Ah me! No more for us Spreads the clear world-wide Tuscan land divine; Fold over billowy fold Of fertile vale and tower-set mountain old, Innumerous. As crowds of crested waves that shine In sun and shadow on the spaceless ocean brine. Soul-full we said Farewell! What time those tears from flying storms were cast O'er Thrasymene and thee, Loveliest of hills, whatever hills may be Loved for the spell Of names that in the memory last, And with strange sweetness link our present to the past! Mont' Amiata, thou Shalt take the envoy of this sorrow-song! For thou still gazest down On Chiusi, and Siena's marble crown, The bare hill-brow Where gleams Cortona, and the strong Light of the lands I love, the lands for which I long. JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. UMBRIA IN UMBRIA UNDER a roof of twisted boughs Unseen, along the sunken way The hidden, holy feet that fall. Say that a pilgrim, journeying long, From that loud land that lies to west, Where tongues debate of right and wrong, Would be "The Little Poor Man's" guest; Would learn "The Lark's" divine "Sun-Song," And how glad hearts are blest. Say: "Master, we of over-seas Confess that oft our hearts are set On gold and gain; and if, with these, For lore of books we strive and fret, Perchance some lore of bended knees And saint-hood we forget; "Still, in one thought our lips are bold— Through days whose hours are bought and sold, Of thy life's gospel this we hold: The hands that toil are fair. "Therefore, forgive; assoil each stain Of trade and hate, of war and wrath; Teach us thy tenderness for pain; Thy music that no other hath; Thy fellowship with sun and rain, And flowers along thy path." Thou dost not answer. Down the track Go, "Brother Ox" and "Brother Ass." The silver leaves are turned to gray; There comes no sound from hedge nor tree; > Only a voice from far away, Borne o'er the silent hills to me, Entreats: "Be light of heart to-day: To-morrow joy shall be. "The glad of heart no hope betrays, Since 'Mother Earth' and 'Sister Death' HELEN J. SANBORN. PERUGIA FROM PERUGIA THE tall, sallow guardsmen their horse-tails have spread, Flaming out in their violet, yellow, and red; And behind go the lackeys in crimson and buff, And the chamberlains gorgeous in velvet and ruff; Next, in red-legged pomp, come the cardinals forth, Each a lord of the church and a prince of the earth. What's this squeak of the fife, and this batter of drum? Lo! the Swiss of the Church from Perugia come,- The good Father's missives, and "Thus saith the And lend to his logic the point of the sword! O maids of Etruria, gazing forlorn O'er dark Thrasymenus, dishevelled and torn! |