Obrázky na stránke

Sensual, till the intellect grows dim,
The red, swollen, bolster limbs break out in sores,
And the fat paunch, blue lip, and yellow eye
And sunken cheek and laboring chest announce
The crazy ship aground run, and no hope
In sail or rudder, more, or pilot's skill.
Last of the seidels, twelve of glass come then,
Glass-handled, without lid. In long array,
The larger beer-jugs follow, maases called,
Each maas two seidels, all of gray stone-ware,
With lids of pewter hinged on stone-ware handles;
Thirty they are in count. Three stone-ware jugs
With lids of pewter hinged on stone-ware handles,
And each enough large to contain three maases,
Hang from the last three pins, right hand the door,
O’ershadowing John the Baptist, and the rear
Of the long file round bringing to the front.
A shelf o'ertops the rack, and round the room
Runs with it high up, not far from the ceiling;
Seventy-seven pewter plates, on edge, its burthen,
And forty-five round, and four oval, dishes,
These delf, those pewter; five saltcellers then
Of delf, two pewter coffee-pots, and six
Fidibus-holders pewter, and

no more.

And here my faithful inventory ends,
Precise, as if I had been about to let
My chamber in the inn at Lamprechtshausen
To Meath's Lord Bishop - Stay, upon the floor
Two square, glass-bottled brandy gardevins,
Neither close locked nor empty - rarest sight
Of all rare sights for Anglo-Saxon eyes,
And not without much faith to be believed
By Anglo-Saxon ears - but let that pass

One stool, two wooden-bottomed chairs, two stuffed,
And on the end wall, opposite the door,
Above a chest of drawers a framed and glazed
Engrossed certificate that Johann Stadler
Of Lamprechtshausen 's an admitted member
Of the Society Agricultural,
Which for the public weal

not for its own,
Who ever heard of a society meeting
For other object than the public weal? -
Its meetings holds in Salzburg every Friday..
And so my task 's brought to an end, sweet reader;
How faithfully, judge for thyself, first time
Thou 'rt led by chance or fate or inclination,
To sleep in the same room I slept last night in,
In Johann Stadler's inn in Lamprechtshausen,
Well furnished temple of Gambrinus Divus,
And seldom without votaries, even or morn,
Or holiest sabbath afternoon, or when
Festival kirmes gathers to the dance
Young, old, and middle aged, the country round,
And harp and fiddle and Man's sweeter voice
Alternate rouse the slumbering ear of Night,
And once again on earth, there 's paradise.



OVER Port Vendre hangs the morning sun,
As from our humble cabaret in Salces,
We hold, along the bright, smooth road, our way
Southward toward Spain, and new sights and new sounds.
Already in the shade, Les Monts Alberes,
Rising before us slope upon the left,
Indent the sky with ever varying outline.
High on the right, before us, Canigou
With all his snowy tops stands glistening white
In the full rays. Alert our step and light,
Along the scarce two-foot-high, close-cropped hedge
Of Atriplex cerulean, overpeered
From the offside by feathery Tamarisk,

Not on mount Siņai here, nor dropping manna
Or Lycium europaeum's verdant twig,
Sufficient, though scant, shelter; for today
Sleeps in his ice-cold caves the Mistral king
Who, yesterday, upon our way to Salces,
So vexed us, and the Giant Reeds so bent
That border the clear well of Estramer.
Rivesaltes behind us left, and Estagel
Birthplace of Arago, mathematician,
But far too honest for good politician,
And in un honored grave forgotten rests

The Minister-at-War of the Republic;
That not Cayenne, that not some imitated
Second Helena, holds the patriot's ashes,
Thank thy Czar's clemency, imperial France!

bank invites us and we sit
Between, but not too near, two prickly leaved,
Shriveled, unsocial Scolym bushes stiff,
Under an Ilex' shadow, evergreen,
Less for the sake of rest than to count over
The florets of the nosegay in our hand
By Flora placed this Tuesday before Christmas
Of the year Sixty beyond Eighteen hundred.
Euphorbia segetalis she had wreathed
With rosemary and mint and olive branch
And budding almond and the full blown flower
Of golden-disked Chrysanthem coronarium
And purpling Salvia salutiferous,
Fragrant adornment of the roadside mound,
And green Cneorum's sulphur-yellow bloom
Tripetalous, tricoccous, from the brink
Of Estramer's warm-gushing, saline spring,
Plucked by the Goddess, as this morning early,
Hid by the Giant Reeds, she bathed unseen.
These with thyme odoriferous she had mingled
- Not the Serpyllum of the pale, cold North,
But glowing southern Europe's spicier thyme
And added here and there a button bright
And fresh green leaf of wholesome dandelion
Here nothing loath to breathe December's air.
Nor had she overlooked thee, Diplotaxis,
Spangling the vineyards like fair Lady’s-smock,
Nor thee or thy Vanilla-pod perfume,
Marine Alyssum white, nor, Xanthium, thee
Who into gold transmuted'st the gray hair

Of faded Grecian belle, and to their throne
Ledst fugitive Venus back, and grace and love;
Nor had she not set starlike in the midst
Three sprigs of pink Centaurea Calcitrap,

Chloroform faithless of the centaur surgeon's
Own wounded knee — with three sprigs of echioid
Helminthia yellow, intermixed, and three
Half opened blossoms of Provençal furze,
And to Agave given the whole to bind
A lovely nosegay! but we sought in vain
For leaf of that green Hellebore that so
Our roadsides had enlivened in the Alps
And down the Durance' waste and gravelly bed,
Or sprig of that sweet lavender which poured
An atmosphere Sabaean round the bleak,
Shingle-encumbered flanks of Mont Ventoux.
Asses, with empty paniers on their back,
And mules graze tethered in the ditch beside us;
Peasants in groups sit on the bank beyond
Dining, and mark with curious eye the strangers;
Some, still at work, salute us from the fields,
As, into basket or spread sheet, they gather,
And carry toward the ditch, the ripe, black olives,
Or lop the bare vine boughs and tie in bundles.
From shoot and leaf and root, avert, next year,
Th’ Oideum plague, 0 joy-bestowing Bacchus!
And thou, O Maid of Athens, to o'erflowing

the oil vat

Fill up

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]


Walking from SALCES to PERPIGNAN, Dec. 18, 1860.

« PredošláPokračovať »