And such plenty and perfection, see, of gra.s.s 25 Never was!

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads And embeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Stock or stone-- 30 Where a mult.i.tude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; l.u.s.t of glory p.r.i.c.ked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold 35 Bought and sold.

Now--the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, 40 While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the c.h.i.n.ks-- Marks the bas.e.m.e.nt whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all around, the chariots traced 45 As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games.

And I know, while thus the quiet-colored eve Smiles to leave 50 To their folding all our many-tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray Melt away-- That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair 55 Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal, When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. 60

But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'

Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts--and then, 65 All the men!

When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, 70 Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each.

In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their G.o.ds a brazen pillar high 75 As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force-- Gold, of course.

O heart! O blood that freezes, blood that burns!

Earth's returns 80 For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!

Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!

Love is best.

UP AT A VILLA--DOWN IN THE CITY

(AS DISTINGUISHED BY AN ITALIAN PERSON OF QUALITY)

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!

There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; 5 While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull, Save a mere s.h.a.g of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!

--I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned 10 wool.

But the city, oh, the city--the square with the houses! Why?

They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye!

Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets 15 high; And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, 'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights: You've the brown plowed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray 20 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 25 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 foam-bows flash On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash Round the lady atop in her conch--fifty gazers do not abash, Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a 30 sort of sash.

All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger.

Some think fireflies pretty when they mix i' 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 35 shrill, And the bees keep 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 you open 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. 40 By and by there's the traveling 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, 45 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 So-and-so, Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero; "And, moreover" (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of Saint Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than 50 ever he preached."

Noon strikes--here sweeps 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 55 the rate.

They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays pa.s.sing 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 shirts, a-holding the 60 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!

A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S

O Galuppi, Balda.s.sare, this is very sad to find!

I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind; But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!

Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings.

What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were 5 the kings, Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?

Aye, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by ... what you call Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival; I was never out of England--it's as if I saw it all.

Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in 10 May?

b.a.l.l.s and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day, When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red-- On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed, O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his 15 head?

Well, and it was graceful of them--they'd break talk off and afford --She, to bite her mask's black velvet--he, to finger on his sword, While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?

What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh, Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions--"Must 20 we die?"

Those commiserating sevenths--"Life might last! we can but try!"

"Were you happy?"--"Yes."--"And are you still as happy?"--"Yes. And you?"

--"Then, more kisses!"--"Did _I_ stop them, when a million seemed so few?"

Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!

So an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare 25 say!

"Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!

I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"

Then they left you for their pleasure; till in due time, one by one, Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone, Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the 30 sun.

But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve, While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve, In you come with your cold music till I creep through every nerve.