JOURNEY FROM ROME TO NAPLES.

FROM where the Lateran's" front sublime,
Record of Sextus' power and taste,
Stands where the wrecks of olden time
Bestrew the lonely waste,

And far as vision can descry

Along that still deserted plain
The aqueducts' vast ranges lie,

And many a mouldering tower and wall
To contemplation's view recall

The glories of Rome's ancient reign,-
We pass, with eager eyes to explore
Parthenope's delicious shore,
Where liberal Nature kindly showers
Her blossoms, fruits, and gayest flowers.

And first, with verdant foliage crowned,
The far-famed Alban Hill we trace,
Belted with ancient tombs around,

Where sleep that wondrous race
That held the prostrate world in awe,
And gave barbarian nations law.

Yes there beside that silent road,

By consuls trod with conscious pride,

Her warriors found their dark abode,

And slumber side by side:

Through these with thoughtful steps and slow
Musing o'er ancient days we go,

n The magnificent façade of the Church of St. John Lateran is placed near the gate of the same name, and proudly overlooks the ancient walls of Rome, as well as the ruins of the desolate Campagna. It was built by Sextus V.

• The road to Albano diverges a little from the ancient via Appia, which is pleasantly marked by the remains of the ancient tombs which bordered it, and were once very magnificent. The whole scene is an affecting memento of the uncertainty of temporal things.

When farms and gardens, villas fair,
And domes sublimely raised in air,
And rattling cars and jocund strains
Adorned and cheered these vacant plains.
Traveller, approach the site with awe,
And thence thy moral lesson draw,
Since thrones and empires, heroes, kings,
Imperial pomp and sceptred pride,
And all earth's great and glorious things
Are still to dust allied;

Next soft Aricia's wooded hill

The Eneid's Latian scene commands,
And Dian's Mirror, beauteous still,
Embowered its silvery face expands ;
Or Linea Pia's' arrowy line
(Undaunted Braschi's bold design)
Conducts our feet to Anxur's height,

Where, throned 'midst glittering quarries white,
Theodoric's time-worn fabric stands,

And eyes, renowned in classic story,
The broad Circean promontory.

Skirting that rock's romantic side,

Where myrtles shed their rich perfume,

Old Ocean rolls his gentlest tide,

Glows the bright orange far and wide,

P Aricia, now called La Riccia, is reached by a richly wooded ascent, which commands the ancient kingdom of Latium to the sea.

a The Mirror of Diana: a sweet and lovely lake surrounded by verdant foliage. r The new road over the Pontine marshes, formed by the spirit and enterprise of Pius VI. of the house of Branchi, is called from him the Linea Pia. It is about twentyfive miles in length, and perfectly straight, shaded by double rows of trees, and having a canal by its side.

Terracina, formerly Anxur, has yet several antiquities, and amongst others the ruins of a palace built by Theodoric the Ostrogoth, which from its height commanded the coast, and consequently the bold projection called the Circaan promontory, described by Virgil in the Eneid.

And towering aloes bloom;
Amidst luxuriant fruits and flowers

Awhile the wondering eye reposes
Where Fondi rears his antique towers,
And dust and wretchedness discloses :

There ignorance wears his willing chain,
Nor intellectual joys can share,
Vice stalks, and guilt's appalling train,

Pale want and squallid age are there;
And suns may shine, and soils in vain
Teem, where disease and pining care
Unpitied to the grave descend,
Nor find one sympathising friend.

Man languishes, though seasons smile
(Sad union here too often found),
And sows in tears the lavish soil:
Can such, alas, be classic ground!

Oh, what avail Heaven's balmy gale,
And all of natural gifts and graces,
When honour, freedom, virtue fail,
And industry no longer braces!

Fruits have no relish, flowers no charm,
While nerveless falls the uplifted arm
Regardless of their country's weal,
When tyrant power and bigot zeal,
With superstition's aid, conspire
To damp each spark of generous fire.

All active energy of mind

To sloth and listlessness resigned,

* The ride from Terracina to Fondi is uncommonly delicious, and is in strong contrast with the wretchedness of that ancient but forlorn town, which struck us very forcibly, as it has done many other travellers. It will however be evident that the reflections made here are equally applicable to many other places in the Roman and Neapolitan States.-Va Misere.

No living germ do these contain

That may with worthier fruits be crowned,
Unfelt the precept's moral strain,

Unheard the Gospel's silver sound.

Now past tall Itri's" lowering seats,
And Appia's ancient causeway past,
Gay Mola,' 'midst her thousand sweets,
Receives our lingering steps at last,
Where softly o'er the unruffled deep,
O'er villas, gardens, wild rocks steep,
Warm suns and gentlest zephyrs sleep :
And whilst in memory's secret cell
One thought on earth's delights can dwell,
One joy her scenes impart,

So long before my ravished eyes
Campania's opening paradise

Shall rise and cheer my heart.

There Tully's injured spirit roves
Through lovely Formia's citron groves;
Or sits, on learned themes intent,

Beside his lonely monument ;*

"The ancient town of Itri is very romantically placed, with its church and castle, on a commanding eminence: the old via Appia, more than two thousand years old, passes through this town.

▾ Mola, the ancient Formia, seated on a beautiful bay, bounded on one side by the old town of Cajeta, now Gaeta, is a most attractive spot. Its gardens of oranges and lemons, its rude rocks, its soft and smiling ocean, its interesting antiquities, its glorious rising and setting suns can never be forgotten by us.

The great Marcus Tullius Cicero had a villa which he called his Formian Villa, and near it he was slain by order of Augustus, who could suffer no talent to exist unchained to his triumphal car.

* A ruined monument by the road-side is with some reason ascribed to the memory of that great orator, statesman, and patriot, who might truly be called "the last of Romans."

And guards the spot-oh, mark it well!
Still freedom droops and glory dies
Where he, "the last of Romans," fell,-
Ambition's costliest sacrifice.

There fancy paints at evening's close

When Horace,' to Brundusium bound,
A welcome warm at "Capitos"

With great Mæcenas found.

And, oh, behind that beauteous bay,
When sinks the radiant orb of day,
What stream of reddening glory falls
Along Gaeta's ancient walls,

Gilds ocean's breast with parting fires,
And faint on distant hills expires.

Now morning bids the Eastern skies

With sapphires blaze and burnished gold,

We rove to where fresh scenes arise
And all their varied charms unfold.

There Liris winds his easy way
By old Minturnæ's arches grey,
And memory points the inglorious spot
Where Marius bootless shelter sought,

Yet scaped unharmed the assassin's rage
To weep o'er Carthage kindred lot,

And dye with deeper stains the historic page;
There fields are spread whose wine and oil
Scarce asks the industrious peasant's toil,

y See Horace's "Her ad Brundusium," where he mentions supping with his illustrious
patron Mæcenas at Formia, with their friend Capito. "At Formia, supped at Capitos."
-Cowper's Translation.

* The ancient Liris still winds through soft and slimy banks to the ocean, as described
by Horace. Near its banks are the ruins of Minturnæ, in the reedy marshes of which
the implacable Caius Marius attempted in vain to find shelter from the enraged people.