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Like ballad-burden mnsic, kept,
To that fair port below the castle
Or hardly slept, but watched awake
The moonlight touching o’er a terrace
What more? we took our last adieu,
the snowy Splugen drew, But ere we reached the highest summit I plucked a daisy, I gave it
It told of England then to me,
O love, we two shall go no longer
So dear a life your arms enfold
Yet here to-night in this dark city,
I found, though crushed to hard and dry, This nursling of another sky
Still in the little book you lent me, And where you tenderly laid it by:
And I forgot the clouded Forth,
Perchance to dream you still beside me,
OUR Italy 's
With reveries of gentle ladies, flung
With coins of scholars' fancy, which, being rung
In short, with all the dreams of dreamers young, Before their heads have time for slipping off
Hope's pillow to the ground. How oft, indeed, We all have sent our souls out from the north,
On bare white feet which would not print nor bleed, To climb the Alpine passes and look forth,
Where the low murmuring Lombard rivers lead Their bee-like way to gardens almost worth
The sight which thou and I see afterward From Tuscan Bellosguardo, wide awake,
When standing on the actual, blessed sward Where Galileo stood at nights to take
The vision of the stars, we find it hard, Gazing upon the earth and heaven, to make A choice of beauty.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
LL is Italian here ! — the orange grove,
Through whose cool shade we every morning rove To pluck its glowing fruit; our villa white With loggias broad, where far into the night We sit and breathe the intoxicating air With orange-blossoms filled, or free from care In the cool shadow of the morning lie And dream, and watch the lazy boats go by, Laden with fruits for Naples, the soft gales Swelling and straining in their lateen sails, Or with their canvas hanging all adroop, While the oars flash, and rowers rise and stoop. Look at this broad, flat plain heaped full of trees, With here and there a villa, these blue seas Whispering below the sheer cliffs on the shore, These och re mountains bare or olived o’er, The road that clings to them along the coast, The arching viaducts, the thick vines tost From tree to tree, that swing with every
breeze, Wliat can be more Italian than all these? The streets, too, through whose narrow, dusty track We ride in files, each on our donkey's back, When evening's shadow o’er the high gray walls, O’ertopped with oranges and olives, falls, And at each corner 'neath its roof of tiles, Hung with poor offerings, the Madonna smiles In her rude shrine so picturesque with dirt.
Is this not Italy? Your nerves are hurt
William Wetmore Story.
THROUGH THE ALPINE GATES.
SWEET it was, when, from that bleak abode
Where avalanches grind the pines to dust,
Full-orbed, in rosy dusk, the perfect moon
Sleep thou in peace, the morning will unbar
And morning did unfold the jutting capes
And only gloomed, amid the dancing shapes
On, on, through broadening vale and brightening sun
And when the third rich day declined his lids,
I hailed them all, and hailed beyond, the plain;