THE LAST MOMENTS OF LORENZO DE' MEDICI. FROM SISMONDI'S HISTORY. PON his death-bed when Lorenzo lay, UPON He chose Savonarola to absolve him. Then said Savonarola, "Dost thou trust In Heaven's forgiveness?" and Lorenzo said, "Yea, heartily!" The monk yet further asked, "Wilt thou yield up all thou hast gained unjustly?" With faltering speech Lorenzo said, "I will.” Then said the holy man, " And wilt thou grant Immunity to Florence-aye or no?" Whereon Lorenzo motioned him away, With cold thin hands, and fixed regard; and then Turned to the wall in silence, and expired. Florence, 1844. AN HISTORICAL EVENT. (A. D. 1174.) FROM SISMONDI'S HISTORY. HEN the might of Barbarossa WE Stern Ancona did blockade, There a warrior, faint with hunger, Drooped, and leaned upon his blade. A nursing mother that beheld him, Rushed to aid the famished hero, 66 Loosed his helmet, and addressed: 'Drink, drink; I blush not thus to greet thee; These veins run o'er with patriot food; God be thanked I for my country May boast this way to shed my blood:- "Go thou forth refreshed to battle:I will every hope renew, Presaging of thy foster-brother, By the deeds thou now shalt do!" Florence, December, 1843. SONNET. THE WALL-FLOWER IN THE COLISEUM. W HERE Emperors sate, with fourscore thousand more, Plebeians, knights, and senators, and dames, From morn till eve; where rose the loud uproar That a refined luxurious lustre shed Upon the victors, and the vanquished Trained with theatric grace to fall and die; By soft regeneration, not decay, And mellowing influence of sun and shower, With shrubs and grasses; moulding to her sway Methinks, where once some pitying tear drops fell. Rome, February, 1844. A SONNET ON GUIDO'S AURORA. URORA here saluting the eastern height, Floats, scattering roses along heaven's high-way, Before the chariot of the Lord of day; About whose wheels in choral group unite Sweet morning Hours, "the best of dark and bright;" That the whole sphere of air with glory fills, Rome, February, 1844. THE AQUEDUCT. ELIC! that wouldst still bestride The campagna drear and wide, With indomitable pride, I see thy multitudinous arches Yet they are a gallant host: The fountain of the Alban hills, No more thy lofty channel fills. From thy thousand piers of stone The bounding pulse-the life—is gone: Thou art a shattered skeleton. But the imperishable fountain Bubbles from its native mountain; And in the joyous eye of day Its unimprisoned waters stray |