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A solitary woman! and she went
Singing and gathering flower after flower,
With which her way was painted and besprent.

Bright lady, who, if looks had ever power
To bear true witness of the heart within,
Dost bask under the beams of love, come lower

Towards this bank. I prithee let me win
This much of thee, to come, that I may hear
Thy song like Proserpine, in Enna's glen,
Thou seemest to my fancy, singing here
And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden when
She lost the spring, and Ceres her more dear.

FRAGMENT.1

ADAPTED FROM THE VITA NUOVA OF DANTE.

WHAT Mary is when she a little smiles
I cannot even tell or call to mind,
It is a miracle, so new, so rare.

SONNET.

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF
CAVALCANTI.

GUIDO CAVALCANTI TO DANTE ALIGHIERI,2 RETURNING from its daily quest, my Spirit Changed thoughts and vile in thee doth weep find:

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to

1These lines are said to have been scratched by Shelley on a window-pane.-ED.

2 The rejection of this sonnet from the Alastor

It grieves me that thy mild and gentle mind
Those ample virtues which it did inherit
Has lost. Once thou didst loath the multitude
Of blind and madding men-I then loved
thee-

I loved thy lofty songs and that sweet mood
When thou wert faithful to thyself and me.
I dare not now through thy degraded state
Own the delight thy strains inspire-in vain
I seek what once thou wert-we cannot meet
As we were wont. Again and yet again
Ponder my words: so the false Spirit shall fly
And leave to thee thy true integrity.

SCENES FROM THE MAGICO
PRODIGIOSO.

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF CALDERON.

SCENE I.

Enter CYPRIAN, dressed as a Student; CLARIN and MoscoN as poor Scholars, with books.

CYPRIAN.

In the sweet solitude of this calm place,
This intricate wild wilderness of trees

And flowers and undergrowth of odorous plants, Leave me; the books you brought out of the house

To me are ever best society.

And while with glorious festival and song

volume, where a translation of a sonnet of Dante's to Cavalcanti appears, is perhaps attributable to the similarity of the subject to that of Shelley's sonnet to Wordsworth in that volume.-ED.

Antioch now celebrates the consecration
Of a proud temple to great Jupiter,
And bears his image in loud jubilee

To its new shrine, I would consume what still
Lives of the dying day, in studious thought, 11
Far from the throng and turmoil. You, my
friends,

Go, and enjoy the festival; it will

Be worth your pains. You may return for me When the sun seeks its grave among the billows, Hid among dim grey clouds on the horizon, Which dance like plumes upon a hearse;—and here

I shall expect you.

MOSCON.

I cannot bring my mind,

Great as my haste to see the festival

Certainly is, to leave you, Sir, without

20

Just saying some three or four thousand words. How is it possible that, on a day

Of such festivity, you can be content

To come forth to a solitary country

With three or four old books, and turn your back On all this mirth?

CLARIN.

My master's in the right;

There is not anything more tiresome

Than a procession day, with troops, and priests,

And dances, and all that.

30

Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer;

You praise not what you feel but what he does;Toad-eater!

CLARIN.

You lie under a mistake

For this is the most civil sort of lie

That can be given to a man's face I now
Say what I think.

CYPRIAN.

Enough, you foolish fellows!

Puffed up with your own doting ignorance, You always take the two sides of one question. Now go; and, as I said, return for me

When night falls, veiling in its shadows wide This glorious fabric of the universe.

MOSCON.

How happens it, although you can maintain
The folly of enjoying festivals,

That yet you go there?

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To speak truth,

Livia is she who has surprised my heart;

But he is more than half way there. Soho! Livia, I come; good sport, Livia, Soho! [Exit.

CYPRIAN.

Now, since I am alone, let me examine

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The question which has long disturbed my mind

With doubt, since first I read in Plinius

The words of mystic import and deep sense
In which he defines God. My intellect

Can find no God with whom these marks and

signs

Fitly agree. It is a hidden truth

Which I must fathom.

(CYPRIAN reads; the DÆMON, dressed in a Court dress, enters.)

DÆMON.

Search even as thou wilt,

But thou shalt never find what I can hide.

CYPRIAN.

What noise is that among the boughs? Who

moves?

What art thou?

DÆMON.

"Tis a foreign gentleman. 60 Even from this morning I have lost my way In this wild place; and my poor horse at last, Quite overcome, has stretched himself upon The enamelled tapestry of this mossy mountain, And feeds and rests at the same time. I was Upon my way to Antioch upon business Of some importance, but wrapped up in cares (Who is exempt from this inheritance?) I parted from my company, and lost

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My way, and lost my servants and my comrades.

CYPRIAN.

'Tis singular that even within the sight
Of the high towers of Antioch you could lose
Your way. Of all the avenues and green paths
Of this wild wood there is not one but leads,
As to its centre, to the walls of Antioch;
Take which you will you cannot miss

your

road.