EPIGRAM BY THE REV. MARK BLOXHAM.

What! Bloxham, a sound divine, inscribe his book
To Brougham, a Deist or Socinian known!
Why think it strange our bard such hero took
When he to Milton had the gauntlet thrown?
To out-do him, the bard to Brougham was civil;
Remember Milton's hero was the devil.

Of sunlit Italy.

And now, as comes his latest ray
Dancing o'er the smiling sea,

Hark, from the distant minaret pealing,
To mark the hallowed hour of pray'r,
The mellowed chime of bells comes stealing
Soft o'er the stirless air,

Making such clear unearthly melody

Athwart the growing shades of even,
That mortal ears may take it well to be

The tongues of angels chanting down from heaven
Midway to man's abode,

To hear the songs of praise that rise

From countless lips into the skies

Hailing the stainless Bride of God.*

II.

Down Ischia's side has sunk the sun,
And Capri's vine-clothed isle
Flings o'er the sea its shadow dun,
Lengthening o'er many a mile

To Castel Mare's sheltered strand,

As though, to join the rock and shore, 'Twere strewn by spirits' unseen hand

A shadowy causeway o'er ;

While ever through the roseate sky,

That looks like northern morning's breaking,
Bright as a young babe's cheek when waking,
The sulphury smoke mounts taperingly

The moment of sunset is appointed, in Roman Catholic countries, for the evening service to the Virgin, and the " Ave Maria," as it is called, is proclaimed by the peals that ring out from all the church bells, which produce a strikingly fine effect. This custom has given rise to a very sweet episode of Byron. (Don Juan, canto 3, stanza 102.)

From Vesuvio's cratered cone,

Whose azure brow

Is tranquil now

As he sleeps on his lava throne.
God! 'tis a solemn and thoughtful sight
To look on that murderer's sleep,
As his head is bright in the fading light
When the sun is on the deep:

His black thick breath, in sulphureous wreath,
Puffs in the still clear air,

Forced by the sobs when his hot heart throbs As he heaves in his restless lair.

Bared to the bone are his ribs of stone,

Stript by his own heart's fire;

Round his feet are piled the ruins wild
That he wrought in his wakeful ire.

III.'

Down Ischia's side the sun has set,
And now the purple tints of even,
Along the far horizon met,

Steal mellow o'er the gloaming heav'n,
Bathing in their dulcet light,

Sant' Eremo's castled height,

Blending with the shadows deep

Of Buttress strong, and tow'r, and keep,
A hue so soft and hoar,

That Time's all wasting hand appears
To sanctify the pile he sears

With many a deep rent o'er.

And high into the dreamy air,
From the terraced city fair

That sinks to meet the ocean's bounds,

Rise, in ever thronging sounds,

Laughter wild, and faint cries telling

Of restless life within her dwelling.
And softly o'er the silent sea

Falls the plash of some lone oar,
Wafted in faint melody

To the gently curving shore,
Whose peopled edge is flaring bright
With many a moving, flashing light
Streaming through the sombre air,
As if the baffled daylight there
Were struggling still with night-
And all along the world on high
The fadeless stars are hung,
From Zenith to the boundary,
Where azure sea meets azure sky
In thronging myriads flung;
You scarce can tell if yon faint light,
That burns with trembling beam
Upon the distant verge of night,
Floats on the sky or stream.
And well that ocean, still and blue,
Might cheat the charmed eye
To deem, outspread beneath its view,
Some wondrous nether sky,

For many a snowy sail unfurled,
As 'twere in mimicry

Of clouds within the skyey world,
Floats o'er the slumbering sea-
And many a star-like light is seen
Along its breast to rove,

That burns as fair and bright, I ween,

As those in heaven above;

For the fisherman's flinging his net in the sea,
And joyously singing his barcarole free-
And the sea-star that lights the ocean dark
Is kindled in his lonely bark;

And these are the strains that steal along,
Faintly floating to the shore,

Waking many a deathless song

Of the bards of the days of yore.

IV.

And who are they that sing these strains,
That erst Torquato sung?

A race of slaves in all, save chains
Not yet around them flung.
Degenerate children of the brave,
The virtuous, and the free,
Too feeble now their land to save,
Too vicious and too cowardly
For that best boon to mortals given,
The heritage of God in heaven-
The boon of Liberty!

V.

If, as ye boast yourselves, ye be
Sprung from that mighty sire,*
Jove's noblest earth-born progeny,
Who triumphed o'er the tyranny
Of Juno's vengeful ire-
Where is the all-sustaining soul-
The strength, the God-like energy

That sunk not 'neath the stern control
Of heaven's unjust decree?

Does not one smouldering spark remain,

Of him whose infant clasp

The full-flushed serpent's heart could strain
Within his strangling grasp?

Or yet has cankering sloth and years
And foreign threats and coward fears

So worn ye to decay

Ye cannot crush the snakes that climb

Around ye in your manhood's prime
To sap your lives away,

Till men believe your lineage high
A jest in bitter mockery

To show you, to all nations' scorn,
In utter feebleness forlorn.

The Campanian cities are said to have been originally colonized by the descendants of Hercules.

VI.

Sweet clime! where all that Nature gave
With bounteous hand and free,
Mountain and valley, isle and cave,
Still smile unchangingly
In all the fair and lovely hues
That first awoke Italia's muse.*
The wanderer-who has left his home
In a far, chill northern land,
Amid the classic scenes to roam,
Sweet Naples, near thy strand-
He blesses thee with fervent pray'r
As his footsteps linger o'er,
In the balmy evening air,

Thy ever-beauteous shore.
When winding up the caverned side
Of that fair verdant hill

That looks upon the outspread tide
So ebbless and so still,

He views so sweet a scene around
That men have named it holy ground,
Where Sorrow's voice is charmed to rest,
And all who gaze perforce are blest.†
Or straying through the leafy bow'rs
Where the broken sunshine pours
Its light upon the gushing vine,
He pauses o'er the spot divine
Where Maro chose his shaded rest
Mid scenes he loved and sung the best.
He blesses thee, when on the deep,
At the hour that daylight dies,

He sees the golden sunset steep

In crimson light thy cloudless skies
Thy hills, thy countless leaves and isles
Glowing in the day-god's smiles.
May thy sons awake from sleep,
Like the smouldering fire that dwells
Harmless long within the deep

Of Vesuvio's sulphury cells-
May the hour of their awaking,
O'er the world in glory breaking,
Flashing fierce in angry pride,
Sweep with hot resistless tide
O'er the locust tribes that dare,

Tampering with thy sleeping strength,

Settle on thy bosom fair

As if their puny might at length
Could strangle thus the throes of ire
That throb within thy heart of fire.

Naples, September 25th, 1835.

IOTA.

* Sorrento, on the bay of Naples, was the birth-place of Torquato Tasso.

Pasilipo or Pausiilipo is said to have acquired its name from the words (ravois Tho Luæns) “pausis tes lupes," rest from sorrow, on account of the beauty of its situation and view.