Ma è van che a quella esprima

I miei tormenti in rima.
Amor ritorna spesso,
E poi che l'arco vede
Intatto a me d'appresso,
Con nuovo stral mi fiede,
E con nuovo disprezzo
Grida perche nol spezzo
Così passando gli anni
Fra tristezza ed affanni,
Alfin le bianche brine
Caddero sul mio crine;
Vecchiezza che al mio fianco
Mosse il pie lento e stanco,
Vide quell' arco, rise,
E colla man tremante,
In mille parti infrante
Lo spezzo, lo divise.
Or l'empio fanciulletto
Impaziente aspetto,
Che di trionfi miei
Farlo certo vorrei :

Ma indarno, oh Dio! lo bramo,
Indarno a me lo chiamo;
Passa lunge. E, qual vento,
Dagli occhi miei si fura,
Ed or che nol pavento,

Ei più di me non cura.'

The Bow of Love.

Quoth Love to me, Dost thou complain
Of the bow that caus'd thy pain ?
I give it to thy vengeance: take it;
Use thy strength and skill to break it.
Find thou means to break the bow,
Then thine ills their end shall know.
A hundred various ways I strove,
To break the fatal bow of Love.
Alas! all mortal force was weak,
The fatal bow of Love to break.
To proud Disdain at length I go,
And ask his aid to break the bow.
He freely gives the aid I ask,
And boldly undertakes the task;
But all his strength he tries in vain,
And gives me back the bow again.
To Jealousy I next repair,

4

That she might ease me of my care.
In her dry grasp I saw it bend,
I thought my ills had found their end;
But all her strength could do no more-
She left it stronger than before.

Then to Caprice I went, and pray'd
That he would give his friendly aid.
He crock'd it, striving with good will,
But left the bow unbroken still.
I call'd the Muses then for aid,
And on their shrine the bow I laid;
And in their sacred fire I strove
To burn the fatal bow of Love.
Alas! I sought their help in vain-
They only. taught me to complain.
Soon Love returned, my fate to know;
And, when he saw the unconquered bow
Had baffled all my strength and art,
He fixed in me another dart;
And said, in mockery of my woe,
Hah! canst thon yet not break the bow?
Thus past away the wretched years,
In pain, in sorrow, and in tears,
Till Age came up, advancing slow :
He smiled when he beheld the bow;
And in his withered hand he took it,
And with his feeble arm he broke it.
At this, in triumph and in joy,
I look'd for that inhuman boy.
I call'd and call'd; but, from my eyes,
Swift as the wind, away he flies.
When I his power no longer fear'd,
He to another victim steer'd.

In some of De' Rossi's Anacreontics there is a triteness unworthy of his genius. Doris pricking her finger in gathering a rose-Galatea looking in the fountain, which was her mirror twenty years ago, and thinking the water was changed-these are old stories. Gli Occhi e le Labbra di File is the title of a very absurd poem. The eyes and the lips of Phillis dispute to which of them she is indebted for so many admirers. They quarrel upon this question, and determine to thwart each other: kind words are always counteracted by harsh looks, and inviting glances by words of anger, till Cupid reconciles them. We should have suspected this to be a Dutch Anacreontic.— Love and Folly is a neat apologue. Venus finds that Cupid is willing to dwell any where, except with Age; but, in compliance with Age's prayers, she commands Cupid to lodge with him. Cupid gives Folly his wings and his bandage and his bow, and sends him in his stead; and Age is satisfied with his guest.

De' Rossi's epigrams have considerable merit.

• Per un Ricco Cattivo Poeta.

Le rime di Lucone

Tu celebri a ragione,

The rich and mighty Eglon, who lies here,
Did not do all the good he should have done ;
But let us pray that he may rest in peace,

For he did not all the harm he could have done,

Pel Dono d'un Libro.

E ver pel libro tuo non vuoi danaro, Ma che tutto lo legga, Aulo, pretendi. Aulo! dunque lo vendi,

E lo vendi assai caro.'

On the Presentation Copy of a Book,

You take no money for your book:
But you would have me read it through.

Aulus! indeed you sell your book,

And sell it dearly, too.

'I Libri di Damone.

Tra i libri che Damon compra si caro,
Quello ch'è raro più sceglier tu vuoi,
Quello sara il più raro

Se uno letto da lui trovar ne puoi,'

Damon's Library,

2

All curious books lord Damon buys,

And buys them at the dearest price,

To find out one which he had read would be
The greatest curiosity.

