My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

Some might lament that I were cold,
As I when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soou grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;

They might lament, - for I am one

Whom men love not,

- and yet regret,

Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,

Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. Percy Bysshe Shelley.

I

VIRGIL'S TOMB.

CAME, great bard, to gaze upon thy shrine, And o'er thy relics wait the inspiring Nine: For sure, I said, where Maro's ashes sleep, The weeping Muses must their vigils keep: Still o'er their favorite's monument they mourn, And with poetic trophies grace his urn: Have placed the shield and martial trumpet here; The shepherd's pipe, and rural honors there Fancy had decked the consecrated ground, And scattered never-fading roses round. And now my bold romantic thought aspires To hear the echo of celestial lyres;

Then catch some sound to bear delighted home, And boast I learnt the verse at Virgil's tomb ; Or stretched beneath thy myrtle's fragrant shade,

With dreams ecstatic hovering o'er my head,

See forms august, and laurelled ghosts ascend,
And with thyself, perhaps, the long procession end.
I came,
- but soon the phantoms disappeared;
Far other scenes than wanton Hope had reared;
No faery rites, no funeral pomp I found;
No trophied walls with wreaths of laurel round :
A mean unhonored ruin faintly showed
The spot where once thy mausoleum stood:
Hardly the form remained; a nodding dome
O'ergrown with moss is now all Virgil's tomb.

Anonymous.

'T

THE TOMB OF SANNAZZARO.

IS Sannazzaro's tomb! Good shepherds, pause
In veneration! rare shall ye behold

Such splendid honors light on mortal mold!

The sculptured myrtle, sacred laurel, draws
To the great votary of Phobean laws

The charmed remembrance! On the marble scrolled
Foliage and fruits intwine in graceful fold:
And central, as a goddess, Naples awes.
On one side nets, extended on the sand,
And in the distance a small bark, appear:
Flutes on the other, and a sylvan band.
Nymphs of the groves, and of the waters clear,
A name to fill, like his, the sea and land
Hath Rome or Athens wafted to your ear?

Benedetto Menzini. Tr. Capel Lofft.

NAPLES.

THIS

Not a grove,

HIS region, surely, is not of the earth. Was it not dropt from heaven? Citron or pine or cedar, not a grot Sea-worn and mantled with the gadding vine, But breathes enchantment. Not a cliff but flings On the clear wave some image of delight, Some cabin-roof glowing with crimson flowers, Some ruined temple or fallen monument, To muse on as the bark is gliding by.

And be it mine to muse there, mine to glide, From daybreak, when the mountain pales his fire Yet more and more, and from the mountain-top, Till then invisible, a smoke ascends,

Solemn and slow, as erst from Ararat,

When he, the Patriarch, who escaped the Flood,
Was with his household sacrificing there,
From daybreak to that hour, the last and best,
When, one by one, the fishing-boats come forth,
Each with its glimmering lantern at the prow,
And, when the nets are thrown, the evening hymn
Steals o'er the trembling waters.

Samuel Rogers.

THE

THE KING OF ARRAGON.

HE King of Arragon looked down From Campo Veijo, where he stood, And he beheld the Sea of Spain,

Both the ebb-tide and the flood.

He saw the galleys and the ships,
How some set sail and others enter;
Some were sailing on a cruise,

And others on a merchant's venture.

Some were sailing to Lombardy,

And some to Flanders, far away,
And, O, how bright were the ships of war,
With swelling sails and streamers gay!

He saw the city that spread below, -
Royal Naples, that noble town!
And the three castles, how they stood,
On the great city looking down:

The new castle and the Capuan,
And St. Elmo, far the best,
Like the sun at the noonday,

It shone so bright above the rest.

The king stood silent for a while,

He gazed and wept at his own thought

--

"O Naples, thou 'rt a princely purchase,
But thou hast been dearly bought!

"Many brave and loyal captains
You had cost, e'er you were won,
Besides a dear and valiant brother,

Whom I grieved for like a son,

-

"Knights and gallant gentlemen,
Whose like I ne'er shall see again;
Of soldiers and of other subjects,
Many, many thousands slain.

"Two-and-twenty years you cost me,
The best of my life that are passed away;
For here this beard began to grow,

And here it has been turned to gray."
Spanish Ballad. Tr. John Hookham Frere.

STILL

NAPLES.

A SONG OF THE SIREN.

is the Siren warbling on thy shore,

Bright city of the waves! Her magic song
Still, with a dreamy sense of ecstasy,

Fills thy soft summer air: and while my glance
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay
Floats thus o'er fancy's ear; and thus to thee,
Daughter of sunshine! doth the Siren sing.