NAPLES AND VENICE.

OVERLOOKING, overhearing, Naples and her subject bay, Stands Camaldoli, the convent, shaded from the' inclement ray.

Thou, who to that lofty terrace lov'st on summer-eve to go, Tell me, Poet! what Thou seest, what Thou hearest, there below!

Beauty, beauty, perfect beauty! Sea and City, Hills and Air, Rather blest imaginations than realities of fair.

Forms of grace alike contenting casual glance and stedfast gaze, Tender lights of pearl and opal mingling with the diamond blaze.

Sea is but as deepen'd æther: white as snow-wreaths sunbeshone Lean the Palaces and Temples green and purple heights upon.

Streets and paths mine eye is tracing, all replete with clamo'rous throng,

Where I see, and where I see not, waves of uproar roll along.

As the sense of bees unnumber'd, burning through the walk of

limes,―

As the thought of armies gathe'ring round a chief in ancient times,―

So from Corso, Port, and Garden, rises Life's tumultuous strain, Not secure from wildest utter❜ance rests the perfect-crystal main.

Still the all-enclosing Beauty keeps my spirit free from harm, Distance blends the veriest discords into some melodious charm.

-OVERLOOKING, overhearing, Venice and her sister isles,
Stands the giant Campanile massive 'mid a thousand piles.

Thou who to this open summit lov'st at every hour to go, Tell me, Poet! what Thou seest, what Thou hearest, there below.

Wonder, wonder, perfect wonder! Ocean is the City's moat;
On the bosom of broad Ocean seems the mighty weight to

float:

Seems-yet stands as strong and stable as on land e'er city shall,

Only moves that Ocean-serpent, tide-impelled, the Great Canal.

Rich arcades and statued pillars, gleaming banners, burnished domes,―

Ships approaching,-ships departing,-countless ships in harbour-homes.

Yet so silent! scarce a murmur winged to reach this airy seat, Hardly from the close Piazza rises sound of voice or feet.

Plash of oar or single laughter,—cry or song of Gondolier,— Signals far between to tell me that the work of life is here.

Like a glorious maiden dreaming music in the drowsy heat,
Lies the City, unbetokening where its myriad pulses beat.

And I think myself in cloudland,-almost try my power of will, Whether I can change the picture, or it must be Venice still.

When the question wakes within me, which hath won the crown of deed,

Venice with her moveless silence, Naples with her noisy speed?

Which hath writ the goodlier tablet for the past to hoard and show,

Venice in her student stillness, Naples in her living glow?

Here are Chronicles with virtues studded as the night with stars,

Records there of passions raging through a wilderness of wars:

There a tumult of Ambitions, Power afloat on blood and tears,— Here one simple reign of Wisdom stretching thirteen hundred years:

Self-subsisting, self-devoted, there the moment's Hero ruled,Here the State, each one subduing, pride enchained and passion schooled :

Here was Art the nation's mistress, Art of colour, Art of stoneThere before the leman Pleasure bowed the people's soul alone.

Venice! vocal is thy silence, can our soul but rightly hear;
Naples! dumb as death thy voices, listen we however near.

SWITZERLAND AND ITALY.

WITHIN the Switzer's varied land,
When Summer chases high the snow,
You'll meet with many a youthful band
Of strangers wandering to and fro :

Through hamlet, town, and healing bath,
They haste and rest as chance may call,
No day without its mountain-path,

No path without its waterfall.

They make the hours themselves repay,
However well or ill be shared,

Content that they should wing their way,
Unchecked, unreckoned, uncompared:
For though the hills unshapely rise,
And lie the colours poorly bright,-
They mould them by their cheerful eyes,
And paint them with their spirit's light.

Strong in their youthfulness, they use
The energies their souls possess ;
And if some wayward scene refuse
To pay its part of loveliness,—
Onward they pass, nor less enjoy
For what they leave ;-and far from me
Be every thought that would destroy
A charm of that simplicity!

But if one blot on that white page

From Doubt or Mise'ry's pen be thrown,

If once the sense awake, that Age
Is counted not by years alone,-

Then no more grand and wondrous things!

No active happinesses more!

The wounded Heart has lost its wings,

And change can only fret the sore.

Yet there is calm for those that weep,
Where the divine Italian sea

Rests like a maiden hushed asleep
And breathing low and measuredly;
Where all the sunset-purpled ground,
Fashioned by those delicious airs,

Seems strewed with softest cushions round
For weary heads to loose their cares :

Where Nature offers, at all hours,
Out of her free imperial store,
That perfect Beauty their weak powers
Can help her to create no more:
And grateful for that ancient aid,
Comes forth to comfort and relieve
Those minds in prostrate sorrow laid,
Bidding them open and receive!

Though still 'tis hardly she that gives,
For Nature reigns not there alone,
A mightier queen beside her lives,
Whom she can serve but not dethrone;
For she is fallen from the state
That waited on her Eden-prime,

And Art remains by Sin and Fate

Unscathed, for Art is not of Time.