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THE BAY OF NAPLES.

THE beauties of this delightful scene have been already so frequently and ably described, that it would be worse than idle to enter into a detailed account of them here. The Gulf of Naples contains several smaller bays, the chief of which is that of Pozzuoli. A point of land, or rather an islet, connected with the shore by a pier, separates the Bay of Pozzuoli from the city of Naples, which continues without interruption to Torre dell' Annunziata, where the sea runs up eastward into the land, and forms the bay of Castellamare. The houses of the city rise gradually from the water's edge to the heights behind, on which lie several villas of the nobility and the royal palace of Capo di Monte. The nearest and most apparent high point on the western side, is the mountain crowned with the castle of St. Elmo: the smoking summit of Vesuvius presents the highest point on the east. The gulf is nearly land-locked by the island of Capri, which leaves on each side of it a space, one apparently as wide as the other, called Le Bocche di Capri; but between the eastern end of the island, and the Punta della Campanella there is only one league of distance, while between the western end and Capo di Miseno there are seven.

SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

KNOW'ST thou the land where sweet the citron blows,
Where 'midst dark leaves the golden orange glows,
Where milder zephyr breathes from azure skies,
And on the odorous myrtle softly dies?
Know'st thou it well?-How sweet to rove
In that fair land, with thee, my gentle love!

Know'st thou the palace with its pillared halls,
Where dancing splendours gleam along the walls,
Where marble statues bending seen to say,
"And why so sad, my gentle child, to-day?"
Know'st thou it well?-Blest should I be,
Might I but there my kind protector see!

Know'st thou the mountain where the muleteer Tracks thro' dark clouds his path with doubt and fear, Where dismal caverns hide the dragon brood,Rough soars the cliff, and foams the dashing flood: Know'st thou it well?-Away! away!

Father, arise! I may no longer stay!

R.

IMILDA DE' LAMBERTAZZI.

AN ITALIAN TALE.

O thou pervading power of love! Thou art to some sweet as the bubblin fountain of freshness to the burning brow of the desert-worn traveller but to others, terrible as the fiery pestilence, or the breath of the unmerciful Simoom.

Alaric A. Watts.

ITALY may, without impropriety, be entitled the Helen of nations. Her fatal dowry of beauty, like that of the erring wife of Menelaus, has been the sole cause of her ruin and degradation. Still, however, though overwhelmed with infamy-though the mark of disgrace be even now mantling on her cheek, is that cheek unsuffused with a single blush of shame; but proudly conscious of her charms, her eye still beams as brightly, and her Circæan loveliness is still as enthralling as ever.

With the violent political feuds which agitated Italy during a great portion of the period which is usually denominated the "Middle Ages," every individual at all versed in the history of that unhappy country must be intimately acquainted. Principalities were then involved in eager and bloody contentions with

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