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, 1804–1574

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 Let the reader imagine himself for a moment withdrawn from the sounds and motion of the living world, and sent forth alone into this wild and wasted plain.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. JOHN RUSKIN.

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.

AN interesting passage from Hesiod is given below. The

extract is taken from the "Works and Days," a poem giving instructions regarding agriculture, trade, and labor, blended with precepts of a moral character; and, in addition to the extremely remote date of its origin, the passage is also remarkable as one of the few instances in which a poet of the old heathen world has entered into detail of description on natural subjects. Its authenticity is, I believe, admitted. "The picturesque description given by Hesiod of Winter bears all the evidences of great antiquity," says a learned German critic

WINTER.

FROM HESIOD.

Beware the January month, beware

Those hurtful days, that keenly piercing air,
Which flays the herds; when icicles are cast
O'er frozen earth, and sheathe the nipping blast.

From courser-breeding Thrace comes rushing forth
O'er the broad sea the whirlwind of the North,
And moves it with his breath; the ocean floods

Heave, and earth bellows through her wild of woods.
Full many an oak of lofty leaf he fells

And strews with thick-branched pines the mountain dells
He stoops to earth; the crash is heard around;

The depth of forests rolls the roar of sound.

The beasts their cowering tails with trembling fold,

And shrink and shudder at the gusty cold;
Thick is the hairy coat, the shaggy skin,

But that all-chilling breath shall pierce within.
Not his rough hide can then the ox avail;
The long-haired goat, defenseless, feels the gale;
Yet vain the northwind's rushing strength to wound
The flock with sheltering fleeces fenced around.

Translation of SIR C. A. ELTON.

A WINTER SCENE.

FROM THE SEASONS."

The keener tempests rise; and fuming dun,
From all the livid east, or piercing north,
Thick clouds ascend, in whose capacious womb

A vapory deluge lies, to snow congeal'd.

Heavy they roll their fleecy world along;

And the sky saddens with the gathered storm.

Through the hush'd air the whitening shower descends,

At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes

Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the sky,
With a continual flow. The cherish'd fields

Put on their winter robe of purest white.

'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts

Along the mazy current. Low, the woods
Bow their hoar head; and, ere the languid sun,
Faint from the west, emits his evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep hid and still,
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox
Stands cover'd o'er with snow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,
Tam'd by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them. One alone,