Eremite or By panting steers up to this convent gate ?

Upper How, with empurpled cheeks and pampered eyes, Camaldoli

Convent of Dare they confront the lean austerities Of Brethren who, here fixed, on Jesu wait In sackcloth, and God's anger deprecate Through all that humbles flesh and mortifies ? Strange contrast !-verily the world of dreams, Where mingle, as for mockery combined, Things in their very essences at strife, Shows not a sight incongruous as the extremes That everywhere, before the thoughtful mind, Meet on the solid ground of waking life.

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