The Argosy — page 166: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

In Sunny Climes. I51 Gardens were mapped out, and one could almost hear the whispering trees, almost trace the paths and sections and the beautiful Portezza di Belvedere ; and just beyond them the Porta Romana, leading out into the broad thoroughfare of the Viale Petrarca and the open suburbs of the town. Spanning the river were the picturesque bridges, and to and fro in a small, incessant stream went the fair Florentines, occupied with their daily work. Over all were the lovely Italian skies. The broad sunshine fell upon all, gleamed and flashed upon the far-off river, lighted up the Cathedral dome, was reflected in a thousand flames from a thousand different points. ‘The air seemed filled with perfume, the eye was charmed with a thousand rainbow hues. It was fairy-land : a dream- world from which one hardly wished to awaken; a lotus-eating existence. Life seemed made up of poetry and music and rapture. Love’s hour-glass ran in golden sands, and ran for ever. The enchanter’s wand was upon you, and you dreamed that from love there was no awakening, no disenchantment. It was Paradise once more, where nothing changed and nothing died. ‘The trees were ever green, the skies blue, the sun unclouded, and youth and beauty never passed away. — Prep Ri kCRA_ et THE LAND OF MORN. THE candle flickered faint and low, The fire had died out long ago; The wall was blank, the floor was bare No ray of brightness hovered there ; Without the city’s ceaseless din— The stillness of despair within. No more the page he dimly scanned, His pen had fallen from his hand ; His weary head, in would-be rest, Had sunk down idly on his breast ; A tear that slumber could not chain Upon his cheek had left its stain. Yet whence the tranquil smile that shone So steadfast o’er those features wan? Ah! not of earth its peace was born, But in the far-off Land of Morn, Where the world’s shadows may not sweep, And Sorrow has eternal sleep! WILLIAM TOYNBEE, CORNICIOO® <S (C(O)