BEING WINTER WORK FOR A SUMMER FAIR. NEWPORT, R.I., AUGUST 27, 1869. BY C. T. B. CAMBRIDGE: PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. 1~869. ROMAN RHYMES. Essex Co. Library, Duplicate, RtOMAN RHYMES: BEING 4iilnt1 c 1'ror r for a Himn c gails NEWPORT, R.I., AUGUST 27, 1869. BY C. T. B; CAMBRIDGE: PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON. 1869. CONTE NTS. I. ROMIE DURING CARNIVAL (1866)........ 7 II. tROMAN RUINS.............. 16 III. THE BALL O ST. PTER'S........... 23 IV. STRETCHED VERSES............ 30 V. AN O'ER TRUE TALE.............34 VI. EVENING CHIlIES IN ROIE........... 37 SIR GEORGE BEAU-MONT'S PINE.. 40 To MOUNT MARIO............. 43 T. ROME DURING CARNIVAL (1866). (A FREE SKETCH BY A MAN FROM THE FREE STATES.) AND this is really Rome, as I've hearn tell of, But little thought ever to see and smell of! The place that all creation comes to visit,Is it? This is old Rome, - great Rome, the'tarnal city, The more's the pity! By golly! I'm glad I didn't bring along our Polly! And this is the great Carnival I've been to, And somewhat into As my poor powdered hat, and hair, too, Can testify and swear to! Ohl! I've been knocked'about from post to pillar Till I'm as white's a miller; 8 ROME DURING THE CARNIVAL. And my old mop of hailr, I vow, looks very Much like a wax-berry bush in January. This the great Carnival, I, ignoramus, Once fancied must be funny,'cause'twas famous. This really the Carnival,AVWhere folks that used to be respectable, Walking the streets at home, 7Jere, just because it's Rome, And every man and every woman Think they must be in Rome a Roman, Stand up eight mortal arternoons, Just like so many loons, Or like so many owls Filling the blessed air with hoots and howls, And worse than that with stuff they call Confetti! Tell that to our Betty! She knows a confit fioro a pill, I reckon, Or.else I'm much mistaken: I should admire To have you try her! You'd find a mess of fish grease in the fire! Well, there they stand, each one before his trough, Shooting the vile stuff off. ROME DURING THE CARNIVAL. 9 (Some on'em in their rigs Look almost like great pigs.) I've seen a countess stand there by the hour, And shovel down armfuls of dirty flourA thing ridiculous, not to say inhumanOn every little baby and old woman! I looked down on't fiom the top o' the house, Where a man looks no bigger than a mouse, And there, I own (not merely for a rhyme), The tout ensemble almost looked sublime. And when the troopers clanked along the street And made that lane, the thing was done so neat, They cleared the track so handsome, and much more so The little dog that yelped along the Corso; And when the little horses flew like lightning, And all the faster for a little frightening; And then, when they'd shot by, to see the track Turn instantaneously from brown to black, - It seemed up there a somewhat clean conclusion To such a day of dirt and of confusion. But here, a hundred feet above the people, Having for nearest neighbors roof and steeple, 10 ROME DURIN G THE CARNIVAL. Did there not come to me that hour a feeling Standing beneath my grand sky-parlor's ceiling,The blue Italian heaven looked never cleaner, The green of Monte Pincio never greener! Second Blast. P.S. - Since writing the foregoing ditty (Before the Carnival had ended quite), I have experienced a transcendent night In this eternal city: I was about to call it - not eternal, But by another word that ends in- fernal; For, sure, this side the dismal regions Where Satan marshals his discordant legions, - Short of that dismal dwelling Could scarce be matched the yelling, The screaming, and the shrieking, The howling and the squeaking, That long past midnight sounded, Confusion worse confounded. ROlME DURING THE CARNIVAL. 11 Noise and nonsense joined their powers Just to spoil four precious hours. I thought in fact that other place were preferable, For there at least the outcries would be referable Each to some definite emotion; But here no creature seemed to have a notion Of what he meant, except to make a racket, Banging night's ear-drum hard enough to crack it. H-Iogarth's enraged musician, Compared with me, was in a mild condition. Sometimes they'd all set up a general screaming, And then apparently deeming Monotonous noise might soothe some wretch's slumber, A certain (or uncertain) number Would start some quick, sharp cries, that, ever madder Flew up the invisible atmospheric ladder, Where eaclh one seemed to labor To overtop his neighbor; And all the while that stony-hearted tambourine Kept up its pound and jingle in between. A hundred donkeys, each Afflicted with a special influenza, 12 ROME DURING THE CARNIVAL. And his peculiar hee-haw, groan, and screech, I could have borne con summa patienza. To sleep, I was too crazy; To fling a water-pitcher out, too lazy: I was half-furious, And yet withal half-curious To know - was there a goal to this mad power? And should I live to see the final hour? Was my brain, or those rascals' lungs the strongest? And which of us, perhaps, would hold out longest? Towards two o'clock I fancied I detected Some giving out, and confidently expected The thing was coming to an end: next minute It seemed as they were just going to begin it. And then would come a sudden thunderation, Threatening to shake the house to its foundation. At last the smaller fry did seem to scatter, And only the big bulls keep up the clatter. A ray of hope was through my misery gleaming. The yelling thinned away to roaring, screaming; Then some kind neighbors (how the street should thank'em!) ROME DURING THE CARNIVAL. 13 With flute and fiddle made a move to flank'em. Then the dirt-carts, like an artillery rattle, Coming to clean the Corso, closed the battle; And when the last vile sounds had died away, How like a poultice, on the senses lay That blessed silence! More I cannot say! P P.S. Having recovered some fiom that night business, Though still affected with a certain dizziness, A kind of haziness, And general laziness,I own that evening'of the moccoletti Was very pretty, And that I should have liked to show to Betty, (Only she's dreadful'fraid of spermacetty!) To look along a mile of glittering alley, Straight up and down a sort of mountain valley, * Holmes. 14 ROME DURING THE CARNIVAL. And see, as daylight, and the horse-race, closes, Each slope burst out a blaze of fiery roses, And down below a fiery stream that flashes,Or fiery snake, I'll say, with some black gashes (That's when the lights went out, the fellows carried, Squelched by some blow that couldn't well be parried, Making a sort of parenthesis in the glory, As I do, in the middle of my story),As I was saying, it was a handsome go-off, Though not so handsome, quite, as some I knlow of; For instance, when the glorious Yankee nation Get up a 4th July illuminationStill it was handsome, that there's no denying, Although to cget to it was rayther trying: I had to rough it, And tough it, And oh! my poor cheek-bones got many a buffet From nosegays, mostly stalks, of moderate thickness, Jerked by bold urchins %with spasmodic quickness. But there's no rose without a thorn, I know it, And well my late experience goes to show it. He that plays jokes must not mind being joked at; He that pokes fun, no wonder if he's poked at: ROME DURING THE CARNIVAL. 15 This is a truth oft pressed on my conviction During the recent Carnival affliction. Didn't I wield my ten-foot cane-pole featly, And douse the glim of many a chap full neatly? And did I not, in an unlucky hour, Bow to superior (say inferior) power, When that bold man (whose name I have not learned yet, Because the cane-pole has not been returned yet) Caught at the rag below, (humiliation!) And dragged my pole down, and my reputation! Well, I am glad the Carnival is ended, And carnal sports are for a while suspended. Here for a while, too, I'll suspend my strictures, And go to see the ruins and the pictures. II. ROMAN RUINS. (DONE INTO WHAT JEAN PAUL CALLS " STRECK-VERSE," BY A PARTIALLY INFORMED YANKEE.) I SAID, you remember, when I finished that three-part Pontle (As our Southern sisters say) about the Carnival doin's in Rome, As how I was going to suspend for a while my moral stricters, And go to see the ruins and the picters. Well, I've been and seen some of the ruins, And I'll tell you my private opinion: them's somebody's doin's. I haven't said it outright, but I've often said so mentally; Them kind of things don't never come accidentally. ROMAN RUINS. 17 Some of the rubbish does, to be sure, look e'enamost like a part of Natur, It's been so kivered over and dressed up by old Alma Mater; But anybody can see, that ain't an impostor or an ignoramus, That men must have had a hand in it, and some that was pooty famous. In the town where I was raised there was a feller (I think his brains must have been considerably meller), If you showed him them fossil things they dig up in the strater, You couldn't beat it out of the head of that crater, They grew there by chance; and sometimes he was so oncivil, As jest to insinooate they was the work of the divil, Who went and put'em there to give poor mortal brains new trouble, And blow up a great geological bubble. - But, deary me! where was I? This Rome sets one's brain a spinnin', So I must e'en go back and begin again at the beginnin'. 2 18 ROMAN RUINS. Well, one fine morning I went to a place they call the Propergander (Propergoose! I reckon'twould puzzle our Amanda To tell what that word means), and hired a Carrotzy. (By jingo! I never heard the beat of this Eyetalian lingo!)'Twas rayther a dirty consarn, that carrotzy; The lining faded out and the framework summat squatsy. But I'm one of them folks as ain't very perticler, Provided they only can get into somethin' vehiclar. So we druv down through a long narrow alley: How I wish ybu could have been there, cousin Sallyr! To see the oranges, all golden-yeller, Peeping over the wall to tantalize a feller: Some pretend they're the bitter kind,-yes, no doubt, and sour, As the fox said of the grapes when they was out of his power! Anyhow they looked beautiful, and so did the roses And blossoms and bushes, and various kinds of pinks and posies. And, oh! if you could only have seen that cunnin' lizard That shot along the wall quicker'n you could say izzard. ROMAN RUINS. 19 They come out on the side o' the walls to get a sunning; But the moment they see anybody, they commence running. The little chaps don't stand much frightenin', And they go it like a streak of green lightnin'. Well, as I was a saying, we went down that long alley'Till we came to a place called the Baths of Carrycally. (That was the name, I think, as I heern'em tell it, But I'll be switched if I know how they spell it.) You go in through a great garden-walk among cabbages and roses, Lined with curus old stone faces, some without any noses. The old feller that owns the place let us in through the garden; He wears a snuff-colored coat, and in making a bargain they say is a hard'un. He's one of the Carrycallys, I believe, - one of the later branches; At any rate, he's got one of the most extrornary ranches, Richer than any, I guess, in the Mexican valley, Has this old grand-nephew of the original Carrycally. 20 ROMAN RUINS. He's got a blacksmith's shop in old gran'ther Carrycally's stables, And there, spread out on ever so many tables, He's got an assortment of broken legs, arms, and noses (Marble, of course); and he puts'em together as he supposes They was meant to go, and sometimes he hits it, And finds a piece that'll fit, and goes and fits it. But when he finds one that won't gee nor haw, He just throws it aside in the table-draw. I thought to myself, as I looked at'em all, I wonder What the old chap'd take for all that plunder; But I didn't dare ask him, for I've a fancy His price would seem extravagant to our Nancy. Well, he took us round among his excavations, to view'em, - Dickens's Golden Dustman's heap was nothing to'em. Seventy feet down we looked, and saw things'most superhuman - Sich as, a horse with a dragon's tail, carryin' a woman - A picter, I mean, on the floor of old Carrycaller, All painted out to the life, in spots of black and yeller. ROMAN RUINS. 21 It must have dated back e'enamost to the creation; The man said it come down from the Mosaic dispensation. Then we went over to a great square brick room they used to swim in;'Twas meant I s'pose for the men, there didn't seem to be any for the women. And close by was a round brick room, a large one, very, Where, when they was scrubbed and rigged, they could go in and make merry. And high up agin the wall they showed us the traces Of the gallery where the musical folks had their places. I couldn't help thinking, as I looked at the walls, that the brick work Was uncommonly, and I should say, unnecessarily thick work. And when I thought of all the hod-carrying and brickmaking, It actilly almost set my old bones to aching. I don't know what sort of a man that old Mr. Carrycally May or may not have been, but he don't seem to have set much vally 22 ROMAN RUINS. On bricks or bones, no, -nor on money nuther; For it must have cost a heap to get all this together. Well, I do hope he enjoyed it whilst he was living, All that splendid establishment, without any shadow of misgiving; For a brick nightmare of that size, on a man's conscience, I consider, Mlust, in the nature of things, have soon left his wife a widder. But I find my muse is running into melancholy reflections, And will resume another time in some pleasanter directions. III. THE BALL OF ST. PETER'S. THAT last poem of mine gave my friends so much pleasure, I'm tempted to try another in a similar measure: I refer to the one I wrote on the Baths of Carrycally, In which I got in about all the rhymes I could rally; — For rhymes, as old Hudibras says, the rudders are of verses, By which, like ships at sea, they steer their courses. (In making this rhyme tho,'.I've a notion, His rudder got damaged some by the stress of the ocean. Perhaps he'd have steered his course a little neater, If he hadn't been pent up in such an uncommon short metre.) 24 THE BALL OF ST. PETER S. Well, to return from this somewhat lengthy digression, A sort of thing for which I have an extraordinary prepossession (A tendency, in fact, shared by two large classes, - Men of real genius, and those sometimes called asses), T'other morning I dumb up into the Ball of St. Peter, And should be glad to hammer that out into the same free-and-easy metre. The blue sky was a blue-bell that day, and a bright sun was shining, And the fleecy clouds all turned out to view their silver lining. Old Father March, you see, was the skyey shepherd, And, every now and then, to be sure, he peppered, With a big raindrop or two, the hat of a feller Who happened to venture out without an umbrella; But, generally speaking, it must be said in jestice, He was minding his work up in the Campagna Celestis; Tending his fleecy flocks, and driving'em hether and thether, Improving as much as he could the sunny weather, THE BALL OF ST.. PETER S. 25 And letting'em browse about on any light scud that was flying, So that at night they might keep the Milky Way from drying. So, the morning I speak of, I felt a strong temptation To look down on old Rome from an eminent sitivation, Not to speak of the pride felt by human creeturs In saying they've actilly been up into the Ball of St. Peter's. (I can't think what it is makes this such laborious rhyming, Except a sort of post-presentiment of the labor of that climbing.)?Well,'as we Yankees say, when we cough to clear our vision, And also by way of making a sort of general transit.ion(A mighty convenient word that " well," I've often found it, And a deep well, too,.sometimes, when you come to sound it: 26 THE BALL OF ST. PETER'S. I've heerd a feller say nothing but well less'n a hundred times in succession, And every time the word had a different expression)But, I declare, all the time I've been rhyming and rhyming, Our party has been climbing and climbing, Till we're up in that steep narrow stairway, -so twisty, Befere you get half-way your head feels misty; And I felt like a corkscrew working up into the throttle Of a somewhat considerably long inverted bottle. At last, we stood on the highest floor but one, glad we were there; And held a council to decide whether the women should go any further. Well, they concluded to stay, and let the lords of creation Carry out their claims to superior elevation. There was a perpendicular iron ladder, and we men clumb it; For we were determined to be as near as possible to the summit. TIlE BALL OF ST. PETER S. 27 We didn't expect to see much through the loop-holes of that airy; But the way the wind sung in that kittle-drum was what the natives call caviare, And we Yankees call a caution: it was (said an unbeliever) As if St. Peter's tympanum, or ear-drum, had got a nervous fever, And was all alive with a kind of prophetic humming, The terrible rumor and roar of a not very " good time cominr." Well ('tis the fourth time I've uttered this interjection), We came down, of course, in the opposite direction To that in which we'd gone up, stopping a spell to admire A landscape whicll, as the auctioneers say, " leaves nothing to desire." Only to-day there was one new feature interpolated in it, Which we unfortunately lost by about half a minute: 28 TIE BIALL OF ST. PETER'S. A young priest, whom, a moment before, we had seen engaged in conversation, Came rushing by us in a good-natured sort of consternation. (Imagine, in a similar case, what would have been my feeturs!) His hat had blown off of the top of St. Peter's! I felt for him then, though I was an unbeliever: If his hat could only have been felt; but it wa'n't, - it was beaver, And broad-brimmed at that; and the way it must have skooted Down through the air, was a sight with which our Ben would have been particularly suited. lWell, (No. 5!) I imagined every kind of fatality Attending that hat; but how it fared in reality,Whether the old black thing came down swooping Into a flock of sheep, and sent'em trooping; Or whether it lodged on a cypress, and sot there, Like a raven, till folks came round wondering how it got there; THE BALL OF ST. PETER'S. 29 Or whether it landed, so to speak, in the river, - Is more than I yet have been able to diskiver. There are various ways of ending a Poem: mine is,When I've said all I have to say, just to add FINIS! IV. STRETCHED VERSES.* WHENEVER you see a fellow driving in a tremendous hurry Tlhrough the streets of Rome, holding fast and fierce to his Murray, Red Murray,Well-read Murray,oYou may be sure he is either a native of Britain, Or a man from the States (he may be possibly) smitten With that extraordinary passion some people have for doin' Temple and tomb and church, and every sort of ruin. Up through the Corso you hear his carriage-wheels rattle, As if he were bound to be in at the death in some great battle. * A title borrowed from Jean Paul. STRETCHI ED VERSES. 31 Headlong he goes, as men go in the chase they call " steeple," At the imminent risk of running over modest people; Turning suddenly sharp corners, where the lanes are so narrow, You can hardly drive abreast one wheelbarrow, And jamming you up so close against the houses, You fear the hub of the wheel will scrape off your flesh or your trousers. On through the swarm of degenerate moderns he dashes, In his eagerness to get a view of the heroic dust and ashes. Then, when he reaches the spot, he languidly raises His gold-bowed glass to his eye and gazes, Crying, " D'yr me! what an extrornary nation!" But, hunger and fatigue having now overcome admiration, He jumps into his carriage, feeling as if a boulder Of pretty considerable size had been rolled off from his shoulder. 32 STRETCHED VERSES. For, like Caesar, when he sent that proud report to the Senate, "Veni, vidi, vici" (I've been and gone and done it), So when this man goes back to New York, the last hero, And tells'em he's seen the golden house of Nero; And the Baths of Caracally and, Titus and Domitian (Or Diocletian), and the house once inhabited by Titian, Or Trajan (or somebody else), and the tomb of Sicily Mettellar; And the arch of- (plague take it, what's the name of that feller?) Then, as when Dante walked the streets of Florence, The old women cried with a mixture of admiration and abhorrence, "There goes the man who's been down into Hades!" So when he goes through his native town, young ladies Will feel a similar reverence and rapture steal o'er'em, As they whisper,' There goes the man who's been in the Forum!" STRETCHED VERSES. 33 The above lines may seem to some to have been written quite at random, But in fact they're a regular specimen of the style that's called " tandem." Tandem means at length, when literally translated, And I have finished at length the task I contemplated. V. AN O'ER TRUE TALE. "ALL WHICH I SAW, AND PART OF WHICH I WAS." A LOVELY day hung over ancient Rome: Enrapt I stood, and said: "Methinks the spirits of the mighty dead On such a day might have revisited Their august home." But if they had, - ah me! It would have been to see Such deeds as ne'er were done When Vandal, Goth, and Hun, With fire and sword Down on the beauteous city poured; As might have tempted the unblushing sun, AN O'ER TRUE TALE. 35 For once with shame made red, To hide his awful head, Or hurry backward to his ocean-bed. I stood on holy ground, Within the Forum's bound, Where Brutus stood, who could no traitor brook, And Cicero the spell-bound Senate shook. But hist! around you marble slab What solemn conclave stands in close confab? With wonder and with awe One like a priest I saw. And lady fair, And man of law, were there. Why meet they on that temple floor, Temple of Concord named of yore! Will they survey and then restore the place In all its past magnificence and grace? Or will they haply on the sacred floor Libations to the goddess Silence pour? Oh, woe! it is a foul conspiracy As ever night did see! 36 AN O'ER TRUE TALE. I look again, and they are gone! Was it a dream that fooled my spell-bound eyes? Ah, no! dead stones have tongues that tell no lies. Behold! that broken stone, With its cracked lips, doth mutely speak, and say, In tones too awful for a modern lay: " Stealers of stone! profane Diggers in sacred dust! in vain Shall ye one day call rocks to cover you From Heaven's avenging view! Ye that climb up some other way, in vain The heaven of a peaceful mind would gain! Go, have the sacred marbles wrought (Which ye by stealth have brought Beneath your cloaks and other dresses Wherewith ye sought to cloke your wickednesses) Into the shape of hearts, fit types to be Of your own marble hearts eternally, Ye temple-thieves, whose crime No prose nor rhyme Is adequate to state,"Not mine at any rate. VI. EVENING CHIMES IN ROME. (HEARD FROM THE PINCIAN.) TIIE evening sun is sinkinog low Behind Mount Mario's graceful line; And darkly cuts the western glow That solitary pine. And here and there, alone the hill, I see some lonely cypress stand, Sombre and spectral, like a still Sentinel of the land,The holy land, where (the profane, Discordant present laid to sleep) The spirit of the past again Its vigils soon shall keep. 38 EVENING CHIMES IN ROME. See where, against the fading glow, Stands black and stark St. Peter's dome, While, in the valley far below, Twinkle the lights of Rome, - Twinkle as when, on summer nights, Here, on the Campus 31artius wide, The fire-flies flashed their fitful lights Along the Tiber's tide; While on the slopes and steeps around The moon on marble mansions'bealed, Or many a height, with