What other spot could I exchange for this? Alemæon, when he had found the Echinades, would not wander farther.

Letters of ST. BASIL, 829-879.

When I see every ledge of rock, every valley and plain, covered with new-born verdure, the varied beauty of the trees, and the lilies at my feet decked by Nature with the double charms of perfume and of color, when in the distance I see the ocean, toward which the clouds are borne onward, my spirit is overpowered by a sadness not wholly devoid of enjoyment. When in autumn the fruits have passed away, the leaves have fallen, and the branches of the trees, dried and shriveled, are robbed of their leafy adornments, we are instinctively led, amid the everlasting and regular change in Nature, to feel the harmony of the wondrous powers pervading all things. He who contemplates them with the eye of the soul, feels the littleness of man amid the greatness of the universe. ST. GREGORY of Nyssa, 396.

A VISION.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH.

I.

Being one day at my window all alone,
So many strange things happened me to see,
As much it grieveth me to think thereon.
At my right hand a hynde appeared to mee,
So faire as mote the greatest god delite;

Two eager dogs did her pursue in chase,
Of which the one was blacke, the other white;
With deadly force, so in their cruell race
They pincht the haunches of that gentle beast,
That at the last, and in short time I spide,
Under a rocke, where she, alas, opprest,

Fell to the ground, and there untimely dide.
Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautie
Oft makes me wrile so harde a destanie.

II.

After, at sea, a tall ship did appeare,

Made all of heben and white yvorie;

The sailes of golde, of silk the tackle were;

Milde was the winde, calme seemed the sea to bee,
The skie each where did show full bright and faire.
With rich treasures this gay ship fraighted was;

But sudden storme did so turmoyle the aire,
And tumbled up the sea, that she (alas!)
Strake on a rock that under water lay,

And perished past all recoverie.
O! how great ruth and sorrowful assay
Doth vex my spirite with perplexitie,
Thus in a moment to see lost and drown'd
So great riches, as like cannot be found.

III.

The heavenly branches did I see arise

Out of the fresh and lustie lawrell tree, Amidst the yong greene wood of Paradise;

Some noble plant I thought my selfe to see, Such store of birds therein yshrowded were, Chaunting in shade their sundrie melodie, That with their sweetness I was ravisht nere. While on this lawrell fixed was mine eie, The skie gan everie where to overcast,

And darkened was the welkin all about, When sudden flash of heaven's fire out brast,

And rent this royall tree quite by the roote; Which makes me much, and ever, to complaine, For no such shadowe shal be had againe.

IV.

Within this woode, out of a rocke, did rise
A spring of water, mildly rumbling downe,
Wherto approched not in anie wise

The homely shepherd nor the ruder clowne,
But manie muses, and the nymphes withall,
That sweetly in accord did tune their voyce
To the soft sounding of the water's fall,

That my glad heart thereat did much reioyce.
But, while herein I tooke my chiefe delight,
I saw (alas!) the gaping earth devoure

The spring, the place, and all cleane out of sight;
Which yet aggrieves my hart even to this houre,
And wounds my soul with ruefull memorie,
To see such pleasures gon so suddenly.

V.

I saw a phoenix in the wood alone,

With purple wings and crest of golden hewe; Strange bird he was, whereby I thought anone, That of some heavenly wight I had the viewe;

Untill he came unto the broken tree,

And to the spring, that late devoured was.
What say I more? Each thing at last we see
Doth passe away; the phoenix there, alas!
Spying the tree destroid, the water dride,

Himself smote with his beake, as in disdaine,
And so forthwithe in greate despight he dide;
That yet my heart burns in exceeding paine,
For ruth and pitie of so haples plight;
O! let mine eyes no more see such a sight.

VI.

At last so faire a ladie did I spie,

That thinking yet on her I burn and quake;
On hearts and flowres she walked pensively

Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake;
White seem'd her robes, yet woven so they were
As snow and golde together had beene wrought;
Above the waste a darke cloude shrouded her,

A stinging serpent by the heele her caught;
Wherewith she languish'd as the gathered flowre;
And, well assured, she mounted up to ioy.
Alas, on earth no nothing doth endure

But bitter griefe and sorrowful annoy;

Which make this life wretched and miserable,
Tossed with stormes of fortune variable.

VII.

When I beheld this tickle trustles state

Of vaine worlde's glorie, flitting to and fro,
And mortall men tossed by troublous fate

In restless seas of wretchednesse and woe,
I wish I might this wearie life foregoe,

And shortly turn into my happie rest,
Where my free spirit might not anie moe

Be vext with sights that doo her peace molest.

And ye, faire ladie, in whose bounteous brest

All heavenly grace and vertue shrined is,

When ye these rymes doe read, and vow the rest,

Loath this base world, and thinke of heaven's bliss; And though ye be the fairest of God's creatures, Yet thinke that Death shall spoyle your goodly features. Translation of EDMUND SPENSER. FRANCESCO PETRARCA, 1804-1374.

THE CAMPAGNA OF ROME.

Perhaps there is no more impressive scene on earth than the solitary extent of the Campagna of Rome under evening light. Let the reader imagine himself for a moment withdrawn from the sounds and motion of the living world, and sent forth alone into this wild and wasted plain. The earth yields and crumbles beneath his foot, tread he never so lightly, for its substance is white, hollow, and carious, like the dusty wreck of the bones of men. The long, knotted grass waves and tosses feebly in the evening wind, and the shadows of its motion shake feverishly along the banks of rivers that lift themselves to the sunlight. Hillocks of moldering earth heave around him, as if the dead beneath were struggling in their sleep; scattered blocks of black stone, four square, remnants of mighty edifices, not one left upon another, lie upon them to keep them down. A dull purple, poisonous haze stretches level along the desert, vailing its spectral wrecks of massy ruins, on whose rents the red light rests like dying fire on defiled altars. The blue ridge of the Alban mount lifts itself against a solemn space of green, clear, quiet sky. Watch-towers of dark clouds stand steadfastly along the promontories of the Apennines. From the plain to the mountains, the shattered aqueducts, pier beyond pier, melt into the darkness, like shadowy and countless troops of funeral mourners passing from a nation's grave.

MUTABILITY.

From low to high doth dissolution climb,
And sinks from high to low, along a scale

Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;

A musical but melancholy chime,

Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,
Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.

Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear
The longest date do melt like frosty rime,
That in the morning whitened hill and plain
And is no more; drop like the tower sublime
Of yesterday, that royally did wear

Its crown of weeds, but could not even sustain
Some casual shout that broke the silent air,
Or the unimaginable touch of Time.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.