When all the World is Young, 65 



winged butterflies, resting on the sweet lips of an 

 orchis, or on the crimson petals of a cyclamen. 



And everywhere, like the genii of the place, innu- 

 merable lizards, clouded with exquisite tones of brown 

 and green, sun themselves on every stone, and cling 

 to the rough bark of the ancient olive-trees, and at 

 the sound of footsteps vanish swift as thought into 

 unsuspected crannies in the walls. 



At times a dark snake, basking on a heap of frag- 

 ments overgrown with thyme, and borage, and cycla- 

 men, uncoils its dusky folds and glides rustling away. 



At times there floats upon the quiet air the music 

 of the nightingale. 



Everywhere among the ilex thickets sounds the 

 blackcap's song. The little singers have reached the 

 limit of their wanderings ; they will never pass beyond 

 the gray fringe of olives that skirts the rugged hills. 



No note of discord breaks the quiet of their rest. 

 The god of silence, long since borne from his neglected 

 shrine, sits forlorn amid the stir of Rome ; but still 

 his reign endures, broken only by hushed footfalls on 

 the turf, by rustle of timid creatures in the grass, by 

 sigh of wind, or song of nightingale. 



What wonder if, amid the peace and beauty of this 

 fair retreat, the wanderers should pause from their 

 weary journey, fold their tired wings, and sing in 

 plaintive tone — 



1 — Our island home 

 Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer roam.' 



5 



