A TALE OF VILLAFRANCA. TOLD IN TUSCANY. My little son, my Florentine, A great man (who was crowned one day) He shaped it out of cloud and clay, He touched it finely till the seed Possessed the flower: from heart and brain He fed it with large thoughts humane, To help a people's need. He brought it out into the sun— O generous Deed, heroic Deed, Deliver by God's grace !" Then sovereigns, statesmen, north and south, "What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? Absurd, or insincere." "And if sincere, the heavier blow In that case we shall bear, For where 's our blessed 'status quo,' And civilize despair?" Some muttered that the great Deed meant A great pretext to sin; And others, the pretext, so lent, Was heinous (to begin). Volcanic terms of "great" and “just?” Admit such tongues of flame, the crust A great Deed in this world of ours? It threatens plainly the great Powers; A just Deed in the world?-call out The national defences ! And many murmured, "From this source All cursed the Doer for an evil Some said, it could not be explained, And all cried, "Crush it, maim it, gag it! But HE stood sad before the sun, The tale is ended, child of mine, And yet I 've marked as blue a pair Ah, child! ah, child! I cannot say In this low world, where great Deeds die, A VIEW ACROSS THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. 1861. OVER the dumb Campagna-sea, Out in the offing through mist and rain, Saint Peter's Church heaves silently Like a mighty ship in pain, Facing the tempest with struggle and strain. Motionless waifs of ruined towers, Soundless breakers of desolate land: 252 A VIEW ACROSS THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. The sullen surf of the mist devours That mountain-range upon either hand, And over the dumb Campagna-sea Where the ship of the Church heaves on to wreck, The Christ walks. Ay, but Peter's neck Peter, Peter, if such be thy name, Now leave the ship for another to steer, Come forth, tread out through the dark and drear, Peter, Peter! He does not speak ; He is not as rash as in old Galilee : Safer a ship, though it toss and leak, And he 's got to be round in the girth, thinks he. Peter, Peter! He does not stir; His nets are heavy with silver fish ; He reckons his gains, and is keen to infer "The broil on the shore, if the Lord should wish; But the sturgeon goes to the Cæsar's dish." Peter, Peter! thou fisher of men, Fisher of fish wouldst thou live instead? At the triple crow of the Gallic cock Thou weep'st not, thou, though thine eyes be dazed. A COURT LADY. HER hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark, Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark. Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race; Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife, Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life. She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, "Bring That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the king. "Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the mote, Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the throat. “Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the sleeves, Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the eaves." Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathered her up in a flame, While, straight in her open carriage, she to the hospital came. In she went at the door, and gazing from end to end, "Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend." |