Untill he came unto the broken tree, And to the spring, that late devoured was. Himself smote with his beake, as in disdaine, VI. At last so faire a ladie did I spie, That thinking yet on her I burn and quake; Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake; A stinging serpent by the heele her caught; But bitter griefe and sorrowful annoy; Which make this life wretched and miserable, VII. When I beheld this tickle trustles state Of vaine worlde's glorie, flitting to and fro, Be vext with sights that doo her peace molest. And ye, faire ladie, in whose bounteous brest All heavenly grace and vertue shrined is, When ye these rymes doe read, and vow the rest, Loath this base world, and thinke of heaven's bliss; And though ye be the fairest of God's creatures, Yet thinke that Death shall spoyle your goodly features. Translation of EDMUND SPENSER. FRANCESCO PETRARCA, 1804–1574 THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME. Perhaps there is no more impressive scene on earth than the solitary extent of the Campagna of Rome under evening light. Let the reader imagine himself for a moment withdrawn from the sounds and motion of the living world, and sent forth alone into this wild and wasted plain. The earth yields and crumbles beneath his foot, tread he never so lightly, for its substance is white, hollow, and carious, like the dusty wreck of the bones of men. The long, knotted grass waves and tosses feebly in the evening wind, and the shadows of its motion shake feverishly along the banks of rivers that lift themselves to the sunlight. Hillocks of moldering earth heave around him, as if the dead beneath were struggling in their sleep; scattered blocks of black stone, four square, remnants of mighty edifices, not one left upon another, lie upon them to keep them down. A dull purple, poisonous haze stretches level along the desert, vailing its spectral wrecks of massy ruins, on whose rents the red light rests like dying fire on defiled altars. The blue ridge of the Alban mount lifts itself against a solemn space of green, clear, quiet sky. Watch-towers of dark clouds stand steadfastly along the promontories of the Apennines. From the plain to the mountains, the shattered aqueducts, pier beyond pier, melt into the darkness, like shadowy and countless troops of funeral mourners passing from a nation's grave. JOHN RUSKIN. MUTABILITY. From low to high doth dissolution climb, A musical but melancholy chime, Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, Its crown of weeds, but could not even sustain WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. AN interesting passage from Hesiod is given below. The extract is taken from the "Works and Days," a poem giving instructions regarding agriculture, trade, and labor, blended with precepts of a moral character; and, in addition to the extremely remote date of its origin, the passage is also remarkable as one of the few instances in which a poet of the old heathen world has entered into detail of description on natural subjects. Its authenticity is, I believe, admitted. "The picturesque description given by Hesiod of Winter bears all the evidences of great antiquity," says a learned German critic WINTER. FROM HESIOD. Beware the January month, beware Those hurtful days, that keenly piercing air, From courser-breeding Thrace comes rushing forth Heave, and earth bellows through her wild of woods. And strews with thick-branched pines the mountain dells The depth of forests rolls the roar of sound. The beasts their cowering tails with trembling fold, And shrink and shudder at the gusty cold; But that all-chilling breath shall pierce within. Translation of SIR C. A. ELTON. A WINTER SCENE. FROM THE SEASONS." The keener tempests rise; and fuming dun, A vapory deluge lies, to snow congeal'd. Heavy they roll their fleecy world along; And the sky saddens with the gathered storm. Through the hush'd air the whitening shower descends, At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the sky, Put on their winter robe of purest white. 'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts Along the mazy current. Low, the woods |