Thou Cæsar! chief, whose sword the East o'er

powers,

And the tamed Indian drives from Roman towers.
All hail, Saturnian earth! hail, loved of fame,
Land rich in fruits, and men of mighty name!
For thee I dare the sacred founts explore,
For thee the rules of ancient art restore,

Themes, once to glory raised, again rehearse,
And pour through Roman towns the Ascrean

verse.

VIRGIL.

Tr. William Sotheby. :

TO ITALY

O ITALY, my country! I behold

Thy columns, and thine arches, and thy walls,
And the proud statues of our ancestors;
The laurel and the mail with which our sires

Were clad, these I behold not, nor their fame.
Why thus unarmed, with naked breast and brow?
What means that livid paleness, those deep
wounds?

To heaven and earth I raise my voice, and ask
What hand hath brought thee to this low estate,
Who, worse than all, hath loaded thee with chains,
So that, unveiled and with dishevelled hair,
Thou sittest on the ground disconsolate,

Hiding thy weeping face between thy knees?
Ay, weep, Italia! thou hast cause to weep!
Degraded and forlorn. Yes, were thine eyes
Two living fountains, never could thy tears
Equal thy desolation and thy shame!
Fallen!-ruined!-lost! who writes or speaks of

thee,

But, calling unto mind thine ancient fame,

Exclaims, "Once she was mighty! Is this she?"
Where is thy vaunted strength, thy high resolve?
Who from thy belt hath torn the warrior sword?
How hast thou fallen from thy pride of place
To this abyss of misery? Are there none
To combat for thee, to defend thy cause?
To arms! Alone I'll fight and fall for thee!
Content if my best blood strike forth one spark
To fire the bosoms of my countrymen.

Where are thy sons? I hear the clang of arms,
The din of voices, and the bugle-note;

Sure they are fighting for a noble cause!
Yes, one faint hope remains-I see-I see
The fluttering of banners in the breeze;
I hear the tramp of horses and of men,
The roar of cannon, and, like glittering lamps
Amid the darkening gloom, the flash of swords.
Is there no comfort? And who combat there
In that Italian camp? Alas, ye gods,

Italian brands fight for a foreign lord!
O, miserable those whose blood is shed

Not for their native land, for wife or child,
But for a stranger lord-who cannot say
With dying breath, "My country! I restore
The life thou givest, and gladly die—for thee!"
GIACOMO LEOPARDI.

MIGNON

Tr. Ancn.

J

DOST know the land of lemon-flowers,
Of dusky gold-flecked orange bowers?
The breath of the azure sky scarce heaves
The myrtle and high laurel leaves.

Dost know it well?

Oh there, 'tis there

Together, dear one, we must fare.

Dost know the house? the gleaming walls
The pillared roof, the brilliant halls?

Grave statues stand and look at me:

"What have they done, poor child, to thee?"

Dost know it well?

Oh there, 'tis there

My dear protector, we must fare.

Dost know the peak and its path in the gray?
The mule in the mist is seeking his way,

The dragon-folk dwell in the ancient lair,

The stream crashes over the boulder there.

Dost know it well?

Oh there, 'tis there

Our path leads; Father, let us fare!

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

Tr. Robert Haven Schauffler.

ITALY

(From "A Litany of Nations.")

I AM she that was the light of thee enkindled
When Greece grew dim;

She whose life grew up with man's free life, and dwindled

With wane of him.

She that once by sword and once by word imperial Struck bright thy gloom;

And a third time, casting off these years funereal, Shall burst thy tomb.

By that bond 'twixt thee and me whereat affrighted

Thy tyrants fear us;

By that hope and this remembrance reunited;

(Cho.) O mother, hear us.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

"ITALIA, IO TI SALUTO!"

To come back from the sweet South, to the North
To where I was born, bred, look to die;
Come back to do my day's work in its day,
Play out my play—

Amen, amen, say I.

To see no more the country half my own,
Nor hear the half familiar speech,
Amen I say; I turn to that bleak North
Whence I came forth-

The South lies out of reach.

But when our swallows fly back to the South,
To the sweet South, to the sweet South,
The tears may come again into my eyes
On the old wise,

And the sweet name to my mouth.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

THE DAISY

O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine
In lands of palm and southern pine,-
In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.