Dim was the sunlight, and November shivering Ran with a light frost o'er the land Etruria, A gentle head-ache of the last night's origin, Went threading through the air with weary pinion-beat; A weak and bankrupt feeling lay on hill and dale, The sacred olive tree, whose last thin yellow leaf Thrilled in the wind, stretched mournfully its branches forth Barren and bare, as wanting what was needfullest; E'en the street pavement was suspicious. To the eye The old primæval basalt's firm material Seemed changed that day to very porous carbonate, And all things--all things--all things had a seedy look. Such was the day when, in the early morning hour, A weary wight from Populonia's portal went; In vain the guard on the Cyclopean city wall Cast on the lord a hopeful glance for drink-money,-- He drew him back--and glared at him--and gave nothing. There where the road goes winding towards Suessulæ, And some old priest's strange ten-pin-towered monument Mournfully casts a shadow o'er the bleaching field, He paused awhile--in the reed grass stuck his javelin, And in his chlamys foldings sadly sought awhile, Then sought again--then made one more experiment-- Yet found not what he sought for. Oh, who knows the pain Which rears up horse-like in a brave Etruscan heart When all things--all things--all things tend to poverty, And the horror of the Empty in the pocket dwells Where once the sesterce gaily by the denar rang! The helm removing from his heavy-laden head, He raised his right hand to his forehead thoughtfully, His tearful glance went back to Populonia, And lurid lightning flickered from his hero-eye.