CAMPO MARZIO.

BEHOLD by Tiber's

flood, where modern Rome

Couches beneath the ruins: there of old With arms and trophies gleamed the field of Mars: There to their daily sports the noble youth Rushed emulous; to fling the pointed lance; To vault the steed; or with the kindling wheel In dusty whirlwinds sweep the trembling goal; Or, wrestling, cope with adverse swelling breasts, Strong, grappling arms, closed heads, and distant feet; Or clash the lifted gauntlets: there they formed Their ardent virtues : lo, the bossy piles, The proud triumphal arches; all their wars, Their conquests, honors, in the sculptures live.

John Dyer.

Rome, Hills of.

HILLS OF ROME.

(HE, whose high top above the starres did sore,

SHE

One foote on Thetis, th' other on the Morning, One hand on Scythia, th' other on the More, Both heaven and earth in roundnesse compassing; Iove fearing, least if she should greater growe, The Giants old should once againe uprise,

Her whelm'd with hills, these Seven Hils, which be

nowe

Tombes of her greatnes which did threate the skies:
Upon her head he heapt Mount Saturnal,
Upon her bellie th' antique Palatine,
Upon her stomacke laid Mount Quirinal,
On her left hand the noysome Esquiline,

And Cælian on the right: but both her feete
Mount Viminal and Aventine doo meete.

Joachim du Bellay. Tr. Edmund Spenser,

look

MOUNT AVENTINE.

FIRST upon yon craggy pile, on stones

Suspended; scattered far and wide, the rocks
Are strewn; how lonely and deserted stands
That mountain-fortress; with what ruin wild
The cliffs are dragged and toppled from above!
That was the cave hewn in a vast recess
Where dwelt the terrible half-human form

Of Cacus; where no sunbeams found their way;
And ever with fresh slaughter smoked the ground.
On the proud portals fixed hung heads of men,
Pallid and ghastly in their clotted gore.
This monster's sire was Vulcan; his the flames
And smoke that issued from his mouth.

His boast Was in his mighty bulk. But time at length

Brought aid long wished, and the advent of a god.
Alcides came, the great avenger, proud

From triple Geryon's slaughter and his spoils,

And hither drove his captured bulls, which filled
The river and the vale. But Cacus, fired
With fury, left untried no stratagem

Or crime; took from their stalls four comely bulls,
And heifers four, of beauty unsurpassed;

And, lest their hoof-prints should betray the theft,
He dragged them backwards, with the tracks reversed,
And hid them in his gloomy cave. No signs
The seeker found to lead him to the place.
Meanwhile, when now Amphitryon's son prepared
To move his full-fed herd, and to depart,
The cattle, as they left, began to low,

And filled the woods and hills with their complaints.
When, from the cave, one of the cows returned
The sound; and thus, though guarded close, betrayed
The hope of Cacus.

Virgil. Tr. C. P. Cranch.

THE CAPITOL: TASSO'S CORONATION.

TASSO died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his coronation in the Capitol.

A

TRUMPET'S note is in the sky, in the glorious

Roman sky,

Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice

of victory;

There is crowding to the Capitol the imperial streets

along,

For again a conqueror must be crowned, a kingly child of song:

Yet his chariot lingers,
Yet around his home
Broods a shadow silently,
Midst the joy of Rome.

A thousand, thousand laurel-boughs are waving wide and

far,

To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling

car;

A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth

of flowers,

To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in gemlike

showers.

Peace! Within his chamber

Low the mighty lies,

With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow,
And a wandering in his eyes.

Sing, sing for him, the lord of song, for him, whose

rushing strain

In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o'er the main !

Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, forever there to dwell,

As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's holiest cell.

Yes! for him, the victor,
Sing, but low, sing low!
A soft, sad miserere chant
For a soul about to go!

The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way, Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of golden day;

Streaming through every haughty arch of the Cæsars' past renown,

Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his crown!

Shut the proud, bright sunshine

From the fading sight!

There needs no ray by the bed of death,
Save the holy taper's light.

The wreath is twined, the way is strewn, the lordly train are met,

The streets are hung with coronals, - why stays the minstrel yet?

Shout! as an army shouts in joy around a royal chief,

Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief!

Silence! forth we bring him,

In his last array;

From love and grief the freed, the flown,

Way for the bier! - make way!

MONTE CAVALLO.

Felicia Hemans.

E, too, marvellous twain, that erect on the Monte

YE,

Cavallo

Stand by your rearing steeds in the grace of

motionless movement,

your

Stand with your upstretched arms and tranquil regardant

faces,