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Pour honour pleases." Then most pleased I Itself-and equal to all woes, shook

And a firm will, and a deep sense, From out my pocket's avaricious nook

Which even in torture can descry Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere

Its own concentred recompense,
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare Triumphant where it dares defy,
So much but inconveniently :-Ye smile,

And making Death a Victory!
I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while,
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.

A FRAGMENT.
You are the fools, not I: for I did dwell
With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, Could I remount the river of my years,
On that old Sexton's natural homily,

To the first fountain of our smiles and tears,
In which there was Obscurity and Fame-- I would not trace again the stream of hours
The glory and the Nothing of a Name. Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers,

But bid it flow as now--until it glides

Into the number of the nameless tides.
PROMETHEUS,
Titan! to whose immortal eyes

What is this Death ?-a quiet of the heart?
The sufferings of mortality,

The whole of that of which we are a part ?
Seen in their sad reality,

For life is but a vision-what I see
Were not as things that gods despise,

Of all that lives alone is life to me; What was thy pity's recompense?

And being so—the absent are the dead, A silent suffering, and intense ;

Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread The rock, the vulture, and the chain, A dreary, shroud around us, and invest All that the proud can feel of pain,

With sad remembrances ou hours of rest. The agony they do not show,

The absent are the dead--for they are cold, The suffocating sense of woe,

And ne'er can be what once we did behold; Which speaks but in its loneliness,

And they are changed, and cheerless,-or if yet And then is jealous lest the sky

The unforgotten do not all forget, Should have a listener, nor will sigh Since thus divided-equal must it be Until its voice is echoless.

If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea; Titan! to thee the strife was given

It may be both--but one day end it must, Between the suffering and the will,

In the dark union of insensate dust. Which torture where they cannot kill; The under-earth inhabitants-are they And the inexorable Heaven,

But mingled millions decomposed to clay? And the deaf tyranny of Fate,

The ashes of a thousand ages spread The ruling principle of Hate,

Wherever man has trodden or shall tread? Which for its pleasure doth create

Or do they in their silent cities dwell The things it may annihilate,

Each in his incommunicative cell ? Refused thee even the boon to die :

Or have they their own language ? and a sense The wretched gift Eternity,

Of breathless being ?-darken'd and intense Was thine--and thou hast borne it well.

As midnight in her solitude?-O Earth! All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Where are the past ?- and wherefore had they Was but the menace which flung back

birth? On him the torments of thy rack ;

The dead are thy inheritors-and we
The fate thou didst so well foresee, But bubbles on thy surface; and the key
But would not to appease him tell; Of thy profundity is in the grave,
And in thy Silence was his Sentence, The ebon portal of thy peopled cave,
And in his soul a vain repentance,

Where I would walk in spirit, and behold
And evil dread so ill dissembled,

Our elements resolved to things untold,
That in his hand the lightnings trembled. And fathom-hidden wonders, and explore
Thy godlike crime was to be kind,

The essence of great bosoms now no more.
To render with thy precepts less

The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen Man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,

SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN,
Still in thy patient energy,

ROUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and De In the endurance, and repulse

Staël -
Of thine impenetrable Spirit,

Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore,* Which Earth and Heaven could not con- Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no vulse.

more, A mighty lesson we inherit:

Their memory thy remembrance would recall : Thou art a symbol and a sign

To them thy banks were lovely as to all,
To mortals of their fate and force,

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore Like thee Man is in part divine,

Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core
A troubled stream from a pure source ; Of human hearts the ruin of a wall
And Man in portions can foresee

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by His own funereal destiny ;

thee, His wretchedness, and his resistance, How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel, And his sad unallied existence: To which his Spirit may oppose

* Geneva, Ferney, Copet, Lausanne.

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In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,

And Granada must be won, The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,

And thyself with her undone." Which of the heirs of immortality

Woe is me, Alhama !
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! Fire flash'd from out the old Moor's eyes,

The Monarch's wrath began to rise,
A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD

Because he answer'd, and because
ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALHAMA,

He spake exceeding well of laws.

Woe is me, Alhama ! Il'hich, in the Arabic language, is to the fol. lowing purport.

