ARE WE ALMOST THERE? 237 ARE WE ALMOST THERE? RE we almost there are we almost there? Their forms so high 'gainst the heaven's blue dome?" Then she talked of her flowers, and thought of the well Where the cool water splashed o'er the large, white stone; And she thought it would soothe like a fairy spell, Could she drink from that fount when the fever crept on. While yet so young, and her bloom grew less, They had borne her away to a kindlier clime, For she would not tell 'twas only distress Which had gathered life's rose in its sweet spring-time. And she had looked where they bade her to look, At many a ruin and many a shrine At the sculptured niche, and the pictured nook, But in secret she sighed for a quiet spot, Where she oft had played in childhood's hour; Though shrub or floweret marked it not, 'Twas dearer to her than the gayest bower. And oft did she ask, "Are we almost there?" But her voice grew faint and her flushed cheek pale ; And they strove to soothe her with useless care, 238 THE VALE OF BAIAE. Then swiftly, more swiftly, they hurried her on ; But anxious hearts felt a chill despair; For when the light of that eye was gone, And the quick pulse stopped, she was almost there." ANON. THE BAY OF BAIAE. SES! I have gazed from high Misenum's steep, The shore, the classic shore, around me lay, Each vine-clad precipice, each silvery bay; Baiae's rent fanes, and Cumae's ruined towers; Green waved the copse, where lone Avernus slept ; Capri's steep rock, and Ischia's sloping height, Traced their dark outline in the vivid light, While o'er the scene's whole calm, yet bright repose, With softened terrors far Vesuvius rose. Each spot of haunted earth here breathed its tale, Of the rapt Sybil; of the fated sail That wafted to this strand the Phrygian throng; Of Scipio's exile, and of Virgil's song. Here, too, the purple masters of mankind, The gorgeous cares of empire, pleased, resigned, TO THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL ITALIAN GIRL. And sought beneath Campania's azure sky A charm the world's dominion could not buy ; For honour lost, or freedom cast away. LORD MORPETH. 239 TO THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL ITALIAN GIRL. ART thou some vision of the olden time, Some glowing type of beauty, faded long; Was it for thee that Tasso woke in vain The love-lorn plainings of his matchess lyre? Or art thou she for whom young Guido pined; The ray that flashed, in slumber, on his mind, No, no; a masquer in its gay attire, A breathing mockery of Ausonia's grace, With more than all their sweetness in thy face. 240 TO THE PORTRAIT OF A BEAUTIFUL ITALIAN GIRL. I see thee stand, in beauty's richest bloom, In youth's first budding spring, before me now, Tempering the brightness of thy jewelled brow. Thy dark hair clustering round thy pensive face, Thine eyelid gently drooping o'er an eye Whose chastened light bespeaks the soul within ; There stand for aye; defying time or care To make thee seem less beautiful than now! Nor grief indent that pure and polished brow. Whilst unto her from whom those lines had birth, And only know immortal bloom in heaven. ALARIC. A WATTS. DIED ABROAD. 241 JUNE. 7ELCOME bright June, and all its smiling hours, And buzz of happy bees in violet bowers; And gushing lay of the loud lark who sings And hum of many sounds making one voice, That fills the summer air with most melodious noise. CORNELIUS WEBBE. DIED ABROAD. EEP not, O friends, weep not that she has faded; Than to live on in a strange alien land, Perchance her loving heart, in that far dwelling, Drooped for the gentle sunshine of her home; |