ON THE RIVIERA.

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.