citizen in a public school, and one of his chief friends was Alberta Nota, a writer of liberal principles, whom he made his secretary.  As indicated in the poem, Charles at first declared himself in sympathy, though in a somewhat lukewarm manner, with the rising led by Santa Rosa against Austrian domination in 1823, and upon the abdication of Victor Emanuel he became regent of Turin.  But when the king Charles Felix issued a denunciation against the new government, Charles Albert succumbed to the king’s threats and left his friends in the lurch.  Later the Austrians marched into the country, Santa Rosa was forced to retreat from Turin, and, with his friends, he who might well have been the very patriot of the poem was obliged to fly from Italy.

19.  Metternich:  the distinguished Austrian diplomatist and determined enemy of Italian independence.

76.  Tenebrae:  darkness.  “The office of matins and lauds, for the three last days in Holy Week.  Fifteen lighted candles are placed on a triangular stand, and at the conclusion of each psalm one is put out till a single candle is left at the top of the triangle.  The extinction of the other candles is said to figure the growing darkness of the world at the time of the Crucifixion.  The last candle (which is not extinguished, but hidden behind the altar for a few moments) represents Christ, over whom Death could not prevail.’’ (Dr. Berdoe)

THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY Piano di Sorrento

Fort, Fort, my beloved one,
        Sit here by my side,
On my knees put up both little feet! 
        I was sure, if I tried,
I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. 
        Now, open your eyes,
Let me keep you amused till he vanish
        In black from the skies,
With telling my memories over
        As you tell your beads; 10
All the Plain saw me gather, I garland
        —­The flowers or the weeds.

Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn
        Had net-worked with brown
The white skin of each grape on the bunches,
        Marked like a quail’s crown,
Those creatures you make such account of,
        Whose heads—­speckled whlte
Over brown like a great spider’s back,
        As I told you last night—­ 20
Your mother bites off for her supper. 
        Red-ripe as could be,
Pomegranates were chapping and splitting
        In halves on the tree: 
And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone,
        Or in the thick dust
On the path, or straight out of the rockside,
        Wherever could thrust
Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower
        Its yellow face up, 30
For the prize were great butterflies fighting,
        Some five for one cup. 
So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning,