gardens full of lemon and orange trees, every branch of which bends under the load of yellow, glittering fruit. He climbs the ruins of Theodoricksburg; from there he looks over the marshes to the north, and his heart sings—
My lovely, fragrant rose!
And thou, my child, my joy, my life,
My all that makes earth dear to me,
—Thou bud upon my rose!
But the other poet sits down below by the sea; yes, out there, by the sea, upon a huge mass of rock. He wets his lips with salt water, and says with exultation, “Thou heaving, wind-lulled sea! Thou embracest, like me, the whole world; she is thy bride; she is thy nurse. Thou singest of her in the storm! In thy repose thou dreamest of heaven! Thou bright, transparent sea!”
The Post-horses.—Of a truth those were capital oats we had in Terracina. It was a good road there also; and we stopped such a charming long time in Fondi. See! now again it goes up-hill. Of what good are the hills? First up and then down again! A fine pleasure that is.
