Not for their native land, for wife or child,
But for a stranger lord-who cannot say
With dying breath, "My country! I restore
The life thou givest, and gladly die—for thee!"

GIACOMO LEOPARDI.

Tr. Ancn.

MIGNON

DOST know the land of lemon-flowers,
Of dusky gold-flecked orange bowers?
The breath of the azure sky scarce heaves
The myrtle and high laurel leaves.

Dost know it well?

Oh there, 'tis there

Together, dear one, we must fare.

Dost know the house? the gleaming walls
The pillared roof, the brilliant halls?

Grave statues stand and look at me:

"What have they done, poor child, to thee?” Dost know it well?

Oh there, 'tis there

My dear protector, we must fare.

Dost know the peak and its path in the gray?
The mule in the mist is seeking his way,

The dragon-folk dwell in the ancient lair,

The stream crashes over the boulder there.

Dost know it well?

Oh there, 'tis there

Our path leads; Father, let us fare!

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE.

Tr. Robert Haven Schauffler.

ITALY

(From "A Litany of Nations.")

I AM she that was the light of thee enkindled
When Greece grew dim;

She whose life grew up with man's free life, and
dwindled

With wane of him.

She that once by sword and once by word imperial
Struck bright thy gloom;

And a third time, casting off these years funereal,
Shall burst thy tomb.

By that bond 'twixt thee and me whereat af-
frighted

Thy tyrants fear us;

By that hope and this remembrance reunited;

(Cho.) O mother, hear us.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBurne.

"ITALIA, IO TI SALUTO!"

To come back from the sweet South, to the North
To where I was born, bred, look to die;
Come back to do my day's work in its day,
Play out my play-

Amen, amen, say I.

To see no more the country half my own,
Nor hear the half familiar speech,
Amen I say; I turn to that bleak North
Whence I came forth-

The South lies out of reach.

But when our swallows fly back to the South,
To the sweet South, to the sweet South,
The tears may come again into my eyes
On the old wise,

And the sweet name to my mouth.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

THE DAISY

O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine
In lands of palm and southern pine,-
In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.

What Roman strength Turbìa showed
In ruin, by the mountain road;

How like a gem, beneath, the city
Of little Monaco, basking, glowed.

How richly down the rocky dell
The torrent vineyard streaming fell

To meet the sun and sunny waters,
That only heaved with a summer swell.

What slender campanili grew

By bays, the peacock's neck in hue;

Where, here and there, on sandy beaches

A milky-belled amaryllis blew.

How young Columbus seemed to rove,
Yet present in his natal grove,

Now watching high on mountain cornice, And steering, now, from a purple cove,

Now pacing mute by ocean's rim
Till, in a narrow street and dim,

I stayed the wheels at Cogoletto,
And drank, and loyally drank to him.

Nor knew we well what pleased us most,
Not the clipt palm of which they boast;
But distant colour, happy hamlet,
A mouldered citadel on the coast,

Or tower, or high hill-convent, seen
A light amid its olives green;

Or olive-hoary cape in ocean;
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,

Where oleanders flushed the bed
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread;
And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten
Of ice, far up on a mountain head.

We loved that hall, though white and cold, Those nichéd shapes of noble mould,

A princely people's awful princes, The grave, severe Genovese of old.

At Florence, too, what golden hours
In those long galleries were ours;

What drives about the fresh Cascinè,
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers.

In bright vignettes, and each complete,
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet,

Or palace, how the city glittered,
Through cypress avenues, at our feet.

But when we crost the Lombard plain
Remember what a plague of rain;

Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma;
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain.