6. Is it better in May, I ask you? you've summer all at once ; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns! 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell, Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. 7. Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash! In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foambows flash On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash Round the lady atop in the conch abash, fifty gazers do not Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash! 8. All the year long at the villa, nothing 's to see though you linger, Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean listed forefinger. Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. Ere opening your eyes in the city, the blessed churchbells begin: No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles in: You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene-picture — the new play. piping hot! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. Above it, behold the archbishop's most fatherly of * rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero, "And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of St. Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." Noor. strikes, here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! Bang, whang, whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. 10. But bless you, it's dear-it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers—but still - ah, the pity, the pity! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the |