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For they can lure no further; and the ray Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday,
Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers,
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
And from that hour have kindred spirits flocked From distant countries, from the north, the south, To see where he is laid.
Twelve years ago, When I descended the impetuous Rhone, Its vineyards of such great and old renown, Its castles, each with some romantic tale, Vanishing fast, the pilot at the stern, He who had steered so long, standing aloft, His eyes on the white breakers, and his hands On what was now his rudder, now his oar, A huge misshapen plank, — the bark itself Frail and uncouth, launched to return no more, Such as a shipwrecked man might hope to build, Urged by the love of home. Twelve years ago, When like an arrow from the cord we flew, Two long, long days, silence, suspense on board, It was to offer at thy fount, Vaucluse, Entering the arched cave, to wander where Petrarch had wandered, to explore and sit Where in his peasant-dress he loved to sit, Musing, reciting, on some rock moss-grown, Or the fantastic root of some old beech, That drinks the living waters as they stream Over their emerald-bed; and could I now Neglect the place where, in a graver mood, When he had done and settled with the world, When all the illusions of his youth were fled, Indulged perhaps too much, cherished too long, He came for the conclusion ? Half-way up He built his house, whence as by stealth he caught,
Among the hills, a glimpse of busy life
Peace to this region! Peace to each, to all!
WRITTEN IN PETRARCH'S HOUSE.
PETRARCH! I would that there might be
In this thy household sanctuary
The fount that whilom played before thee,
They say thy tomb lies there below;
For though by poesy's high grace
Yet now that thou art wholly free,
IGH on Aspromonte flashed the red shirts early,
Up in the midst of them the glory of his face, Low on Aspromonte, ere the day was over,
He was down and bleeding, bound in helpless case. Hands of brothers poured that crimson, Tears can wash it from the holy Tricolor. Alas ! alas ! could they hit him where he stood, Himself thrown between the ranks, with passion
ate cries Calling on them but to spare each other's blood,
And so, falling, gave himself a sacrifice. O the pity and the passion of that morrow,
When, all lost, all ended, he the invincible
Lay there stricken in his ruin and his sorrow,
Prisoner in the hands of those he loved too well.
Over rugged mountain-patlis without complaint Carried througlı long hours of torture, white and faint,
By the faithful, sileut in bis silence all,
Marching slow and soft as at a funeral. Overhead all day the scorching August quivered,
While the laurel leaves looked sadness, shading him, As they bore him from the land he had delivered,
Helpless, shattered, lot with anguish heart and limb; No salute or sign or murmur as he passed ; But once, looking up, he waved his hand at last : Farewell! - kneeling on the shore the people shivered, Stretching out their hands long after the white sails had grown dim.
THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS.
UP soared the lark into the air,
St. Francis heard ; it was to him