eye, are those that we still see. There are the oak and the opaque ilex,
the pine and the poplar, the dark, funereal cypress, the bright flower
of the too-short-lived rose, and the sweet-scented bed of violets. There
are the olive groves of Venafrum. Most lovely of sights and most
beautiful of figures, there is the purple-clustered vine of vari-colored
autumn wedded to the elm. There is the bachelor plane-tree. There are
the long-horned, grey-flanked, dark-muzzled, liquid-eyed cattle, grazing
under the peaceful skies of the Campagna or enjoying in the meadow their
holiday freedom from the plow; the same cattle that Carducci sings--

"I_n the grave sweetness of whose tranquil eyes_
O_f emerald, broad and still reflected, dwells_
A_ll the divine green silence of the plain_."

We are made to see the sterile rust on the corn, and to feel the blazing
heat of dog-days, when not a breath stirs as the languid shepherd leads
his flock to the banks of the stream. The sunny pastures of Calabria lie
spread before us, we see the yellow Tiber at flood, the rushing Anio,
the deep eddyings of Liris' taciturn stream, the secluded valleys of the
Apennines, the leaves flying before the wind at the coming of winter,
the snow-covered uplands of the Alban hills, the mead sparkling with
hoar-frost at the approach of spring, autumn rearing from the fields her
head decorous with mellow fruits, and golden abundance pouring forth
from a full horn her treasures upon the land. It is real Italy which
Horace cuts on his cameos,--real landscape, real flowers and fruits,
real men.

"What joy there is in these songs!"

writes Andrew Lang, in _Letters to Dead Authors_, "what delight of life,