English

They stand between the mountains and the sea;
Awful memorials, but of whom we know not!
The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck.
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,
Points to the work of magic and moves on.
Time was they stood along the crowded street,
Temples of gods! and on their ample steps
What various habits, various tongues, beset
The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice!
Time was perhaps the Third was sought for justice;
And here the accuser stood, and there the accused;

One of two things Montrioli may have,
My envy or compassion. Both he cannot
Yet on he goes, numbering as miseries
What least of all he would consent to lose,
What most indeed he prides himself upon,
And, for not having, most despises me
" At morn the minister exacts an hour;
At noon, the king. Then comes the council-board;
And then the chase, the supper. When, ah! when,
The leisure and the liberty I sigh for?
Not when at home; at home a miscreant crew,
That now no longer serve me, mine the service.

This region, surely, is not of the earth
Was it not dropt from heaven? Not a grove,
Citron or pine or cedar, not a grot
Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine,
But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings
On the clear wave some image of delight,
Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers,
Some ruined temple or fallen monument,
To muse on as the bark is gliding by
And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide,
From daybreak, when the mountain pales his fire
Yet more and more, and from the mountain top,

AN ADVENTURE

Three days they lay in ambush at my gate,
Then sprung and led me captive. Many a wild
We traversed; but Rusconi, 't was no less,
Marched by my side, and, when I thirsted, climbed
The cliffs for water; though, whene'er he spoke,
'T was briefly, sullenly; and on he led,
Distinguished only by an amulet,
That in a golden chain hung from his neck,
A crystal of rare virtue. Night fell fast,
When on a heath, black and immeasurable,
He turned and bade them halt. 'T was where the earth

't is a wild life, fearful and full of change,
The mountain-robber's. On the watch he lies,
Levelling his carbine at the passenger;
And, when his work is done, he dares not sleep.
Time was, the trade was nobler, if not honest;
When they that robbed were men of better faith
Than kings or pontiffs; when, such reverence
The poet drew among the woods and wilds,
A voice was heard, that never bade to spare,
Crying aloud, " Hence to the distant hills!
Tasso approaches; he, whose song beguiles
The day of half its hours; whose sorcery

IT was a well
Of whitest marble, white as from the quarry;
And richly wrought with many a high relief,
Greek sculpture — in some earlier day perhaps
A tomb, and honored with a hero's ashes
The water from the rock filled and o'erflowed;
Then dashed away, playing the prodigal,
And soon was lost — stealing unseen, unheard,
Through the long grass, and round the twisted roots
Of aged trees; discovering where it ran
By the fresh verdure. Overcome with heat,
Ithrew me down; admiring, as I lay,

There is an insect, that, when evening comes,
Small though he be and scarce distinguishable,
Like Evening clad in soberest livery,
Unsheathes his wings and through the woods and glades
Scatters a marvellous splendor. On he wheels,
Blazing by fits as from excess of joy,
Each gush of light a gush of ecstasy;
Nor unaccompanied; thousands that fling
A radiance all their own, not of the day,
Thousands as bright as he, from dusk till dawn,
Soaring, descending.
In the mother's lap
Well may the child put forth his little hands,

'T IS over; and her lovely cheek is now
On her hard pillow — there, alas! to be
Nightly, through many and many a dreary hour,
Wan, often wet with tears, and (ere at length
Her place is empty, and another comes)
In anguish, in the ghastliness of death;
Hers never more to leave those mournful walls,
Even on her bier.
'Tis over; and the rite,
With all its pomp and harmony, is now
Floating before her. She arose at home,
To be the show, the idol of the day;
Her vesture gorgeous, and her starry head —

Those ancient men, what were they, who achieved
A sway beyond the greatest conquerors;
Setting their feet upon the necks of kings,
And, through the world, subduing, chaining down
The free, immortal spirit? Were they not
Mighty magicians? Theirs a wondrous spell,
Where true and false were with infernal art
Close-interwoven; where together met
Blessings and curses, threats and promises;
And with the terrors of Futurity
Mingled whate'er enchants and fascinates,
Music and painting, sculpture, rhetoric,

Have none appeared as tillers of the ground,
None since they went — as though it still were theirs,
And they might come and claim their own again?
Was the last plough a Roman's?
From this seat,
Sacred for ages, whence, as V IRGIL sings,
The Queen of Heaven, alighting from the sky,
Looked down and saw the armies in array,
Let us contemplate; and, where dreams from Jove
Descended on the sleeper, where, perhaps,
Some inspirations may be lingering still,
Some glimmerings of the future or the past,