Must pass their days in penury or pain, Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame, And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain ? Or if their destiny be born aloof

From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, In their own souls sustain a harder proof,

The inner war of passions deep and fierce ? Florence! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof, I loved thee; but the vengeance of my verse, The hate of injuries which every year Makes greater, and accumulates my curse, Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear,

Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that,
The most infernal of all evils here,
The sway of petty tyrants in a state;

For such sway is not limited to kings,
And demagogues yield to them but in date,
As swept off sooner; in all deadly things,

Which make men hate themselves, and one another,

In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs From Death the Sin-born's incest with his mother, In rank oppression in its rudest shape, The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother, And the worst despot's far less human ape:

Florence! when this lone spirit, which so long Yearn'd, as the captive toiling at escape,

To fly back to thee in despite of wrong,
An exile, saddest of all prisoners,

Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong,
Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars,
Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth
Where-whatsoe'er his fate-he still were hers,
His country's, and might die where he had birth-
Florence! when this lone spirit shall return
To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth,
And seek to honor with an empty urn

Stern

The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain-Alas! "What have I done to thee, my people? Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass The limits of man's common malice, for All that a citizen could be I was; Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war, And for this thou hast warr'd with me.-'T is done:

I may not overleap the eternal bar Built up between us, and will die alone, Beholding with the dark eye of a seer The evil days to gifted souls foreshown, Foretelling them to those who will not hear, As in the old time, till the hour be come When Truth shall strike their eyes through many

a tear,

And make them own the Prophet in his tomb.

FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE.

CANTO V.

"THE land where I was born sits by the seas,
Upon that shore to which the Po descends,
With all his followers, in search of peace.
Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends,
Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en
From me, and me even yet the mode offends.
Love, who to none beloved to love again

Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong,
That, as thou seest, yet it doth remain.
Love to one death conducted us along,

But Caina waits for him our life who ended: These were the accents utter'd by her tongue.Since I first listen'd to these souls offended, I bow'd my visage, and so kept it till"What think'st thou?" said the bard; when I unbended,

And recommenced: "Alas! unto such ill

How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies, Led these their evil fortune to fulfill! And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, And said, "Francesca, thy sad destinies Have made me sorrow till the tears arise.

*This translation, of what is generally considered the most exquisitely pathetic episode in the Divina Commedia, was executed in March, 1820, at Ravenna, where, just five centuries before, and in the very house in which the unfortunate lady was born, Dante's poem had been composed.

In mitigation of the crime of Francesca, Boccaccio relates, that "Guido engaged to give his daughter in marriage to Lanciotto, the eldest son of his enemy, the master of Rimini. Lanciotto, who was hideously deformed in countenance and figure, foresaw that, if he presented himself in person, he should be rejected by the lady. He therefore resolved to marry her by proxy, and sent as his representative his younger brother, Paolo, the handsomest and the most accomplished man in all Italy. Francesca saw Paolo and imagined

But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs,
By what and how thy love to passion rose,
So as his dim desires to recognize? ""
Then she to me: "The greatest of all woes
Is to remind us of our happy days
In misery, and that thy teacher knows.
But if to learn our passion's first root preys
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy,

I will do even as he who weeps and says.—
We read one day for pastime, seated nigh,
Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too.
We were alone, quite unsuspiciously.
But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue
All o'er discolor'd by that reading were;
But one point only wholly us o'erthrew;
When we read the long-sigh'd-for smile of her,
To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover,
He who from me can be divided ne'er
Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over.
Accursed was the book and he who wrote!
That day no further leaf we did uncover."
While thus one spirit told us of their lot,
The other wept, so that with pity's thralls
I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote,
And fell down even as a dead body falls.

she beheld her future husband. That mistake was the commencement of her passion. The friends of Guido addressed him in strong remonstrances, and mournful predictions of the dangers to which he exposed a daughter, whose high spirit would never brook to be sacrificed with impunity. But Guido was no longer in a condition to make war; and the necessities of the politician overcame the feelings of the father." Afterwards Francesca and Paolo being taken in adultery, were both put to death by the enraged Lanciotto. The interest of this pathetic narrative is much increased, when it is recollected that the father of this unfortunate lady was the beloved friend and generous protector of Dante during his latter days.

FIRST.†

London-Before the Door of a Lecture Room.

Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. Ink. You're too late.

Is it over?

Tra. Ink. Nor will be this hour. But the benches are cramm'd like a garden in flower,

With the pride of our belles, who have made it the fashion;

So, instead of "beaux arts," we may say "la belle passion

For learning, which lately has taken the lead in
The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading.
Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my
patience

With studying to study your new publications.
There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Words-
words and Co.‡
With their damnable-
Ink.
Hold, my good friend, do you know
Whom you speak to?
Tra. Right well, boy, and so does "the Row: "?
You 're an author-a poet-
Ink.

And think you that I
Can stand tamely in silence to hear you decry
The Muses?

Tra. To the Nine; though the number who make some pretence

Excuse me: I meant no offence

To their favors is such-but the subject to drop,
I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop
(Next door to the pastry-cook's; so that when I
Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy
On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces,
As one finds every author in one of those places) :
Where I just had been skimming a charming
critique,

So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek! Where your friend-you know who-has just got such a threshing,

*This trifle, which Lord Byron has himself designated as a "mere buffoonery, never meant for publication," was written in 1820, and first appeared in "The Liberal." The personal allusions in which it abounds are, for the most part, sufficiently intelligible; and, with a few exceptions, so goodhumored, that the parties concerned may be expected to join | in the laugh.

+"About the year 1781, it was much the fashion for several

others

(Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's) All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps, And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. Ink. Let us join them.

Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture?
Ink. Why the place is so cramm'd, there's not
room for a spectre.
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd—
Tra. How can you know that till you hear him?
Ink.
I heard
Quite enough; and, to tell you the truth, my re-
treat

Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat.
Tra. I have had no great loss then?
Ink.

Loss!-such a palaver!
I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver
Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours
To the torrent of trash which around him he pours,
Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such
labor,

That

-come-do not make me speak ill of one's neighbor. Tra. I make you!

ladies to have evening assemblies, where the fair sex might participate in conversation with literary and ingenious men, animated by a desire to please. These societies were denominated Blue-stocking Clubs.

* See the stanzas on Messrs. Wordsworth and Southey in Don Juan, canto iii.

8 Paternoster row-long and still celebrated as a very bazaar of booksellers.

What?

Tra. Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my tongue; But there 's five hundred people can tell you you 're wrong.

Tra. You forget Lady Lilac 's as rich as a Jew.
Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue?
Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank with you-some-
thing of both.

The girl's a fine girl.
Ink.
And you feel nothing loth
To her good lady-mother's reversion; and yet
Her life is as good as your own, I will bet.

Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes: I demand

Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and hand.

Ink. Why that heart's in the inkstand-that hand on the pen.

Tra. A propos-Will you write me a song now

and then?

Ink. To what purpose?

Tra.

Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this? Tra.

Why, Do you think me subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye, So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme What I've told her in prose, at the least, as sublime?

Ink. As sublime! If it be so, no need of my Muse. Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she 's one of the "Blues."

Ink. As sublime !-Mr. Tracy-I 've nothing to say.

Stick to prose-As sublime!!—but I wish you good day.

Tra. Nay, stay, my dear fellow-consider-I'm wrong;

I own it; but, prithee, compose me the song.
Ink. As sublime!!

Tra.
I but used the expression in haste.
Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd
bad taste.

Tra. I own it-I know it-acknowledge it—what
Can I say to you more?
Ink.

I see what you'd be at: You disparage my parts with insidious abuse, Till you think you can turn them best to your own

Tra. I have heard people say That it threaten'd to give up the ghost t'other day. Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit. Tra.

No doubt. Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's rout?

Ink. I've a card, and shall go: but at present, as

soon

Ink.

You 're a terrible stick, to be sure. Tra. I own it and yet, in these times, there's no lure

For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two;
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few?

Ink. In your name?

Tra.

the moon

(Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits), And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, I'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation: 'Tis a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and praise.

* Messrs. Southey and Sotheby.

ant.

"My Grandmother's Review, the British." This heavy journal has since been gathered to its grandmothers.

Tra. That "metal's attractive."
Ink.
No doubt-to the pocket.
Tra. You should rather encourage my passion
than shock it.

