Then found I did not fit his foot,

So let me out to any one;

And thus at last in the first comer's hands He leaves me, and for boot-hook only stands.

A German braggart with the priest

Played pikes to put his heel in me;
But homewards on St. Francis' nag

Full many a time I've seen him flee.
Again he hither came, but sore of foot;
Nor has he ever yet quite donned the Boot.

Unworn for one whole age or more,

Then pulled on by a merchant plain, He greased me fresh, and made me trot To the Levant and back again.

Unpolished, true; but not one jot I failed,
With rare good hobs and sparables well nailed.

The merchant throve; then thought it right
To polish up and smarten me;
I wore the spur, the fleece of gold,

But lost my old consistency.

Change followed change, that now I plainly see That my first nails were far the best for me.

I had nor rip nor wrinkle then;

When from the west a pilfering oaf
Jumped from his galley on my heel,
Tried even to insert his hoof.

But comfortably there he could not stay;
And at Palermo him I lamed one day.

'Mongst ultramontane amateurs

A certain King of Spades essayed, With feet and hands to put me on;

But like Berlicche there he stayed,

When jealous of the roost a Capon crowing,
Just threatened him to set the bells a-going.

My ruin to complete just then,

Or maybe later, an M. D.,

Leaving his drugs and shop, rushed forth;
Upon my upper-leathers he

To help my case devised intrigues and lies,
Whose web was woven for three centuries.

He polished, gimcracked me all o'er,
And with emollients, glosses rare,
He rubbed me till I lost my skin;

And he who had me next in care
Still doctored me according to the rule
Of that iniquitious and cursed school.

Thus tossed about from hand to hand,
I every harpy's mark became.
Both Frank and Spaniard I endured,

Who played the "Devil and Baker's" game. Don Quixote proved at length the lucky wight; But rent and ridiculed he held me tight.

Who saw me on the Spaniard's foot

Say that I sat " malissimo,"

Though greased and varnish-daubed, and styled,

But on the sly he used the file so sore,
That I was left more ragged than before.

Thenceforth each one at his own will
Using the pincers and the awl
From frying-pan to fire I fell.

Rogues, bullies, barons, great and small,
To torture me had each a new idea,
"Et diviserunt vestimenta mea.”

Thus shuffled on from hoof to hoof
Of each untutored clownish brute,
I've come to lose the olden print

Of that upright, well-planted foot,

On which, without one single crooked tread, The circuit of the Universe I made.

O wretched boot! I must confess
One foolish plan has me undone ;
Of walking with another's legs

When it was time to use my own;

And more than this, the madness most unmeet, Of hoping change of luck from change of feet.

With tears I say it; for I feel

Myself all shattered and awry;

Earth seems to shake beneath my tread
If but one single step I try.

By dint of letting bad guides lead me so,
I've lost the habit and the power to go.

But my worst foes have been the priests,
Unconscionable grasping race!

I'd have at certain poets too

Who count their bead-roll nowadays, Christ goes for nothing; the Decretal puts A veto 'gainst the priesthood wearing "boots."

Torn and neglected now I lie,

And pawed by every dirty hand,
Long have I waited for some leg

To fill my wrinkles, make me stand;
No German leg or Frenchman's be it known,
But one within my native country grown.

A certain great man's once I tried,

Who, had he not goue strolling forth,
Might well have boasted he possessed
In me the strongest boot on earth.

But snow-storms, on his crooked course one day,
Froze both his legs just as he got half-way.

Refitted on the ancient last

And subject to the knife again,

Though once of mighty worth and weight,
My under-leathers scarce remain;

And as for patching holes both new and old,
It is not thread nor pegs will make them hold.

The cost is dear, the labor long;

You must patch over piece by piece; Brush off the dirt in ancient mode,

Drive nails and brads; then by degrees The calf and upper-leathers all remake : But to the cobbler go, for Heaven's sake!

Find me but out some man; he'll do,
If only not a coward: when

I find myself upon his foot,

Should some kind sir, like former men, Presume with me in the old way to treat, We'll give him a sound kick on honor's seat. Giuseppe Giusti. Tr. Anon.

ITALY.

TO LORD HALIFAX.

WHILE you, my Lord, the rural shades admire,

And from Britannia's public posts retire,

Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,
For their advantage sacrifice your ease,
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
For wheresoe'er I turn my ravished eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,

And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung,
Renowned in verse each shady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleased to search the hills and woods
For rising springs and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,