OUR villa . . . . . . lies on the slope of the Alban hill; Lifting its white face, sunny and still, Out of the olives' pale gray green, That, far away as the eye can go, Stretch up behind it, row upon row. There in the garden the cypresses, stirred By the sifting winds, half musing talk, And the cool, fresh, constant voice is heard Of the fountain's spilling in every walk. There stately the oleanders grow, And one long gray wall is aglow With golden oranges burning between Their dark stiff leaves of sombre green. And there are hedges all clipped and square, As carven from blocks of malachite, Where fountains keep spinning their threads of light And statues whiten the shadow there. And if the sun too fiercely shine, And one would creep from its noonday glare, There are galleries dark, where ilexes twine Their branchy roofs above the head. W. W. STORY. [Illustration: XI RANCONEZZO _The Villa of the Cardinal Schalchi-Visconti_] TRULY everything here has a dramatic character. The smallness and grace of this little church gleaming with colour, its chapels and grottoes like a spiritual vision, such as I have never found elsewhere in the whole field of religious conception. It is an illustrated picture-book of poetical legends, which are bloodless and painless, though fantastic, like the lives of pious anchorites in the wilderness, and amid the birds of the field. Here Religion treads on the borders of fairy-land, and brings an indescribable atmosphere away from thence. GREGOROVIUS. BRAMANTE FEW words record Bramante's great command, As from some mountain silence set apart, He blazed a trail along the way of art, Upheld the torch and led his little band. He spoke alone to those who understand, Not cheapening words within the public mart, Living withdrawn, a high and humble heart, Creating loveliness for his loved land. Though he dwelt cloistered in his northern home, When he strode forth it was with unveiled face, To rear a fabric that may crumble never. They called him "Master" when he wrought in Rome And with earth's greatest ones shall labor ever The hand that gave to Lombardy her grace. MARION MONKS CHASE. [Illustration: XII RANCONEZZO _Santa Prassede, the Cardinal's Church_] IL PENSEROSO