SAN TERENZO.

Mid April seemed like some November day, When through the glassy waters, dull as lead, Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead, Slipped down the curved shores of the Spezian bay, Rounded a point,— and San Terenzo lay Before us, that gay village, yellow and red, With walls that covered Shelley's homeless head,— His house, a place deserted, bleak and grey.

The waves broke on the door-step; fishermen Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again. Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free, When suddenly the forest glades were stirred With waving pinions, and a great sea bird Flew forth, like Shelley's spirit, to the sea!