'Twill be no fruitless moment. I was born Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood. On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate To sacred studies; and the Roman Shep. herd

Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous flock

Well did I watch, much labored, nor had power

To escape from many and strange indignities,

Was smitten by the great ones of the world,

But did not fall; for Virtue braves all shocks,

Upon herself resting immovably.

Me did a kindler fortune then invite
To serve the glorious Henry, King of
France,

And in his hands I saw a high reward
Stretched out for my acceptance,-but
Death came.

Now, Reader, learn from this my fate, how false,

How treacherous to her promise, is the world;

And trust in God-to whose eternal doom Must bend the sceptred Potentates of earth

Toils long and hard.-The warrior will report

Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field,

And blast of trumpets. He who hath been doomed

To bow his forehead in the courts of kings Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, Envy and heart-inquietude, derived From intricate cabals of treacherous friends 1, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth,

Could represent the countenance horrible Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage

Of Auster and Bootes. Fifty years
Over the well-steered galleys did I rule :-
From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars,
Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown;
And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft.
Of every cloud which in the heavens might
stir

I knew the force; and hence the rough sea's pride

Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow.
What noble pomp and frequent have not I
On regal decks beheld! yet in the end
I learned that one poor moment can suffice
To equalize the lefty and the low.
We sail the sea of life-a Calm One finds,
And One a Tempest-and, the voyage o'er,
Death is the quiet haven of us all.

If more of my condition ye would know,
Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang
Of noble parents seventy years and three
Lived I-then yielded to a slow disease,

V.

TRUE is it that Ambrosio Salinero
With an untoward fate was long involved
In odious litigation; and full long,
Fate harder still! had he to endure assaults
Of racking malady. And true it is
That not the less a frank courageous heart
And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain;
And he was strong to follow in the steps
Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path
Leads to the dear Parnassian forest's shade,
That might from him be hidden; not a
track

Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he
Had traced its windings.-This Savona
knows,

Yet no sepulchral honors to her Son
She paid, for in our age the heart is ruled
Only by gold. And now a simple stone
Inscribed with this memorial here is raised

By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera. Think not, O Passenger! who read'st the lines,

That an exceeding love hath dazzled me; No he was One whose memory ought to spread

Where'er Permessus bears an honored name, And live as long as its pure stream shall flow

VI.

DESTINED to war from very infancy
Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took
In Malta the white symbol of the Cross :
Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun
Hazard or toil; among the sands was seen
Of Libya; and not seldom, on the banks
Of wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot
To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded.
So lived I, and repined not at such fate.
This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong,
That stripped of arms 1 to my end am
brought

On the soft down of my paternal home.
Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause
To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt
In thy appointed way, and bear in mind
How fleeting and how frail is human life!

VII

O FLOWER of all that springs from gentle blood,

And all that generous nurture breeds to make

Youth amiable; O friend so true of soul,
To fair Aglaia; by what envy moved,
Lelius! has death cut short thy brilliant
day

In its sweet opening? and what dire mishap
Has from Savona torn her best delight?
For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to

mourn;

And, should the outpourings of her eyes suffice not

For her heart's grief, she will entreat Sebeto Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to death, In the chaste arms of thy beloved Love! What profit riches? what does youth avail? Dust are our hopes ;-I, weeping bitterly, Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray

That every gentle Spirit hither led

The father sojourned in a distant land)
Deposit in the hollow of this tomb
A brother's Child, most tenderly beloved!
FRANCESCO was the name the Youth had
borne,

POZZOBONNELLI his illustrious house;
And, when beneath this stone the Corse was
laid,

The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears,
Alas! the twentieth April of his life
Had scarcely flowered: and at this early
time,

By genuine virtue he inspired a hope
That greatly cheered his country: to his kin
He promised comfort; and the flattering
thoughts

His friends had in their fondness entertained

He suffered not to languish or decay.
Now is there not good reason to break forth
Into a passionate lament?-O Soul !
Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world,
Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air:
And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,
And everlasting spring! in memory
Of that delightful fragrance which was once
From thy mild manners quietly exhaled.

IX.

PAUSE, courteous Spirit !-Balbi suppli

cates

That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him
Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer
A prayer to the Redeemer of the world.
This to the dead by sacred right belongs;
All else is nothing.-Did occasion suit
To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb
Would ill suffice for Plato's lore sublime,
And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite,
Enriched and beautified his studious mind:
With Archimedes also he conversed
As with a chosen friend; nor did he leave
Those laureate wreaths ungathered which
the Nymphs
Twine near
Finally,

their loved Permessus.

tears.

VIII.

NOT without heavy grief of heart did He On whom the duty fell (for at that time

Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep; But truly did He live his life. Urbino, Take pride in him!-O Passenger, farewell!

I kissed his cheek before he died;
And when his breath was fled,
I raised, while kneeling by his side,
His hand-it dropped like lead.
Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all
That can be done, will never fall
Like this till they are dead.
By night or day, blow foul or fair,
Ne'er will the best of all your train
Play with the locks of his white hair
Or stand between his knees again.

Here did he sit confined for hours;
But he could see the woods and plains,
Could hear the wind and mark the showers
Come streaming down the streaming panes.
Now stretched beneath his grass-green
mound

He rests a prisoner of the ground.
He loved the breathing air,
He loved the sun, but if it rise
Or set, to him where now he lies,
Brings not a moment's care.
Alas! what idle words; but take
The Dirge which for our Master's sake
And vours, love prompted me to make
The rhymes so homely in attire
With learned ears may ill agree,
But chanted by your Orphan Quire
Will make a touching melody.

DIRGE.

Moura, Shepherd, near thy old gray stone;
Thou Angler, by the silent flood;
And mourn when thou art all alone,
Thou Woodman, in the distant wood!
Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy
Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum;
And mourn, thou poor half-witted Boy
Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb

Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide Who checked or turned thy headstrong youth,

As he before had sanctified

Thy infancy with heavenly truth.

Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay,
Bold settlers on some foreign shore,
Give, when your thoughts are turned this
way,

A sigh to him whom we deplore.

For us who here in funeral strain
With one accord our voices raise,
Let sorrow overcharged with pain
Be lost in thankfulness and praise.

And when our hearts shall feel a sting From ill we meet or good we miss, May touches of his memory bring Fond healing, like a mother's kiss.

BY THE SIDE OF THE GRAVE SOME YEARS
AFTER.

LONG time his pulse hath ceased to beat ;
But benefits, his gift, we trace-
Expressed in every eye we meet
Round this dear Vale, his native place.

To stately Hall and Cottage rude
Flowed from his life what still they hold⚫
And blessings half a century old.
Light pleasures, every day, renewed,

Oh true of heart, of spirit gay,
Thy faults, where not already gone
From memory, prolong their stay
For charity's sweet sake alone.

Such solace find we for our loss;

And what beyond this thought we crave
Comes in the promise from the Cross,
Shining upon thy happy grave.*

Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:

I saw thee every day; and all the while
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

So
pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was
there;

It trembled, but it never passed away.

How perfect was the calm! it seemed on sleep;

No mood, which season takes away, or brings :

I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

See upon the subject of the three foregoing pieces the Fountain, &c., &c., page 417.