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“Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine."

Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek

On this terrestrial sphere; When e'en Delight can only speak,

Like Sorrow-in a tear ?

“ Al furor d'avversa Sorte."

He shall not dread Misfortune's angry mien,

Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude, Whose soul hath learn'd, through many a trying

scene, To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued.

FORTUNE! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread, Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like

these? Think'st thou that I thy threatening mien shall

dread, Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize ? Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude,

For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway!
My constant soul should triumph unsubdued,

Were the wide universe destruction's prey.
Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried ?
No! I have long thine utmost power defied,

And drawn fresh energies from every fight. Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, With each successive shock the temper'd steel More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling

bright.

In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms,

Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art : Thus Fate's dread ire, by many a conflict, forms

The lofty spirit and enduring heart !

"Quella onda che ruina."

“Parlagli d'un periglio."

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UNBENDING midst the wintry skies,

Rears the firm oak his vigorous form, And stern in rugged strength, defies

The rushing of the storm.

Then sever'd from his native shore,

O'er ocean-worlds the sail to bear, Still with those winds he braved before,

He proudly struggles there.

Sweet rose ! whose tender foliage to expand

Her fostering dews the Morning lightly shed, Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann'd,

And o'er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread : That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the

ground, To brighter worlds thy favour'd charms hath

borne; Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown'd, There breathe and bloom, released from every

thorn. Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower!

Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude, Shelter'd with tenderest care from frost or shower,

And each rough season's chill vicissitude, Now may thy form in bowers of peace assume Immortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom.

“Sol pud dir che sia contento."

Oh ! those alone whose sever'd hearts

Have mourn'd through lingering years in vain, Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts,

When Fate unites them once again.

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ITALIA ! O Italia ! thou, so graced

With ill-starr'd beauty, which to thee hath been A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced

In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien; Oh that morestrength, or fewer charms were thine !

That those might fear thee more, or lovethee less, Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine, Tien pierce thee with the death-pang's bitter

ness! Not then would foreign hosts have drain'd the tide Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed :

Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew'd, Pour down; norwouldst thou wield an alien brand, And fight thy battles with the stranger's hand,

Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued !

Not mine in Fortune's fane to bend,

At Grandeur's altar to attend,
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown;

Nor mine a fond aspiring thought,

A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught
With Fame's bright phantom, Glory's deathless

crown !
Nectareous draughts and viands pure.
Luxuriant nature will insure;
These the clear fount and fertile field
Still to the wearied shepherd yield;

And when repose and visions reign,
Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain.

FRANCISCO MANUEL.

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QUEVEDO.

Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way,
How many a fountain glitters down the hill !

Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play,
Bright sunshine guides—and wilt thou linger still?
Oh! enter there, where, freed from human strife,

Hope is reality, and time is life.

ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS.

Buscas en Roma á Roma, o peregrino!"

Amidst these scenes, 0 pilgrim ! seek'st thou

Rome?

Vain is thy search-the pomp of Rome is fled; DELLA CASA.

Her silent Aventine is glory's tomb;

Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. VENICE.

That hill, where Cæsars dwelt in other days,

Forsaken mourns, where once it tower'd sublime; "Questi palazzi, e queste logge or colte."

Each mouldering medal now far less displays THESE marble domes, by wealth and genius graced,

The triumphs won by Latium than by Time. With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian Tiber alone survives—the passing wa

wave stone,

That bathed her towers now murmurs by her Were once rude cabins midst a lonely waste,

grave, Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes. Pure from each vice, 'twas here a venturous train

Rome! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea ;

That seem'd for years eternal framed to last : Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign,

Nought but the wave--a fugitive, remains. They sought these island precincts——to be free. Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose, No dream of avarice broke their calm repose; Fraud, more than death, abhorr'd each artless

EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS. breast : Oh ! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day,

“Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos." Let not those virtues languish and decay, O'erwhelm'd by luxury, and by wealth opprest! Thou, who hast fled from life's enchanted bowers,

In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glowing morn, Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers,

For the rude convent-garb and couch of thorn;

Thou that, escaping from a world of cares, IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO.

Hast found thy haven in devotion's fane,

As to the port the fearful bark repairs L'anima bella, che dal vero Eliso."

To shun the midnight perils of the main

Now the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour, The sainted spirit which, from bliss on high, While on thy soul the beams of glory rise !

Descends like dayspring to my favour'd sight, For if the pilot hail the welcome shore Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies,

Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright! Oh ! how shouldst thou the exulting pæan raise, But with the sweetness of her well-known smile, Now heaven's bright harbour opens on thy gaze i

That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart, And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, And heaven's full glory pictures to my

heart. Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold,

TORQUATO TASSO. And now, e'en now, in thought my wings unfold,

“ Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa." To soar with her, and mingle with the blest ! But ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies,

Thou in thy morn wert like a glowing rose That I, in vain aspiring to the skies,

To the mild sunshine only half display'd, Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds That shunn'd its bashful graces to disclose, deprest.

And in its veil of verdure sought a shade :

Or like Aurora did thy charms appear,
(Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught so

“Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde."
bright)
Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere, IF to the sighing breeze of summer hours

O'er vale and mountain shedding dew and light. Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird; Now riper years have doom'd no grace to fade; Or from some fount's cool margin, fringed with Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array'd,

flowers, Excel, or equal, thy neglected form.

The soothing murmur of the wave is heard; Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour, I see and hear: though dwelling far above, More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm. Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs,

Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. “Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day,"

(Her gentle accents thus benignly say,) BERNARDO TASSO.

“While from thine eyes the tear unceasing “Quest' ombra che giammai non vide il sole."

flows?

Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, T'his green recess, where through the bowery gloom Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light Ne'er, e'en at noontide hours, the sunbeam Whose eyes but open'd, when they seem'd to play'd,

close !” Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom

Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade ;
Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals,

Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows, VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO.
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals
Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose;

O Muerte! que sueles ser."
This bower of peace, thou soother of our care,
God of soft slumbers and of visions fair!

Thou, the stern monarch of dismay, A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee !

Whom nature trembles to survey, Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, O Death! to me, the child of grief, And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close,

Thy welcome power would bring relief, Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. never free.

And though thy stroke may thrill with pain
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein;
The pangs that bid existence close,

Ah ! sure are far less keen than those
PETRARCH.

Which cloud its lingering moments with despair.

“ Chi vuol veder quantunque pud natura."

FRANCESCO LORENZINI.

O Zefiretto, che movendo vai."

Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth,

All heaven and nature's perfect skill combined,
Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth,

Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind :
And haste! for Death, who spares the guilty long,

First calls the brightest and the best away;
And to her home, amidst the cherub throng,

The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay!
Haste! and each outward charm, each mental grace,
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace,

Model of loveliness, for earth too fair !
Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays,
My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze :

But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare.

Sylpy of the breeze ! whose dewy pinions light

Wave gently round the tree I planted here,
Sacred to her whose soul hath wing’d its flight

To the pure ether of her lofty sphere;
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale !

To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour;
Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail

To rend its honours from the sylvan bower. Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form, Pride of the wood, secure from every storm,

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