But oh, thou Love's and Nature's masterer,
Thou conqueror of the crown'd,
What dost thou on this ground,

Too small a circle for thy mighty sphere ?
Go, and make slumber dear

To the renown'd and high ;
We here, a lowly race,

Can live without thy grace,
After the use of mild antiquity.

Go, let us love; since years

No truce allow, and life soon disappears;
Go, let us love; the daylight dies, is born;

But unto us the light

Dies once for all, and sleep brings on eternal night.

PETRARCH'S CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH

IN THE BOWER OF LAURA.

CLEAR, fresh, and dulcet streams,
Which the fair shape who seems

To me sole woman, haunted at noon-tide;
Fair bough, so gently fit,

(I sigh to think of it)

Which lent a pillar to her lovely side;

And turf, and flowers bright-eyed,

O'er which her folded gown

Flow'd like an angel's down;

And you, O holy air and hush'd,

Where first my heart at her sweet glances gush'd;

Give ear, give ear with one consenting,

To my last words, my last, and my lamenting.

If 'tis my fate below,

And heaven will have it so,

That love must close these dying eyes in tears,
May my poor dust be laid

In middle of your shade,

While my soul naked mounts to its own spheres.
The thought would calm my fears,
When taking, out of breath,

The doubtful step of death;
For never could my spirit find

A stiller port after the stormy wind;

Nor in more calm, abstracted bourne,

[outworn.

Slip from my travaill'd flesh, and from my bones

Perhaps, some future hour,

To her accustomed bower

Might come the untamed, and yet the gentle she; And where she saw me first,

Might turn with eyes athirst

And kinder joy to look again for me;

Then, Oh the charity!

Seeing amidst the stones

The earth that held my bones,

A sigh for very

love at last

Might ask of heaven to pardon me the past:
And heaven itself could not say nay,

As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away.

How well I call to mind,

When from those boughs the wind

Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower;

And there she sat, meek-eyed,

In midst of all that pride,

Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower.

Some to her hair paid dower,

And seem'd to dress the curls
Queenlike, with gold and pearls ;

Some, snowing, on her drapery stopp'd,

Some on the earth, some on the water dropp'd; While others, fluttering from above, [reigns Love." Seem'd wheeling round in pomp, and saying, "Here

How often then I said,
Inward, and fill'd with dread,

"Doubtless this creature came from paradise!"
For at her look the while,

Her voice, and her sweet smile,

And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes; So that, with long-drawn sighs,

I said, as far from men,

"How came I here, and when !"

I had forgotten; and alas!

Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was;
And from that time till this, I bear

Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere.

A DEPRECATION OF THE NAME OF JOHN.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF CASA.

WERE I Some fifteen years younger or twenty,
Master Gandolfo, I'd unbaptise myself,
On purpose not to be called John. I never
Can do a single thing in the way of business,
Nor set out fast enough from my own door,
But half-a-dozen people are calling after me;
Though, when I turn, it isn't me; such crowds
Are issuing forth, nam'd John, at the same moment.

*

'Tis downright insult; a mere public scandal. Clergymen, lawyers, pedants,—not a soul, But his name 's John. You shall not see a face, Looking like what it is, a simpleton's

Barber's, porkman's, or tooth-drawer's, but the fellow

Seems by his look to be a John,-and is one!

*Casa was himself in orders, and subsequently a bishop.

I verily think, that the first man who cried
Boil'd apples or maccaroni, was a John;
And so was he who found out roasted chesnuts,
And how to eat cucumbers, and new cheese.
By heavens! I'd rather be a German; nay,
I'd almost said a Frenchman; nay, a Jew,
And be called Matthew, or Bartholomew,
Or some such beast,- -or Simon. Really people
Who christen people, ought to pause a little,

And think what they 're about.-O you who love

me,

Don't call me John, for God's sake; or at least,
If you must call me so, call it me softly;
For as to mentioning the name out loud,

You might as well call after one like a dog,-
Whistle, and snap your fingers, and cry, "Here, boy."

Think of the name of John upon a title-page! It damns the book at once; and reasonably: People no sooner see it, than they conclude They 've read the work before.-Oh I must say My father made a pretty business of it, Calling me John! me, 'faith-his eldest son! Heir to his-poverty! Why there's not a writ, But nine times out of ten, is serv'd on John, And what still more annoys me, not a bill: Your promiser to pay is always John.

Some people fondly make the word a compound,
And get some other name to stand its friend,
Christening the hapless devil John-Antony,
John-Peter, or John-Baptist, or John-Charles ;
There's even John-Barnard, and John-Martin!-Oh,
See if the other name likes his society!

It never does, humour it as you will.
Change it, diminish it, call it Johnny, or Jacky,
Or Jack, 'tis always a sore point,-a wound ;-
Shocking, if left alone,-and worse, if touch'd.

PASSAGES FROM REDI'S DITHYRAMBIC POEM OF

BACCHUS IN TUSCANY.

The Author has translated the whole of this popular piece of Italian pleasantry, which is a criticism on the wines of the poet's country; but even in the original it is perhaps too long, especially as a monologue; for Bacchus talks it all from beginning to end; and the local nature of the subjects and the allusions renders it, for the most part, of little interest to a foreign reader. He has persuaded himself, however, that a few passages will bring their recommendation with them, in the gaiety of their animal spirits. The reader will be good enough to bear in mind, that strange compound epithets and other audacities of style are among the privileges of Dithyrambic poetry.

BACCHUS'S OPINION OF WINE, CHOCOLATE, TEA, BEER, AND OTHER INCOMPATIBLE BEVERAGES.

GIVE me, give me Buriano,

Trebbiano, Colombano,

Give me bumpers, rich and clear!
'Tis the true old Aurum Potabile
Gilding life when it wears shabbily:
Helen's old Nepenthe 'tis,
That in the drinking

Swallowed thinking,

And was the receipt for bliss.
Thence it is, that ever and aye,
When he doth philosophise,
Good old glorious Rucellai
Hath it for light unto his eyes;
He lifteth it, and by the shine
Well discerneth things divine;