ROME: — LA TRASTEVERINA .

She wanders through the lightless lanes of Rome,
A flower of grace, with grave, nocturnal eyes;
To her belong the calm Italian skies,
And all the Eternal City is her home.

In drugget wrapped she stands, and from her comb
Falls the dusk torrent of her hair, that flies
Windward, and in the twilight's tint that dies,
Her white teeth glimmer like the fleeting foam.

And I, who by fond words can call her mine,
Think, when I hear her sweet and pleading sighs,
Of subtle phantoms resurrect at last:
For in the willow of her arms that twine
Their softness round me, I can feel arise
The Imperial Messalinas of the past!