Imágenes de páginas
[ocr errors]

Per la Nascila de Primogenito de Piemonte. "Viri 1' Italia col crin sparso e incolto.

Cola dove la Dora in Po declina, Che sedea mesta, e avea negli occhi accolto

Quasi un 'orror di servitù vicina: Ne F altera piangea; serbava un volto

Di dolente bensi, ma di Reina. Tal forse apparve allor, che il pie discolto

A ceppi offri la liberta Latina.
Poi sorger lieta in un balen la vidi,

E fiera ricomporsi al fasto usato,
E quinci, e quindi minacciar pui Lidi;

E s'udia l'Appennin per ogni lato
Sonar d'applausi, e di festosi gridi,

Italia, Italia il tuo soccorso e nato!"
Eustachio M wrm ni. Bolognese.

"On the spot where the Douro falls into the Po, I saw the dishevelled and unkempt Italy, sitting in deep sorrow; she had in her eyes a horror of impending slavery,—not that the proud one shed a tear. Sorrow indeed was in her countenance, but it was the sorrow of a Queen; such perhaps she appeared in ancient Latium, when, bare of foot, she came forward to have her fetters put on. But I saw her in an instant rise joyful from her seat, resume her ancient state and threaten the nations on one side of her and on the other, and the Apennines shouted through their thousand echoes, Italy, Italy! thy Saviour is born."

Matt says, " the author of this, Eustachio Manfredi, seems to show even here that he is of a family of mathematicians, for there is not a proposition of Euclid in which step follows step more methodically than they do in this sonnet." He adds, " I did not dare to render the 'pie disciolto,' because, however classical the idea to express slavery, the naked foot would have presented a disgusting picture to the English reader, who might have sent the dirty wench to put on her stockings."

Nella Monazzione di una sua Nipote. "Io del secol fuggii la perfid' onda, Primo del sangue nostro, e la procella,


Dolce Nipote, ne tornarmi a quella Poter lusinghe mai d' aura seconda. Eppur si fiero turbo anco alla sponda

Il legno, che m'accolse, urta, e flagella,

Ne a placar l'atro nembo io veggio stella, Che in tanta notte un raggio almen diflbnda. Occupa pur tu fortemente il porto;

Innocenza e Virtù trarranne in parte, Ove avrem d'ogni mal fine, e conforto; E un di schernendo i furor vani, ho speme,

Che salve all'ara appese antenne e sarte, Sulle tempeste rideremo insieme."

P. Savebio Bettinelli.

"I, sweet niece, wasthe first of our blood who fled from the treacherous waves and tempest of life; nor could the flattering appearance of favourable gales ever tempt me to try them again; and yet though I have escaped, still does the storm, beating on the beach, dash daily against the sides of the vessel in which I was; nor amidst so deep a night do I discover a single star whose benign ray may assist to weather the fierce storm. Make you then strongly for the shore. Innocence and Virtue will help draw to land, where we shall find comfort and the end of every ill. There, our sails and cables safe at length, and appended to the altar, I have hope that we may one day laugh together at the impotence of the tempest."

"Italia, Italia, o tu, cui feo la sorte

Dono infelice di bellezza, onde hai

Funesta dote d'infiniti guai, Che in fronte scritti per gran doglia porte, Deli fossi tu men bella, o almen più forte,

Onde assai più ti paventassi, o assai

T'amasse men chi del tuo bello a i rai Par che si strugga, e pur ti sfida a morte Che or giù d'ali' Alpi no vedrei torrenti

Scender d'armati, ne di sangue tinta Bever l'onda del Po Gallici armenti;

Ne te vedrei del non tuo ferro cinta Pugnar col braccio di straniere genti

Ter servir sempre o vincitrice, o vinta."


"O Italy, Italy, gifted by fate with an unhappy gift of beauty, from whence thou hast a deadly dower of miseries, whose marks thou still bearest on thy forehead; oh, that thou wert less beautiful or more strong, that they might love thee less, or fear thee more, who pretend to be dying for thee at the time they are attempting thy life. Then should we not behold torrents of hostile squadrons roll down thy Alps, nor Gallic herds drinking by thy ensanguined Po. Then should we not see thee girt with a sword not thine own, and shooting thine arrows from a foreign bow, to be still a slave at the end of the day, whether victor or vanquished."

"Dov' 6, Italia, il tuo braccio P e a chi ti servi

Tu dell' altrui? non e, s' io scorgo il vero,

Di chi t'offende il diffensor men fero; Ambo nemici sono, ambo fur servi:— Cosi dunque l'onor, cosi conservi

Gli avanzi tu del glorioso impero?

Cosi al valor, cosi al valor primiero, Che a te fede giuro, la fede asservi? Or va! repudia il valor prisco, e sposa

L'Ozio.e fra il snngue,i gemiti, e le strida Nel periglio maggior dormi, e riposa:

Dormi adultcra vil, fin che omicida Spada ultrice ti svegli, e sonnachiosa

E nuda in braccio al tuo fedel t'uecida."


