228

AT THE STATION ON AN AUTUMN

MORNING.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF GIOSUE CARDUCCI.

LAMP after lamp how the lights go trooping, Stretching behind the trees, dreamily yonder; Through the branches adrip with the shower The light slants and gleams on the puddles.

Plaintively, shrilly, piercingly whistles

Her gentle presence—far brighter
The glory my thoughts set around her.

There in the rain, in the dreary darkness
I turn me, and with them would mingle my
being;

I stagger; then touch myself grimly-
Not yet as a ghost am I moving.

O what a falling of leaves, never-ending,

heavens

Up above, and the Autumn morning
Ghostlike glimmers around me.

Whither and whence move the people hurrying
Into dark carriages, muffled and silent?
To what sorrows unknown are they rushing —
Long tortures of hopes that will tarry?

You too, oh fair one, are dreamily holding Your ticket now for the guard's sharp clipping

Ah, so clips Time, ever relentless,
Joys, memories, and years that are golden.

Far-stretching the dark train stands, and the workmen

Black-capped, up and down keep moving like shadows;

In his hand bears each one a lantern,
And each one a hammer of irom.

And the iron they strike sends a hollow re

sounding

Mournful; and out of the heart an echo
Mournfully answers, a sudden

Dull pang of regret that is weary.

Now the hurrying slam of the doors grows insulting

And loud, and scornful the rapidly sounding
Summons to start and delay not;
The rain dashes hard on the windows.

Puffing, shuddering, panting, the monster
Now feels life stir in its limbs of iron,
And opens its eyes, and startles
The dim far space with a challenge.

Then on moves the evil thing, horribly trailing
Its length, and, beating its wings, bears from

I feel that forever around me

The earth has grown all one November.

COWPER.

As o'er the hushed hills and the sleeping plain, After long hours, the weary watcher sees The night grow pale, and hears amid the trees The wind that swooned at even wake again; While one by one the starry clusters wane,

Till, lonely left, more silvery clear than these, Mild Phosphor rules the dawn's soft mysteries,

Ushering in Hyperion's golden reign;
So, taking simple nature for its theme,

Thy gentle song, inspired with purpose high,
Shot through the latter dusk a welcome gleam,
Gracing afresh the realms of Poesy,
And sparkling purely with its playful beam
In herald-radiance told of Wordsworth nigh.
Spectator.
HERBERT B. GARROD.