Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder There's gravel walks there for speculation As to walk alone in those shady bowers, For 'tis there's a cave where no daylight enters, All standing in order for to guard the flood. There's statues gracing this noble place in, 'Tis in every feature I would make it shine. THE BELLS OF SHANDON Sabbata pango; INSCRIPTION ON AN OLD BELL WITH deep affection and recollection I often think of the Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells. "De Gustibus-" On this I ponder where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee,- That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in, While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate; Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. I've heard bells tolling "Old Adrian's Mole" in, 2507 But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly. O, the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. There's a bell in Moscow, while on tower and Kiosko And loud in air, calls men to prayer, But there's an anthem more dear to me,— That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee. Francis Sylvester Mahony [1804-1866] "DE GUSTIBUS-" YOUR ghost will walk, you lover of trees, (If our loves remain) In an English lane, By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. The happier they! Draw yourself up from the light of the moon And let them pass, as they will too soon, With the beanflowers' boon, And the blackbird's tune, And May, and June! What I love best in all the world In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. To the water's edge. For, what expands Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling: -She hopes they have not caught the felons Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary's saying serves for me→→→ (When fortune's malice Lost her Calais) Italian Rhapsody Open my heart and you will see So it always was, so shall ever be! 2509 Robert Browning [1812-1889] ITALIAN RHAPSODY DEAR Italy! The sound of thy soft name That once were mine. Supreme is still the aim To flee the cold and gray Of our December day, And rest where thy clear spirit burns with unconsuming flame. There are who deem remembered beauty best, The world unhappy be, Benignant Heaven gave to all the all-consoling Night? Remembered beauty best? Who reason so? Not thine that heresy, Thou who thyself art fairer far than Fancy e'er can show. To me thou art an ever-brooding spell; An old enchantment, exorcised of wrong; A myriad singers meet, To find thy beauty the despair of measures full and sweet. Of old, ere caste or custom froze the heart, Oh, to have journeyed down To Canterbury town, And known, from lips that touched thy robe, that triad of renown! Fount of Romance whereat our Shakespeare drank! By Romeo's ardor, Juliet's constancy. He sets the peasant in the royal rank; Shows under mask and paint Kinship of knave and saint, And plays on stolid man with Prospero's wand and Ariel's prank. Another English foster-child hadst thou When Milton from the breast of thy delight Drew inspiration. With a vestal's vow He fed the flame caught from thy sacred light. And when upon him lay The long eclipse of day, Thou wert the memory-hoarded treasure of his doomèd sight. Name me a poet who has trod thy soil: Looked last upon thy face! Oh, would that I were worthy thus to die in thine embrace! Oh, to be kin to Keats as urn with urn Shares the same Roman earth!-to sleep, apart, Where bees, like lingering lovers, re-return; Where the proud pyramid, To brighter glory bid, Gives Cestius his longed-for fame, marking immortal Art. |