Up at a Villa—Down in the City (As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality)

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast;While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bullJust on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull,Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!--I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turnedwool.

But the city, oh, the city--the square with the houses! Why?They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take theeye!Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry;You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by;Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun getshigh;And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights,'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off theheights:You've the brown plowed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze,And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint grayolive-trees.

Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once;In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns.'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well,The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bellLike a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pickand sell.

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash!In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flashOn the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle andpashRound the lady atop in her conch--fifty gazers do not abash,Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in asort of sash.

All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger,Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger.Some think fireflies pretty when they mix i' the corn and mingle,Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.Late August or early September, the stunning cicala isshrill,And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on thehill.Enough of the seasons--I spare you the months of the fever and chill.

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin;No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in;You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin.By and by there's the traveling doctor gives pills, lets blood, drawsteeth;Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.At the post office such a scene-picture--the new play, piping hot!And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot.Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes,And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of theDuke's!Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so,Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero;"And, moreover" (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of Saint Paulhas reached,Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous thanever he preached."Noon strikes--here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling andsmartWith a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in herheart!Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife;No keeping one's haunches still; it's the greatest pleasure in life.

But bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at doublethe rate.They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing thegateIt's a horror to think of. And so the villa for me, not the city!Beggars can scarcely be choosers; but still--ah, the pity, the pity!Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls andsandals,And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding theyellow candles;One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles,And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention ofscandals;Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife.Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!