Imagens das páginas




Nume non v'è, dicea fra sè lo stolto,
Nume non v'è che l'universo regga:
Squarci l'empio la benda, ond' egli è avvolto,
Agli occhi infidi, e, se v' ha Nume, ei vegga.
Nume non v'è? verso del ciel rivolto
Chiaro il suo inganno in tante stelle ei legga ;
Speglisi, e impresso nel suo proprio volto
Ad ogni sguardo il suo Fattor rivegga.

Nume non v'è? de' fiumi i puri argenti,
L'aer che spiri, il suolo ove risiedi,
Le piante, i fior, l'erbe, l'arene, e i venti,
Tutti parlan di Dio; per tutto vedi
Del grand' esser di Lui segni eloquenti:
Credilo, Stolto, a lor, se a te nol credi.

THERE is no God, the fool in secret said-
There is no God that rules or earth, or sky:
Tear off the band that folds the wretch's head,
That God may burst upon his faithless eye.

Is there no God?-the stars in myriads spread,
If he look up, the blasphemy deny,

Whilst his own features in the mirror read,
Reflect the image of Divinity.

Is there no God?-the stream that silver flows,
The air he breathes, the ground he treads, the trees,
The flowers, the grass, the sands, each wind that blows,
All speak of God; throughout one voice agrees,

And eloquent his dread existence shows:
Blind to thyself, ah see him, fool, in these.


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Greco Cantor! qualora io fisso aperte
Su gli ampi carmi tuoi le mie pupille,
O che tu canti dell' immite Achille,
O i lunghi error del figlio di Laerte;
Mari, fiumi, città, foreste, e ville
Veder parmi da rupi esposte ed erte,
E quà colte campagne, e là deserte
Gli ocehj invaghir di mille oggetti e mille.
Tanti costumi, e nazioni, e riti

Scuopri, e opache spelonche, e piagge apriche,

E valli, e monti, promontori, e liti;

Che quasi par, tanto hai le Muse amiche,
Che non tu lei, ma te Natura imiti,
Primo pittor delle memorie antiche !

POET of Greece! whene'er thy various song
In deep attention fix'd my eyes survey,
Whether Achilles' wrath awake thy lay,
Or wise Ulysses and his wand'rings long,

Seas, rivers, cities, villas woods among,
Methinks I view from top of mountain grey,
And here wild plains, there fields in rich array,
Teeming with countless forms my vision throng.
Such various realms, their manners, rites explores
Thy verse, and sunny banks, and grottos cold,
Vallies and mountains, promontories, shores,

'T would seem, so loves the Muse thy genius bold! That Nature's self but copied from thy stores, Thou first great painter of the scenes of old!


Fiume, che all' onde tue ninfe e pastori
Inviti con soave mormorio,

Col cui consiglio il suo bel crin vid' io
Spesso Fillide mia cinger di fiori;

Se a tuoi cristalli in su gli estivi ardori
Sovente accrebbi lagrimando un rio,
Mostrami per pietà l' idolo mio

Nel tuo fugace argento, ond' io l' adori.

Ahi, tu mei nieghi? Io credea crudi i mari,
I fiumi no: ma tu dallo splendore

Che 'n te si specchia ad esser crudo impari:
Prodigo a te del pianto, a lei del core
Fui, lasso e sono; e voi mi siete avari,
Tu della bella immago, ella d' amore.

SWEET stream, whose murmurs soft and waters fair
Lure nymphs and shepherds to thy borders green,
At whose clear mirror I have oftimes seen

My Phillis bind with flowers her beauteous hair:
In summer heats, if to thy current spare
My frequent tears have tributary been;
Ah show my mistress in thy silver sheen,
That I her goddess-form may worship there.

Thou heed'st me not? I only cruel thought
The seas, but thou hast learnt worse cruelty,
By her, who gazes in thy brightness, taught:
Lavish to her of love, of tears to thee

I ever prove, whilst ye deny me aught,
Thou, of her form, of love's sweet solace she.


Spesso mi torna a mente, anzi giammai
Si può partir dalla memoria mia
L'abito, e 'l tempo, e 'l luogo, dove pria
La mia Donna gentil fiso mirai.

Quel che paresse allor, Amor, tu 'l sai,
Che con lei sempre fosti in compagnia;
Quanto vaga gentil leggiadra e pia,
Non si può dir nè immaginar assai.

Quando sopra i nevosi ed alti monti
Apollo spande il suo bel lume adorno,
Tal i crin suoi sopra la bianca gonna.

