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Buside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee; tameless and swift and proud.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is :.
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind,
Percy. Bysshe Shelley.
The ruins of Fort Fuentes form the crest of a rocky entinence that rises from the plain at the head of the Lake of Como, commanding view's up the Valteline, and toward the town of Chiavenna. The prospect in the latter direction is characterized by melancholy sublimity. . . . While descending, we discovered on the ground, apart from the path, and at a considerable distance from the ruined chapel, a statue of a child in pure white niarble, uninjured by the explosion that had driven it so far down the hill.
READ hour! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous
blast, This sweet-visaged cherub of Parian stone So far from the holy enclosure was cast,
To couch in this thicket of brambles alone,
To rest where the lizard may bask in the palm
Of his half-open band, pure from blemish or speck, And the green, gilded snake, without troubling the calm
Of the beautiful countenance, twine round his neck;
Where haply, (kind service to piety due !)
When winter the grove of its mantle bereaves, Some bird (like our own louored redbreast) may strew
The desolate slumberer with moss and with leaves :
Fuentes once harbored the good and the brave,
Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure unknown; Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave While the thrill of her fifes through the mountains
was blown :
Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless ascent ;
O silence of Nature, how deep is thy sway, When the whirlwind of human destruction is spent, Our tumults appeased, and our strifes passed away!
A ROOM IN THE VILLA TAVERNA.
One from the east, where o'er the Sabine hills
Frances Anne Kemble. CLOSE OF OUR SUMMER AT FRASCATI.
HE end is come: in thunder and wild rain
Autumn has stormed the golden house of Summer. She, going, lingers yet, sweet glances throwing Of kind farewell upon the land she loves And leaves. No more the sunny landscape glows In the intense, uninterrupted light And splendor of transparent, cloudless skies; No more the yellow plain its tawny hue Of sunburnt ripeness wears ; even at noon Thick watery veils fall on the mountain-ranges, And the white sun-rays, with pale slanting brushes, Paint rainbows on the leaden-colored stormis. Through milky, opal clouds the lightning plays, Visible presence of that hidden power, Mysterious soul of the great universe, Whose secret force runs in red human veins, And in the glaring white veins of the tempest ; Uplifts the hollow earth, the shifting sea ; Makes stormy reformations in the sky, Sweeping, with searching besoms of sharp winds, The foul and stagnant chambers of the air, Where the thick, heavy summer vapors slumber; And, working in the sap of all still-growth, In moonlight nights, unfolding leaves and blossoms, – Of all created life the vital element Appearing still in fire, -- whether in the sea, When its blue waves turn up great swathes of stars;