adverse circumstances, have kept alive a flame, which may well be considered as imperishable, since the "ten thousand tyrants" of the land have failed to quench its brightness. We present our readers with a few of the minor effusions, in which the indignant though unavailing regrets of those who, to use the words of Alfieri, are "slaves, yet still indignant slaves," have been feelingly portrayed.

The first of these productions must, in the original, be familiar to every reader who has any acquaintance with Italian literature.

VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.

WHEN from the mountain's brow the gathering shades

Of twilight fall, on one deep thought I dwell: Day beams o'er other lands, if here she fades, Nor bids the universe at once farewell. But thou, I cry, my country! what a night

Spreads o'er thy glories one dark sweeping pall! Thy thousand triumphs, won by valour's might

And wisdom's voice-what now remains of all? And see'st thou not th' ascending flame of war Burst through thy darkness, reddening from afar? Is not thy misery's evidence complete? But if endurance can thy fall delay, Still, still endure, devoted one! and say, If it be victory thus but to retard defeat.

ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI.

ITALIA! oh, no more Italia now!

Scarce of her form a vestige dost thou wear: She was a queen with glory mantled-thou, A slave, degraded, and compell'd to bear. [care Chains gird thy hands and feet; deep clouds of Darken thy brow, once radiant as thy skies;

And shadows, born of terror and despairShadows of death have dimm'd thy glorious eyes. Italia! oh, Italia now no more!

For thee my tears of shame and anguish flow; And the glad strains my lyre was wont to pour

Are changed to dirge-notes: but my deepest woo Is, that base herds of thine own sons the while Behold thy miseries with insulting smile.

ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI.

SHE that cast down the empires of the world, And, in her proud triumphal course through

Rome,

Dragg'd them, from freedom and dominion hurl'd, Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o'ercome: I see her now, dismantled of her state,

Spoil'd of her sceptre, crouching to the ground Beneath a hostile car-and lo! the weight Of fetters, her imperial neck around! Oh! that a stranger's envious hands had wrought This desolation! for I then would say, "Vengeance, Italia !"-in the burning thought Losing my grief: but 'tis th' ignoble sway Of vice hath bow'd thee! Discord, slothful case, Theirs is that victor car; thy tyrant lords are these.

CARLO MARIA MAGGI.

[sleep

I CRY aloud, and ye shall hear my call,
Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep,
And blue Tyrrhene! Let him first roused from
Startle the next! one peril broods o'er all.
It nought avails that Italy should plead,

Forgetting valour, sinking in despair,
At strangers' feet!-our land is all too fair;
Nor tears, nor prayers, can check ambition's speed.
In vain her faded check, her humbled eye,
For pardon sue; 'tis not her agony,

Her death alone may now appease her foes.
Be theirs to suffer who to combat shun!
But oh, weak pride! thus feeble and undone,
. Nor to wage battle nor endure repose!

1 "Schiavi siam, ma schiavi ognor frementi."—ALFIERI.

FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI.

THE SHORE OF AFRICA.

PILGRIM! whose steps those desert sands explore, Where verdure never spreads its bright array; Know, 'twas on this inhospitable shore

From Pompey's heart the life-blood ebb'd away. Twas here betray'd he fell, neglected lay; Nor found his relics a sepulchral stone,

Whose life, so long a bright triumphal day, O'er Tiber's wave supreme in glory shone! Thou, stranger! if from barbarous climes thy birth, Look round exultingly, and bless the earth

Where Rome, with him, saw power and virtue die; But if 'tis Roman blood that fills thy veins, Then, son of heroes! think upon thy chains, And bathe with tears the grave of liberty.

JEU-D'ESPRIT ON THE WORD "BARB."

["It was either during the present or a future visit to the same friends,1 that the jeu-d'esprit was produced which Mrs Hemans used to call her sheet of forgeries' on the use of the word Barb. A gentleman had requested her to furnish him with some authorities from the old English writers, proving that this term was in use as applied to a steed. She very shortly supplied him with the following imitations, which were written down almost impromptu: the mystification succeeded perfectly, and was not discovered until some time afterwards.”—Memoir, p. 43.]

