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Late August or early September, the stunning cicala

is shrill,

And the bees keep up their tiresome whine round

the resinous firs on the hill.

Enough of the seasons,

I spare you the months of

the fever and chill.

IX.

Ere opening your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin:

No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence

rattles in ;

You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never

a pin.

By and by there's the traveling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth;

Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.

At the post-office such a scene-picture- the new

play piping hot!

And a notice how only this morning, three liberal

thieves were shot.

Above it, behold the archbishop's most fatherly of

rebukes,

And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's!

Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so

Who is Dante, Boccacio, Petrarca, St. Jerome, and

Cicero,

"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of St. Paul has reached,

Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached."

Noon strikes, here sweeps the procession! our lady borne smiling and smart

With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart!

Bang, whang, whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle

the fife;

No keeping one's haunches still it's the greatest pleasure in life.

X.

But bless you, it's dear-it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.

They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate

It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city!

Beggars can scarcely be choosers-but still-ah, the pity, the pity!

Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals,

And the penitents dressed in white skirts, a-holding the yellow candles.

One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles,

And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the

better prevention of scandals.

Bang, whang, whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle

the fife.

Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleas

ure in life!

THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY.

[Piano di Sorrento.]

Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one,

Sit here by my side,

On my knees put up both little feet!

I was sure, if I tried,

I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco:

Now, open your eyes

Let me keep you amused till he vanish

In black from the skies,

With telling my memories over

As you tell your beads;

All the memories plucked at Sorrento

[blocks in formation]

Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn

Had net-worked with brown

The white skin of each grape on the bunches

Marked like a quail's crown,

Those creatures you make such account of,

Whose heads, specked with white

Over brown like a great spider's back,

As I told you last night,—

Your mother bites off for her supper;

Red-ripe as could be.

Pomegranates were chapping and splitting

In halves on the tree :

And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone,

Or in the thick dust

On the path, or straight out of the rock side, Wherever could thrust

Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower Its yellow face up,

For the prize were great butterflies fighting,

Some five for one cup.

So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning,

What change was in store,

By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets
Which woke me before

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