ng by thy slopes,
And tell them of my cherished dream,--
To see upon thy storied height
A palace worthy of the site;

Not meaningless, not merely vast,
Nor crudely modern in design,
But something suited to thy past,--
For highest art a hallowed shrine,
A classic home of long ago,
The Tusculum of Cicero.

Then roses, rich in sweet perfume,
Shall wreathe with bloom each terraced wall,
And, scattered through the leafy gloom
Of olive-groves and laurels tall,
Shall many a marble nymph and faun
Grow lovelier from the flush of dawn.

So let me dream! I may not see
That stately palace crown thy brow,
Those roses may not bloom for me,
But, as thou art, I love thee now,
Content thy future to resign
To abler portraiture than mine.

Sweet Comacina, fare thee well!
Across the water's placid breast
The music of the vesper-bell
Invites me to my port of rest;
Fair jewel of this inland sea,
May all the gods be good to thee!

THE OLD CARRIER

("Old Lucia", who for many years walked back and forth, every day and in
all weathers, between Azzano and Menaggio, a distance of six miles,
bearing merchandise of all sorts in a basket on her back, fell to the
ground exhausted, as she was nearing her poor home on Christmas Eve,
1907. She died next morning at the age of seventy-three. At the time she
fell, she was carrying a load of nearly one hundred pounds!)

Patient toiler on the road,
Bending 'neath your heavy load,
Worn and furrowed is your face,
Slow and tremulous your pace,
Yet you still pursue your way,
Bearing burdens day by day,
With the same pathetic smile,
Over many a weary mile,
As you bravely come and go
To and from Menaggio.

Snowy white, your scanty hair
Crowns a forehead seamed with care,
And a look of suffering lies
In your clear-blue, wistful eyes;
While your thin and ashen cheek
Tells the tale you will not speak,
Of a lodging dark and old,
And a hearth so bare and cold
That you often hungry go
To and from Menaggio.

Never know you days of rest;
Ceaseless is your humble quest
Of the pittance that you ask
For your arduous daily task.
Every morning sees your form
Pass through sunshine or through storm;
Every evening hears your feet
Trudging up the darkened street;
For your gait is always slow,
Coming from Menaggio.

Once your dull eyes gleamed with light;
Once those arms were round and white;
And the feet, now roughly shod,
Lightly danced upon the sod,
As to womanhood you grew
And a l