THE warrior donn'd his well-worn garb,
And proudly waved his crest,
He mounted on his jet-black barb,

Why, he can heel the lavolt, and wind a fiery barb, as well as any gallant in Christendom. He's the very pink and mirror of accomplishment.

SHAKSPEARE.

Fair star of beauty's heaven! to call thee mine,
All other joys I joyously would yield ;
My knightly crest, my bounding barb resign,

For the poor shepherd's crook and daisied field; For courts or camps no wish my soul would prove, So thou wouldst live with me, and be my love! EARL OF SURREY'S Poems.

For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown Heedless of youthful sports: I seek no more Or joyous dance, or music's thrilling tone,

Or joys that once could charm in minstrel lore, Or knightly tilt where steel-clad champions meet, Borne on impetuous barbs to bleed at beauty's feet. SHAKSPEARE'S Sonnets.

As a warrior clad

In sable arms, like chaos dull and sad,
But mounted on a barb as white
As the fresh new-born light,-

So the black night too soon

Came riding on the bright and silver moon,
Whose radiant heavenly ark

Made all the clouds, beyond her influence, seem
E'en more than doubly dark,
Mourning, all widow'd of her glorious beam.
COWLEY.

THE FEVER DREAM.

[Amongst the very few specimens that have been preserved of Mrs Hemans's livelier effusions, which she never wrote with any other view than the momentary amusement of her own immediate circle, is a letter addressed about this time to her sister who was then travelling in Italy. The following extracts from this familiar epistle may serve to show her facility in a style of composition which she latterly entirely discontinued. The first part alludes to a strange fancy produced by an attack of fever, the description of which had given rise to many pleasantries-being an imaginary voyage to China, performed in a cocoa-nut shell with that eminent old English worthy, John Evelyn.]

APROPOS of your illness, pray give, if you please,
Some account of the converse you held on high seas
With Evelyn, the excellent author of "Sylva,"
A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa.
I think that old Neptune was visited ne'er
In so well-rigg'd a ship, by so well-matched a pair.
There could not have fallen, dear H., to your lot any
Companion more pleasant, since you're fond of

botany,

And his horticultural talents are known, Just as well as Canova's for fashioning stone.

Of the vessel you sail'd in, I just will remark That I ne'er heard before of so curious a bark. Of gondola, coracle, pirogue, canoe,

I have read very often, as doubtless have you;
Of the Argo conveying that hero young Jason;
Of the ship moor'd by Trajan in Nemi's deep basin;
Of the galley (in Plutarch you'll find the description)
Which bore along Cydnus the royal Egyptian;
Of that wonderful frigate (see "Curse of Kehama")
Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama,
And the venturous barks of Columbus and Gama.
But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a
Full half of their fame, since your voyage to China,
(I'm astonish'd no shocking disaster befel,)
In that swift-sailing first-rate-a cocoa-nut shell !

I hope, my dear H., that you touch'd at Loo Choo, That abode of a people so gentle and true, Who with arms and with money have nothing to do. How calm must their lives be! so free from all fears Of running in debt, or of running on spears! Oh dear! what an Eden!-a land without money! It excels e'en the region of milk and of honey, Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a book Full of musk, gems, and roses, and call'd "Lalla Rookh."

More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi,
Of whose travels-related in elegant phrases-
I have seen many extracts, and heard many praises,
And have copied (you know I let nothing escape)
His striking account of the frozen North Cape.
I think 'twas in his works I read long ago
(I've not the best memory for dates, as you know,)
Of a warehouse, where sugar and treacle were stored,
Which took fire (I suppose being made but of board)
In the icy domains of some rough northern hero,
Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero.
Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out,
And in streams, just like lava, meander'd about,
You may fancy the curious effect of the weather,
The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together.
When my first for a moment had harden'd my last,
My second burst out, and all melted as fast;
To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on,
But I quite forget which of the elements won.

But a truce with all joking-I hope you'll excuse me,

Since I know you still love to instruct and amuse me,
For hastily putting a few questions down,
To which answers from you all mywishes will crown;

For you know I'm so fond of the land of Corinne That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts within,

And I read all that authors, or gravely or wittily,
Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy; [tour,
From your shipmate John Evelyn's amusing old
To Forsyth's one volume, and Eustace's four,
In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances
At the classical Eustace, and says he romances.
-Pray describe me from Venice, (don't think it

a bore,)

The literal state of the famed Bucentaur, And whether the horses, that once were the sun's, Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy bronze; For some travellers say one thing, and some say another, [pother.

