THE APPIAN WAY AWE-STRUCK I gazed upon that rock-paved way, And war must plough the fields which law shall till; The old Empire died to live. Once more on high AUBREY DE VERE. AUGUST ON THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA SOME sparkling morn before the August rays Have touched their fierce extreme of midday heat, From Alban hills descend the white-paved street Trending to Rome, into the plain ablaze With withering beams. Then backward turn thy gaze Upon the fair-limned hazy heights, and meet Young sky, that laves far crests, and nearer plays THE CAMPAGNA SEEN FROM ST. JOHN LATERAN WAS IT the trampling of triumphant hosts By Time confuted, name have none in story. HOW GENTLE here is Nature's mood. She lays A woman-hand upon the troubled heart, Bidding the world away and time depart, While the brief minutes swoon to endless days Filled full of sad, inconstant thoughtfulness. Behold 'tis eventide. Dun cattle stand Drowsed in the misted grasses. From the hollows deep, Dim veils, adrift, o'er arch and tower sweep, Casting a dreary doubt along the land, Weighting the twilight with some vague distress. Transient and subtle, not to thought more near Than spirit is to flesh, about me rise Dim memories, long lost to love's sad eyes; Now are they wandering shadows, strange and drear, That from their natal substance far have strayed. The witches of the mind possess the time, And cry, "Behold thy dead!" They come, they pass; We yearn to give them feature, face. Alas! Love hath no morn for memory's failing prime; What once was sweet with truth is but a shade. The ghosts of nameless sorrow, joy, despair, Emotions that have no remembered source, Love-waifs from other worlds, hope, fear, re morse Born of some vision's crime, wail through the air, Crying, "We were and are not,”—that is all. Yet sweet the indecisive evening hour That hath of earth the least. Unreal as dreams Dreamed within dreams, and ever further, seems The sound of human toil, while grass and flower Bend where the mercy of the dew doth fall. Strange mysteries of expectation wait Above the grave-mounds of the storied space, A dull, grey shroud o'er this vast burial rests, A deathful languor holds the twilight mist, Death and decay all beauty here have kissed, SILAS WEIR MITCHELL. SUNSET ON THE CAMPAGNA THE pines have no voice this ineffable hour, gold; Here, where stood temple and palace and tower, Hiding meek hearts that were masterful, living; Hiding mute lips that were loud with complaint; Mother of all, is it scorn or forgiving That covers so tenderly sinner and saint? Mountains keep watch like strong angels of pity; Mist on the plain lies more light than a kiss; Eyes that were dust before Rome was a city, Eyes that love brightened, saw these, yet not this. Not the same wonder, not the same glory, Of youth for whose rapture the world is new born. HELEN J. Sanborn. |