When, ages ago,

He heard and he knew this life's secret

I hear and I know.

Ah, see!

The sun breaks o'er Calvano;

He strikes the great gloom

And flutters it o'er the mount's summit

In airy gold fume.

All is over. Look out, see the gypsy,

Our tinker and smith,

Has arrived, set up bellows and forge,
And down-squatted forthwith

To his hammering, under the wall there;
One eye keeps aloof

The urchins that itch to be putting

His jews'-harps to proof,

While the other, through locks of curled wire, Is watching how sleek

Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall

Chew abbot's own cheek!

All is over. Wake up and come out now,

And down let us go,

And see the fine things got in order

At church for the show

Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening;
To-morrow's the Feast

Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means
Of Virgins the least,

As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse

Which (all nature, no art)

The Dominican brother, these three weeks,

Was getting by heart.

Not a pillar nor post but is dizened

With red and blue papers;

All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar

Ablaze with long tapers;

But the great masterpiece is the scaffold

Rigged glorious to hold

All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers

And trumpeters bold,

Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber,

Who, when the priest 's hoarse,

Will strike us up something that 's brisk
For the feast's second course.

And then will the flaxen-wigged Image
Be carried in

pomp

Through the Plain, while in gallant procession
The priests mean to stomp.

All round the glad church lie old bottles
With gunpowder stopped,

Which will be, when the Image re-enters,
Religiously popped;

And at night from the crest of Calvano
Great bonfires will hang,

On the Plain will the trumpets join chorus,
And more poppers bang.

At all events, come

As far as the wall;

to the garden

See me tap with a hoe on the plaster
Till out there shall fall

A scorpion with wide angry nippers!

"Such trifles!" you say ?

Fortù, in my England at home,
Men meet gravely to-day

And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws

Be righteous and wise

If 't were proper, Scirocco should vanish
In black from the skies!

I send

IN A GONDOLA.

He sings.

my heart up to thee, all my heart

In this my singing.

For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;

The very night is clinging

Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space

Above me, whence thy face

May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place.

She speaks.

Say after me, and try to say

My very words, as if each word
Came from you of your own accord,
In your own voice, in your own way:
"This woman's heart and soul and brain
Are mine as much as this gold chain
She bids me wear; which" (say again)
"I choose to make by cherishing
A precious thing, or choose to fling

Over the boat-side, ring by ring."

And yet once more say... no word more! Since words are only words. Give o'er!

Unless you call me, all the same,
Familiarly by my pet name,

Which if the Three should hear you call,
And me reply to, would proclaim
At once our secret to them all.

Ask of me, too, command me, blame —
Do, break down the partition-wall
"Twixt us, the daylight world beholds
Curtained in dusk and splendid folds!
What's left but all of me to take?
I am the Three's: prevent them, slake
Your thirst! "T is said, the Arab sage,
In practising with gems, can loose
Their subtle spirit in his cruce
And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,
Leave them my ashes when thy use
Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!

He sings.

I.

Past we glide, and past, and past!
What's that poor Agnese doing
Where they make the shutters fast?
Gray Zanobi's just a-wooing
To his couch the purchased bride:
Past we glide!

II.

Past we glide, and past, and past!
Why's the Pucci Palace flaring
Like a beacon to the blast?

Guests by hundreds, not one caring
If the dear host's neck were wried:
Past we glide!

She sings.

I.

The moth's kiss, first!

Kiss me as if you made believe

You were not sure, this eve,

How my face, your flower, had pursed
Its petals up; so, here and there
You brush it, till I grow aware

Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue,
To a feast of our tribe;

Where they need thee to bribe

The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe

Thy .. Scatter the vision forever! And now,

As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

Say again, what we are?

The sprite of a star,

II.

I lure thee above where the destinies bar

My plumes their full play

Till a ruddier ray

Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?

The land's lap or the water's breast?
To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,
Or swim in lucid shallows just
Eluding water-lily leaves,

An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust
To lock you, whom release he must;
Which life were best on Summer eves?

And now,

He speaks, musing.

Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?
From this shoulder let there spring

A wing; from this, another wing;
Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you!
Snow-white must they spring, to blend
With your flesh, but I intend
They shall deepen to the end,
Broader, into burning gold,

Till both wings crescent-wise enfold
Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet
To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet
As if a million sword-blades hurled
Defiance from you to the world!

Rescue me thou, the only real!

And scare away this mad ideal
That came, nor motions to depart!
Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!

Still he muses.

I.

What if the Three should catch at last
Thy serenader? While there's cast
Paul's cloak about my head, and fast
Gian pinions me, Himself has past
His stylet through my back; I reel;
And...
is it thou I feel?

II.

They trail me, these three godless knaves,
Past church that saints and saves,
every
Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves
By Lido's wet accursed graves,

They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,
And on thy breast I sink!

She replies, musing.

Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep,
As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,
Caught this y? Death's to fear from flame or steel,
Or poison doubtless; but from water-feel!

way

Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There! Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass