Though "_far niente_" is their passion, they Seem here most eloquent in things most slight; No matter what it is they have to say, The manner always sets the matter right. And when they've plagued or pleased you all the day They sweetly wish you "a most happy night." Then, if they fib, and if their stories tease you, 'Tis always something that they've wished to please you. O, come to Rome, nor be content to read Alone of stately palaces and streets Whose fountains ever run with joyous speed, And never-ceasing murmur. Here one meets Great Memnon's monoliths--or, gay with weed, Rich capitals, as corner stones, or seats-- The sites of vanished temples, where now moulder Old ruins, hiding ruin even older. Ay, come, and see the pictures, statues, churches, Although the last are commonplace, or florid. Some say 'tis here that superstition perches,-- Myself I'm glad the marbles have been quarried. The sombre streets are worthy your researches: The ways are foul, the lava pavement's horrid, But pleasant sights, which squeamishness disparages, Are missed by all who roll about in carriages. About one fane I deprecate all sneering, For during Christmas-time I went there daily, Amused, or edified--or both--by hearing The little preachers of the _Ara Coeli_. Conceive a four-year-old _bambina_ rearing Her small form on a rostrum, tricked out gaily, And lisping, what for doctrine may be frightful, With action quite dramatic and delightful. O come! We'll charter such a pair of nags! The country's better seen when one is riding: We'll roam where yellow Tiber speeds or lags At will. The aqueducts are yet bestriding With giant march (now whole, now broken crags With flowers plumed) the swelling and subsiding Campagna, girt by purple hills, afar-- That melt in light beneath the evening star. A drive to Palestrina will be pleasant-- The wild fig grows where erst her turrets stood; There oft, in goat-skins clad, a sun-burnt peasant Like Pan comes frisking from his ilex wood, And seems to wake the past time in the present. Fair _contadina_, mark his mirthful mood, No antique satyr he. The nimble fellow Can join with jollity your _Salterello_. Old sylvan peace and liberty! The breath Of life to unsophisticated man. Here Mirth may pipe, here Love may weave his wreath, "_Per dar' al mio bene_." When you can, Come share their leafy solitudes. Grim Death And Time are grudging of Life's little span: Wan Time speeds swiftly o'er the waving corn, Death grins from yonder cynical old thorn.