48
l'ariccia. death in life.
Ay—Time for once calls back fair Arcady;
And as I gaze, in rapture deep and still,
Before me winding pass through vale and hill,
And through the arches of the wooded glades,
The herds as slow they seek the forest shades,
While wears the sun his noontide majesty;
And first, with watchful eye and steadfast tread,
The broad, disparted crescents on their brows,
Austerely borne, the grey-hued steers have led
The rustic path; and then with antic play,
And many a sidelong bound, grotesquely wreathing
Their wild fantastic horns amid the boughs,
The milk-white goats across the steep banks stray.
It seems as 'twere some sculptured pageant breathing,
A chiselled record of the Pagan Past—
A fair procession bound for sacrifice!
And nought we miss—for even the choral song
And dance is here: where yonder pines have cast
A thicker shade, a joyous laughing throng
Of brown-cheeked girls, with large and flashing eyes,
And ebon locks vine-garlanded are grouped;
And one who, fairer than the rest, has looped
Those scarlet blossoms 'mid the tendrils, flings
High o'er her head her tambourine, and sings
And as I gaze, in rapture deep and still,
Before me winding pass through vale and hill,
And through the arches of the wooded glades,
The herds as slow they seek the forest shades,
While wears the sun his noontide majesty;
And first, with watchful eye and steadfast tread,
The broad, disparted crescents on their brows,
Austerely borne, the grey-hued steers have led
The rustic path; and then with antic play,
And many a sidelong bound, grotesquely wreathing
Their wild fantastic horns amid the boughs,
The milk-white goats across the steep banks stray.
It seems as 'twere some sculptured pageant breathing,
A chiselled record of the Pagan Past—
A fair procession bound for sacrifice!
And nought we miss—for even the choral song
And dance is here: where yonder pines have cast
A thicker shade, a joyous laughing throng
Of brown-cheeked girls, with large and flashing eyes,
And ebon locks vine-garlanded are grouped;
And one who, fairer than the rest, has looped
Those scarlet blossoms 'mid the tendrils, flings
High o'er her head her tambourine, and sings
