Through cloud and wave and star his insight keen
Shone clear, and traced a god in each disguise,
Protean, boundless. Like the buskined scene
All nature rapt him into ecstasies:
In him, alas! had reverence equal been

With admiration, those resplendent eyes
Had wandered not through all her range sublime
To miss the one great marvel of all time.

The winds sang loud; from this Elysian nest
He rose, and trod yon spine of mountains bleak,
While stormy suns descending in the west

Stained as with blood yon promontory's beak.
That hour, responsive to his soul's unrest,
Carrara's marble summits, peak to peak,
Sent forth their thunders like the battle-cry
Of nations arming for the victory.

AUBREY DE VERE.

SAN TERENZO

SAN TERENZO

MID-APRIL seemed like some November day,
When through the glassy waters, dull as lead,
Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,
Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian bay,
Rounded a point, and San Terenzo lay
Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,
The roof that covered Shelley's homeless head,—
His house, a place deserted, bleak and grey.
The waves broke on the doorstep; fishermen
Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.
Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,
When suddenly the forest glades were stirred
With waving pinions, and a great sea bird
Flew forth, like Shelley's spirit, to the sea!

ANDREW LANG.

SAN GIMIGNANO

BELOW SAN GIMIGNANO

My city overmasters plain and hill,
With skyward turrets to the sun and storm.
Firm-set forever, but aspiring still,

It looms on high, an elemental form

Poised imminent aloft, superb and proud. Against the hard blue ether it is warm

With the dull tint of bronze; but when black

cloud

Rains down, and rims the farther hills with night,
It glimmers forth from out its murky shroud
Like a young beech-wood, tremulously white.
Nearby, it smiles with friendly sympathy,
Intimate, with the changing moods of light
Upon its towers, where jasmine dizzily

Clings in the weathered crannies of the stone. It drowses on in grey serenity

Within a wall by ivy overgrown;

The vines go rippling to the bastion-ledge,
And over it the olive-leaves are blown

Like hovering dust above the roadside sedge.
The gate stands wide to bid all welcome in;
Through it are seen wry-slanting roofs that edge
A broken line of sky, and walls wherein

Are carved escutcheons of a long-dead race. Familiar, yet mysterious, 'tis a place Worthy a life's endeavouring to win. But my path never led me to the gate.

Once only, I stood close beneath the wall And heard a voice within, singing, elate, Of life and love; I saw the shadow crawl Toward sunset, 'round the curving of the keep;

I saw the level sunlight strike and fall

Shimmering down along the western steep Of one gaunt tower above me, while the brown Upon its southern wall was covered deep In purple shadows. Then the sun went down. And I aroused myself to seek a way

Into the friendly silence of the town;

But wall and tower had vanished with the day,Down over all a phantom mist had drawn. All night I sought along the hill, astray O'er steeps, through thickets; till the flushing sky Lured my gaze up to where the city lay

Remote and beautiful against the dawn,

Serene and unattainable on high.

JOHN V. A. MAC MURRAY,

SIENA

SIENA

INSIDE this northern summer's fold
The fields are full of naked gold,
Broadcast from heaven on lands it loves;
The green veiled air is full of doves;
Soft leaves that sift the sunbeams let
Light on the small warm grasses wet,
Fall in short broken kisses sweet,
And break again like waves that beat
Round the sun's feet.

But I, for all this English mirth
Of golden-shod and dancing days,

And the old green-girt, sweet-hearted earth,
Desire what here no spell can raise.

Far hence, with holier heavens above,

The lovely city of my love

Bathes deep in the sun-satiate air

That flows round no fair thing more fair, Her beauty bare.

There the utter sky is holier, there

More pure the intense white height of air, More clear men's eyes that mine would meet, And the sweet springs of things more sweet.