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ALESSANDRO MARCHETTI.

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,"1 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.

"1

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 compellid 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.

VINCENZO DA FILICAJA.

ALESSANDRO PEGOLOTTI.

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.

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

Rome, Dragg'd them, from freedom and dominion hurld,

Bound by the hair, pale, humbled, and o'ercome: I see her now, dismantled of her state,

Spoild 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.

FRANCESCO MARIA DE CONTI.

THE SHORE OF AFRICA.

I cry aloud, and ye shall hear my call,

Arno, Sessino, Tiber, Adrian deep, (sleep

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 !

PILGRIN! whose steps thosc 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 powerand 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.

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

his way.

a

JEU-D' ESPRIT ON THE WORD "BARB.” Why, he can heel the lavolt; and wind a fiery

barb, as well as any gallant in Christendom. He's [" It was either during the present or a future visit to the

the very pink and mirror of accomplishment. same friends, that the jeu-d'esprit was produced which Mrs Hemans used to call her sheet of forgeries' on the use of the

SHAKSPEARE. word Barb. A gentleman had requested her to furnish him

Fair star of beauty's heaven ! to call thee mine, with some authorities from the old English writers, proving

All other joys I joyously would yield; that this term was in use as applied to a steed. She very shortly supplied him with the following imitations, which

My knightly crest, my bounding barb resign, were written down almost impromptu : the mystification suc- For the poor shepherd's crook and daisied field; ceeded perfectly, and was not discovered until some time after

For courts or camps no wish my soul would prove, wards."-Memoir, p. 43.]

So thou wouldst live with me, and be my love ! THE warrior donn'd his well-worn garb,

EARL OF SURREY's Poems. And proudly waved his crest,

For thy dear love my weary soul hath grown He mounted on his jet-black barb,

Heedless of youthful sports : I seek no more And put his lance in rest. PERCY's Reliqucs. Or joyous dance, or music's thrilling tone,

Or joys that once could charm in minstrel lore, Eftsoons the wight, withouten more delay, Or knightly tilt where steel-clad champions meet, Spurr'd his brown barb, and rode full swiftly on Borne on impetuous barbs to bleed at beauty's feet.

SPENSER.

SHAKSPEARE'S Sonnets.

As a warrior clad
Hark! was it not the trumpet's voice I heard ? In sable arms, like chaos dull and sad,
The soul of battle is awake within me !

But mounted on a barb as white
The fate of ages and of empires hangs

As the fresh new-born light, On this dread hour. Why am I not in arms ?

So the black night too soon Bring my good lance, caparison my steed !

Came riding on the bright and silver moon, Base, idle grooms ! are ye in league against me?

Whose radiant heavenly ark Haste with my barb, or, by the holy saints,

Made all the clouds, beyond her influence, seem Ye shall not live to saddle him to-morrow!

E'en more than doubly dark,
MASSINGER.
Mourning, all widow'd of her glorious beam.

COWLEY. No sooner had the pearl-shedding fingers of the young Aurora tremulously unlocked the oriental portals of the golden horizon, than the graceful

THE FEVER DREAJ. flower of chivalry and the bright cynosure of

[Amongst the very few specimens that have been preserved ladies' eyes-he of the dazzling breastplate and

of Mrs Hemans's livelier effusions, which she never wrote swanlike plume-sprang impatiently from the

with any other view than the momentary amusement of her couch of slumber, and eagerly mounted the noble own immediate circle, is a letter addressed about this time to barb presented to him by the Emperor of Aspra

her sister who was then travelling in Italy. The following montania. SIR PHILIP SIDNEY'S Arcadia.

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 proSee'st thou yon chief whose presence seems to rule duced by an attack of fever, the description of which had The storm of battle? Lo ! where'er he moves given rise to many pleasantries-being an imaginary voyage Death follows. Carnage sits upon his crest

to China, performed in a cocoa-nut shell with that eminent

old English worthy, John Evelyn.] Fate on his sword is throned—and his white barb, As a proud courser of Apollo's chariot,

APROPOS of your illness, pray give, if you please, Seems breathing fire. POTTER'S Æschylus. Some account of the converse you held on high seas

With Evelyn, the excellent author of “ 'Sylva,” Oh ! bonnie look'd my ain true knight, A work that is very much prized at Bronwylfa. His barb so proudly reining;

I think that old Neptune was visited ne'er I watch'd him till my tearfu' sight

In so well-rigg'd a ship, by so well-matched a pair. Grew amaist dim wi' straining.

There could not have fallen, dear H., to your lot any Border Minstrelsy. Companion more pleasant, since you're fond of

botany,

And his horticultural talents are known, 1 The family of the late Henry Park, Esq., Wavertree Lodge, near Liverpool.

Just as well as Canova's for fashioning stone.

