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difficult to make the eyes match

wondrous landscapes by little persons of four years old, who never learnt to draw - autographs of John Brown and William Williams, and many other celebrated gentlemen, whom I did not know, but of whose families I had often heard talkfac-similies of the hand-writing of Buonaparte, imitated from specimens from recollectionstriking likenesses of notorious characters, cut out in coloured paper from imagination. In short, my progress was like a ramble through some newly discovered country, where every thing is rare and rivetting, and thrown together in the graceful confusion in which nature delights.

When I had come to a close, my pretty friend resumed her coaxing look, and besought me to take up my pen, for she was quite sure that I should not be eclipsed; and, moreover, that I should not be severely criticised. Her friends had the keenest eyes in the world for talent, and could spy it in every thing they saw; and, if her father chose to call them all crazy, it was a comfort to think that no one agreed with him. The command, therefore,

was readily obeyed, and I joined the throng of geniuses, by filling the centre of a splendid page with the following scrap of jealousy, got up for the occasion, by way of making myself interesting:

Give me again that early vow

That ruled so long my fate-
Thy lofty look hath wandered now,
And turns to me too late.

'Twas sweet to see the wild flower rest
Where none the wreath might twine,

But, faded from another's breast,

It blooms no more for mine.

BENEDETTI'S ADIEU.*

UNSAID, unsung, thou shalt not go,
My native land—my own—
For, from thy vocal gale, I know
My love of song hath grown;

And I would crown thee with a wreath

Of echoes, soft and sweet

Dear land, the first to hear me breathe,
And feel my infant feet!

Heaven reared thee with a lofty crest—
To thee no rival rose,

In Delos, with her eagle's nest,

Or Paros, with her snows;

* This little poem is not original, and I know not whether I may venture to call it a direct translation. Benedetti was the author of a great many tragedies, which were played, with success, at Florence, from about the year 1803 to 1820. His life was, nevertheless, a series of misfortunes. Being, at last, implicated in the plots of the Carbonari, he fled to Pistoja, and, finding himself still pressed by the police, put an end to himself with a pistol.

And bravely o'er the boundless mead,
By Clano's rainbow rill,

Thou seest a thousand shepherds lead
Their myriads from the hill-

Thou seest Politian's slopes and dells
With purple vines o'ergrown,
And Thrasymene's breast, that swells
With ocean's distant moan-

*

That lake, which Punic Hannibal
With Latian blood imbued-
That valley, which the stormy fall
Of Latian limbs bestrewed—

In grisly gear, 'tis said by some,
The spectres march by night,
And, at the sound of sword and drum,
Renew their phantom fight;

Whilst hurrying home, through pits and pools,

From that unearthly wrack,

The ploughman shrinks to feel the tools

That clank upon his back.

There is said to be a mysterious sympathy between

them.

Day's waking beams for ever first

Thy cloudless summit wins,

And there the breeze thy flowers have nurs'd

Its vesper song begins;

Yea, softly sports, like infant sprite,

So heedless and so fond,

Though Boreas may rudely smite
The sheltering hills beyond.

'Tis thus thou rear'st thy rugged peak, And twin'st thy vintage sweet

Thus, ne'er such bloom had summer's cheek, In Chios or in Crete;

Whilst, all around, the hanging rocks

Are glittering with the gleam

Of rivulets, with little shocks,

Down bounding to the stream.

Cortona, shall I ne'er again

Tread where my soul so clings?

Dear land, that gave thy swan his strainAh, wherefore then his wings!

Sad, sad my gloomy planet lowers,
Where'er my path has been;

I count a world of turbid hours,
But never one serene!

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