And I can't find out which, they all make such a Oh! another thing, too, which I'd nearly forgot, Are the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not? These are matters of moment, you'll surely allow, For Venice must interest all-even now.

These points being settled, I ask for no more hence, [Florence. But should wish for a few observations from Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti Are finish'd; if not 'tis a shame for the city To let one for ages-was e'er such a thing?— Its entablature want, and the other its wing. Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at Easter, And watch her swift flight, when the priests have released her)

Is a turtle, or ring-dove, or but a wood-pigeon,
Which makes people gulls in the name of Religion?
Pray tell if the forests of famed Vallombrosa
Are cut down or not; for this, too, is a Cosa
About which I'm anxious-as also to know
If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago,
Came back (above all, don't forget this to mention)
To that manuscript library called the Laurentian.

Since I wrote the above, I by chance have

found out, [doubt; That the horses are bright yellow brass beyond So I'll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing, Do you think they are truly Lysippus's doing? -When to Naples you get, let me know, if you will, If the Acqua Toffana's in fashion there still; For, not to fatigue you with needless verbosity, "Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity. I should like to have also, and not written shabbily, Your opinion about the Piscina mirabile; And whether the tomb, which is near Sannazaro's, Is decided by you to be really Maro's.

AMIDST the peopled and the regal isle,
Whose vales, rejoicing in their beauty, smile;
Whose cities, fearless of the spoiler, tower,
And send on every breeze a voice of power;
Hath Desolation rear'd herself a throne,
And mark'd a pathless region for her own?
Yes! though thy turf no stain of carnage wore
When bled the noble hearts of many a shore;
Though not a hostile step thy heath-flowers bent
When empires totter'd, and the earth was rent;
Yet lone, as if some trampler of mankind
Had still'd life's busy murmurs on the wind,
And, flush'd with power in daring pride's excess,
Stamp'd on thy soil the curse of barrenness;
For thee in vain descend the dews of heaven,
In vain the sunbeam and the shower are given,
Wild Dartmoor! thou that, midst thy mountains
rude,

Hast robed thyself with haughty solitude,
As a dark cloud on summer's clear blue sky,
A mourner, circled with festivity!
For all beyond is life!—the rolling sea,

The rush, the swell, whose echoes reach not thee.
Yet who shall find a scene so wild and bare
But man has left his lingering traces there?
E'en on mysterious Afric's boundless plains,
Where noon with attributes of midnight reigns,

1 "In some parts of Dartmoor, the surface is thickly strewed with stones, which in many instances appear to have been collected into piles, on the tops of prominent hillocks, as if in imitation of the natural Tors. The Stone-barrows of

CAMPBELL.

WORDSWORTH.

In gloom and silence fearfully profound,
As of a world unwaked to soul or sound.
Though the sad wanderer of the burning zone
Feels, as amidst infinity, alone,

And naught of life be near, his camel's tread
Is o'er the prostrate cities of the dead!
Some column, rear'd by long-forgotten hands,
Just lifts its head above the billowy sands-
Some mouldering shrine still consecrates the scene,
And tells that glory's footstep there hath been.
There hath the spirit of the mighty pass'd,
Not without record; though the desert blast,
Borne on the wings of Time, hath swept away
The proud creations rear'd to brave decay.
But thou, lone region! whose unnoticed name
No lofty deeds have mingled with their fame,
Who shall unfold thine annals?-who shall tell
If on thy soil the sons of heroes fell,

In those far ages which have left no trace,
No sunbeam, on the pathway of their race?
Though, haply, in the unrecorded days

Of kings and chiefs who pass'd without their praise,
Thou mightst have rear'd the valiant and the free,
In history's page there is no tale of thee.

Yet hast thou thy memorials. On the wild, Still rise the cairns, of yore all rudely piled,1

Dartmoor resemble the cairns of the Cheviot and Grampian hills, and those in Cornwall."-See COOKE's Topographical Survey of Devonshire.

