You've the brown. ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint grey olive trees. Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns! 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell, Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash! In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foambows flash On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash Round the lady atop in the conch-fifty gazers do not abash, Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash! All the year round at the villa, nothing's to see though you linger, Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted forefinger. Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, And the bees keep up their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. Enough of the seasons,-I spare you the months of the fever and chill. Ere opening your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles in; You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene-picture-the new play piping hot! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. Above it, behold the archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don Soand-so Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome, and Cicero, "And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of St. Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." Noon strikes, here sweep the procession! our lady borne smiling and smart With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! Bang, whang, whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. But bless you, it's dear-it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers—but still-ah, the pity, the pity! Look two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And the penitents dressed in white skirts, a-holding the yellow candles. One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals. Bang, whang, whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! R. Browning. POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE WHO IS SYLVIA? WHO is Sylvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her? The heaven such grace doth lend her, Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. To help him of his blindness, Then to Sylvia let us sing That Sylvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling. To her let us garlands bring. W. Shakspere. THE INDIAN SERENADE I ARISE from dreams of Thee Hath led me who knows how? The wandering airs they faint As I must die on thine O belovéd as thou art! Oh lift me from the grass! On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! P. B. Shelley. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY, LIKE THE NIGHT SHE walks in beauty, like the night One shade the more, one ray the less, |