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of the nunibers against which he had to contend, placed himself immediately before Imilda, in an attitude of defiance, exhibiting a determination to protect her from the menaced danger, or perish in the attempt.

Thirsting for his blood, the elder Lambertazzo was rushing forward to plant his dagger in his breast, when the dastard menial by whom Gieremeo had been betrayed, hoping still further to secure his master's favour, endeavoured to anticipate him, and was stretched at the same moment a quivering and headless corse at the feet of the undaunted Ippolito. He was now surrounded by an armed crowd. The father's insane revenge, however, made him an easy prey to the cool intrepidity of the young knight ;the old man's sword was struck from his hand; that of his antagonist was directed towards his breast, and another moment would have decided his fate, when Ippolito discovered for the first time the features of Imilda's sire. He became rooted to the spot-the weapon fell from his nerveless grasp,-he lifted up · his fallen enemy;—when the treacherous villain suddenly drawing from his cloak a poisoned stiletto, stabbed him in the neck, whilst almost at the same moment the younger Lambertazzo approached from behind, and struck his dagger to his heart :-Ippolito Gieremeo fell lifeless and bleeding to the earth.

A loud and fiendish laugh was yelled forth, both by

the father and son, at this horrid consummation.“ Here, thou abject-minded girl," vociferated the old man, as he rudely grasped the arm of the transfixed and speechless Imilda—“Look where thy minion lies in the rigid embrace of death !” “ Hence,” cried her brother, “ foul stain upon the honour of a noble house !-hence, woman, to thy chamber, and bethink thee of the disgrace thou hast cast upon us.” “ Or rather,” pursued the father, “ to teach thee fitting obedience, remain here; gaze upon him-feed thine eyes upon his graceful form and glorious features, methinks they are somewhat pallid now :" and beckoning to his followers, he left his daughter by the body of her murdered lover. The appalling suddenness of this dreadful catastrophe appeared to have endowed her with a supernatural energy. Amid the depth of her anguish, a ray of hope shot across her fevered brain. It occurred to her as possible that life might not yet be altogether extinct; and that she might preserve it by immediately attempting to suck the poison from the yet bleeding wounds of her Ippolito. Undauntedly did she commence her pious work of love ; but the venom she imbibed quickly corroded the healthful blood in her own veins.

One struggle—and his pain is past,

Her lover is no longer living !
One kiss the maiden gives, the last

Long kiss, which she expires in giving !

A short hour from the period of her lover's assassination, Imilda de' Lambertazzi was discovered with her head reclining upon the bosom of her Ippolito, and her white arms twined around his neck, with a tenacity which death had only conduced to strengthen. They were buried together in the same grave, as united in their last einbrace as they had been inseparable during their brief, but blissful sojourn upon earth.

Little remains to be told. The Gieremei were of course instigated to vengeance by this act of savage barbarity. They formed alliances with the people of Modena, whilst the Lambertazzi united themselves to the army of Faenza and Forti. After several skirmishes, a desperate struggle took place in the streets of Bologna, which lasted forty days without intermission. Thousands were slain,—the city streamed with the blood of the noblest and bravest of its children ; and the banishment of the Lambertazzi was at length decided upon and carried into effect. A similar sentence was pronounced by the merciless victors upon 12,000 citizens, their adherents ; whose goods were confiscated, and whose habitations were levelled with the earth.

The fate of the Lambertazzi, their kindred, and their followers, was regarded, not unjustly, as the retributive penalty inflicted upon them by an offended Deity, for the murder of the hapless Ippolito.

THE

POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

O! My love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,-
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee As when; beneath Arbigland tree, We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon Set on the sea an hour too soon; Or lingered 'mid the falling dew, When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time and care and birth-time woes
Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose;
To thee and thoughts of thee belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews unsought
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And fancy in her heaven flies free
They come my love, they come from thee.

0, when more thought we gave of old To silver than some give to gold; 'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er What things should deck our humble bower! 'Twas sweet to pull, in bope, with thee The golden fruit from Fortune's tree; And sweeter still to choose and twine A garland for these locks of thine A song-wreath which may grace my Jean, While rivers flow and woods are green.

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