man's career which might otherwise have been includ Suffice it, in conclusion, to say that, in the history of own people, no man is entitled to, or likely to be accord anything like the position of eminence that his mem should receive and, in the world of men, history will doubt place him among the elect. His friends will alwa look back upon Louis, as he was familiarly called, a most agreeable companion and as a fine example sagacious and sturdy manhood. General Smuts paid following touching tribute to General Botha's mem at the grave of his dead friend and leader:

'After the intimate friendship and unbroken co-operati of twenty-one years, I have the right to call Botha the large most beautiful, and sweetest soul of all my land and da great in life and happy in death.'

Lastly, General Botha's breadth of view and benev lent outlook were evinced in his farewell intervie published through Reuter in July 1919; and the followi extract is memorable :

'As Great Britain led the war, so she has led the peac and we look to her to secure its just fulfilment. I do n pretend to agree with all the peace terms. Who does? B I would say to the Germans: Show by your conduct that yo intend to carry out the terms in the spirit and in the lette and you will find salvation. Evasion and shiftiness will n be tolerated, but in honesty of purpose and of fulfilment ma repose for you relief. . . . While we all lift up our hearts i thankfulness that the nightmare of the last five years is pas let us remember that with the victors rests the supreme gi of mercy. Should Germany in the near future produc evidence of a changed heart and a contrite spirit, it shoul be the privilege of Great Britain, just as she has led in war also to lead in the mercy of peace. The peace must not b marred by vengeance. I go back to South Africa mor firmly convinced than ever that the mission of the Britis Empire now and in the time to come lies along the path o freedom and high ideals. Britain is the corner-stone upor which our civilisation must rest.'

LIONEL PHILLIPS.

Art. 3.-THE GINESTRA; OR, THE DESERT FLOWER.* APART from his poetry, which, like the modest flower on the cinder heaps above Pompeii that overlook the beautiful bay of Naples, brought sweetness and some contentment into his seared existence, Leopardi was one of the most unhappy men who have attained celebrity. Doubtless others have had misfortunes. Dante spent long years in exile, Tasso in imprisonment, Milton lost his sight. But these, and others nearly as eminent who have suffered severely, often had a brilliant past to look back upon; they had received good, should they not also receive evil? In the whole course, however, of Leopardi's life anything 'good' in the ordinary sense of the term would be difficult to find. Harsh parents, unsympathising associates, straitened circumstances, physical weakness and ill-health pointing inevitably to early decease, and the settled conviction that the world is governed without regard to individual welfare, constitute the essentially volcanic soil on which sprang 'The Ginestra'—yet within sight of the most enchanting prospects the world can show, mirrored in his imagination.

Of this poem, the last and longest among the more important Odes-perhaps also the most famous, at least on the Continent very little need be said in explanation. With admirable lucidity it discloses, gravely and unhesitatingly, a conception of human affairs which sorrow had forced on the writer. It contains magnificent imagery and is enlivened with striking contrasts and similitudes, the moral inculcated being that men should devote their energies-without striving, each, for an undue share-to mutual assistance in the struggle with Nature, here regarded as our true Antagonist; in short, an idealised socialism. That a work of such high moral authority, power, and poetic beauty has not hitherto been made easily accessible may surprise some who now read it for the first time.

*This task of translating the principal Odes in Leopardi's 'Canti' being now completed, the writer wishes to thank Dr Mackail for guidance and encouragement when preparing the following version, and also those versions that have already appeared in this Review, and, more recently, in 'The Fortnightly.'

THE GINESTRA.

First published in 1845; written during the spring autumn of 1836, in the year preceding the poet's death, wh he was staying at a little house in the country situated o spur of the mountain overlooking Torre del Greco and the s

'And men loved darkness rather than light.'-John iii, 19.

Here on the arid spine

Of the dread mount

Vesevo,* the destroyer,

Which other flower or tree delights not, thou,

Fragrant Ginestra, joyful in the wild,

Scatterest thy solitary tufts around.

