Stood knee-deep in the golden fields of grain.
Do you remember the red poppies, too,
That glowed amid the tender green of spring,
The purple larkspur that assumed their place
Mid the sheared stubble of the autumn fields,
The ilex walk, the acacia's fingered twigs, -
The rose-hued oleanders peeping o'er
The terraced wall, the slanting wall that propped
Our garden, from whose clefts the caper plants
Spirted their leaves and burst in plumy flowers?
All these are still the same, they do not miss
The eye that loved them so; and yet how oft
I wonder if those old magnolia-trees
Still feed the air with their great creamy flowers,
And show the wind their rusted under-leaf.
I wonder if that trumpet-flower is dead.
O heaven! they all should be, I loved them so;
Some one has killed them, if they have not died.
But you can see the villa any day,
And I am wearying you. Yet all these things
Are beads upon the rosary of youth,
And just to say their names recalls those hours
So full of joy, each bead is like a prayer.
How many an hour I've sat and dreamed of them!
And dear Siena, with its Campo tower
That seems to fall against the trooping clouds,
And the great Duomo with its pavement rich,
Till sick at heart I felt that I must die.
People are kneeling there upon it now,
But I shall never kneel there any more;
And bells ring out on happy festivals,
And all the pious people flock to mass,
But I shall never go there any more.
How all these little things come back to me
That I shall never see, no, nevermore!
O, kiss the pavement, dear, when you go back!
Whisper a prayer for me where once I knelt,
And tell the dead stones how I love them still.
William Wetmore Story.
FOR July, in Siena, by the willow-tree,
I give you barrels of white Tuscan wine In ice far down your cellars stored supine; And morn and eve to eat in company
Of those vast jellies dear to you and me;
Of partridges and youngling pheasants sweet, Boiled capons, sovereign kids: and let their treat Be veal and garlic, with whom these agree. Let time slip by, till by and by, all day;
And never swelter through the heat at all, But move at ease at home, sound, cool, and gay; And wear sweet-colored robes that lightly fall; And keep your tables set in fresh array, Not coaxing spleen to be your seneschal.
Folgore da San Geminiano. Tr. D. G. Rossetti.
Crowneth the hill where once Tortona stood;
And, drunken with her blood and with her wine,
Fallen there amidst her spoil upon the dead
Slept the wild beasts of Germany: like ghosts
Dim wandering through the darkness of the night,
Those that were left by famine and the sword
Hidden within the heart of thy dim caverns,
Desolate city! rose and turned their steps
Noiselessly towards compassionate Milan.
Thither they bore their swords and hopes! I see
A thousand heroes born from the example
Tortona gave. O city, if I could,
O sacred city! upon thy ruins fall
Reverently, and take them in mine arms,
The relics of thy brave I'd gather up
In precious urns, and from the altars here
In days of battle offer to be kissed.
Giovanni Battista Niccolini. Tr. W. D. Howells.
Towns of Italy.
CITTÀ D' ITALIA.
THE following lines of some unknown author, descriptive of Italian towns, are taken from James Howell's "Signorie of Venice," 1651. Tue orthography has been modernized.
AMA tra noi; Roma pomposa e santa;
Venezia ricca, saggia, signorile;
Napoli odorifera e gentile;
Fiorenza bella tutto il mondo canta;
Grande Milano in Italia si vanta;
Bologna grassa, e Ferrara civile;
Padova dotta, e Bergamo sottile;
Genova di superbia altiera pianta;
Verona degna, e Perugia sanguigna;
Brescia l'armata, e Mantova gloriosa ;
Rimini buona, e Pistoja ferrigua;
Cremona antica, e Lucca industriosa ;
Furlì bizzarro, e Ravenna benigna;
E Sinigaglia dell' aria nojosa;
E Capua l'amorosa ;
Pisa frendente, e Pesaro giardino ;
Ancona bel porto al pellegrino;
Fedelissimo Urbino;
Ascoli tondo, e lungo Recanate;
Foligno delle strade inzuccherate,
E par dal cielo mandate
Le belle donne di Fano si dice;
Ma Siena poi tra l'altre più felice.
LY, O my songs, to Varignano fly!
Like some lost flock of swallows homeward flying, And hail me Rome's Dictator, who there doth lie Broken with wounds, but conquered not, nor dying; Bid him think on the April that is nigh,
Month of the flowers and ventures fear-defying.
Or if it is not nigh, it soon shall come,
As shall the swallow to his last year's home,
As on its naked stem the rose shall burn,
As to the empty sky the stars return,
As hope comes back to hearts crushed by regret;
Nay, say not this to his heart ne'er crushed yet!
Francesco dall' Ongaro. Tr. W. D. Howells.
VERONA! thy tall gardens stand erect
Beckoning me upward. Let me rest awhile
Where the birds whistle hidden in the boughs,
Or fly away when idlers take their place,
Mated as well, concealed as willingly;
Idlers whose nest must not swing there, but rise
|