And the dial's lazy shadow hovered nigh the brink of noon. On the benches in the market, rows of languid idlers lay, When to Pisa's nodding belfry, with a friend, I took my way. From the top we looked around us, and as far as eye might strain, Saw no sign of life or motion in the town, or on the plain, Hardly seemed the river moving, through the willows to the main; Nor was any noise disturbing Pisa from her drowsy hour, Save the doves that fluttered 'neath us, in and out and round the tower. Not a shout from gladsome children, or the clatter of a wheel, Nor the spinner of the suburb, winding his discordant reel, Nor the stroke upon the pavement of a hoof or of a heel. Even the slumberers, in the churchyard of the Campo Santo seemed Scarce more quiet than the living world that underneath us dreamed. Dozing at the city's portal, heedless guard the sentry kept, More than oriental dulness o'er the sunny farms had crept, Near the walls the ducal herdsman by the dusty roadside slept; While his camels, resting round him, half alarmed the sullen ox, Seeing those Arabian monsters pasturing with Etruria's flocks. Then it was, like one who wandered, lately, singing by the Rhine, Strains perchance to maiden's hearing sweeter than this verse of mine, That we bade Imagination lift us on her wing divine. And the days of Pisa's greatness rose from the sepulchral past, When a thousand conquering galleys bore her standard at the mast. Memory for a moment crowned her sovereign mistress of the seas, When she braved, upon the billows, Venice and the Genoese, Daring to deride the Pontiff, though he shook his angry keys. THOMAS W. PARSONS. self the joyful day, 231 When her admirals triumphant, riding | Pisa's patron saint hath hallowed to himo'er the Soldan's waves, Brought from Calvary's holy mountain fitting soil for knightly graves. Never on the thronged Rialto showed the Carnival more gay. Suddenly the bell beneath us broke the vision with its chime; "Signors," quoth our gray attendant, "it is almost vesper time"; Vulgar life resumed its empire, -down we dropt from the sublime. Here and there a friar passed us, as we paced the silent streets, And a cardinal's rumbling carriage roused the sleepers from the seats. The lips, as Cuma's cavern close, The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe, Which, through the wavering days of sin, Keep itself icy-chaste and clear. Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once, forlorn he strayed, With no companion save his book, To Corvo's hushed monastic shade: Where, as the Benedictine laid His palm upon the pilgrim-guest, The single boon for which he prayed The convent's charity was rest. "True!" answered Sleep, "but all the The moist winds breathe of crispód while Thine office is berated, "T is only by the vile and weak That thou art feared and hated. "And though thy work on earth has given To all a shade of sadness; Consider every saint in heaven Remembers thee with gladness!" SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. [U. S. A.] A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary In the soft light of an autumnal day, When Summer gathers up her robes of glory, And like a dream of beauty glides away. How through each loved, familiar path she lingers, Serenely smiling through the golden mist, leaves and flowers His shout and whistle broke the air, As cheerily he plied His garden-spade, or drove his share Along the hillock's side. He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot, His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, His fangs, with dying howl; And, with its moaning cry, Humble the lot, yet his the race, To fight, to bleed, -to die! CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH. [U. S. A.] STANZAS. THOUGHT is deeper than all speech, We are spirits clad in veils; Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen. Heart to heart was never known, Mind with mind did never meet; |