“There is no law to say such things

As may disgust the ear of kings:
The Moorish King rides up and down

Thus, snorting with his choler, said
Through Granada's royal town;
From Elvira's gates to those

The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead. of Bivarambla on he goes.

Woe is me, Alhama !
Woe is me, Alhama !

Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui!

Though thy beard so hoary be, Letters to the monarch tell

The King hath sent to have thee seized, How Alhama's city fell :

For Alhama's loss displeased.
In the fire the scroll he threw,

Woe is me, Alhama !
And the messenger he slew.
Woe is me, Alhama !

And to fix thy head upon

High Alhambra's loftiest stone; He quits his mule, and mounts his horse,

That this for thee should be the law,
And through the street directs his course ; And others tremble when they saw.
Through the street of Zacatin

Woe is me, Alhama !
To the Alhambra spurring in.
Woe is me, Alhama !

“Cavalier, and man of worth!

Let these words of mine go forth ! When the Alhambra walls he gain'd,

Let the Moorish Monarch know, On the moment he ordain'd

That to him I nothing owe.
That the trumpet straight should sound

Woe is me, Alhama !
With the silver clarion round.
Woe is me, Alhama !

" But on my soul Alhama weighs,

And on my inmost spirit preys; And when the hollow drums of war

And if the King his land hath lost, Beat the loud alarm afar,

Yet others may have lost the most.
That the Moors of town and plain

Woe is me, Alhama !
Might answer to the martial strain.
Woe is me, Alhama !

“Sires have lost their children, wives

Their lords, and valiant men their lives;
Then the Moors, by this aware

One what best his love might claim
That bloody Mars recalld them there,

Hath lost, another wealth, or fame.
One by one, and two by two,

Woe is me, Alhama!
To a mighty squadron grew.
Woe is me, Alhama !

I lost a damsel in that hour,

Of all the land the loveliest flower ;
Out then spake an aged Moor

Doubloons a hundred I would pay,
In these words the king before,

And think her ransom cheap that day.” “Wherefore call on us, o King ?

Woe is me, Alhama !
What may mean this gathering?"
Woe is me, Alhama !

And as these things the old Moor said, “Friends! ye have, alas! to know

They sever'd from the trunk his head;

And to the Alhambra's wall with speed Of a most disastrous blow;

'Twas carried, as the King decreed.
That the Christians, stern and bold,

Woe is me, Alhama !
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold."

And men and infants therein weep
Woe is me, Alhama !

Their loss, so heavy and so deep;
Out then spake old Alfaqui,

Granada's ladies, all she rears
With his beard so white to see :

Within her walls, burst into tears.
“Good King! thou art justly served,

Woe is me, Alhama!
Good King! this thou hast deserved.
Woe is

And from the windows o'er the walls
me,
Alhama !

The sable web of mourning falls ;
By thee were slain, in evil hour,

The King weeps as a woman o'er
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower;

His loss, for it is much and sore.
And strangers were received by thee

Woe is me, Alhama !
Of Cordova the Chivalry.

Woe is me, Alhama !
“And for this, O King! is sent

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
On thec a double chastisement :

THEY say that hope is happiness ;
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm,

But genuine love must prize the past,
One last wreck shall overwhelm.

And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless: Woe is me, Alhama !

They rose the first--they set the last; “He who holds no laws in awe,

And all that Memory loves the most
He must perish by the law;

Was once our only Hope to be,

And all that Hope adored and lost

And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum, Hath melted into Memory.

With dull and daily dissonance, repeats Alas! it is delusion all ;

The echo of thy tyrant's voice along The future cheats us from afar,

The soft waves, once all musical to song, Nor can we be what we recall,

That heaved beneath the moonlight with the Nor dare we think on what we are.

throng
Of gondolas--and to the busy hum

Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds
TO THOMAS MOORE.

Were but the overbeating of the heart, My boat is on the shore,

And flow of too much happiness, which needs my bark is on the sea ;

The aid of age to turn its course apart
But, before I go, Tom Moore,

From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood
Here's a double health to thee!

Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood. Here's a sigh to those who love me,

But these are better than the gloomy errors, And a smile to those who hate ;

The weeds of nations in their last decay,

When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd And, whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate.

terrors,

And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; Though the ocean roar around me,

And Hope is nothing but a false delay,
Yet it still shall bear me on:

The sick man's lightning half an hour cre Though a desert should surround me,

death, It hath springs that may be won. When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, Were't the last drop in the well,

And apathy of limb, the dull beginning
As I gasp'd upon the brink,

Of the cold staggering race which Death is Ere my fainting spirit fell,

winning, 'Tis to thee that I would drink.

Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away; With that water, as this wine,

Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay,
The libation I would pour

To him appears renewal of his breath,
Should be -Peace with thine and mine,

And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

And then he talks of life, and how again

He feels his spirit soaring--albeit weak,
TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

And of the fresher air, which he would seek :

And as he whispers knows not that he gasps, ABSENT or present, still to thee,

That his thin finger feels not what it clasps, My friend, what magic spells belong ! And so the film comes o'er him, and the dizzy As all can tell, who share, like me,

Chamber swims round and round, and shadows In turn thy converse and thy song.

busy, But when the dreaded hour shall come,

At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam,

Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, And “MEMORYo'er her Druid's tomb

And all is ice and blackness,--and the earth

That which it was the moment ere our birth. Shall weep that aught of thee can die, How fondly will she then repay Thy homage offer'd at her shrine,

There is no hope for nations!-Search the page And blend, while ages roll away,

Of many thousand years--the daily scene, Her name immortally with thine !

The flow and ebb of each recurring age,

The everlasting to be which hath been,
ODE ON VENICE.

Hath taught us nought, or little; still we lean 1818.

On things that rot beneath our weight, and On Venice ! Venice! when thy marble walls Our strength away in wrestling with the air :

Are level with the waters, there shall be For 'tis our nature strikes us down : the beasts A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,

Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts A loud lament along the sweeping sea! Are of as high an order—they must go If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, Even where their driver goads them, though to What should thy sons do?-anything but weep: slaughter. And yet they only murmur in their sleep. Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as In contrast with their fathers-as the slime,

water, The dull green ooze of the receding deep, What have they given your children in return? Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foar heritage of servitude and woes, That drives the sailor shipless to his home, A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows. Are they to those that were ; and thus they What! do not yet the red-hot plough-shares creep,

burn, Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, streets.

And deem this proof of loyalty the real ; Oh! agony--that centuries should reap Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars, No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred years And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears, All that your sires have left you, all that Time And every monument the stranger meets, Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; Spring from a different theme ! Ye see and And even the Lion all subdued appears,

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OCCASIONAL PIECES. Adinire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed!! If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone Save the few spirits who, despite of all, His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time, And worse than all, the sudden crimes engen- For tyranny of late is cunning grown, derd

And in its own good season tramples down By the down-thundering of the prison-wall, The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime,

And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd, Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean | Gushing from Freedom's fountains, when the Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion crowd,

Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud, Bequeath’d--a heritage of heart and hand, And trample on each other to obtain

And proud distinction from each other land, The cup which brings oblivion of a chain Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's Heavy and sore, in which long yoked they motion, plough'd

As if his senseless sceptre were a wand The sand, -or if there sprung the yellow grain, Full of the magic of exploded science'Twas not for them, their necks were too much Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, bow'd,

Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain: Above the far Atlantic !-She has taught Yes! the few spirits, - who, despite of deeds Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag, Which they abhor, confound not with the cause The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag, Those momentary starts from Nature's laws, May strike to those whose red right hands have Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, bought smite

Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth With all her seasons to repair the blight Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, With a few summers, and again put forth That it should flow, and overflow, than creep Cities and generations--fair, when free

Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chaias,

And moving, as a sick man in his sleep, Glory and Empire ! once upon these towers

Three paces, and then faltering :-better be With Freedom-godlike Triad ! how ye sate!

Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, The league of mightiest nations, in those hours in their

proud charnel of Thermopylæ, When Venice was an envy, might abate,

Than stagnate in our marsh,-or o'er the deep But did not quench her spirit; in her fate

Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew

One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
And loved their hostess,nor could learn to hate, | One freeman more, America, to thee ]
Although they humbled-with the kingly few
The many felt, for from all days and climes

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI. She was the voyager's worship; even her crimes

ON A NUN. Were of the softer order-born of Love, Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead, daughter had recently died shortly after her But gladden'd where her harmless conquests marriage ; and addressed to the father of her spread.

who had lately taken the veil. For these restored the Cross, that from above Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which inces.

