In troops the dolphins joyfully escort

The sparkling bark upon its easy way ; Smiling the sea-nymphs lightly dance and sport

On every side, unceasing in their play; She sees the Umbroné issuing from its port,

And Giglio to the southward, and the spray Washing the dark and ruinous sides of steep Mount Argentarius, mid the Tuscan deep.

Here to the right before the wind she steers,

And on the left the port of Hercules Recedes; Civita Vecchia now appears,

And all the glittering coast the goddess sees; Then Porto di Trajano, worn by years,

In miserable ruins, dome and frieze; Time whelins the tower, dissolves the marble bust, The noblest works become a heap of dust.

The Tiber was not distant, when arose

From sleep the South-wind, which in Lybia reigns, And, rushing to the shore, indignant blows

Across the sea, and every check disdains; He sees the silver sails and inward glows

With daring thoughts, — above the watery plains He flies, to ask the lovely vessel's freight, And finds the Queen of Beauty there in state.

The low flat coast of Ostia had receded,

And Anzio risen to view, when Beauty's Queen The rumor heard, and saw how gust succeeded

O’erwhelming gust, and blackened all the scene;

She saw the nymphs, how fleetly they proceeded

From the vexed, angry sea, with fearful mien; Disdainful then she threw her veil aside, And showed herself to heaven in all her beauty's pride.

With crimson gowns, and turbans on the lead,

Nettun's fair damsels on the beach are seen; She passes close Astura, where betrayed

In his disastrous flight was Corradin. God, for that deed, a punishment has laid

Upon the land, which from that time has been Desert and waste; now Mount Circell appears, His feet amidst the sea, his head to heaven he rears.

Onward she goes, and rapid leaves behind

Ponzia and Palmarola, where of yore
By tyrant Rome the illustrious were confined,

Secret and lonely. Scattered on the shore
Gleam various towers; before the buxom wind

Swift flies the vessel, now is seen no more
Dim Terracena ; now remote is found
Upon the left Gäeta, — place renowned.

Gäeta now is passed, and sailing on

She gaineth Procida, steering near its coast; And then Puzzolo, long familiar known

For its sulphureous streets; that too is lost; Then cometh Nisida, with an emerald zone,

Whence is beheld bright Naples and its boast, The glorious bay; and seemingly with glee The Queen of Ocean greets the Goddess of the Sea.

Alessandro Tassoni. Tr. James Atkinson, TO ITALY.

ITALY, my country! I behold

Thy columns, and thine arches, and thy walls, And the proud statues of our ancestors ; The laurel and the mail with which our sires Were clad, these I hehold not, nor their fame. Why thus unarmed, with naked breast and brow? What means that livid paleness, those deep wounds ? To heaven and earth I raise my voice, and ask What hand hath brought thee to this low estate, Who, worse than all, hath loaded thee with chains, So that, unveiled and with dishevelled hair, Thou sittest on the ground disconsolate, Hiding thy weeping face between thy knees ? Ay, weep, Italia! thou hast cause to weep ! Degraded and forlorn. Yes,

were thine

eyes Two living fountains, never could thy tears Equal thy desolation and thy shame! Fallen! - ruined !- lost! who writes or speaks of thee, But, calling unto mind thine ancient fame, Exclaims, “Once she was mighty! Is this she ?" Where is thy vaunted strength, thy high resolve ? Who from thy belt hath torn the warrior sword ? How liast thou fallen from thy pride of place To this abyss of misery! Are there none To combat for thee, to defend thy cause ? To arms! Alone I'll fight and fall for thee! Content if my best blood strike forth one spark To fire the bosoins of my countrymen.

Where are thy sons! I hear the clang of arms,
The din of voices, and the bugle-note;
Sure they are fighting for a noble cause !
Yes, one faint hope remains, — I see, — I see
The fluttering of banners in the breeze ;
I hear the tramp of horses and of men,
The roar of cannon, and, like glittering lamps
Amid the darkening glooin, the flash of swords.
Is there no comfort ? And who combat there
In that Italian camp? Alas, ye gods,
Italian brands fight for a foreign lord !
O, miserable those whose blood is shed
Not for their native land, for wife or child,
But for a stranger lord, — who cannot say
With dying breath, “My country! I restore
The life thou givest, and gladly die for thee!”

Giacomo Leopardi. Tr. Anon.

THE CHRONICLE OF THE BOOT.

I

Nor ever meant for country loon ;
If with an axe I seem cut out,

The workman was no cobbling clown;
A good jack-boot with double sole he made,
To roam the woods, or through the rivers wade.

Down from the thigh unto the heel

I'm ever wet, and stand it well; Good for the chase, or spurring hard,

As many jackasses can tell.

Sewn strong with solid stitching, you must kuow, At top a hem, all down a seam I show.

But then, to don I'm rather hard;

Unfit for wear of hucksters small,
I tire and gall a feeble foot,

And most men's legs don't fit at all.
To wear me long has been the lot of none;
A little while has satisfied each one.

I'll give you here no catalogue

Of all who wished to try their foot; But here and there, merely for fun,

The most illustrious I'll quote.
How torn and maimed I've been I'll tell in brief,
And then how passed along from thief to thief.
'T will seem incredible; but once

I set off at a gallop round,
And traversed all the world full speed ;

But, running over too much ground,
I lost my balance, and I fell down smack
By my own weight, full-length upon my back.
Then was a rumpus and a row;

Men of all nations, greatest, least,
Poured down some thousand thousand miles,

Led by the Devil and a priest :
Some caught the leg, some held the tasselled tie;
And “ Touch and take ! was on all sides the cry.
A priest, regardless of the faitli,

Helped or uuhelped would put me on,