Fani. A a master's greeting we may enter.
Ant. a, a fairy piace everywhere,

As trung he courts and chambers we advance,
Fours of music, wals or arabesque,
Aai calumns dustering in Patrician splendour.
Jur mark, a forstep! May we not intrude?
Lai now nethinks I hear a gentle laugh,
And gentle wonces mingling as in converse!—
Ani now a harp-string is struck carelessly!—
Lai now-tieng the corridor it comes—
I annur era filing as of baths!—
11. a. Es but a mockery of the sense,
Je mi vain! We are but where we were;
Sell wandering in a City of the Dead!

ROGERS

ROMAN GIRL'S SONG.

Roma, Roma. Eoma!
Non è più come era prima.

SOME, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!
On thy seven hills of yore

Thou sar'st a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then

Purpling the street;
Leaders and sceptred men

Bowed at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore,

As gods were seen—

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow

Never shall rise:

What hast thou left thee now?

Thou hast thy skies'

Blue, deeply blue, they are,
Gloriously bright!
Veiling thy wastes afar
With coloured light.

Thou hast the sunset's glow,
Rome, for thy dower,
Flushing tall cypress-bough,
Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine,

Lovely to hear;

While night, o'er tomb and shrine,

Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn,

By starlight sung,

Sweeps through the arches dim,

Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell

On thy soft air

Lingers, and loves to dwell

With summer there.

Thou hast the south's rich gift

Of sudden song,
A charmed fountain, swift,

Joyous, and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;

Thou hast proud fanes above

Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore

A mournful mien ;—

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

MRS. HEMANS.

TIVOLI.

PIRIT! who lovest to live unseen,

By brook, or pathless dell,

Where wild woods burst the rocks between

And floods, in streams of silver sheen,
Gush from their flinty shell!

Or, where the ivy weaves her woof,
And climbs the crag alone,
Haunts the cool grotto, daylight proof,
Where loitering drops that wear the roof,
Turn all beneath to stone;

Shield me from summer's blaze of day,
From noon-tide's fiery gale,
And, as thy waters round me play,
Beneath the o'ershadowing cavern lay,
Till Twilight spread her veil.

Then guide me where the wandering moon
Rests on Mæcenas' wall,

And echoes at Night's solemn noon
In Tivoli's soft shades attune

The peaceful waterfall.

Again they float before my sight,
The bower, the wood, the glade;
Again on yon romantic height
The sibyl's temple towers in light,
Above the dark cascade.

Down the steep cliff I wind my way,
Along the dim retreat,

And 'mid the torrent's deafening bray

Dash from my brow the foam away,

Where clashing cataracts meet.

And now I leave the rocks below,

And, issuing from the night,

View on the flakes that sunward flow
A thousand rainbows round me glow,
And arch my way with light.

Again the myrtles o'er me breathe,
Fresh flowers my path perfume,

Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe,
And from the groves that bend beneath
Low trail their purple bloom.

Thou grove, thou glade of Tivoli,
Dark wood, and riv❜let clear,
That wind, where'er you wander by,

A stream of beauty on the eye,

Of music on the ear:

And thou, that when the wandering moon

Illumed the rocky dell,

Didst to my charmed ear attune

The echoes of Night's solemn noon,

Spirit unseen! farewell!

Farewell!-o'er many a realm I go,

My natal isle to greet,

Where summer sunbeams mildly glow,
And sea-winds health and freshness blow

O'er Freedom's hallowed seat.

Yet there, to thy romantic spot

Shall Fancy oft retire,

And hail the bower, the stream, the grot,

Where earth's sole lord the world forgot,
And Horace smote the lyre.

SOTHEBY.

THE RUINS OF PÆSTUM.*

HEY stand between the mountains and the sea;
Awful memorials, but of whom we know not!
The seaman, passing, gazes from the deck;
The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak,
Points to the work of magic, and moves on.
Time was, they stood along the crowded street,
Temples of gods! and on their ample steps
What various habits, various tongues beset
The brazen gates, for prayer and sacrifice!—
How many centuries did the sun go round
From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene Sea,
While, by some spell rendered invisible,
Or, if approached, approached by him alone
Who saw as though he saw not, they remained
As in the darkness of a sepulchre,

Waiting the appointed time !—All, all within
Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right,
And taken to herself what man renounced;
No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus,
But with thick ivy hung, or branching fern,
Their iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure!
From my youth upward have I longed to tread
This classic ground.—And am I here at last,
Wandering at will through the long porticos,
And catching, as through some majestic grove,
Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like,
Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and half way up,
Towns like the living rock from whence they grew?
A cloudy region, black and desolate,

Where once a slave withstood a world in arms.†—

The temples of Pæstum are three in number, and have survived nearly nine centuries the total destruction of the city. Tradition is silent concerning them, but they must have existed now between two and three

housand years.

Spartacus.