The Scherzi Poetici e Pittorici of this author fill the fifth volume of the collection. Each poem has its correspondent sketch. The drawings have all the Italian elegance: they are more uniformly excellent than the accompanying verses; yet these are of no common merit. They are of different structures-epigrams, apologues, Anacreontics, sonnets, as best suit the subject.

Jove tells Love to wreathe flowers for the bonds of Hymen. The blind boy makes a rose-wreath, and leaves the thorns upon the stalks. Love gives the poet a watch; but it never keeps time; the hours are always too fast or too slow, Suspicion takes the bandage from the eyes of Love: he was happy when he was blind; but this makes him miserable. When his torch

burns dim, Love goes to Laughter to blow it, or to Anger or Scorn; but once he went to Jealousy, and she blew out the flame. Pleasure lets Youth into her garden: he gathers all the flowers, and is then surprised to behold what a desert he has made. Some few are of more grotesque character. The poet saw Love painting one day: his own heart was upon the easel, on which Cupid was engraving Phillis's likeness with an arrow. Cupid turns farmer: he yokes doves, and ploughs with an arrow. In such a work, such conceits are not misplaced.

De' Rossi's poems fill one volume more, which contains a hundred fables. They possess more originality than the fables of Pignotti; but are, on the whole, very inferior. De' Rossi goes straight through his story, hastening to an epigrammatic application at the end. Pignotti lingers and loiters, and suspends his narrative for the sake of descriptions which make the narrative beautiful. Their principles are as different as their manner. Pignotti wrote in better times, when liberal opinions were encouraged at all the continental courts. De' Rossi has seen the sufferings of Italy, and confounds the principles of philosophy with the ravages of the French, as absurdly as French unbelievers confound the doctrines of Christianity with the follies and tricks of popery. Pignotti is a man of genius, De' Rossi only a man of talents. De' Rossi can design Cupids admirably, and write madrigals and Anacreontics. Whatever he does is fanciful; it occasions a pleasurable smile, but never excites a deeper feeling. Pignotti possessed the eye that could see Nature, and the heart that could feel her.

Vol. VII. Poesie di Ippolito Pindemonte, Veronese.-Poems by Ippolito Pindemonte, of Verona, Most of these poems

have a melancholy feeling pervading them, having been writ ten in sickness, and at a time when the author himself did not expect to recover. Enough of this appcars, to excite an interest, but not too much. Pindemonte writes like one who feels and thinks upon his situation, not lamenting it. From his youth up, he loved poetry; and he tells us-sempre a se dispiacque that, in his own writings, he never satisfied himself.

Our limits will not permit us to extract from the poet as much, at length, as his merits deserve. A very imperfect translation of the following stanza will show his talent for natural description.

Come della Natura, che sospende

Ogni opra agli occhi, è la quiete augusta!
Come da un cor, che la sua voce intende
Questo silenzio universal si gusta!
Universale, se non quanto il fende
Cupo tenor di musica locusta.
E romorosi più, nella profonda

Quiete, o rio tra sassi, o al vento fronda.'

How awful Nature seems in this repose,

When her works live no longer to the sight!
And, to the heart that understands and knows
Her voice, this silence-what a deep delight!—
This universal silence, save alone

That the shrill locusts sing; and, in the night,
The leaves move louder; and, with louder moan,
The river rolls along its bed of stone.

His picture of Religion by a sick bed must not be omitted.

• Pur la nobile donna avvolta in lutto

Tenea la faccia: or che saria giuliva?
Ma d'ogni pianto era il bel volto asciutto,
Dolente si, ma qual conviensi a diva;
Tal che il duol nel suo viso, e in-un del vinto
Duolo il triunfo si vedea dipinto.'

A look of sorrow in her face she had

For who but would have suffered sorrow here?

Even as beseem'd a goddess to be sad,

Her countenance was sullied by no tear.
Grief gave a gloomy air; but, thro' that gloom,

A triumph might be seen, and grief was overcome.

Several of these poems were written during the author's travels, as the scenery excited poetic feelings. Mount Cenis, the lake of Geneva, the graves of Laura and of Petrarc, the Chartreuse, Ferney after the death of Voltaire, and Zurich after the death of Gessner, all gave him subjects for song. He came to England also; and, in England also, he wrote poems-not upon our Welch mountains, or our Cumberland lakes-not up