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Looking up them, we could guess the green banks where the violets and anemones grew, and the clumps of myrtle that perfumed the sea-breeze. Broad and grand as was this view, it was far surpassed by the coast scenery to come. No sooner had we passed the pharos, and turned eastward along the southern shore of the island, than every sign of life and laborious industry ceased. The central mountain-wall, suddenly broken off as it reached the sea, presented a face of precipice a thousand feet high, not in a smooth escarpment, as on the northern side, but cut into pyramids and pinnacles of ever-changing form. Our necks ached with gazing at the far summits, piercing the keen blue deeps of air. In one place the vast gable of the mountain was hollowed into arches and grottoes, from the eaves of which depended fringes of stalactite; it resembled a Titanic cathedral in ruins. Above the orange and dove-colored facets of the cliff, the jagged topmost crest wore an ashen tint which no longer suggested the texture of rock. It seemed rather a soft, mealy substance, which one might crumble between the fingers. The critics of the realistic school would damn the painter who should represent this effect truly. Under these amazing crags, over a smooth, sunny sea, we sped along towards a point where the boatman said we should find the Green Grotto. It lies inside a short, projecting cape of the perpendicular shore, and our approach to it was denoted by a streak of emerald fire flashing along the shaded water at the base of the rocks. A few more strokes on the oars carried us under an arch twenty feet high, which opened into a rocky cove beyond. The water being shallow, the white bottom shone like silver; and the pure green hue of the waves, filled and flooded with the splendor of the sun, was thrown upon the interior facings of the rocks, making the cavern gleam like transparent glass. The dance of the waves, the reflex of the "netted sunbeams," threw ripples of shifting gold all over this green ground; and the walls and roof of the cavern, so magically illuminated, seemed to fluctuate in unison with the tide. It was a marvelous surprise, making truth of Undine and the Sirens, Proteus and the foam-born Aphrodite. The brightness of the day increased the illusion, and made the incredible beauty of the cavern all the more startling, because devoid of gloom and mystery. It was an idyl of the sea, born of the god-lore of Greece. To the light, lisping whisper of the waves,―the sound nearest to that of a kiss,—there was added a deep, dim, subdued undertone of the swell caught in lower arches beyond; and the commencement of that fine posthumous sonnet of Keats chimed thenceforward in my ears:

"It keeps eternal whisperings around

Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound."

After this, although the same enormous piles of rock overhung us, there were no new surprises. The sublimity and the beauty of this southern coast had reached their climax; and we turned from it to lean over the gunwale of the boat, and watch the purple growth of sponges through the heaving crystal, as we drew into the cove of the piccola marina. There Augusto was waiting our arrival, the old fisher was ready with a bench, and we took the upper side of Capri.

My pen lingers on the subject, yet it is time to leave. When the day of our departure came, I wished for a tramontana, that we might be detained until the morrow; but no, it was a mild sirocco, setting directly towards Sorrento, and Antonio had come over, although, this time, without any prediction of a fine day. At the last fatal and prosaic moment, when the joys that are over must be paid for, we found Don Michele and Manfred as honest as they had been kind and attentive. Would we not come back some time? asked the Don. Certainly we will.

When the sail was set, and our foamy track pointed to the dear isle we were leaving, I, at least, was conscious of a slight heart-ache. So I turned once more and cried out, "Addio Capri!" but the stern Tiberian rocks did not respond, "Ritornate," and so Capri passed into memory.

AMERICA.

[From the National Ode. Delivered in Independence Square, Philadelphia, 4 July, 1876.]

NORESEEN in the vision of sages,

FOR

Foretold when martyrs bled,
She was born of the longing of ages,

By the truth of the noble dead
And the faith of the living fed!
No blood in her lightest veins

Frets at remembered chains,

Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head.
In her form and features still

The unblenching Puritan will
Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace,
The Quaker truth and sweetness,

And the strength of the danger-girdled race
Of Holland, blend in a proud completeness.
From the homes of all, where her being began,

She took what she gave to Man;
Justice, that knew no station,

Belief, as soul decreed,

Free air for aspiration,

Free force for independent deed!

She takes, but to give again,

As the sea returns the rivers in rain;
And gathers the chosen of her seed
From the hunted of every crown and creed.
Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine;
Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine;
Her France pursues some dream divine;
Her Norway keeps his mountain pine;
Her Italy waits by the western brine;
And, broad-based under all,

Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood,
As rich in fortitude

As e'er went world ward from the island-wall!
Fused in her candid light,

To one strong race all races here unite:
Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen
Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan;
'Twas glory, once, to be a Roman:

She makes it glory, now, to be a man!

THE COMBAT OF LARS AND PER.

[Lars. A Pastoral of Norway. 1873.]

