She rested with the air of rest

So seldom seen, of those
Whose toil remitted gives a zest,

Not languor, to repose.

Her form was poised yet buoyant, firm though free And liberal of her bright black eyes was she.

Her hue reflected back the skies
Which reddened in the west;
And joy was laughing in her eyes
And bounding in her breast,

Its rights and grants exulting to proclaim
Where pride had no inheritance, nor shame.

Methought this scene before mine eyes,
Still glowing with yon sun,

Which seemed to melt the myriad dyes
Of heaven and earth to one,

A diverse unity, methought this scene,
These undulant hills, the woods that intervene,

The multiplicity of growth,

The cornfield and the brake,
The trellised vines that cover both,

The purple-bosomed lake,

Some fifty summers hence may all be found

Rich in the charms wherewith they now abound.

And should I take my staff again,
And should I journey here,

My steps may be less steady then,

My eyesight not so clear,

And from the mind the sense of beauty may,
Even as these bodily gifts, have passed away;

But grant my age but eyes to see

A still susceptive mind,

All that leaves us, and all that we

Leave wilfully behind,

And nothing here would want the charms it wore Save only she who stands upon the shore.

HENRY TAYLOR.

LAKE MAGGIORE

STANZAS

ADDRESSED TO W. R. TURNER, R.A., ON HIS VIEW OF THE LAGO MAGGIORE FROM THE

TOWN OF ARONA

TURNER, thy pencil brings to mind a day
When from Laveno and the Beuscer Hill
I over Lake Verbanus held my way

In pleasant fellowship, with wind at will; Smooth were the waters wide, the sky serene, And our hearts gladdened with the joyful scene ;

Joyful, for all things ministered delight,

The lake and land, the mountains and the vales; The Alps their snowy summits reared in light,

Tempering with gelid breath the summer gales; And verdant shores and woods refreshed the eye, That else had ached beneath that brilliant sky.

To that elaborate island were we bound,

Of yore the scene of Borromean pride,—
Folly's prodigious work; where all around,
Under its coronet, and self-belied,

Look where you will, you cannot choose but see
The obtrusive motto's proud "Humility!"

Far off the Borromean saint was seen,

Distinct, though distant, o'er his native town,

Where his Colossus with benignant mien
Looks from its station on Arona down;
To it the inland sailor lifts his eyes,
From the wide lake, when perilous storms arise.

But no storm threatened on that summer day;
The whole rich scene appeared for joyance made
With many a gliding bark the mere was gay,

The fields and groves in all their wealth arrayed: I could have thought the sun beheld with smiles Those towns and palaces and populous isles.

From fair Arona, even on such a day,

When gladness was descending like a shower, Great painter, did thy gifted eye survey

The splendid scene; and, conscious of its power, Well hath thine hand inimitable given

The glories of the lake and land and heaven.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

TURIN

MOTHER AND POET

Turin, after News from Gaeta, 1861

DEAD! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me!

Yet I was a poetess only last year,

And good at my art, for a woman, men said; But this woman, this, who is agoniz'd here,— The east and west sea rhyme on in her head For ever instead.

What art can a woman be good at? Oh vain! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?

Ah boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you press'd.

And I proud, by that test.