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THE LAST MOMENTS OF LORENZO
FROM SISMONDI'S HISTORY.
PON his death-bed when Lorenzo lay,
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.
AN HISTORICAL EVENT.
(A. D. 1174.) FROM SISMONDI'S HISTORY.
HEN the might of Barbarossa
Stern Ancona did blockade, There a warrior, faint with hunger,
Drooped, and leaned upon his blade.
A nursing mother that bebeld him,
Plucked her infant from her breast, Rushed to aid the famished hero,
Loosed his helmet, and addressed :
Drink, drink; I blush not thus to greet thee;
These veins run o'er with patriot food;
“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.
THE WALL-FLOWER IN THE COLISEUM.
HERE Emperors sate, with fourscore thousand
more, Plebeians, knights, and senators, and dames, Intoxicate with gladiatorial games, From morn till eve; where rose the loud uproar Above the undulating canopy, 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, Nature is clothing arch and corridor With shrubs and grasses ; moulding to her sway Thee, Coliseum; and thy wall-flowers tell, Methinks, where once some pitying tear drops fell.
Rome, February, 1844.
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
unite Sweet morning Hours, “the best of dark and bright;" Light shapes, whose draperies stream upon the wind Their train creates, wind which they leave behind, Speeding amain from the ebon gates of night. On high, a boy attendant wings his flight, And bears a torch instinct with living flame, That points towards the West, with onward aim; Forerunner of the car itself of Light, That the whole sphere of air with glory fills, Above that deep blue sea, those deep blue hills.
Rome, February, 1844.
ELIC ! that wouldst still bestride
The campagna drear and wide,
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