English

There were two pictures hung upon the wall,
One was called " Mercy at the Wicket Gate, "
The other, " Contemplation " ; and beneath this one
There ran the stately psalm: " When I remember
The heavens — the work of Thy fingers,
The sun, the moon and the stars,
Which Thou hast ordained,
What is man that Thou art mindful of him,
Or the Son of Man that Thou visitest him? "

There were three windows facing towards the West,
That sunned our house plants, sweet geraniums,
A calla, winter pinks, a Christmas rose,

" Did she suffer much? "
" Yes, the pain was dreadful. "
" And the new doctor, couldn't he help her? "
" No, you see it had gone too far, " he said, —
" Past help; she hid her trouble from us all.
You would think that, being an old woman,
She might have let the doctor see her breast
And not thought of it. But she wouldn't —
Not until he made her; it was too late.
She didn't complain much when he told her
That she could only live, perhaps, two months.
Once she said, " Do you believe in heaven?

There is one thing you always remember
About a man more than any other.
Sometimes it's a trick of his hand or eyes,
Or an old coat, or a dangling muffler;
And after a while in the neighborhood
A man comes to mean just that one queer thing
That sticks in the memory. I can see
Just one thing when I think of Ezra Brown —
His fingers fumbling at an old wallet
Trying to find a coin that wasn't there
To give to the needy. He spent his time
Trying to find God, and so his wallet
Had the worn lean look of a starved heifer,

" Come, " she said, " and we will go down the hill
To see Mis' Meegan. I'll take that orange
You brought me; she hardly knows what they are.
She's the only real bachelor woman
We ever had in these parts. She was married
Just in name to her hired man, to keep him
From hiring out to the neighbors. He died
Long ago, worn out with running her farm.

They say she has money, but one can't tell
Seeing she lives from hand to mouth all the time,
Selling a few eggs to buy groceries;
The neighbors cut her wood free for her. "

And now farewell to Italy — perhaps
Forever! Yet, methinks, I could not go,
I could not leave it, were it mine to say,
" Farewell forever! " Many a courtesy,
That sought no recompense, and met with none
But in the swell of heart with which it came,
Have I experienced; not a cabin-door,
Go where I would, but opened with a smile;
From the first hour, when, in my long descent,
Strange perfumes rose, rose as to welcome me,
From flowers that ministered like unseen spirits;
From the first hour, when vintage-songs broke forth,

THIS house was A NDREA D ORIA'S . Here he lived;
And here at eve relaxing, when ashore,
Held many a pleasant, many a grave discourse
With them that sought him, walking to and fro
As on his deck. 'T is less in length and breadth
Than many a cabin in a ship of war;
But 't is of marble, and at once inspires
The reverence due to ancient dignity.
He left it for a better; and 't is now
A house of trade, the meanest merchandise
Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is,
'T is still the noblest dwelling — even in Genoa !

Day glimmered; and beyond the precipice
(Which my mule followed as in love with fear,
Or as in scorn, yet more and more inclining
To tempt the danger where it menaced most)
A sea of vapor rolled. Methought we went
Along the utmost edge of this, our world,
And the next step had hurled us headlong down
Into the wild and infinite abyss;
But soon the surges fled, and we descried,
Nor dimly, though the lark was silent yet,
Thy gulf, L A S PEZZIA . Ere the morning-gun,
Ere the first day-streak, we alighted there;

It was a harper, wandering with his harp,
His only treasure; a majestic man,
By time and grief ennobled, not subdued;
Though from his height descending, day by day,
And, as his upward look at once betrayed,
Blind as old Homer . At a fount he sate,
Well known to many a weary traveller;
His little guide, a boy not seven years old,
But grave, considerate beyond his years,
Sitting beside him. Each had ate his crust
In silence, drinking of the virgin-spring;
And now in silence, as their custom was,
The sun's decline awaited.

" WHAT hangs behind that curtain? " — " Wouldst thou learn?
If thou art wise, thou wouldst not. 'T is by some
Believed to be his master-work who looked
Beyond the grave, and on the chapel-wall,
As though the day were come, were come and past,
Drew the Last Judgment. But the wisest err.
He who in secret wrought, and gave it life,
For life is surely there and visible change,
Life such as none could of himself impart
(They who behold it go not as they came,
But meditate for many and many a day),

He who sets sail from Naples, when the wind
Blows fragrance from Posilipo, may soon,
Crossing from side to side that beautiful lake,
Land underneath the cliff where, once among
The children gathering shells along the shore,
One laughed and played, unconscious of his fate;
His to drink deep of sorrow, and, through life,
To be the scorn of them that knew him not,
Trampling alike the giver and his gift,
The gift a pearl precious, inestimable,
A lay divine, a lay of love and war,
To charm, ennoble, and, from age to age,