"O lady, dear lady," Bianca then cries,
"This place is unfitted for you;
""Tis already full day, I entreat you to rise,
"And depart from this horrible view."

To the church-yard the body they try to convey,
And place it in consecrate ground,
But to bear it along in vain they essay,

Their efforts too feeble were found.

The head from the trunk they then sever'd, and plac'd In a scarf, where the eye might discern

Sweet emblems of love, which her needle had trac'd As a gift for her lover's return.

They buried the corps as before in the sands,
And branches and leaves o'er it laid.

On their knees to Saint Magdalen lifted their hands,
For his soul while they fervently pray'd.

Thro' bye ways and streets unfrequented, the head,
Unseen, to her chamber they bore.

The scarf on the carpet pale Lizabette spread,
And by it lay down on the floor.

His poor livid lips she a thousand times kiss'd,
As cold as the monument stone:

And the heart of a tyger alone would resist
To join in her pitiful moan.

To wash the dark stains that disfigur'd his face,
No water was wanting I ween;

The fountain of tears that descended apace
All the blood was sufficient to clean.

In her bed-chamber, facing the sun's early rays,
Stood a vase in the window's recess,

Which 'twas Lizabette's pleasure in happier days,
With the sweets of each season to dress.

Devoutly the head she depos'd in its round,
And the love-broider'd scarf laid upon,

Then cover'd it deep with fresh soil from the ground,
And a basil-tree planted thereon.

With her flowing tears water'd and fan'd with her sighs,
The basil-tree flourishing grows;

And morning and night a sweet odour supplies,
That like incense to Lizabette rose.

Her brothers observe her decline day by day,
As a fall'n flower wither and fade;
"Your beautiful sister her life weeps away,
"She is heart-struck," the neighbourhood said.

"We see her all day bending over a vase,
"In the opposite window that stands,
"In action as one at an altar that prays,

"And round it she wreaths her pale hands."

When this they had heard, they by stealth in the night
From her chamber the flower-pot bore :

O God, how she griev'd at return of the light,
The shrine of her saint there no more!

"Restore me the vase! bring the basil-tree back!" Was still her disconsolate

cry.

So sorely she griev'd, and no succour would take,
That they judg'd her in danger to die.

Alarm'd and much wondering what it should be,
They examin'd the vase, where they found
The remains of a head, all horrid to see,
With a scarf for a winding-sheet bound.

They knew it again by its ringlets of gold;
And seiz'd with a sudden dismay,

Their conscious affright to each other they told,
And fled from Messina away.

On her bed lay poor Lizabette, no more to rise,
Bianca sat weeping beside;

Still demanding the vase, the tears stream'd from her

eyes,

Till she sunk on her pillow and died.

CANZONET.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF THE HON. W. Spencer.

SWEET flower! I place thee on the tomb

Of her my soul lov'd best;

But changeful here will be thy bloom,
As on her beauteous breast.
For there, affection's ardent glow
Thy vivid tints made fly;
And, ah! on this dear dust I know
That, chill'd, thou soon must die.

R. A. D.

ODE.

WHERE shall I meet a friend? I pine alone,
And sadly treasure up my joy and smart;
For I, alas, have no beloved one,

Alike in all, in years, pursuits and heart;
And lo! the boyish years, that oft impart
The strongest cement to the after bond,
Have fled away, and youth will soon depart ;-
Cold-hearted, cautious manhood is beyond,

Shut up in friendships, well tried, firm and fond,
Against new comers. Hark! the piercing voice
Of stern and hoary time has bid me make my choice.
And there is surely one (if we could meet)
A little like the picture in my brain;
But some far glen is trodden by his feet,
He shuns the noise of vulgar crowds profane.
Then oh! if any wandering of my strain

Should reach your valley, my belov'd to be, When breathes my pipe, o'er glooming's quiet plain, In trembling tones of sorrow,-know that he, Who sings so tender on a distant lea,

Is thine. Arise, in search of his retreat,
Follow the music, youth, and we at last shall meet.

M. N.

SONG.

HAVE

LAVE you not seen the rippling stream Along the moss-clad margin gleam?Have you not seen the driving snow O'er yon cold heathy mountain blow ?As pure, but not so cold, the love, That my poor throbbing heart doth move.

Have you not seen the bashful rose
Its gently opening buds unclose,

As half unwilling to unveil

Its beauties to the ruder gale?—

As pure, as modest is the love,

That my poor, throbbing heart doth move.

Have you not seen with amorous coo
His downy mate the turtle woo,
Without one wandering wish to stray
Far from his charmer's side away?-
As true, as tender is the love,

That my poor throbbing heart doth move.