"Italy, where is thine own rightarm,and wherefore dost thou use a stranger's? If I remember me right, he who defends thee is not less a barbarian than he who attacks thee. Both are thine enemies, both have been thy slaves. Thus then it is that thou bethinkest thee of thy past illustrious story! thus thou maintainest thine honour, and this is the remembrance thou hast of thy pledged faith to the valiant genius of old Latium! Go then, divorce thee from that honored husband—marry sloth; and amidst blood, groans, and the noise of arrows hissing round thee, sleep on and repose in greater danger than before : —vile adulteress, sleep on, till the avenging sword awoke and slay thee, naked and drowsy, in the arms of thy new beloved."


"Deaf, near my friends and have A ni

As you be now so once was i

And as I am so you shall be

The glass is running now for thee."


"We were not slayne, but raysd,

Raysd not to life,
But to be buried twice

By men of strife.
What rest could living have

When dead had none?
Agree amongst you,

Here we ten are one."

Henry Rogers died Aprill 17, 1641.


Of this I heard two traditionary explanations, neither of them satisfactory, and each destroying all the authority of the other. That the ten men were killed by the falling in of the earth in a gravel pit, and dug out to be buried. This the first line contradicts; and, if true, what means the fourth? That they were ten royalists, whose bones were dug up by Cromwell. The single name then at the end is strange. "One " must mean unanimous. The last solution is possible; but I believe the honour of digging up his dead enemies was reserved for the worthy Charles IL

"Here I lie all putrefaction Waiting for the resurrection."

Petition of the London Wives.

"In this parliament (1428) there was one Mistris Stokes, with divers others stout women of London, of good reckoning, wellapparrelled, came openly to the upper parliament and delivered letters to the Duke of Glocester, and to the archbishops, and to the other lords there present, containing matter of rebuke and sharpc reprehension of the Duke of Glocester, because he would not deliver his wife, Jacqueline, out of her grievous imprisonment, being then helde prysoner by the Duke of Burgondy, suffering her there to remain so unkindly, and for his publike keeping by him another adultresse, contrary to the law of God, and the honourable estate of matrimony."—Edmund Howes.

There are many curious particulars in this man's' history. I have never (that I remember) seen him quoted, or heard his name. He wrote under Elizabeth, James and Charles; and acknowledges obligations for assistance in his work, among other men more eminent in their own day, to Sir Edward Coke and Master Camden.

Duty of exposing Crimes.

"A am tel forfaits celui qui dctourne ses regards est un lache, un deserteur de la justice; la veritable humanity les envisage, pour les connoitre, pour les juger, pour les detester."—Lb Levite D'ephbaim.

This the motto for my war poems.

"The year rolls on and steals away

The breath that first it gave,
Whate'er we do, where'er we be,
We're travelling to the grave."

Winnessley, Monmouthshire.

"At the ester end of this free
Stone here doeth ly the letle
Bone of Water Spurrer
That fine boy that was his
Friends only joy he was
Drownd at Milham's bridge."

Ch. Ch. 1691.

1 I find by Hearne that he published it from Stowe's papers, and that it bears Stowe's name.—Sept. 2, 1798 —R. S. The wurk is thus quoted in Watt's Biblioth. Briton. "Annates; or a General Chronicle of England, began by John Stow, continued to the end of the year 1631. Lond. 1631, ful."—J. W. W.

"We lived together as you did see to die Together that will be never yet in and Thro' Christ we hope to live for ever From sudden death Good Lord deliver me Yet sudden death we hope did set our sister free."—Ch. Church.

In a church yard, about five miles from Monmouth, on the Chepstow road :—

"On Some Children.

"Sleep soft in dust, wait the Almighty's will

Then rise again and be as angels still."

"A Loving wife, a tender mother, Which hard it were to find such another. If Angels were on earth sure this was one Whose limbs lie here, her soul to God is flown."

"I Laboub'd hard in this world But 'twas no gain to me, I hope my child and I will gain eternity."

"A Tender father, a mother dear,
Two bosom friends lie buried here.
It was pale-faced death that brought us

We lived in love—let us lie together.

So here we lie by our dear babes

All covered with cold clay, Hoping with joy to meet our Lord

At the eternal day."


"The best of wives was call'd from me
She was both meek and mild;

Twas God's decree, let his will be,
He took both wife and child."

"Here lies a woninn

By all the good esteemed

Because they proved her
Really what she seem'd."

"Sleep lovely babes, and be at rest,
God calls them first, whom he loves best."

[ocr errors]

"For Jesus' sake in his most blessed name I crave,

Do not remove this stone, nor yet disturb this grave."

"Farewell dear babes; to dust we you resign,

And at your lot we will no more repine; Being assured that at the Resurrection, Your bodies through Christ will rise into perfection."


"Un ruisscaux tire des eaux pures de sa source; mais il est trouble d'abord qu'il passe par dessus les bords de son canal."— Oriental Maxim.

A good simile applied to economy.

"In winter the trees remind us of skeletons."—W. Smellie.

