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“ Before the duomo shuts ; go in, “ And wait till Tenebræ begin ; “ Walk to the third confessional, “ Between the pillar and the wall, “ And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace ? “ Say it a second time, then cease; “ And if the voice inside returns, “ From Christ and Freedom; what concerns “ The cause of Peace ?—for answer, slip “ My letter where you placed your lip; “ Then come back happy we have done “ Our mother service-I, the son, “ As you the daughter of our land!”
Three mornings more, she took her stand
She followed down to the sea-shore;
How very long since I have thought Concerning-much less wished for-aught Beside the good of Italy, For which I live and mean to die ! I never was in love; and since Charles proved false, what shall now convince My inmost heart I have a friend ? However, if I pleased to spend Real wishes on myself-say, threeI know at least what one should be. I would grasp Metternich until I felt his red wet throat distil In blood thro' these two hands. And next, -Nor much for that am I perplexedCharles, perjured traitor, for his part, Should die slow of a broken heart Under his new employers. Last -Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast Do I grow old and out of strength. If I resolved to seek at length My father's house again, how scared They all would look, and unprepared ! My brothers live in Austria's pay --Disowned me long ago, men say ; And all my early mates who used To praise me so-perhaps induced More than one early step of mineAre turning wise : while some opine “ Freedom grows license,” some suspect “ Haste breeds delay," and recollect They always said, such premature Beginnings never could endure ! So, with a sullen “ All 's for best,"
The land seems settling to its rest.
So much for idle wishing-how
THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY.
PIANO DI SORRENTO.
FORTÙ, Fortù, my beloved one, sit here by my side,
tried, I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open
your eyes, Let me keep you amused, till he vanish in black from
the skies, With telling my memories over, as you tell your beads; All the Plain saw me gather, I garland—the flowers or
Time for rain ! for your long hot dry Autumn had net
worked with brown The white skin of each grape on the bunches, marked
like a quail's crown, Those creatures you make such account of, whose heads,
-specked with white Over brown like a great spider's back, as I told you last
night, Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe as could
Pomegranates were chapping and splitting in halves on
the tree. And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone, or in the
thick dust On the path, or straight out of the rock-side, wherever
could thrust Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower its yellow
face up, For the prize were great butterflies fighting, some five for
one cup. So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, what change was
in store, By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets which woke me
before I could open my shutter, made fast with a bough and a
stone, And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs, sole lattice
that 's known. Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, while,
busy beneath, Your priest and his brother tugged at them, the rain in
their teeth. And out upon all the flat house-roofs, where split figs lay
drying, The girls took the frails under cover : nor use seemed in
To get out the boats and go fishing, for, under the cliff, Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock. No
seeing our skiff Arrive about noon from Amalfi !-our fisher arrive, And pitch down his basket before us, all trembling
alive, With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit; you touch the
strange lumps, And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner of horns.
and of humps, Which only the fisher looks grave at, while round him like
imps, Cling screaming the children as naked and brown as his
shrimps ; Himself too as bare to the middle-you see round his
neck The string and its brass coin suspended, that saves him
from wreck. But to-day not a boat reached Salerno : so back, to a
man, Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards grape.
harvest began. In the vat, halfway up in our house-side, like blood the
juice spins, While your brother all bare-legged is dancing till breath
less he grins Dead-beaten in effort on effort to keep the grapes under, Since still, when he seems all but master, in pours the
fresh plunder From girls who keep coming and going with basket on
shoulder, And eyes shut against the rain's driving ; your girls that
are older, For under the hedges of aloe, and where, on its bed Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple lies pulpy