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It was a sultry Júly day,
Strétched on the Alpine sward I lay;
There was no shelter, not a cloud
The sun's downdárting rays to shroud.
'Twas noon; 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
In 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
Shoúted their vivats long and loud;
For his thoughts were of self and Rome,
Greatness and power and fame to come,
Míne of the warm sun, mountain air,
And náture lovely every where.
While walking from PEUDELSTEIN in the valley of AMPEZZO, to AMPEZZO, July 23, 1854.
UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF SIGNOR ANGELO
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
THEY lived through every change of wind and weather
Sixty four years, a loving pair, together;
Thén, 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.
PRIMIERO in the Italian TYROL, July 29, 1854.
“HOW háppens 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:
“Nó 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,
THERE áre 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 Náture, 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 Ímpotence with drunken glistening eye,
And Ídiotey, 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,
To the same import all, and all almost
În 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
of 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,
“So yoúng! so fair! so kind! so true!
Gó, Death, she is no bride for you;
Úgly, rapácious, cruel, old,
With heárt 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 wríte, Sir.”
“What, Lady, shall I write ?”
“The first thought in your head comes
That 's beautiful and bright.'
“Nay, náy; I vow I cannot,
I cannot one word write,
I 'm dázzled by those eyes so,
The beautiful and bright.”
FIORIO SKETCHED THE LIKENESSES OF HER FRIENDS.
These of my friends are sketches
Which dón't pretend to art;
I háve their perfect portraits,
But they 're locked up in my heart.
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.
San Giacomo, near Riva on the LAGO DI GARDA, Aug. 25, 1854.