We carry memories too:

Sad phantoms of the days we reckoned dear; Strong tyrannous desires,

With hands that cling and eyes whose tears are fires:

The wine is new

Still on our lips of autumn here,

Which we too soon shall change for Alpine winter drear.

Florence lies far behind;

Her grave grey palace-fronts, her lily towers; The curves of Arno bright

With star-set lamps that tremble in the night;

Her wild west wind,

That shook those lightning-smitten showers And flakes of sunbeams on the pale October flowers.

How far the dancing waves

Of Spezia, where the silvered olives sleep,
And flower-sprent myrtle sprays

Sweeten the sunny air by silent bays!

The calm sea laves

Those crags-but not for us-and deep

Dreams on the sapphire cliffs and stairs of marble steep.

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
And silver leaves and noon-day sky,
Among gaunt trunks, where lizards house,
On the hot sun-burnt grass I lie;
I hear soft notes of birds that drowse,
And steps that echo by

Unseen, along the sunken way
That drops below the city-wall.
Not of to-day, nor yesterday,
The hidden, holy feet that fall.
O whispering leaves, beseech them stay!
O birds, awake and call!

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-
That, in our world of haste and care,
Through days whose hours are bought and sold,
Days full of deeds, and scant of prayer,
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

Where now I thought thy feet must pass, With patient step and burdened back

Go, "Brother Ox" and "Brother Ass." A mountain cloud looms swift and black, O'ershadowing stone and grass.

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'
Are good to know, and sweet to praise."
I hear not all the far voice saith
Of Love, that trod green Umbrian ways,
And streets of Nazareth.

HELEN J. SANBORN.