FROM "CHIlde harold," CANTO IV.

SIMPLE, erect, severe, austere, sublime,
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods,
From Jove to Jesus, - spared and blest by time;
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man
plods

His way through thorns to ashes, — glorious dome !

Shalt thou not last? Time's scythe and tyrants' rods

Shiver upon thee, - sanctuary and home Of art and piety, - Pantheon! - pride of Rome !

Relic of nobler days and noblest arts! Despoiled yet perfect, with thy circle spreads A holiness appealing to all hearts. To art a model; and to him who treads Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds Her light through thy sole aperture; to those Who worship, here are altars for their beads; And they who feel for genius may repose Their eyes on honored forms, whose busts around them close.

LORD BYRON.

A DAY IN THE PAMFILI DORIA,

NEAR ROME.

THOUGH the hills are cold and snowy,
And the wind drives chill to-day,
My heart goes back to a spring-time,
Far, far in the past away.

And I see a quaint old city,

Weary and worn and brown,

Where the spring and the birds are so early, And the sun in such light goes down.

I remember that old-time villa
Where our afternoons went by,
Where the suns of March flushed warmly,
And spring was in earth and sky.

Out of the mouldering city, -
Mouldering, old, and gray,
We sped, with a lightsome heart-thrill,
For a sunny, gladsome day, —

For a revel of fresh spring verdure,

For a race mid springing flowers, For a vision of plashing fountains, Of birds and blossoming bowers.

There were violet banks in the shadows, Violets white and blue;

And a world of bright anemones,

That over the terrace grew,

Blue and orange and purple,

Rosy and yellow and white, Rising in rainbow bubbles,

Streaking the lawns with light.

And down from the old stone-pine trees, Those far-off islands of air,

The birds are flinging the tidings

Of a joyful revel up there.

Fable and Truth have shed, in rivalry,
Each her peculiar influence. Fable came,
And laughed and sung, arraying Truth in flowers,
Like a young child her grandam. Fable came;
Earth, sea, and sky reflecting, as she flew,
A thousand, thousand colors not their own:
And at her bidding, lo! a dark descent
To Tartarus, and those thrice happy fields,
Those fields with ether pure and purple light
Ever invested, scenes by him described
Who here was wont to wander and record
What they revealed, and on the western shore
Sleeps in a silent grove, o'erlooking thee,
Beloved Parthenope.