CAGNES.

In tortuous windings up the steep incline

The sombre street toils to the village square,

Whose antique walls in stone and moulding bear

Dumb witness to the Moor. Afar off shine,

With tier on tier, cutting heaven's blue divine,

The snowy Alps; and lower the hills are fair,

With wave-green olives rippling down to where

Gold clusters hang and leaves of sunburnt vine.

You may perchance, I never shall forget

When, between twofold glory of land and sea,

We leant together o'er the old parapet,

And saw the sun go down. For, oh, to me,

The beauty of that beautiful strange place

Was its reflection beaming from your face.