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IT wás a sultry Júly day,
Stretched on the Alpine sward I lay;
There was no shelter, not a cloud
The sún’s downdárting rays to shroud.

'Twas noón; no breath, no stir, no sound
Distúrbed the spacious landscape round;
No bírd, no grasshopper, no fly
Ventured beneath the flaring sky.

And there upon the grass I lay
În the full sún that sultry day,
The heat, the air, the clear, blue sky
Ánd my own thoughts my company.

And so the livelong summer day
High on the mountain's breast I lay,
Háppier than César when Rome's crowd
Shouted their vivats long and loud;

For hís thoughts were of self and Rome,
Greátness and power and fame to come,
Mine of the warm sun, mountain air,

And nature lovely every where.
While walking from PEUDELSTEIN in the valley of AMPEZZO, to Ampezzo,
July 23, 1854.

WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT

OF SIGNOR ANGELO

MICHELE

NEGRELLI AND ELISABETHA NEGRELLI OF PRIMIERO WHO AFTER HAVING

BEEN SIXTY FOUR YEARS MARRIED, AND HAVING EACH ATTAINED NEARLY THE AGE OF NINETY, DIED IN THE YEAR 1849 WITHIN THREE DAYS OF

EACH OTHER.

THEY lived through every change of wind and weather
Sixty four years, a loving pair, together;
Then, within three days of each other, died
Ere either missed the other from the side.
Thrice háppy, happy, pair! to the last breath
United, and not parted even by death.

PRIMIEBO in the Italian TYROL, July 29, 1854.

“How happens it that no one with his lot
Contented lives ?” Horace once asked Mecenas;
Í, for Mecenas answered not, will answer,
Meáning no harm to Horace or Mecenas:
“No one contented with his own lot lives,
Becaúse each one his neighbour's lot thinks better,
And each one bétter thinks his neighbour's lot
And worse his own, because each one the goods
Sees of his neighbour's lot, feels not the pains;
Whilst of his own lot each one feels the pains
And, blind as any bat, sees not the goods.”

PRIMIERO in the Italian TYROL, July 30,

1854.

THE GATES OF SLEEP.

There are two gates of Sleep, the poet says;
Of pólished ivory one, of horn the other;
But I, besides these gates, to blessed Sleep
Three other gates have found which thus I count:
First the star-spangled arch of deep midnight,
When lábor ceases, every sound is hushed,
And Nature, drowsy, nods upon her throne.
Pále-visaged Spectres round this gate keep watch,
And Fears and Horrors vain, and beyond these
Rést, balmy Sweat, and dim Forgetfulness,
Relieved, at dawn of day, by buoyant Hope,
Fresh Strength and ruddy Health and calm Composure
And daring Enterprize and Selfreliance.

The second gate is wreathed, sideposts and lintel,
With ódorous trailing hop, and poppystalks ;
The shadowy gateway paved with poppyheads.
And there, all day and night, keeps watch sick Fancy
Hággard and trémbling, and delirium wild,
And Impotence with drunken glistening eye,
And Ídiotcy, and, in the background, Death.

The third gate is of lead, and there sits ever
Húmming her tedious tune Monotony,
Tired of herself; about her on the ground
Sermons and psalms and hymns lie numerous strewed,

Tó the same import all, and all almost
In the same words varied in form and order
To cheát, if possible, the weary sense,
And different seem, where difference is none.
At th' opposite doorpost, on her knees, Routine
Keeps túrning over still the well-thumbed leaves
Óf the same prayerbook; reading prayers, not praying;
Behind them waiting stand Conformity
And Úniformity, Oneness of faith,
Oneness of laws and customs, arts and manners,
And, Sélfdevelopment's unrelenting foe,
Centralisation; and behind these still,
Fár in the portal's deepest gloom ensconced,
A pérfect, unimprovable Paradise
Of mére, blank nought unchangeable for ever-
Thése as I count them are the Gates of Sleep.

PRIMIERO, in the Italian TYROL, July 30, 1854.

DEATH'S BRIDE.

“So young! so fair! so kind! so true!
Gó, Death, she is no bride for you;
Úgly, rapácious, cruel, old,
With heart as marble hard and cold,
Gó, seek elsewhere more fitting bride.”
But hé, with arms extended wide,
“Cóme!" in a voice terrific cried,
And clásped her waist; I swooned away
And when I woke, there Emma lay
Stiff, stark, and cold, in nuptial white,
Death's bride upon her bridal night.

Walking from PRIMIERO to CASTEL DELLA BETTOLA, on the SCHENNER (Italian TYROL), Aug. 1, 1854.

WRITTEN IN LA BARONESSA SOFIA FIORIO'S ALBUM. SAN GIACOMO, NEAR RIVA ON THE LAGO DI GARDA, AUG. 25, 1854. “COME, something for me write, Sir.

.”
“What, Lady, shall I write ?"
“The first thought in your head comes

That 's beautiful and bright.”

“Nay, náy; I vow I cảnnot,

I cannot one word write,
I 'm dázzled by those eyes so,

The beautiful and bright.”

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE

ALBUM IN WHICH LA BARONESSA KITTY

FIORIO SKETCHED THE LIKENESSES OF HER FRIENDS.

Thése of my friends are sketches

Which don't pretend to art;
I háve their perfect portraits,
But they 're locked up in my heart.

KITTY FIORIO.

WRITTEN UNDER THE PRECEDING.

I always knew my sister

Was an adept in her art,
But I never until now knew

She had a hollow heart.

SOFIA FIORIO.

San Giacomo, near Riva on the Lago di GARDA, Aug. 25, 1854.

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