So, lately, had I found

Thy modest blossom, deck those sombre lands
That gird the City which in other time †
Was to all mortal men lady and queen,

And seem with solemn mien

A silent memory, the traveller heeds,
Of her lost power and pride.

Here in this waste I meet thee yet again,
Lover of sad, forsaken, solitudes,

Misfortune's constant friend!

These fields that cinders strew

Unfruitful, hard o'erspread

With lava, echoing to the wanderer's feet;

Where in the sun the snake

Nestles, or writhes uncoiled, and rabbits make

Their wonted burrows-once were pastures gay
With villas, yellowed by the ripening corn,
Gladsome with lowing kine;

Gardens and palaces

There were, a loved repose

Made for the mighty in their hour of ease;

Here famous cities rose,

Which, thundering, this proud mountain overwhelmed

With torrents from her fiery throat aflame,

And those who dwelt therein. One ruin now

Involves them all, where, gentle flower, thou com'st
Wafting thy perfumed sweetness to the sky,

As if compassionate of other's dole,

These deserts to console.

* Vesevus, Latin for Vesuvius.

† L. had recently passed through the Roman Campagna on his way

from Florence to Naples.

Before this steep

Let him then come who would exalt with praise
Our state, and see what share

In loving Nature's care

Is ours at need. Here he may justly weigh
And measure well the power and sovereignty
Given to this breed of man whose cruel nurse,
Suddenly moved, when least he fears, annuls
A portion of his race, and on the rest
Destruction in brief space

With but a touch can pour.

Of human progeny

"The lofty destinies progressive ever *
Are written on this shore.

Here gaze, here see thyself

Elate and foolish age,

That from the path discerned

When thought revived, assigned to us of old,

Hast wandered, backward in thy course returned,

And, still retiring, sounded an advance.

Dreaming of liberty, thou wouldst enchain

THOUGHT, that has led us out from barbarous ways,
That gave us civil life, whereby alone

In public acts a more humane regard

For all may yet be shown.

The truth-the bitter lot,

The humble place Nature prepared for us-
Displeases thee. Whereat, in coward sort,

Thy back turned to the light that makes this clear.
Thyself a fugitive, thou call'st him slave
Who seeks the light, him sole magnanimous
Who, fool or rascal, mocking at his kind,
Or mocked himself, with vile or senseless praise
Our rank on earth above the stars would raise.
The man of modest means and sickly frame,
If honour and a lofty soul be his,
Calls not nor deems himself

With wealth and vigour crowned;

Nor in the world makes an absurd pretence

Of sumptuous life and virile eminence;
But, if a beggar in his purse and health,
Holds it no shame to let the truth appear,
Speaks openly of all

'Le sorti magnifiche e progressive dell' umanità.' A quotation from Terenzio Mamiani. It occurs in the dedication to the 'Inni Sacri' (1832).

And gives to things that matter their true name.
Magnanimous indeed I cannot call,

But stupid, a frail creature born to die,
Nurtured in all distress,

Who says he lives for joy;

And with foul-smelling pride

Fills books that promise new felicities

And glories all unknown

(Not only on this orb

But in the very sky,)

Here, upon earth, to beings whom a breath
Malarial,* a wave

Of turbulent ocean, or the rocking soil
Which tremors shake, destroys so utterly
That even their memory

Great pains will hardly save.

A noble heart is his

Who dares, with mortal eyes,

Look on the common fate;

With tongue unbound, nought taking from the truth,
Confess the evils for our journey meant,

Our weak and low estate;

One who in suffering is strong and great,
And to our other ills

That deeper misery,

Fraternal ire and hate,

Adds not, by charging those of his own kind
With blame for any sorrows that are his-
But her, the criminal

It is significant that the same sequence of ideas appears in the Itali and interesting to compare the effect on Cowper's darkly devotional mi of a similar catastrophe.

† Rousseau's theories are here glanced at.