Her sisters could Pompeii and Herculaneum be,

Yet the evergreen-clad Nympha is the fairest of the three; O'er those towns mighty Vulcan hurled ash-heaps in his spleen,

But Nympha lies protected by the rich ivy green.

Her walls and streets and churches are ruins, yet they show

She once did boast a grandeur, - how many years ago?
O, is there no one living can of that glory tell?
Or is it left the ivy to creep and ring her knell ?

The flowers in the churchyard inquisitively peep
Out from between the ivy, that over all doth creep;
At each old crumbling casement appears its dark-green
face,

It climbs round every gateway, and doth each portal grace.

A carpet of rich blossoms is o'er the chancel spread, And through the aisles, while ivy forms arches over

head,

The birds and bats and insects, where monks long,

long ago

Their litanies were chanting, are flitting to and fro.

They too have frames of ivy, Nature hath Art displaced, And for the ancient martyrs hath she woven crowns anew, The instruments of torture gently she hides from view.

And in the streets and alleys there many a rich flower

blows,

The lily and sweet mallow, narcissus and moss rose, But all around is silent, save the babbling of the brook, And the hooting of the night-birds that haunt each tower nook.

'T is said 't was once the dwelling of nymphs, and hence its name;

They all have long since vanished, and those who knew her fame.

Still do I love to linger, to contemplate that pile; Though Science would be searching, ruins the Muse beguile.

For Poesie hath a fondness to leave things as they are, But Science must be lifting the veil to show each scar. "I care not for thy grandeur, I love thee as thou art, Thou Ivy City Nympha, — the Ruin of my heart! " George Browning.

-

Posilipo.

VIRGIL'S TOMB.

E seek, as twilight saddens into gloom,

WE

A poet's sepulchre; and here it is,

The summit of a tufa precipice.

Ah! precious every drape of myrtle bloom

And leaf of laurel crowning Virgil's tomb!

The low vault entering, hark! what sound is this? The night is black beneath us in the abyss,

Through one damp port disclosed, as from earth's womb,
That rumbling sound appalls us! Through the steep
Is hewn Posilipo's most marvellous grot ;

And to the prince of Roman bards, whose sleep
Is in this singular and lonely spot,

Doth a wild rumor give wizard's name,

Linking a tunnelled road to Maro's fame!

William Gibson.

THE

Pozzuoli.

THE AMPHITHEATRE AT POZZUOLI.

HE strife, the gushing blood, the mortal throe, With scenie horrors filled that belt below, And where the polished seats were round it raised, Worse spectacle! the pleased spectators gazed. Such were the pastimes of times past! O shame! O infamy! that men who drew the breath Of freedom, and who shared the Roman name,

Should so corrupt their sports with pain and death.

The pastimes of times past? And what are thine,
Thou with thy gun or greyhound, rod and line?
Pain, terror, mortal agonies, that scare

Thy heart in man, to brutes thou wilt not spare.

Are theirs less sad and real? Pain in man
Bears the high mission of the flail and fan.
In brutes 't is purely piteous. God's command,
Submitting his mute creatures to our hand

For life and death, thou shalt not dare to plead ;
He bade thee kill them not for sport, but need.
Then backward if thou cast reproachful looks

On sports bedarkening custom erst allowed,
Expect from coming ages like rebukes

63

When day shall dawn on peacefuller woods and brooks, And clear from vales thou troublest custom's cloud.

Henry Taylor.

THIS

Radicofani.

RADICOFANI.

HIS is a barren, desolate scene,
Grim and gray, with scarce a tree,
Gashed with many a wild ravine
Far away as the eye can see;
Ne'er a home for miles to be found,
Save where huddled on some grim peak
A village clinging in fear looks round
Over the country vast and bleak,

As if it had fled from the lower ground,
Refuge from horrors there to seek.

Over the spare and furzy soil

With never a waving grain-field sowed,

Raggedly winds with weary toil

The shining band of dusty road,
Down through the river's rocky bed,
That is white and dry with summer's drought,
Or climbing some sandy hillock's head,
Over and under, in and out,

Like a struggling thing by madness led,
That wanders along in fear and doubt.

What are those spots on yon sandy slope
Where the green is frayed and tattered with gray?
Are they only rocks, or sheep that crop

The meagre pasture? one scarce can say.
This seems not a place for flowers, but behold!
How the lupine spreads its pink around,

And the clustered ginestra squanders its gold
As if it loved this barren ground;

And surely that bird is over-bold

That dares to sing o'er that grave-like mound.

It is dead and still in the middle noon;
The sand-beds shine with a blinding light,
The cicali dizzen the air with their tune,
And the sunshine seems like a curse to smite;
The mountains around their shoulders bare,
Gather a thin and shadowy veil,

And shrink from the fierce and scorching glare,
And close to the grass so withered and pale
Hovering quivers the glassy air,

And the lizards pant in their emerald mail.