Taking the chance: she did not start,
Much less cry out, but stooped apart,
One instant rapidly glanced round,
And saw me beckon from the ground:
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;
She picked my glove up while she stripped
A branch off, then rejoined the rest
With that; my glove lay in her breast:
Then I drew breath; they disappeared:
It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned alone
Exactly where my glove was thrown.
Meanwhile came many thoughts; on me
Rested the hopes of Italy;

I had devised a certain tale

Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail
Persuade a peasant of its truth;

I meant to call a freak of youth
This hiding, and give hopes of pay,
And no temptation to betray.

But when I saw that woman's face,
Its calm simplicity of

grace

Our Italy's own attitude

In which she walked thus far, and stood,
Planting each naked foot so firm,

To crush the snake and spare the worm-
At first sight of her eyes, I said,
"I am that man upon whose head
They fix the price, because I hate
The Austrians over us: the State
Will give you gold—oh, gold so much!—
If you betray me to their clutch,
And be your death, for aught I know,
If once they find you saved their foe.

Now, you must bring me food and drink,
And also paper, pen and ink,

And carry safe what I shall write

To Padua, which you'll reach at night
Before the duomo shuts; go in,
And wait till Tenebræ begin;
Walk to the third confessional,
Between the pillar and the wall,

And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace?
Say it a second time, then cease;

And if the voice inside returns,

From Christ and Freedom; what concerns

The cause of Peace?-for answer, slip
My letter where you placed your lip;
Then come back happy: we have done
Our mother service-I, the son,

As you the daughter of our land!"

Three mornings more, she took her stand
In the same place, with the same eyes:
I was no surer of sunrise

Than of her coming: we conferred
Of her own prospects, and I heard
She had a lover-stout and tall,
She said then let her eyelids fall,

He could do much"-as if some doubt
Entered her heart,-then, passing out,
She could not speak for others, who
Had other thoughts; herself she knew:
And so she brought me drink and food.
After four days, the scouts pursued
Another path; at last arrived

The help my Paduan friends contrived
To furnish me: she brought the news.
For the first time I could not choose
But kiss her hand, and lay my own
Upon her head-" This faith was shown
To Italy, our mother; she

Uses my hand and blesses thee."

She followed down to the sea-shore;
I left and never saw her more.

How very long since I have thought
Concerning--much less wished for-aught
Beside the good of Italy,

For which I live and mean to die!

I never was in love; and since

Charles proved false, what shall now convince My inmost heart I have a friend?

However, if I pleased to spend

Real wishes on myself--say, three--
I know at least what one should be.

I would grasp Metternich until

I felt his red wet throat distill

In blood through these two hands. And next, -Nor much for that am I perplexed

Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,

Should die slow of a broken heart

Under his new employers. Last

-Ah! there, what should I wish? For fast

66

Do I grow old and out of strength,
If I resolved to seek at length
My father's house again, how scared
They all would look, and unprepared!
My brothers live in Austria's pay
-Disowned me long ago, men say;
And all my early mates who used
To praise me so—perhaps induced
More than one early step of mine--
Are turning wise: while some opine
Freedom grows license," some suspect
"Haste breeds delay," and recollect
They always said, such premature
Beginnings never could endure!
So, with a sullen "All's for best,"
The land seems settling to its rest,
I think then, I should wish to stand
This evening in that dear, lost land,
Over the sea the thousand miles,
And know if yet that woman smiles
With the calm smile; some little farm
She lives in there, no doubt: what harm
If I sat on the door-side bench,
And while her spindle made a trench
Fantastically in the dust,

Inquired of all her fortunes-just
Her children's ages and their names,
And what may be the husband's aims
For each of them. I'd talk this out,
And sit there, for an hour about,
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay
Mine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing-how

It steals the time! To business now.

THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY.

PIANO DI SORRENTO.

FORTÙ, Fortù, my beloved one, sit here by my side,
On my knees put up both little feet! I was sure, if I tried,
I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open your

eyes,

Let me keep you amused, till he vanish in black from the skies, With telling my memories over, as you tell your beads;

All the Plain saw me gather, I garland-the flowers or the

weeds.

Time for rain! for your long hot dry autumn had networked with brown

The white skin of each grape on the bunches, marked like a quail's crown,

Those creatures you make such account of, whose heads, -specked with white

Over brown like a great spider's back, as I told you last night,— Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe as could be, Pomegranates were chapping and splitting in halves on the

tree.

And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone, or in the thick dust

On the path, or straight out of the rock-side, wherever could thrust

Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower its yellow face up, For the prize were great butterflies fighting, some five for one

cup.

So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, what change was in store,

By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets which woke me before

I could open my shutter, made fast with a bough and a stone, And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs, sole lattice that's known.

Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, while busy beneath,

Your priest and his brother tugged at them, the rain in their teeth.

And out upon all the flat house-roofs, where split figs lay dry

ing,

The girls took the frails under cover: nor use seemed in trying
To get out the boats and go fishing, for, under the cliff,
Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind rock. No seeing

our skiff

Arrive about noon from Amalfi !—our fisher arrive,

And pitch down his basket before us, all trembling alive,

With pink and gray jellies, your sea-fruit; you touch the strange lumps,

And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner of horns and of humps,

Which only the fisher looks grave at, while round him like

imps,

Cling screaming the children as naked and brown as his

shrimps;

Himself too as bare to the middle--you see round his neck
The string and its brass coin suspended, that saves him from

wreck.

But to-day not a boat reached Salerno: so back, to a man, Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards grape-harvest began.

In the vat, half-way up in our house-side, like blood the juice spins,

While your brother all bare-legged is dancing till breathless he grins

Dead-beaten in effort on effort to keep the grapes under, Since still, when he seems all but master, in pours the fresh plunder

From girls who keep coming and going with basket on shoulder,

And eyes shut against the rain's driving; your girls that are older,-

For under the hedges of aloe, and where, on its bed

Of the orchard's black mold, the love-apple lies pulpy and red, All the young ones are kneeling and filling their laps with the snails

Tempted out by this first rainy weather,—your best of regales, As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, when, supping in state, We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, three over one plate)

With lasagne so tempting to swallow in slippery ropes,

And gourds fried in great purple slices, that color of popes. Meantime, see the grape-bunch they've brought you: the rainwater slips

O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe which the wasp to your lips

Still follows with fretful persistence. Nay, taste, while awake, This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball that peels, flake by flake

Like an onion, each smoother and whiter: next, sip this

weak wine

From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, a leaf of the

vine;

And end with the prickly pear's red flesh that leaves through

its juice

The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth.

Scirocco is loose!

Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives which, thick in

one's track,

Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, though not yet half black!

How the old twisted olive-trunks shudder, the medlars let fall Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees snap off, figs

and all,