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THE APPIAN WAY

AWE-STRUCK I gazed upon that rock-paved way,
The Appian Road; marmorean witness still
Of Rome's resistless stride and fateful will,
Which mocked at limits, opening out for aye
Divergent paths to one imperial sway.
The nations verily their parts fulfil;

And war must plough the fields which law shall till;
Therefore Rome triumphed till the appointed day.
Then from the Catacombs, like waves, upburst
The host of God, and scaled, as in an hour,
O'er all the earth the mountain-seats of power.
Gladly in that baptismal flood immersed

The old Empire died to live. Once more on high
It sits; now clothed with immortality.

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
The flood of opalescence from a sweet,

Young sky, that laves far crests, and nearer plays
Around the yellow-flowering weeds and grass,
Tinctured burnt-red, and brittle thistles brown,
Sere as the blasted empire's awful might
Engulfed in that vast, arid, arch-spanned down,
Where blood-fed poppies bloom upon a mass
Of woe-yet gorgeous in the morning light!
FREDERIC CROWNINSHIELD.

THE CAMPAGNA SEEN FROM ST. JOHN LATERAN

WAS IT the trampling of triumphant hosts
That levelled thus yon plain, sea-like and hoary;
Armies from Rome sent forth to distant coasts,
Or back returning clad with spoils of glory?
Around it loom cape, ridge, and promontory:
Above it sunset shadows fleet like ghosts,
Fast-borne o'er keep and tomb, whose ancient
boasts,

By Time confuted, name have none in story.
Fit seat for Rome! for here is ample space,
Which greatness chiefly needs, severed alone
By yonder aqueducts, with queenly grace
That sweep in curves concentric ever on
(Bridging a world subjected as a chart),
To that great city, head of earth, and heart.
AUBREY DE VERE.

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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,
Where, buried, lie a nation's strength and grace,
And the sad joys of Rome's imperious state
That perished of its insolent excess.

A dull, grey shroud o'er this vast burial rests,
Is deathly still, or seems to rise and fall,
As on a dear one, dead, the moveless pall
Doth cheat the heart with stir of her white breasts,
Mocking the troubled hour with worse distress.

A deathful languor holds the twilight mist,
Unearthly colours drape the Alban hills,
A dull malaria the spirit fills;

Death and decay all beauty here have kissed,
Pledging the land to sorrowing loveliness.

SILAS WEIR MITCHELL.

SUNSET ON THE CAMPAGNA

THE pines have no voice this ineffable hour,
The sea and the Dome shine through wavering

gold;

Here, where stood temple and palace and tower,
Shadows and grass lie in fold over fold,

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,
Other, not lovelier, sunset and morn;
Neither can thought find an end to the story

Of youth for whose rapture the world is new

born.

HELEN J. Sanborn.

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