Il tempo e 'l luogo non convien ch'io conti,
Chè, dov'è sì bel Sole, è sempre giorno,
E paradiso, ov' è sì bella Donna.

OFT on the recollection sweet I dwell,

Yea, never from my mind can aught efface

The dress my mistress wore, the time, the place

Where first she fix'd my eyes in raptured spell.

How she then look'd, thou, Love, rememb'rest well, For thou her side hast never ceased to grace ;

Her gentle air, her meek, angelic face,
The powers of language and of thought excel.

When o'er the mountain peaks deep-clad in snow

Apollo pours a flood of golden light,

So down her white-robed limbs did stream her hair:
The time and place 'twere words but lost to show,
It must be day where shines a sun so bright,
And paradise, where dwells a form so fair.



From the French of Chênedollé.


She is gone; and her life is past away

In the blooming morn of her youthful day;
To whom all hearts had their homage given,
A lady rich in the gifts of heaven.


She is gone; and youth, which had seem'd to spread
A shield of safety around her head,

And riches, and beauty, and children's charms,
Could not keep her from Death's relentless arms.


Ah! and is this so short-lived bloom,

A young and a tender mother's doom?

And is the loss to Nature so light,

That nothing is changed where we turn the sight?


I look as before on the garden bowers,

And see them gemm'd with the self-same flowers;
As when on that eve of summer dews,
Her eye was bent on their delicate hues.

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IF to know wisdom were to practise it,-if fame brought true dignity and peace of mind,--or happiness consisted in nourishing the intellect with its appropriate food, and surrounding the imagination with ideal beauty, a literary life would be the most enviable which the lot of this world affords. But the truth is far otherwise. The man of letters has no immutable, all-conquering volition, more than other men; to understand and to perform are two very different things with him as with every one. His fame rarely exerts a favourable influence on his dignity of character, and never on his peace of mind: its glitter is external, for the eyes of others; within, it is but the aliment of unrest, the oil cast upon the evergnawing fire of ambition, quickening into fresh vehemence the blaze which it stills for a moment. Moreover, this man of letters is not wholly made of spirit, but of clay and spirit mixed his thinking faculties may be nobly trained and exercised, but he must have affections as well as thoughts to make him happy, and food and raiment must be given him, or he dies. Far from being the most enviable, his way of life is, perhaps, among the many modes by which an ardent mind endeavours to express its activity, the most thickly beset with suffering and degradation. Look at the biography of authors! Except the Newgate Calendar, it is the most sickening chapter in the history of man. The calamities of these people are a fertile topic; and too often their faults and vices have kept pace with their calamities. Nor is it difficult to see how this has happened. Talent of any sort is generally accompanied with a peculiar fineness of sensibility; of genius this is the most essential constituent; and life in any shape has sorrows enough for hearts so formed. The employments of literature sharpen this natural tendency; the vexations that accompany them frequently exasperate it

JAN. 1824.

into morbid soreness. The cares and toils of literature are the business of life; its delights are too ethereal and too transient to furnish that perennial flow of satisfaction, coarse, but plenteous and substantial, of which happiness in this world of ours is made. The most finished efforts of the mind give it little pleasure, frequently they give it pain; for men's aims are ever far beyond their strength. And the outward recompense of these undertakings, the distinction they confer, is of still smaller value: such desires are insatiable even when successful; and, when baffled, they issue in jealousies and envy, and every pitiful and painful feeling. So keen a temperament with so little to restrain or satisfy, so much to distress or tempt it, produces contradictions which few are adequate to reconcile. Hence the unhappiness of literary men, hence their faults and follies.

Thus literature is apt to form a dangerous and discontenting occupation even for the amateur. But for him whose rank and worldly comforts depend on it, who does not live to write, but writes to live, its difficulties and perils are fearfully increased. Few spectacles are more afflicting than that of such a man, so gifted and so fated, so jostled and tossed to and fro in the rude bustle of life, the buffetings of which he is so little fitted to endure. Cherishing, it may be, the loftiest thoughts, and clogged with the meanest wants; of pure and holy purposes, yet ever driven from the straight path by the pressure of necessity, or the impulse of passion; thirsting for glory, and frequently in want of daily bread; hovering between the empyrean of his fancy and the squalid desart of reality; cramped and foiled in his most strenuous exertions; dissatisfied with his best performances, disgusted with his fortune, this man of letters too often spends his weary days in conflicts with obscure misery;

• Continued from the Number for October, 1823.

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