And joined the laughter of the wild- | Half buried in the grass. But when eyed maid, Who led him prisoner where her comrades strayed. It was a level space, which once had been The court-yard of a castle, where was seen A fountain, choked as is a tomb with dust; The songless triton thick with moss and rust; Dripping green vines where once the waters flowed; Where ruined arch and broken column showed What marble splendor and what knightly power Reigned on this mountain in the feudal hour. There led the maiden; and the travel- Is mine if I demand it! And I hold His life within my palm." Then Pietro cried ler saw Groups of wild men, who, disregarding law, Dwell in such covert places, making bold With others' goods, as doubtless did of old The early masters of these castled heights, When robbers were not thieves, but gallant knights; And Europe still permits the old dis grace The boldest robber holding highest place. As witness,-nay, I dare not thrust it home, I hear the usurper's guard patrolling Rome. Worthy Boccaccio. Some there were lay prone And dead in sleep, like statues overthrown, They all approved, and owned her will was law. Then, confidently, in the stranger's hand She placed her own, and said, "Let all the band Show hospitality, and none offend In word, or look, or deed, my artist friend! Have you not heard the Roman painters tell (You, who are models, know the story well) How wild Salvator, in a mountain cave, Lived with the robbers; how they freely gave Their bread and wine, and shelter; and that he Conceived there those great pictures which you see On palace walls, and which the princes hold More precious than thick tablets of pure gold? So was it once; and let it now be shown That we can have a Rosa of our own." THE CAMPAGNA. Lo, the Campagna! How those startling words Sweep like swift fingers o'er enchanted cords, Thrilling the heart with infinite delight! Lo, the Campagna! The incredulous sight, Sailing from this, the eagle's wild domain, Cleaves the far blue of the historic plain, Fainting with pleasure. How, on this high bar, The soul dilates, and trembles like a star New-born. And, lo! as in a sea of rest, Oh, glorious city! Through the deepening shade A thousand heroes, like the gods arrayed, And bards, with laurel rustling on their hair, Walk proudly, and speak grandly, till the air Is Is full of solemn majesty, and night half-way robbed by temples marblewhite. Yon tramping steeds, and yonder glittering wheel Chariot a Cæsar-while the commonweal 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 Old pilgrim, here The heretic within me bows the knee. ROME ENTERED. THE loud vettura rings along the way, White as the road with dust. The purple day, O'er Monte Mario, dies from off the dome, And, lo! the first star leads us into Rome. Blistering the noonday dust! O'ercome with years, And toil, and grief, there drops the way worn slave Under the horses, and the conquer ing 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, 'twas but a dream: a ruined heap |