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired,

Heaven made us happy; and now. wretched sant Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent,

sires,

Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires, Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may

And gazing upon either, both required. thank The city it has clothed in chains, which clank

Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired

Becomes extinguish'd, soon-ton soon-ex. Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles ;

pires : Yet she but shares with them a common woe,

But thine, within the closing grate retired, And call'd the "kingdom" of a conquering foe, But thou at least from out the jealous door,

Eternal captive, to her God aspires. But knows what all-and, most of all, we

Which shuts between your never-meeting knowWith what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles !

eyes,

May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once IV. The name of Commonwealth is past and gone I to the marble, where my daughter lies,

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe; Rush,-the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own And knock, and knock, and knock-but none A sceptre, and endures the purple robe;

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ADVERTISEMENT, The Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which this translation is offered, divides with the Orlando Innamorato the honour of having formed and suggested the style and story of Ariosto. The great defects of Boiardo were his treating too seriously the narratives of chivalry, and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his continuation, by a judicious mixture of the gaiety of Pulci, has avoided the one; and Berni, in his reformation of Boiardo's poem, has corrected the other. Pulci may be considered as the precursor and model of Berni altogether, as he has partly been to Ariosto, however inferior to both his copyists. He is no less the founder of a new style of poetry very lately sprung up in England. I allude to that of the ingenious Whistlecraft. The serious poems on Roncesvalles in the same language, and more particularly the excellent one of Mr Merivale, are to be traced to the same source. It has never yet been decided entirely whether Pulci's intention was or was not to deride the religion which is one of his favourite topics. It appears to me, that such an intention would have been no less hazardous to the poet than to the priest, particularly in that age and country; and the permission to publish the poem, and its reception among the classics of Italy, prove that it neither was nor is so interpreted. That he intended to ridicule the monastic life, and suffered his imagination to play with the simple dulness of his converted giant, seems evident enough; but surely it were as unjust to accuse him of irreligion on this account, as to denounce Fielding for his Parson Adams, Barnabas, Thwackum, Supple, and the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild,—or Scott, for the exquisite use of his Covenanters in the Tales of my Landlord.”

In the following translation I have used the liberty of the original with the proper names : as Pulci uses Gan, Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, Carlomagno, or Carlomano ; Rondel, or Ron. dello, &c., as it suits his convenience; so has the translator. In other respects the version is faithful to the best of the translator's ability in combining his interpretation of the one language with the not very easy task of reducing it to the same versification in the other. The reader, on comparing it with the original, is requested to remember that the antiquated language of Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the generality of Italians themselves, from its great mixture of Tuscan proverbs; and he may therefore be more indulgent to the present attempt. How far the translator has succeeded, and whether or no he shall continue the work, are questions which the public will decide. He was induced to make the experiment partly by his love for, and partial intercourse with, the Italian language, of which it is so easy to acquire a slight knowledge, and with which it is so nearly impossible for a foreigner to become accurately conversant. The Italian language is like a capricious beauty, who accords her smiles to all, her favours to few, and sometimes least to those who have courted her longest. The translator wished also to present in an English dress a part at least of a poem never yet rendered into a northern language; at the same time that it has been the original of some of the most celebrated productions on this side of the Alps, as well as of those recent experiments in poetry in England which have been already mentioned.

CANTO THE FIRST.

Of heaven, and hell, and everything beside, In the beginning was the Word next God : The day thy Gabriel said "All hail!” to thee,

God was the Word, the Word no less was he: Since to thy servants pity's ne'er denied, This was in the beginning, to my mode

With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and Of thinking, and without him nought could free.

Be to my verses then benignly kind,
Therefore, just Lord! from out thy high abode, And to the end illuminate my mind.

Benign and pious, bid an angel flee,
One only, to be my companion, who ·
Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through. 'Twas in the season when sad Philomel

Weeps with her sister, who remembers and

Deplores the ancient woes which both befell, And thou, oh Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride And makes the nymphs enamour'd, to the

Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key hand

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