Saw a fierce group of seven enkindled hills, In number like the mystic candles lighted Within his future temple. Then he bent Upon that mystic pleiades of flame His luminous regard, and spoke to it: “Thou art to be my Rome.” The harmony Of that note to the nebulous heights supreme, And to the bounds of the created world, Rolled like the voice of myriad organ-stops, And sank, and ceased. The heavenly orbs resumed Their daily dance and their unending journey; A mighty rush of plumes disturbed the rest Of the vast silence; here and there like stars About the sky, flashed the immortal eyes Of choral angels following after him. The opening lines of Monte Circellio are scarcely less beautiful than the first part of Un' Ora della mia Giovinezza, but I must content myself with only one other extract from the poem, leaving the rest to the reader of the original. The fact that every summer the Roman hospitals are filled with the unhappy peasants who descend from the hills of the Abruzzi to snatch its harvests from the feverish Campagna will help us to understand all the meaning of the following passage, though nothing could add to its pathos, unless, perhaps, the story given by Aleardi in a note at the foot of his page: “How do you live here?” asked a traveler of one of the peasants who reap the Campagna. The Abruzzese answered, “Signor, we die.” What time, In hours of summer, sad with so much light, The sun beats ceaselessly upon the fields, The harvesters, as famine urges them, Draw hither in thousands, and they wear The look of those that dolorously go In exile, and already their brown eyes Are heavy with the poison of the air. Here never note of amorous bird consoles Their drooping hearts; here never the gay songs Of their Abruzzi sound to gladden these Pathetic hands. But taciturn they toil, Reaping the harvest for their unknown lords; And when the weary tabor is performed, Taciturn they retire; and not till then Their bagpipes crown the joys of the return, Swelling the heart with their familiar strain. Alas! not all return, for there is one That dying in the furrow sits, and seeks With his last look some faithful kinsman out, To give his life's wage, that he carry it Unto his trembling mother, with the last Words of her son that comes no more. And dying, Deserted and alone, far off he hears His comrades going, with their pipes in time Joyfully measuring their homeward steps. And when in after years an orphan comes To reap the harvest here, and feels his blade Go quivering through the swaths of falling grain, He weeps and thinks: haply these heavy stalks Ripened on his unburied father's bones.