which was in his throat, the others in his head, body, and limbs. No sooner was the pontiff informed of the death of his son, and that he had been thrown, like filth, into the river, than giving way to his grief, he shut himself up in a chamber, and wept bitterly. The cardinal of Segovia, and other attendants on the Pope went to the door, and after many hours spent in persuasions and exhortations, prevailed upon him to admit them. From the evening of Wednesday, till the following Saturday, the Pope took no food; nor did he sleep from Thursday morning till the same hour on the ensuing day. At length, however, giving way to the entreaties of his attendants, he began to restrain his sorrow, and to consider the injury which his own health might sustain, by the further indulgence of his grief.»-Roscoe's Leo Tenth, vol. I, page 265.

THE CURSE OF MINERVA,

A POEM.

-Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas

Immolat, et pænam scelerato ex sanguine sumit.

THE

CURSE OF MINERVA.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun:

Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!

O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows:
On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulph, unconquer'd Salamis !
Their azure arches through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When, Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last:

How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd' sage's latest day!
Not yet not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still:
But sad his light to agonising eyes,

And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes;
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before;
But ere he sunk below Citharon's head,
The cup of woe was quaffd-the spirit fled;
The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly-
Who lived and died as none can live or die!

But, lo! from high Hymettus to the plain,
The Queen of Night asserts her silent reign; 2
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form:
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play,
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And bright around, with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret:

The
groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk, 3
And, dun and sombre mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm,
All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye-
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by.

Again the Ægean, heard no more afar, ulls his chafed breast from elemental war;