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6.

Is it better in May, I ask you? you've summer all at

once ;

In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April

suns!

Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well,

The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red

bell,

Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.

7.

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash!

In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foambows flash

On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash

Round the lady atop in the conch-fifty gazers do not

abash,

Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash!

8.

All the year long at the villa, nothing's to see though you linger,

Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted forefinger.

Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn

and mingle,

Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem

a-tingle.

Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is

shrill,

And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill.

Enough of the seasons, — I spare you the months of the fever and chill.

9.

Ere opening your eyes in the city, the blessed churchbells begin:

No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles

in:

You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a

pin.

By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth;

Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene-picture-the new play, piping hot!

And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieve were shot.

Above it, behold the archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes,

And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's!

Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so

Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and

Cicero,

"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of St. Paul has reached,

Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached."

Noon strikes,

here sweeps the procession! our Lady

borne smiling and smart

With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart!

Bang, whang, whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.

But bless

10.

you, it's dear-it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.

They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil

pays passing the gate

It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not

the city!

Beggars can scarcely be choosers - but still

pity, the pity!

ah, the

Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with

cowls and sandals,

And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles.

One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross

with handles,

And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals.

Bang, whang, whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the

fife.

Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in

life!

A WOMAN'S LAST WORD.

1.

LET's contend no more, Love,

Strive nor weepAll be as before, Love,

- Only sleep!

2.

What so wild as words are?

-I and thou

In debate, as birds are,

Hawk on bough!

3.

See the creature stalking

While we speak —

Hush and hide the talking,

Cheek on cheek!

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