nd best, and on her terrace the Brownings, Walter
Savage Landor, and many choice spirits have sipped tea while their eyes
drank in such a vision of beauty as Nature and Art have never equalled
elsewhere.

"No sun could die, nor yet be born, unseen
By dwellers at my villa: morn and eve
Were magnified before us in the pure
Illimitable space and pause of sky,
Intense as angels' garments blanched with God,
Less blue than radiant. From the outer wall
Of the garden dropped the mystic floating gray
Of olive-trees, (with interruptions green
From maize and vine,) until 't was caught and torn
On that abrupt line of dark cypresses
Which signed the way to Florence. Beautiful
The city lay along the ample vale,--
Cathedral, tower and palace, piazza and street;
The river trailing like a silver cord
Through all, and curling loosely, both before
And after, over the whole stretch of land,
Sown whitely up and down its opposite slopes
With farms and villas."

What Aurora Leigh saw from her tower is almost a counterpart of what
Mrs. Browning gazed upon so often from the terrace of Villa Brichieri.

Florence without the Trollopes and our Lady of Bellosguardo would be
like bread without salt. A blessing, then, upon houses which have been
spiritual asylums to many forlorn Americans!--a blessing upon their
inmates, whose hearts are as large and whose hands are as open as their
minds are broad and catholic!

A TOBACCONALIAN ODE.

O plant divine!
Not to the tuneful Nine,
Who sit where purple sunlight longest lingers,
Twining the bay, weaving with busy fingers
The amaranth eterne and sprays of vine,
Do I appeal. Ah, worthier brows than mine
Shall wear those wreaths! But thou, O potent plant,
Of thy broad fronds but furnish me a crown,
Let others sing the yellow corn, the vine,
And others for the laurel-garland pant,
Content with my rich meed, I'll sit me down,
Nor ask for fame, nor heroes' high renown,
Nor wine.
And ye, ye airy sprites,
Born of the Morning's womb, sired of the Sun,
Who cull with nice acumen, one by one,
All gentle influences from the air,
And from within the earth what most delights
The tender roots of springing plants, whose care
Distils from gross material its spirit
To paint the flower and give the fruit its merit,
Apply to my dull sense your s