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.

THE RIVER TIBER

THE TIBER

THE sea was flushing in the morning's rays,
And from the ethereal heights Aurora's car
With rose and saffron gleamed; when suddenly
The winds were stilled, and every breath of air,
And the oars struggled through the sluggish sea.
And here Æneas from the deep descries

A spacious grove. Through this the Tiber pours
His smiling waves along, with rapid whirls,
And yellow sand, and bursts into the sea.
And all around and overhead were birds
Of various hues, accustomed to the banks
And river-bed; from tree to tree they flew,
Soothing the air with songs. Then to the land
He bids the crews direct the vessels' prows,
And joyfully the shadowy river gains.

All through that night the Tiber calmed his flood, And, ebbing backward, stood with tranquil waves, Smoothing its surface like a placid lake,

That without struggling oars the ships might

glide.

So on their way they speed with joyous shouts.

Along the waters slip the well-tarred keels;
The waves with wonder gaze, and from afar
The woods, unused to such a sight, admire
Upon the stream the heroes' glittering shields
And painted vessels. Night and day their oars
They ply, pass the long bending river's curves;
And through green shades of overhanging trees
They pierce, along the tranquil waters borne.
The fiery sun had reached his noonday height,
When from afar they see a citadel,

And walls, and scattered houses here and there;
Which now Rome matches with the skies, but then
Evander's small and humble town. Then swift
They turn their prows, and near the city's walls.
VIRGIL.

Tr. C. P. Cranch.

THE RIVER TIBER

TIBER is beautiful, too, and the orchard slopes, and the Anio

Falling, falling, yet, to the ancient lyrical cadence;

Tiber and Anio's tide; and cool from Lucretilis

ever,

With the Digentian stream, and with the Bandusian fountain,

Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and villa of Horace:

So not seeing I sung; so seeing and listening

say I,

Here, as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at the cell of the Sibyl,

Here with Albunea's home and the grove of Tiburnus beside me;

Tivoli beautiful is, and musical, O Teverone,

Dashing from mountain to plain, thy parted impetuous waters!

Tivoli's waters and rocks; and fair under Monte Gennaro

(Haunt even yet, I must think, as I wander and gaze, of the shadows,

Faded and pale, yet immortal, of Faunus, the Nymphs, and the Graces),

Fair in itself, and yet fairer with human completing creations,

Folded in Sabine recesses the valley and villa of Horace:

So not seeing I sung; so now, nor seeing nor hear

ing,

Neither by waterfall lulled, nor folded in sylvan embraces,

Neither by cell of the Sibyl, nor stepping the Monte Gennaro,

Seated on Anio's bank, nor sipping Bandusian waters,

But on Montorio's height, looking down on the tile-clad streets, the

Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes and

kitchen-gardens,

Which, by the grace of the Tiber, proclaim themselves Rome of the Romans.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.