GALILEO’S TOWER.
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the old grey walls the long, soft, thick leaf of the arums grew, shading
their yet unborn lilies.
•The air was full of a dreamy fragrance : the bullocks went on their
slow way with flowers in their leathern frontlets ; the contadini had
flowers stuck behind their ears or in their waistbands ; women sat by
the wayside, singing as they plaited their yellow curling lengths of straw;
children frisked and tumbled like young rabbits under the budding
maples ; the plum trees strewed the green landscape with flashes of
white like newly-fallen snow on Alpine grass slopes ; again and again
amongst the tender pallor of the olive woods there rose the beautiful
flush of a rosy almond tree ; at every step the passer-by trod ankle-deep
in violets.
About the foot of the Tower of Galileo ivy and vervain, and the
Madonna’s herb, and the white sexagons of the stars of Bethlehem
grew amongst the grasses ; pigeons paced to and fro with pretty pride
of plumage ; a dog slept on the flags ; the cool, moist, deep-veined
creepers climbed about the stones ; there were peach trees in all the
beauty of their blossoms, and everywhere about them were close-set
olive trees, with the ground between them scarlet with the tulips and
the wild rose bushes.
•From a window a girl leaned out and hung a cage amongst the ivy
leaves, that her bird might sing his vespers to the sun.
•Who will may see the scene to-day.
•T’he world has spoiled most of its places of pilgrimage, but the old
Star Tower is not harmed as yet, where it stands amongst its quiet
garden ways and grass-grown slopes, up high amongst the hills, with
sounds of dripping water on its court, and wild wood-flowers thrusting
their bright heads through its stones. It is as peaceful, as simple, as
homely, as closely-girt with blossoming boughs and with tulip-crimsoned
grasses now as then, when, from its roof, in the still midnight of far-off
time, its master read the secrets of the stars.'—Pascarel.
«Nearer we hail
Thy sunny slope, Arcetri, sung of old
For its green vine ; dearer to me, to most,
As dwelt on by that great astronomer,
Seven years a prisoner at the city-gate,
Let in but in his grave clothes. Sacred be
His villa (justly it was called the Gem) !!
Sacred the lawn, where many a cypress threw
Its length of shadow, while he watched the stars
Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight
Glimmered, at blush of morn he dressed his vines,
Chanting aloud in gaiety of heart
Il Giojello.