From thy broad nostril damp and dark smokes forth thy breath, and like a joyful hymn thy lowing rises through the quiet air; and in the austere sweetness of thy grave and glaucous eye, ample and quiet is reflected the green and godlike silence of the plain. Another side of Pascoli’s mind reveals itself in his studies on Dante. The hope which _is company for me_, he writes, is to go down to posterity as an interpreter of Dante, as an illustrator of the great Poet’s mind and thought. He has already published a book, _La Minerva Oscura_, for professional Dantisti; and is about to issue a series of articles for the general public. Pascoli is now occupied on a translation, in hexameters, of the Homeric poems; and will shortly publish the glottological studies and the experiments by which he has prepared himself for his task. That he is capable of treating Greek subjects with Greek directness and simplicity, and without any affectation of Greek forms (a pitfall into which D’Annunzio continually stumbles) will be seen in the poem which closes this paper. THE SLEEP OF ODYSSEUS. I. Nine days, by moon and sun, the black ship sped, Wind-borne, helm-guided, while the creaking ropes Were governed by Odysseus’ cunning hand; Nor—wearied—did he yield them, for the wind Bore him on ever toward his country dear. Nine days, by moon and sun, the black ship sped, The hero’s eye seeking unwaveringly The rocky isle ’mid the blue-twinkling waves: Content if, ere he died, he saw again Its smoke-wreaths rising blue into the air. The tenth day, where the ninth day’s setting sun Had vanished in a blinding blaze of gold, He, peering, saw a shapeless blot of black: Cloud was’t he saw, or land? And his grave eye Swam, conquered by the sweetness of the dawn. Far off Odysseus’ heart was rapt by sleep. II. And, moving towards the ship’s swift flight, it seemed, Behold a land! that nearer, nearer sailed In misty blue, ’mid the blue-twinkling waves. Anon a purple peak that stormed the sky; Then down the peak the frothing gullies leaped ’mid tufts of bristling brushwood and bare rock; And on its spurs sprang into view long rows Of vines; and at its feet the verdant fields Fleecy with shimmering blades of new-sprung grain, Till it stood out entire—a rocky isle, Harsh, and not pasture fit for neighing steed, Altho’ good nurse for oxen and wild goats. And here and there, upon the airy peaks, Died, in the clearness of the wakening dawn, The herdsmen’s fires: and here and there shot up The morning swirl of smoke from Ithaca— His home at last—! But King Odysseus’ heart Floating profound in sleep, beheld it not. III.