Aloft, here, half a village shines, arrayed
In golden light; half hides itself in shade:
While, from amid the darkened roofs, the spire,
Restlessly flashing, seems to mount like fire:
There, all unshaded, blazing forests throw
Rich golden verdure on the lake below.
Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore,
And steals into the shade the lazy oar;
Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs,
And amorous music on the water dies.

How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets Thy open beauties or thy lone retreats,— Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales Thy cliffs; the endless waters of thy vales; Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore, Each with its household boat beside the door; Thy torrent shooting from the clear-blue sky; Thy towns, that cleave, like swallows' nests, on

high;

That glimmer hoar in eve's last light, descried
Dim from the twilight water's shaggy side,
Whence lutes and voices down the enchanted woods
Steal, and compose the oar-forgotten floods;
Thy lake, that, streaked or dappled, blue or gray,
Mid smoking woods gleams hid from morning's

ray

Slow-travelling down the western hills, to enfold Its green-tinged margin in a blaze of gold;

Thy glittering steeples, whence the matin bell
Calls forth the woodman from his desert cell,
And quickens the blithe sound of oars that pass
Along the steaming lake, to early mass.
But now farewell to each and all, adieu
To every charm, and last and chief to you,
Ye lovely maidens that in noontide shade
Rest near your little plots of wheaten glade;
To all that binds the soul in powerless trance,
Lip-dewing song, and ringlet-tossing dance;
Where sparkling eyes and breaking smiles illume
The sylvan cabin's lute-enlivened gloom.
Alas! the very murmur of the streams

Breathes o'er the failing soul voluptuous dreams,
While slavery, forcing the sunk mind to dwell
On joys that might disgrace the captive's cell,
Her shameless timbrel shakes on Como's marge,
And lures from bay to bay the vocal barge.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

LAKE COMO

AROUND me rise the gray-green

olive trees,

The palm, the pine, the lemon and the fig;

A spray of honeysuckle scents the breeze

A-dangle from a slim acacia twig.

Bronze, green with moss, this Triton-fountain plays,

While red and orange fishes swim below;

Like blushing nymphs a-peep through misty

sprays,

I see the scarlet-robed geraniums glow.

Here gowned in pink, with copper-tinted cheek,
An ardent rose swings from a trailing vine,
And hanging yellow with a crimson streak,
A ripe, round peach is waiting to be mine.

Canary-coloured asters blaze and burn, Carnations in flame-coloured garbs are gowned; The clustered grapes to gold and purple turn, With honeyed nectars swelling ripe and round.

Along this wall the blue wistaria blows,

The green magnolia lifts her milk-white flowers; The poppy like a Cleopatra glows,

And trumpet-blossoms droop in scarlet showers.

Queen over all, the oleander blooms,

And scatters pink-white snows across the lawn; Her splendour glimmers through the verdant

glooms

As rosy and as radiant as the dawn.

Beyond, the lake is darkest, deepest green;
Its emerald surges toss with tiny boats;
Far-reaching over all the peaceful scene,
The shadow of a mighty mountain floats.

The terraced villas fleck the mountain side

With walls of buff and brown and ochre-red;
And over all the prospect far and wide
A saffron tower uplifts its slender head.

A monastery crowns a hazy height;

Luxuriant creepers cover half the stones; Above the creamy walls, in amber light,

The cypress rears its trim-sharp-pointed cones.

Far-off, in deepest, softest, dimmest blue,

The faint, faint mountains melt in mellow skies, As dreamy-sweet as one whose soul is true, When saying that she loves me with her eyes.

As night comes on, a cloud all rosy-red
Conceals the splendour of the silvery moon;
Then sunset's crocus petals all are shed,
And like a golden melon hangs the moon.

Across the lake, aglitter light on light,
Strung like a necklace, little cities gleam,
While harps and bugles through the fragrant
night,

Lure sleepless lovers to a land of dream.

Yet beauty such as this must end at last,
And so a tempest gathers in its might.

The thunders roll, trees shiver in the blast,

And angry lightnings pierce the shuddering night.

Sheet after sheet, the furious torrents fall,

Flame after flame, the swords of heaven flash. The locust boughs are snapped against the wall, The fisher-boats against the beaches dash.

Night, like a passion-mad Elizabeth,

Smites day, her Essex loved in bygone years, Then, horror-stricken at her darling's death, Pours on his grave a torrent of her tears. WALTER MALONE.

CADENABBIA

NO SOUND of wheels or hoof-beat breaks

The silence of the summer day,

As by the loveliest of all lakes
I while the idle hours away.

I pace the leafy colonnade

Where level branches of the plane Above me weave a roof of shade

Impervious to the sun and rain.