temples crowned, In silvery starlight gleamed. What changes time and man have made! A noisy town this valley fills; In ruins long ago were laid The stately palace-hills. Thus roll the waves of human life; In crested pride they all sweep by: How soon is hushed their stormy strife! They swell and sink and die! EVENING CHIMES IN ROME. 39 Hark! on my musing, bodeful ear What strange, unearthly music swells! Does my entranced-spirit hear The chime of heavenly bells! Ah, yes! the requiem-bells are they, That knell o'er ages gone to rest, As vesper-tollings chant how day Dies in the fading west. To the calm land of spirits blest They call my restless heart to soar, Where break thy waves, O human breast! And die upon the shore. To that true " city of the soul," Whose walls and towers shall ne'er decay, Where man's long yearnings find their goal, All shadows flee away! SIR GEORGE BEAUMIONT'S PINE. [All day long, from my eyrie on the Corso, that lone pine on Mount Mario was the object to which I turned with the greatest interest. One day, I heard it had a history, besides its natural history. Years ago, there had stood a group of them on that hill,. - special favorites of Sir George. Once, on returning to Rome from an absence in England, he found that the proprietor had cut down all but one, and that the workmen were preparing to fell that. He jumped into his carriage, drove over, bought and saved that one. I have imagined his feelings, in the following parody of our" Woodman, spare that tree! "] VANDAL, spare that Pine! Touch not a single bough! This gold shall make it mine: No steel shall harm it now. By Nature's hand'twas set, To top this beauteous hill; That hand preserves it yet, And shall preserve it still! That Pine hath been to me For years a steadfast friend; SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT S PINE. 41 And shall I tamely see Thy axe its glories end? Bright Day would spend his gold To save that brave old tree! Its price cannot be told: Rash leveller, let it be. That old familiar tree, What rapture of delight The vision woke in me, At morning and at night! Reflecting morn's fresh beam, With mingled love and awe, And tinged with evening's gleam, Its dusky form I saw. In majesty and grace How long that tree hath stood, With trees of noble race, Old monarchs of the wood! Its brethren all are low, Felled by thy cruel hand! Spare, madman, this last blow, And let the old Pine stand! 42 SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT S PINE. That glorious old stone-pine, Last gem in Mario's crown, A king by right divine, And wouldst thou hack it down? Dearer than Peter's dome To evening's golden sky, Plume on the brow of Rome, It must not, shall not die! TO MOUNT MARIO. I BLESS thee, clear old 3Mario! Thee and thy solitary pine: In morning's flush and evening's glow How hast thou blest these eyes of mine! Here on my roof, in day's first beams, Thou greetest me from thy clear height, And in the sun's last lingering gleams Thou smilest me a mute good-night. I called thee old, dear Mario! For an old friend thou seem'st to me, As if it had been long ago My heart first fell in love with thee. Yet thou art young, my gentle hill, And ever wilt be young as now, 4 4 TO MOUNT MARIO. God's youth and beauty haunt thee still And shed their radiance on thy brow. Serene, majestic Mario! Entranced in evening's hush I stand, On the north wall of Pincio, And gaze across the lovely land, To where, along thy slopes and steeps, With dark trees fringed and gold light crowned, Niight's solemn shadow slowly creeps, While vesper chimes float murmuring round. Then, tender, graceful Mario With what admiring love I mark Thy waving outline's gentle flow Against the bright West pencilled dark It seems as if the glorious land This very moment had its birth, As if the great Creator's hand This very moment shaped the earth. As if, mysterious Matrio! From God's own pure and teeming soul TO MOUNT MARIO. 45 Thy line of beauty still did flow And in sweet undulations roll Onward and downward, gently down To fair Janiculum's lower height, Where Peter's dome, the city's crown, Dark rises on the glimmering night. Enchanting, lovely Mario! Thy charms were never limned nor sung In earthly lines nor tones, - for oh! No poet's pencil, pen, nor tongue, Could ever paint the joy they feel Who look on thee with loving eye, The raptures from thy breast that steal, Sweet neighbor of the loving sky. Hail and farewell, dear Mario! I bless the hand and bless the hour, That brought me here to feel the glow Enkindled by thy magic power! 46 TO MOUNT MARIO. Rise, holy hill, for ever rise Before my mind, when lost to sight, To lift my spirit to the skies And bathe my soul in beauty's light. THE END.