(An Acrostic Sonnet, composed in Petrarch's Garden.)

[Vaucluse is about sixteen miles from Avignon, and was the favourite abode of Petrarch.]

PILGRIMS of love, we sought this famed retreat,
Eager to taste its consecrated flood,

That saw so oft Petrarch his Laura greet;
Reflecting both, as on its brink they stood

A dmiring nature much, each other most;
Recounting o'er and o'er affection's tale;
Creating their own world in this sweet vale, [boast!
At once the poet's theme and true love's endless

Empires and centuries have passed away,

Leaving behind them wrecks of human madness;
And still, with feelings fresh as flowers of May,
Unto this Poet's haunt we hie with gladness,
Reciting his fond verse, his faults forgiving,
A s best incentive to all faithful lovers living!

Ascent of the Rigi.

[Having read in "Murray

that a book was kept in the Rigi, wherein travellers were invited to record their feelings in verse, these lines were composed with that object; but I found the book had disappeared soon after the establishment of railways in Switzerland.]

I

FRIENDS, Britons, countrymen! I don't pretend

To be a poet born; but 'tis the duty

Of all men who this mountain top ascend
To celebrate in verse its varied beauty;

So, not to be behindhand in my zeal,
I seize my pen to utter all I feel.

2

And to begin; let me at once declare

My satisfaction to have reached the top, Along those nine miles of continuous stair,

That seemed as though it never meant to stop; But since to climb the Rigi is the fashion,

It's no use putting one's self in a passion.

3

Thank heaven! the deed is done; and here I stand,

Surveying, like a map, the world below;

Yon giant Alps uplift their summits grand,

Poking sharp snouts from beds of dazzling snow; Below, a perfect maze of lakes and valleysAll which with "Murray's Handbook" truly tallies.

4

In fact, therein you 'll find, completely booked,
The fullest details of the Rigi tale;

All that e'en poet's brain has ever cooked;

To rival which my own poor powers might fail ; Therefore, to save my readers from the worry, I'll wind up by referring them to "Murray."

A Perilous Ascent of the Ortler-Spitz.

(Dedicated to the Alpine Club.)

[Having perused in the Hotel book at Trafoi, on Mount Stelvio, sundry magniloquent descriptions, by members of the Alpine Club, of their wonderful ascents of the "Ortler-Spitz," I felt an irresistible ambition to surpass them all, and the following remarkable results rewarded my efforts.]

HAVING read all the records in the book,

And swallowed all the choice viands of the cook,
I smoked a pipe, and felt forthwith inspired
To climb the "Ortler." Meanwhile, being tired,
I went to bed, resolved to rise at three
And start, without a guide, upon this spree.

Somehow, my sleep was troubled; visions drear
Of grim old DOLOMITES, with shapes most queer,
Like ghostly giants hovered round the room,
And seemed to beckon me to share their doom:

My wife declared I snored! I don't believe her; For, was not woman ever man's deceiver?

At three precisely from repose I started,
And on my glorious heavenward course departed;
Stowing some bread and brandy in my pocket,
Off I rushed upward like a signal rocket;

Nor once looked back, nor pretext found to stop,
Until I reached the very tipmost top!

Glaciers and precipices all in vain

Opposed my path; nought could my feet detain; Not Beelzebub himself could my mad march restrain!

Hurrah! at last on Ortler's snow-capped pate
I stood alone! My happiness was great!
Balanced on tiptoe to enjoy the view,

I crowed in triumph-" Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
Alas! just then my foot slipped in the snow;
Headlong I fell down the abyss below!

My senses fled !

Crash!

Waking, lo! I found

My poor old carcass sprawling on the ground;