HE two before her, face to face

THE

Stared at each other: Brita looked at them!
All three were pale; and she, with faintest voice,
Remembering counsel of the tongues unkind,

Could only breathe: "I know not how to choose."
"No need!" said Lars: "I choose for you," said Per.
Then both drew off and threw aside their coats,
Their broidered waistcoats, and the silken scarves
About their necks; but Per growled "All!" and made
His body bare to where the leathern belt

Is clasped between the breast-bone and the hip.
Lars did the same; then, setting tight the belts,
Both turned a little: the low daylight clad
Their forms with awful fairness, beauty now
Of life, so warm and ripe and glorious, yet

So near the beauty terrible of Death.
All saw the mutual sign, and understood;

And two stepped forth, two men with grizzled hair

And earnest faces, grasped the hooks of steel

In either's belt, and drew them breast to breast,

And in the belts made fast each other's hooks.

An utter stillness on the people fell

While this was done: each face was stern and strange,

And Brita, powerless to turn her eyes,

Heard herself cry, and started: "Per, O Per!"

When those two backward stepped, all saw the flash
Of knives, the lift of arms, the instant clench
Of hands that held and hands that strove to strike:
All heard the sound of quick and hard-drawn breath,
And naught beside; but sudden red appeared,
Splashed on the white of shoulders and of arms.
Then, thighs entwined, and all the body's force
Called to the mixed resistance and assault,

They reeled and swayed, let go the guarding clutch,
And struck out madly. Per drew back, and aimed
A deadly blow, but Lars embraced him close,
Reached o'er his shoulder and from underneath
Thrust upward, while upon his ribs the knife,
Glancing, transfixed the arm. A gasp was heard:
The struggling limbs relaxed; and both, still bound
Together, fell upon the bloody floor.

Some forward sprang, and loosed, and lifted them
A little; but the head of Per hung back,
With lips apart and dim blue eyes unshut,
And all the passion and the pain were gone
Forever. "Dead!" a voice exclaimed; then she,
Like one who stands in darkness, till a blaze
Of blinding lightning paints the whole broad world,
Saw, burst her stony trance, and with a cry
Of love and grief and horror, threw herself
Upon his breast, and kissed his passive mouth,
And loud lamented: "Oh, too late I know
I love thee best, my Per, my sweetheart Per!
Thy will was strong, thy ways were masterful;
I did not guess that love might so command!
Thou wert my ruler: I resisted thee,
But blindly: Oh, come back!-I will obey."

OPENING SCENE OF "PRINCE DEUKALION."

[Prince Deukalion: a Lyrical Drama. 1878.]

SCENE.-A plain, sloping from high mountains towards the sea.

At the bases of the

mountains lofty vaulted entrances of caverns. A ruined temple, on a rocky height.

A SHEPHERD, asleep in the shadow of a clump of laurels: the flock scattered over the plain.

SHEPHERD (awaking).

AVE I outslept the thunder? Has the storm

HA

Broken and rolled away? That leaden weight

Which pressed mine eyelids to reluctant sleep

Falls off I wake; yet see not anything

As I beheld it. Yonder hang the clouds,
Huge, weary masses, leaning on the hills;
But here, where starwort grew and hyacinth,
And bees were busy at the bells of thyme,
Stare flinty shards; and mine unsandal'd feet
Bleed as I press them: who hath wrought the change?
The plain, the sea, the mountains, are the same;

And there, aloft, Demeter's pillared house,-
What!-roofless, now? Are she and Jove at strife?

And, see!-this altar to the friendly nymphs

Of field and flock, the holy ones who lift

A poor man's prayer so high the Gods may hear,-
Shivered?-Hath thunder, then, a double bolt?
They said some war of Titans was renewed,
But such should not concern us, humble men
Who give our dues of doves and yeanling lambs
And mountain honey. Let the priests in charge,
Who weigh their service with our ignorance,
Resolve the feud!-'tis they are answerable,
Not we; and if impatient Gods make woe,
We should not suffer!

Hark-what strain is that,
Floating about the copses and the slopes
As in old days, when earth and summer sang?
Too sad to come from their invisible tongues
That moved all things to joy; but I will hear.

NYMPHS.

We came when you called us, we linked our dainty being
With the mystery of beauty, in all things fair and brief:
But only he hath seen us, who was happy in the seeing,
And he hath heard, who listened in the gladness of belief.
As a frost that creeps, ere the winds of winter whistle,
And odors die in blossoms that are chilly to the core,
Your doubt hath sent before it the sign of our dismissal;
We pass, ere ye speak it; we go, and come no more!

SHEPHERD.

If blight they threaten, 'tis already here;
Yet still, methinks, the sweet and wholesome grass
Will sometime spring, and softer rains wash white
My wethers' fleeces. We, Earth's pensioners,
Expect less bounty when her store is scant;

But while her life, though changed from what it was,
Feeds on the sunshine, we shall also live.

VOICES (from underground).

We won, through martyrdom, the power to aid;
We met the anguish and were not afraid;

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