I dare not speak of Michael Angelo-- Such theme were all too splendid for my pen. And if I breathe the name of Sanzio (The brightest of Italian gentlemen), It is that love casts out my fear--and so I claim with him a kindredship. Ah! when We love, the name is on our hearts engraven, As is thy name, my own dear Bard of Avon! Nor is the Colosseum theme of mine, 'Twas built for poet of a larger daring; The world goes there with torches--I decline Thus to affront the moonbeams with their flaring. Some time in May our forces we'll combine (Just you and I) and try a midnight airing, And then I'll quote this rhyme to you--and then You'll muse upon the vanity of men. O come--I send a leaf of tender fern, 'Twas plucked where Beauty lingers round decay: The ashes buried in a sculptured urn Are not more dead than Rome--so dead to-day! That better time, for which the patriots yearn, Enchants the gaze, again to fade away. They wait and pine for what is long denied, And thus I wait till thou art by my side. Thou'rt far away! Yet, while I write, I still Seem gently, Sweet, to press thy hand in mine; I cannot bring myself to drop the quill, I cannot yet thy little hand resign! The plain is fading into darkness chill, The Sabine peaks are flushed with light divine, I watch alone, my fond thought wings to thee, O come to Rome--O come, O come to me! THE REPLY. Dear Exile, I was pleased to get Your rhymes, I laid them up in cotton; You know that you are all to "Pet," I feared that I was quite forgotten: Mama, who scolds me when I mope, Insists--and she is wise as gentle-- That I am still in love--I hope That you are rather sentimental. Perhaps you think a child should not Be gay unless her slave is with her; Of course you love old Rome, and, what Is more, would like to coax me thither: What! quit this dear delightful maze Of calls and balls, to be intensely Discomfited in fifty ways-- I like your confidence immensely! Some girls who love to ride and race, And live for dancing--like the Bruens, Confess that Rome's a charming place, In spite of all the stupid ruins: I think it might be sweet to pitch One's tent beside those banks of Tiber, And all that sort of thing--of which Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best describer. To see stone pines, and marble gods, In garden alleys--red with roses-- The Perch where Pio Nono nods; The Church where Raphael reposes. Make pleasant _giros_--when we may; Jump _stagionate_--where they're easy; And play croquet--the Bruens say There's turf behind the _Ludovisi_.