Of the vessel you sail'd in, I just will remark For you know I'm so fond of the land of Corinne That I ne'er heard before of so curious a bark. That my thoughts are still dwelling its precincts Of gondola, coracle, pirogue, canoe,

within, I have read very often, as doubtless have you ; And I read all that authors, or gravely or wittily, Of the Argo conveying that hero young Jason; Or wisely or foolishly, write about Italy; (tour, Of the ship moord by Trajan in Nemi's deep basin; From your shipmate John Evelyn's amusing old Of the galley (in Plutarch you'll find the description) To Forsyth's one volume, and Eustace's four, Which bore along Cydnus the royal Egyptian ; In spite of Lord Byron, or Hobhouse, who glances Of that wonderful frigate (see “Curse of Kehama”) At the classical Eustace, and says he romances. Which wafted fair Kailyal to regions of Brama, ---Pray describe me from Venice, (don't think it And the venturous barks of Columbus and Gama.

a bore,) But Columbus and Gama to you must resign a The literal state of the famed Bucentaur, Full half of their fame, since your voyage to China, And whether the horses, that once were the sun's, (I'm astonish'd no shocking disaster befel,) Are of bright yellow brass, or of dark dingy bronze; In that swift-sailing first-rate—a cocoa-nut shell ! For some travellers say one thing, and some say

another,

pother. I hope, my dear H., that you touch'd at Loo Choo, And I can't find out which, they all make such a That abode of a people so gentle and true, Oh ! another thing, too, which I'd nearly forgot, Who with arms and with money have nothing to do. Are the songs of the gondoliers pleasing or not? How calm must their lives be! so free from all fears These are matters of moment, you'll surely allow, Of running in debt, or of running on spears !

For Venice must interest all-even now. Oh dear! what an Eden !-a land without money! It excels e'en the region of milk and of honey, These points being settled, I ask for no more Or the vale of Cashmere, as described in a book

hence,

[Florence. Full of musk, gems, and roses, and call'd “ Lalla But should wish for a few observations from Rookh."

Let me know if the Palaces Strozzi and Pitti

Are finish'd; if not 'tis a shame for the city But, of all the enjoyments you have, none would To let one for ages—was e'er such a thing? e'er be

Its entablature want, and the other its wing. More valued by me than a chat with Acerbi, Say, too, if the Dove (should you be there at Easter, Of whose travels-related in elegant phrases- And watch her swift flight, when the priests have I have seen many extracts, and heard many praises, released her) And have copied (you know I let nothing escape) Is a turtle, or ring-dove, or but a wood-pigeon, His striking account of the frozen North Cape. Which makes people gulls in the name of Religion? I think 'twas in his works I read long ago

Pray tell if the forests of famed Vallombrosa (I've not the best memory for dates, as you know,) Are cut down or not; for this, too, is a Cosa Ofa warehouse, where sugar and treacle were stored, About which I'm anxious-as also to know Which took fire (I suppose being made but of board) If the Pandects, so famous long ages ago, In the icy domains of some rough northern hero, Came back (above all, don't forget this to mention) Where the cold was some fifty degrees below zero. To that manuscript library called the Laurentian. Then from every burnt cask as the treacle ran out, And in streams, just like lava, meander'd about, Since I wrote the above, I by chance have You may fancy the curious effect of the weather,

found out,

[doubt; The frost, and the fire, and the treacle together. That the horses are bright yellow brass beyond When my first for a moment had harden'd my last, So I'll ask you but this, the same subject pursuing, My second burst out, and all melted as fast; Do you think they are truly Lysippus's doing? To win their sweet prize long the rivals fought on, - When to Naples you get, let me know, if you will, But I quite forget which of the elements won. If the Acqua Toffana's in fashion there still;

For, not to fatigue you with needless verbosity, But a truce with all joking—I hope you'll excuse 'Tis a point upon which I feel much curiosity.

I should like to have also, and not written shabbily, Since I know you still love to instruct andamuse me, Your opinion about the Piscina mirabile; For hastily putting a few questions down, And whether the tomb, which is near Sannazaro's, To which answers from you all mywishes will crown; Is decided by you to be really Maro's.

a

me,

DARTMOOR.

A PRIZE POEM,

(In 1820, the Royal Society of Literature advertised their intention of awarding a prize for the best poem on “Dartmoor; and, as might have been expected, many competitors entered the field. In the following June, the palm was awarded to Mrs Hemans for the composition which follows.

She thus writes to the friends who had been the first to convey to her the pleasing intelligence of her success :

• What with surprise, bustle, and pleasure, I am really almost bewildered. I wish you had but seen the children, when the prize was announced to them yesterday.

The Bishop's kind communication put us in possession of the gratifying intelligence a day sooner than we should otherwise have known it, as I did not receive the Secretary's letter till this morning. Besides the official announcement of the prize, his despatch also contained a private letter, with which, although it is one of criticism, I feel greatly pleased, as it shows an interest in my literary success, which, from so distinguished a writer as Mr Croly, (of course you have read his poem of Paris,) cannot but be highly gratifying."]

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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 carnnge 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 withi 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

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,"

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'sglorious 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 [storms.
Of the crown'd hills beyond, the dwellings of the

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 storin-ruling powers, the war-gods of the

North.

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 thesword 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 ?

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,

It may be thus :--the vestiges of strife,
Around yet lingering, mark the steps of life,
And the rude arrow's barb remains to tell i
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,
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-

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

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

9 “ Virere fortes ante Agamemnona

Multi; sed omnes illachrymabiles
Urgentur, ignotique longa

Nocte, carent quia vate sacro."-HORACE.
"They had no poet, and they died.”—Pope's Translation.
s On the east of Dartmoor are some Druidical remains, one

of which is a Cromlech, whose three rougla 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 withi a flaming brand, kindled at the consecrated cairn-fire.

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