Unbelievers — to a man who stops his ears in a thunder-storm for fear.—Koran, v. 1. p. 4.

Cool sound of wind—to the rain falling on the tree that shelters the summer traveller.

Clinging to religion—to the volutella.

"Oh I woe to thee when doubt comes on! it blows over thee like a wind from the north, and makes all thy joints to quake."

From a quaint piece, in the Selections from Foreign Journals, taken from the Tcvische Museum, entitled—" That a man can do whatever he will, is something more than a mere matter of speculation;" by John Peteb Craft.

Lines to S. P.1

Burton, September 1st. 1797.

"A wEARTniG thing it is to waste the day Among the biped herd; to walk alone

1 Sophia Pemberton, afterwards married to his friend Charles Lloyd.—J. W. W.

Amid the irksome solitude of crowds,
And with the unmeaning look of gaiety
Hide the heart's fullness. It is very hard
When Memory's eye turns inward on the

Of one she loves, to waken from the dream,
As all unpitying on the suffering ear
Some fashion-monger with her face of fool
Voids all her gather'd nonsense. When I

That thy meek spirit must endure all this
Sophia! I esteem the truant hour
Most profitably past whose song may bring
Brief solace. Thou would'st know what

cares employ The morn, and whither is the noon-tide walk And what the evening sports of him, who


And noon and night fills up Affection's thoughts.

I know these longings well; and I would fain

Sketch the rude outline that Affection'shand
Will love to perfect, as her magic gives
Soul to the picture. When at morn he seeks
The echoing ocean's verge, she best can feel
What feelings swell within the enthusiast's

As o'er the grey infinity of waves
His eye reposes, as the gathered surge
Bursts hollow on his ear, then rolling back
Yields to a moment's silence, while the foam
Left by the billow, as it melts away,
Shakes in the wind trembling with rainbow

She best can tell, when at the noon-tide hour Beside the brook he bends, the wrinkled brook

Rolling light shadows o'er its bedded sand, What thoughts of quietness arise, what scenes Of future peace float o'er the tranquil mind, As the low murmuring of the pleasant stream Makes sweetest music, such as in the heart Of one made hard by suffering till he hates Mankind with deadliest loathing, might awake

Feelings that fill the eye. She reads his soul When from the high hill top, the dark high hill

That from the water* d vale abrupt and bare
Starts, he beholds the goodly plain below;
Fair streams and tufted cottages, the cliffs
Of the far island whose white majesty
The setting sun empurples, and the sea
Whose leaden greyness to the baffled sight
Seems mingling with the sky. Affection

Will blend her own identity with his
And live in his sensations.

I would tell From the damp eve retiring how we draw Around the cheerful light, but that the group Are strangers, and Sophia scarce has heard Her name, in whom my heart has centred all Its dearest feelings, all its earthly hopes, My Edith. I am little prone to trust Expectance now, for many wrongs have wrought

That wisdom in me which in earlier youth Youth-like I made my mock: and now I bear A shield from whose impervious adamant The poison'd darts of disappointment fall With feather weakness. Yet that heart admits

One hope, "a rebel to its own resolves." And to its full and perfect happiness Expects from yours addition ; when the song That tells of home and all its nameless joys Shall with the most intense delight pervade Sophia's heart, and fill her eye with tears, As gazing round she feels those joys her own. R. S.


The Coffin as I crossed the common lane
Came sudden on my view. It was not here
A sight of every day, as in the streets
Of the great city, and we paused and asked
Who to the grave was going. It was one,
A village girl; they told us she had borne
An eighteen months' strange illness; pined

1 It has been thought right to insert th is here. It is the original draft of the Hannah in the English Eclogues, from which it differs considerably. See Poenu in one volume, p. 152.

J. W. W.

With such slow wasting as had made the hour

Of death most welcome. To the house of mirth

We held our way, and with that idle talk That passes o'er the mind and is forgot We wore away the time. But it was eve When homewardly I went, and in the air Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade

That makes the eye turn inward; then I heard

Over the vale the heavy toll of death
Sound slow, and questioned of the dead

It was a very plain and simple tale!
She bore, unhusbanded, a mother's name,
And he who should have cherished her, far

Sailed on the seas, self-exiled from his home,
For he was poor. Left thus, a wretched one,
Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues
Were busy with her name.

She hud yet one ill Heavier, neglect,—forgetfulness from him Whom she had loved so dearly. Once he wrote,

But only once that drop of comfort came
To mingle with her cup of wretchedness,
And when his parents had some tidings from

There was no mention of poor Hans Ah there.
Or 'twas the cold enquiry, bitterer
Than silence: so she pined and pined away,
And for herself and baby toiled and toiled
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old

Omitted no kind office, and she worked Most hard, and with hard working barely earned

Enough to make life struggle. Thus she lay
On the sick bed of poverty, so worn
That she could make no effort to express
Affection for her infant, and the child
Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her,
With strangest infantine ingratitude
Shunned her as one indifferent. She was

That anguish, for she felt her hour draw on,

« AnteriorContinuar »