THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. 387 A View across the Roman Campagna. VER the dumb campagna-sea, OVE Out in the offing through mist and rain, St. Peter's Church heaves silently Like a mighty ship in pain, Facing the tempest with struggle and strain. Motionless waifs of ruined towers, Soundless breakers of desolate land! The sullen surf of the mist devours That mountain-range upon either hand, Eaten away from its outline grand. And over the dumb campagna-sea Where the ship of the Church heaves on to wreck, The Christ walks!— Ay, but Peter's neck Peter, Peter, if such be thy name, Now leave the ship for another to steer, And proving thy faith evermore the same Come forth, tread out through the dark and drear, Peter, Peter! he does not speak, He is not as rash as in old Galilee. Safer a ship, though it toss and leak, Than a reeling foot on a rolling sea! — And he's got to be round in the girth, thinks he. His nets are heavy with silver fish : He reckons his gains, and is keen to infer, "The broil on the shore, if the Lord should wish, But the sturgeon goes to the Cæsar's dish." Peter, Peter, thou fisher of men, Fisher of fish wouldst thou live instead, - At the triple crow of the Gallic cock Thou weep'st not, thou, though thine eyes be dazed: What bird comes next in the tempest shock? .. Vultures! See, as when Romulus gazed, To inaugurate Rome for a world amazed! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. ᎠᏎ Hymn to the Flowers. AY-STARS! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle As a libation! Ye matin worshipers! who bending lowly Before the uprisen sun -- God's lidless eyeThrow from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high! Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply — Thereas in solitude and shade I wander Through the green aisles, or, stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder Your voiceless lips, O Flowers, are living preachers, Floral Apostles! that in dewy splendor "Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender, Your lore sublime! "Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly Artist! Of love to all. 389 Not useless are ye, Flowers! though made for pleasure: Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! And second birth. Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining, HORACE SMITH. I The Beleaguered City. HAVE read in some old marvelous tale, That a midnight host of spectres pale Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, White as a sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 391 But when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the hour of prayer, Down the broad valley fast and far Up rose the glorious morning star, I have read in the marvelous heart of man, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice nor sound is there, And when the solemn and deep church-bell The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. |