ASOLO

BROWNING AT ASOLO

THIS is the loggia Browning loved,

High on the flank of the friendly town;
These are the hills that his keen eye roved,
The green like a cataract leaping down
To the plain that his pen gave new renown.

There to the West what a range of blue!—
The very background Titian drew

To his peerless Loves. O tranquil scene!
Who than thy poet fondlier knew

The peaks and the shore and the lore between?

See! yonder's his Venice-the valiant Spire,
Highest one of the perfect three,
Guarding the others: the Palace choir,
The Temple flashing with opal fire—
Bubble and foam of the sunlit sea.

Yesterday he was part of it all-

Sat here, discerning cloud from snow
In the flush of the Alpine afterglow,

Or mused on the vineyard whose wine-stirred

row

Meets in a leafy bacchanal.

Listen a moment-how oft did he!

To the bells from Fontalto's distant tower

Leading the evening in

ah, me!

Here breathes the whole soul of Italy

As one rose breathes with the breath of the

bower.

Sighs were meant for an hour like this,

When joy is keen as a thrust of pain. Do you wonder the poet's heart would miss This touch of rapture in Nature's kiss, And dream of Asolo over again?

"Part of it yesterday," we moan?
Nay, he is part of it now, no fear.
What most we love we are that alone.
His body lies under the Minster stone,
But the love of the warm heart lingers here.
ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON.

FAREWELL TO ITALY

LINES ON LEAVING ITALY

ONCE more among the old gigantic hills
With vapours clouded o'er;

The vales of Lombardy grow dim behind,
The rocks ascend before.

They beckon me, the giants, from afar,

They wing my footsteps on;

Their helms of ice, their plumage of the pine,

Their cuirasses of stone.

My heart beats high, my breath comes freer forth,

Why should my heart be sore?

I hear the eagle's and the vulture's cry,

The nightingale's no more.

Where is the laurel, where the myrtle's blossom?

Bleak is the path around:

Where from the thicket comes the ringdove's coo

ing?

Hoarse is the torrent's sound.

Yet should I grieve, when from my loaded bosom

A weight appears to flow?

Methinks the Muses come to call me home
From yonder rocks of snow.

I know not how, but in yon land of roses
My heart was heavy still,

I startled at the warbling nightingale,
The zephyr on the hill.

They said the stars shone with a softer gleam,———

It seemed not so to me;

In vain a scene of beauty beamed around,

My thoughts were o'er the sea.

ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLAGER.

I LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy! no more
From the high terraces, at even-tide,
To look supine into thy depths of sky,
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses
Bordering the channel of the milky way.
Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico
Murmur to me but in the poet's song.

I did believe (what have I not believ'd?),
Weary with age, but unoppress'd by pain,
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day
And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade.
Hope! Hope! few ever cherish'd thee so little;
Few are the heads thou hast so rarely rais'd;
But thou didst promise this, and all was well.
For we were fond of thinking where to lie
When every pulse hath ceas'd, when the lone heart
Can lift no aspiration-reasoning

As if the sight were unimpair'd by death,
Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid,
And the sun cheer'd corruption! Over all
The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm,
And light us to our chamber at the grave.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDor.

FAREWELL TO ITALY

WE lingered at Domo d'Ossola-
Like a last, reluctant guest-
Where the gray-green tide of Italy
Flows up to a snowy crest.

The world from that Alpine shoulder
Yearns toward the Lombard plain-
The hearts that come, with rapture,
The hearts that go, with pain.