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The dwellers in that miserable valley,

It seems that Circe had them in her pasture. Mid ugly swine,' of acorns worthier

Than other food for human use created,

It first directeth its impoverished way. Curs? findeth it thereafter, coming downward,

More snarling than their puissance demands,

And turns from them disdainfully its muzzle. It goes on falling, and the more it grows,

The more it finds the dogs becoming wolves,

This maledict and misadventurous ditch. Descended then through many a hollow gulf,

It findeth foxes * so replete with fraud,

They fear no cunning that may master them. Nor will I cease because another hears me;

And well 't will be for him, if still he mind him

Of what a truthful spirit to me unravels. Thy grandson I behold, who doth become

A hunter of those wolves upon the bank

Of the wild stream, and terrifies them all. He sells their flesh, it being yet alive;

Thereafter slaughters them like ancient beeves;

Many of life, himself of praise, deprives.
Blood-stained he issues from the dismal forest;

He leaves it such, a thousand years from now
In its primeval state 't is not re-wooded.”

Dante Alighieri. Tr. H. W. Longfellow.

1 The Casentines. & The Aretines.

3 The Florentines. 4 The Pisans.






TURNER, thy pencil brings to mind a day

When from Laveno and the Beuscer Hill I over Lake Verbanus held my way

In pleasant fellowship, with wind at will ; Smooth were the waters wide, the sky serene, And our hearts gladdened with the joyful scene;

Joyful, for all things ministered delight,

The lake and laud, the mountains and the vales; The Alps their snowy summits reared in light,

Tempering with gelid breath the summer gales ; And verdant shores and woods refreshed the eye, That else had ached beneath that brilliant sky.

To that elaborate island were we bound,

yore the scene of Borromean pride, Folly's prodigious work; where all around,

Under its coronet, and self-belied, Look where you will, you cannot choose but see The obtrusive motto's proud “Humility !”

Far off the Borromean saint was seen,

Distinct, thoughi distant, o'er his native town,

Where his Colossus with benignant mien

Looks from its station on Arona down ;
To it the inland sailor lifts his eyes,
From the wide lake, when perilous storms arise.

But no storm threatened on that summer day;

The whole rich scene appeared for joyance made ; With many a gliding bark the mere was gay,

The fields and groves in all their wealth arrayed : I could have thought the sun beheld with smiles Those towns and palaces and populous isles.

From fair Arona, even on such a day,

When gladness was descending like a shower, Great painter, did thy gifted eye survey

The splendid scene; and, conscious of its power, Well hath thine hand inimitable given The glories of the lake and land and heaven.

Robert Southey.



TRUE fame is this, — throngh love, and love alone,

To stand thus honored where we first saw day; True puissance this, – the hand of lawful sway In love alone to lift, that hand whereon, Dove-like, Eternal Peace hath fixed her throne, And whence her blessing wings o’er earth its way; True rule to God belongs. Who share it? They Through whom God's gifts on humankind are strewn. Bless thus thy natal place, great Priest, forever!

And thou, Arona, by thy placid bay,
Second thy sleepless shepherd's mute endeavor.
The choice is thine, if that high Grace, like showers
Of sunbeams rained on all thy hearths and bowers,
Shall feed thy growth or quicken thy decay !

Aubrey de Vere.



“YE.consecrated marbles, proud and dear,

Blest, that the noblest Tuscan ye infold, And in your walls his holy ashes hold, Who, dying, left none greater, none his peer; Since I, with pious hand, with soul sincere, Can send on high no costly perfumed fold Of frankincense, and o'er the sacred mould Where Petrarch lies no gorgeous altars rear, O, scorn it not, if humbly I impart My grateful offering to these lovely shades, Here bending low in singleness of mind !” Lilies and violets sprinkling to the win Thus Damon prays, while the bright hills and glades Murmur, “The gift is small, but rich the heart.”

Benedetto Varchi. Tr. Anon. PETRARCH'S TOMB.


WHERE is a tomb in Arqua ; — reared in air,

Pillared in their sarcophagus, repose
The bones of Laura's lover ; here repair
Many familiar with his well-sung woes,
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose
To raise a language, and his land reclaim
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes;

Watering the tree which bears his lady's name
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame.

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They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died;
The mountain-village where his latter days
Went down the vale of years ; and 't is their pride,
An honest pride, — and let it be their praise,
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze
His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain
And venerably simple, such as raise

A feeling more accordant with his strain
Than if a pyramid formed his monumental fame.

And the soft hamlet where he dwelt
Is one of that complexion which seems made
For those who their mortality have felt,
And sought a refuge from their hopes decayed
In the deep unbrage of a green hill's shade,
Which shows a distant prospect far away
Of busy cities, now in vain displayed,

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