Unfruitful rushes, broom with blossoms bright,
And ancient trunks, encased in gnarled mail,
And caves adorned with crystal stalactite;
Thou solitary bird of plaintive song,
Echo that all dost hear, and then repeat,
Frail vines upheld by stately elms and strong,
And silent mist, and shade, and dim retreat;
Welcome me! tranquil scenes for which I long—
The friend of haunts where peace and quiet meet.
I must not omit to say a word about a class of songs which, in Sicily as elsewhere, affords the most curious illustration of the universality of certain branches of folk-lore—I mean the nursery rhymes. One instance of this will serve for all. Sicilian nurses play a sort of game on the babies' features, which consists in lightly touching nose, mouth, eyes, &c., giving a caressing slap to the chin, and repeating at the same time—