Greets him with pæans, and we proudly march
On toward the Forum. The triumphal arch,
Burning with banners, and the murmuring street,
Deep strewn with roses, till the air is sweet
With floating odors. How the heralds blow
Their wild delirious trumpets, notes that go
Like swift flames soaring with the fiery tune,
Bursting from clarions blazing in the noon!

Whence come we? from what conquest? with what spoil?

Whence are these captives, bleeding as they toil
Under our load of trophies? Whips, and groans,
And blood, that shames the rose leaves on the stones
For depth of crimson! And the dew of tears
Blistering the noonday dust! O'ercome with years
And toil and grief, there drops the way-worn slave
Under the horses; and the conquering wave,
Above his carcass, pours its glorious flood
Down through the Forum in a path of blood,
Roaring with triumph! Do I wake or sleep?
Thank Heaven, 't was but a dream; a ruined heap
The house of Cæsar and of Nero lies!

And o'er the golden wall the owlet nightly cries.
Thomas Buchanan Read.

ROME.

OME, with thine old red palaces arow,

And the great sunlight on thy highways beating, Gay folk, and ladies at the windows sitting,

They may be fair, - I am too sad to know!

I have climbed Trajan's column, and saw thence
The Quirinal here, and there the Vatican,

The Pope's green gardens, how the Tiber ran
Yellow under its bridges, far, far hence;

And, lifted mountain-like the pines above,
Saint Peter's awful dome, — ah me, ah me!
Saint Peter of Avignon I would see

Blossom with slender spire from out its grove!

Here were Rome's ancient ramparts, — quarried stone
Crumbling, fire-scarred, with brambles matted thick;
There, the huge Coliseum's tawny brick,
The twin arcs hand in hand. But there is one

In mine own country I saw clearer yet.
Thou art the Arles arena in my eyes,
Great ruin! And my homesick spirit cries
For one I love, nor ever can forget.

And still, as from my watch-tower I discerned,
Out in the waste Campagna, errant flocks
Of hornéd bulls tossing their fierce, black locks
As in our own Camargue, the thought returned:

Why dost thou not forget? Thou thought'st to leave
By land, by sea, some portion of thy woe;
But time is wasting, and thy life wears low,
And ever more and more thou seem'st to grieve.
Théodore Aubanel. Tr. H. W. Preston.

GHETTO DI ROMA.

WHOEVER, led by worship of the past, Or love of beauty, even in its wane, Wastes a sweet season of delightful sadness In wandering mid the wilderness of Rome, May see, as I did, many a summer since,A wretched quarter of the sacred city, Where the poor dregs of Israel's children dwell.

"T is called the Ghetto, and the pious townsman Shuns it, unless his piety lie deep

Enough to teach him not to turn aside
From any form of human brotherhood:
Hard by the muddy Tiber's idle flow,
Beyond the shadow of the Vatican,

Yet within sound, almost, of choirs that chant
Morning and evening to a Christian organ,
Its prison-like and ragged houses rise.

A miry street leads through the unholy realm,
Where no saint's chapel, perfect in proportion,
Breaks the long ugliness with one fair front;
Nor ever open door breathes odorous fumes
Of silver censers on the passers by.

Here hymns are never heard, nor sacring bell,
Nor benediction from benignant lips,
Nor whispered aves to the cold-eyed Virgin.
The cowled procession brings no tapers here,
With crucifix and banner-bearing boys,
To take the taint out of the Hebrew air.

At either entrance of the ill-paved way A gate as massive as the Scean was,

And grim as that through which the Tuscan passed
On his dread journey to the fires of hell,

Swings on its hinges till the set of sun,
And then is bolted till he glare again.

Thus dawn and night to the poor captives come
Made by the barring only and unbarring
Of the spiked portals; for the blessed ray
Pierces no lattice, gilds no threshold here.
The gloomy shops a mingled steam exhale
Of withered greens, and musty grocers' ware,
And such rank offal as the meaner sort

Of curs will mumble when their Lent seems long.
Here at high noon the petty trade proceeds

By the dim tallow which the greasy counter
Receives in minted drops,

the only coin,

Save that of oaths, which is abundant here.

Thomas William Parsons.

THE DREAM.

A BUST SEEN IN THE STUDIO OF AN ARTIST AT ROME.

A

SUMMER night in Rome,

Dear Rome of Art and Song and Love the home!
An eve of rare delight, -

A murmuring, soft, immeasurable night,

A summer night in Rome!

No frigid Northern skies

Chill us from far, mocking our longing eyes
And yearning sympathies, -

Ah, no! the heaven bends kind and clasping here, And in the ether clear

The stars seem warm and near.

This is the artist's room,
Hushed in its purple gloom,-

The dim birth-chamber of his vital thought,
Which, into marble wrought,

Asserts sublime and beautiful control,
Charming the raptured sight,

Hushing the world in wondering delight,
Touching the fainting soul,

Fettered and cramped by sin and grief and strife,
To newer, holier life.

Pulsing along the air,

A strange and sacred presence seems to fill
The studio dark and still;

Dark, saving only where

Through the broad window, with a wondrous glow Of golden light, unhindered in its flow,

Looks in the mellow moon,

The bright Italian moon;

Still, save the tremor light

Which the thick vines yield to the wooing night, And the soul-soothing tune

Breathing among the distant olive-trees,

Where bland airs sing their dreamful symphonies, Their chants of Love and June.

Behold! a vision there,

Where the slant moonlight floods the fragrant air,