But hallow'd by that instinct which reveres
Things fraught with characters of elder years.
And such are these. Long centuries are flown,
Bow'd many a crest, and shatter'd many a throne,
Mingling the urn, the trophy, and the bust, [dust.
With what they hide-their shrined and treasured
Men traverse Alps and oceans, to behold
Earth's glorious works fast mingling with her mould;
But still these nameless chronicles of death,
Midst the deep silence of the unpeopled heath,
Stand in primeval artlessness, and wear
The same sepulchral mien, and almost share
Th' eternity of nature, with the forms
Of the crown'd hills beyond, the dwellings of the

[storms.

Yet what avails it if each moss-grown heap Still on the waste its lonely vigils keep, Guarding the dust which slumbers well beneath (Nor needs such care) from each cold season's breath?

Where is the voice to tell their tale who rest,
Thus rudely pillow'd, on the desert's breast?
Doth the sword sleep beside them? Hath there been
A sound of battle midst the silent scene
Where now the flocks repose?-did the scythed car
Here reap its harvest in the ranks of war?
And rise these piles in memory of the slain,
And the red combat of the mountain-plain?

It may be thus:—the vestiges of strife,
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life,
And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell1
How by its stroke, perchance, the mighty fell
To be forgotten. Vain the warrior's pride,
The chieftain's power-they had no bard, and died.
But other scenes, from their untroubled sphere,
The eternal stars of night have witness'd here.
There stands an altar of unsculptured stone,3
Far on the moor, a thing of ages gone,
Propp'd on its granite pillars, whence the rains
And pure bright dews have laved the crimson
stains

Left by dark rites of blood: for here, of yore,
When the bleak waste a robe of forest wore,
And many a crested oak, which now lies low,
Waved its wild wreath of sacred mistletoe-

1 Flint arrow-leads have occasionally been found upon Dartmoor.

2 "Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona
Multi; sed omnes illachrymabiles
Urgentur, ignotique longâ

Nocte, carent quia vate sacro."-HORACE.

"They had no poet, and they died."-POPE's Translation.

On the east of Dartmoor are some Druidical remains, one

Here, at dim midnight, through the haunted shade,

On druid-harps the quivering moonbeam play'd, And spells were breathed, that fill'd the deepening gloom

With the pale, shadowy people of the tomb.
Or, haply, torches waving through the night
Bade the red cairn-fires blaze from every height,*
Like battle-signals, whose unearthly gleams
Threw o'er the desert's hundred hills and streams,
A savage grandeur; while the starry skies
Rang with the peal of mystic harmonies,

As the loud harp its deep-toned hymns sent forth
To the storm-ruling powers, the war-gods of the
North.

But wilder sounds were there: th' imploring cry That woke the forest's echo in reply, But not the heart's! Unmoved the wizard train Stood round their human victim, and in vain His prayer for mercy rose; in vain his glance Look'd up, appealing to the blue expanse, Where in their calm immortal beauty shone Heaven's cloudless orbs. With faint and fainter

moan,

Bound on the shrine of sacrifice he lay,
Till, drop by drop, life's current ebb'd away;
Till rock and turf grew deeply, darkly red,
And the pale moon gleam'd paler on the dead.
Have such things been, and here ?-where stillness
dwells

Midst the rude barrows and the moorland swells,
Thus undisturb'd? Oh! long the gulf of time
Hath closed in darkness o'er those days of crime,
And earth no vestige of their path retains,
Save such as these, which strew her loneliest plains
With records of man's conflicts and his doom,
His spirit and his dust-the altar and the tomb.
But ages roll'd away: and England stood
With her proud banner streaming o'er the flood;
And with a lofty calmness in her eye,
And regal in collected majesty,

To breast the storm of battle. Every breeze
Bore sounds of triumph o'er her own blue seas;
And other lands, redeem'd and joyous, drank
The life-blood of her heroes, as they sank

of which is a Cromlech, whose three rough pillars of granite support a ponderous table-stone, and form a kind of large irregular tripod.

4 In some of the Druid festivals, fires were lighted on all the cairns and eminences around, by priests, carrying sacred torches. All the household fires were previously extinguished, and those who were thought worthy of such a privilege, were allowed to relight them with a flaming brand, kindled at the consecrated cairn-fire.