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Real wishes on myself—say, three-
I 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 perplexed-
Charles, 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 mine-
Are 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.
I think then, I should wish to stand
This evening in that dear, lost land,
Over the sea the thousand miles,
And know if yet that woman smiles
With the calm smile ; some little farm
She lives in there, no doubt : what harm

If I sat on the door-side bench,
And while her spindle made a trench
Fantastically in the dust,
Inquired of all her fortunes—just.
Her children's ages and their names,
And what may be the husband's aims
For each of them. I'd talk this out,
And sit there, for an hour about,
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay
Mine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing—how It steals the time! To business now.

THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY.

PIANO DI SORRENTO.

FORTÙ, Fortù, my beloved one, sit here by my side,
On my knees put up both little feet! I was sure, if I

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

the weeds.

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

be, 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

trying 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

and red, All the young ones are kneeling and filling their laps with

the snails Tempted out by this first rainy weather,—your best of

regales,

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