University of Virginia Library

ON A PEASANT OF THE ABRUZZI MOUNTAINS.

Alas for thee, poor mountain Swain!
Alas for thee, whose fatal toil
Reaps death on Rome's sepulchral soil!
Rock, nor tree, nor kindly shed
Shade from the Dog-star's flame thy head.
Poor mountain Swain!
Nurs'd by the spirit of the untainted wind!
Thy sweat-drop boils upon the parch'd champain
Interminably spread.
In vain thou cast'st thy look behind:
O'er-wearied, ere thy noon-task done,
Thou sink'st beneath the blazing sun:
Vainly before thy failing eyes
The pine-woods of Abruzzi rise:
Vainly in currents cool and clear,
As if to mock thy mortal woe,
Thou seem'st to see, thou seem'st to hear
The fresh springs of Abruzzi flow.
The waving pine and waterfall
Thy spirit shall no more recall.
They, who, at Dawn's first roseate glow
Saw youth's keen ardor on thy brow,
While free winds with thy ringlets play'd,
Fresh'ning thy cheek with brighest bloom,
Ere Night lets fall her soothing shade,
Look on thy paleness in the tomb,
And weep upon their staff of age
Brôke, brôke, ere ceas'd their pilgrimage.