And thereacross waved fishwives’ high-hung smocks, Chrome kerchiefs, scarlet hose, darned underfrocks; Since when too oft my dreams of thee, O Queen, that frippery mocks: Whereat I grieve, Superba! . . . Afterhours Within Palazzo Doria’s orange bowers Went far to mend these marrings of thy soul-subliming powers. But, Queen, such squalid undress none should see, Those dream-endangering eyewounds no more be Where lovers first behold thy form in pilgrimage to thee. SHELLEY’S SKYLARK (_The neighbourhood of Leghorn_: _March_, 1887) SOMEWHERE afield here something lies In Earth’s oblivious eyeless trust That moved a poet to prophecies— A pinch of unseen, unguarded dust The dust of the lark that Shelley heard, And made immortal through times to be;— Though it only lived like another bird, And knew not its immortality. Lived its meek life; then, one day, fell— A little ball of feather and bone; And how it perished, when piped farewell, And where it wastes, are alike unknown. Maybe it rests in the loam I view, Maybe it throbs in a myrtle’s green, Maybe it sleeps in the coming hue Of a grape on the slopes of yon inland scene. Go find it, faeries, go and find That tiny pinch of priceless dust, And bring a casket silver-lined, And framed of gold that gems encrust; And we will lay it safe therein, And consecrate it to endless time; For it inspired a bard to win Ecstatic heights in thought and rhyme. IN THE OLD THEATRE, FIESOLE (_April_, 1887) I TRACED the Circus whose gray stones incline Where Rome and dim Etruria interjoin, Till came a child who showed an ancient coin That bore the image of a Constantine. She lightly passed; nor did she once opine How, better than all books, she had raised for me In swift perspective Europe’s history Through the vast years of Cæsar’s sceptred line. For in my distant plot of English loam ’Twas but to delve, and straightway there to find Coins of like impress. As with one half blind Whom common simples cure, her act flashed home In that mute moment to my opened mind The power, the pride, the reach of perished Rome. ROME: ON THE PALATINE (_April_, 1887) WE walked where Victor Jove was shrined awhile, And passed to Livia’s rich red mural show, Whence, thridding cave and Criptoportico, We gained Caligula’s dissolving pile. And each ranked ruin tended to beguile The outer sense, and shape itself as though It wore its marble hues, its pristine glow Of scenic frieze and pompous peristyle. When lo, swift hands, on strings nigh over-head, Began to melodize a waltz by Strauss: It stirred me as I stood, in Cæsar’s house, Raised the old routs Imperial lyres had led, And blended pulsing life with lives long done, Till Time seemed fiction, Past and Present one.