But let us proceed; for I think, by the hum———
Ink. Very true; let us go, then, before they can

That 's clear. But for God's sake let 's go, or the Bore will be here. Come, come: nay, I'm off. [Exit Inkel. Tra. You are right, and I'll follow; 'Tis high time for a Sic me servavit Apollo." And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand scribes,

،،

All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles With a glass of Madeira at Lady Bluebottle's. [Exit Tracy.

An Apartment in the House of Lady Bluebottle
-A Table prepared.

Sir Richard Bluebottle solus.

WAS there ever a man who was married so sorry?
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry.
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy'd;
My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void,
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd:
The twelve, do I say?-of the whole twenty-four,
Is there one which I dare call my own any more?
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining,
What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling,
and shining

In science and art, I'll be cursed if I know
Myself from my wife; for although we are two,
Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall be
done

In a style which proclaims us eternally one.

But the thing of all things which distresses me more Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me sore)

Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew

Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue,
Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost-
For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the host-
No pleasure! no leisure! no thought for my pains,
But to hear a vile jargon which addles my brains:
A smatter and chatter, glean'd out of reviews,
By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call

،، BLUES;

A rabble who know not- -But soft, here they come ! Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'll be dumb.

Enter Lady Bluebottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Bluemount, Mr. Botherby, Inkel, Tracy, Miss Mazarine, and others, with Scamp the Lecturer, etc., etc.

Lady Blueb. Ah! Sir Richard, good-morning: I've brought you some friends.

،،

Tra.
Sir Rich.

Miss Lil.

Collector!

Lady Bluem. How good?

Lady Blueb. He means nought-'t is his phrase. Lady Bluem. He grows rude. Lady Blueb. He means nothing; nay, ask him. Lady Bluem. Pray, sir! did you mean What you say? Ink. Never mind if he did: 't will be seen That whatever he means won't alloy what he says. Both. Sir?

Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise; 'T was in your defence. Both.

If you please, with submission, I can make out my own. Ink. It would be your perdition. While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend Yourself or your works; but leave both to a friend. A propos-Is your play then accepted at last? Both. At last?

Ink.

Why I thought-that 's to say— there had pass'd

A few green-room whispers, which hinted-you know

That the taste of the actors at best is so-so.

Both. Sir, the green-room 's in rapture, and so 's the Committee.

Ink. Ay-yours are the plays for exciting our

"pity And fear," as the Greek says: for "purging the mind,"

I doubt if you 'll leave us an equal behind. Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to have pray'd

For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid.

Lady Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that they ever will take?

Ink. Not at all; on the contrary, those of the lake

Have taken already, and still will continue
To take-what they can, from a groat to a guinea,
Of pension or place;-but the subject 's a bore.
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time 's coming.
Ink.
Scamp! don't you feel sore?
What say you to this?
Scamp.

They have merit, I own; Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown. Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your lectures?

Scamp. It is only time past which comes under my strictures.

Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness;the joy of my heart

Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art.
Wild Nature!—Grand Shakspeare!
Both.

And down Aristotle! Lady Bluem. Sir George † thinks exactly with Lady Bluebottle;

And my Lord Seventy-four, who protects our dear Bard,

And who gave him his place, has the greatest regard

For the poet, who, singing of peddlers and asses, Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. Tra. And you, Scamp!

Scamp. I needs must confess I'm embarrass'd. Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who 's already so harass'd

With old schools, and new schools, and no schools, and all schools.

Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must be fools.

I should like to know who.
Ink.

And I should not be sorry

be play'd.

Is it cast yet?
Both.
The actors are fighting for parts,
As is usual in that most litigious of arts.

Lady Blueb. We'll all make a party, and go the first night.

Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. Ink. Not quite. However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, I'll do what I can, though my pains must be double. Tra. Why so? Ink. To do justice to what goes before. Both. Sir, I'm happy to say, I have no fears on that score.

Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are

Ink.

Never mind mine; Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own line.

Lady Bluem. You 're a fugitive writer, I think, sir, of rhymes?

Ink. Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader sometimes.

On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight,
Or on Mouthey, his friend, without taking to flight.
Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common: but
time and posterity

Will right these great men, and this age's severity
Become its reproach.

Ink.

I've no sort of objection, So I'm not of the party to take the infection.

*Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and fruiterer in Piccadilly.

Sir George Beaumont-a constant friend of Mr. Wordsworth.

It was not the present earl of Lonsdale, but James, the first earl, who offered to build, and completely furnish and

worry.

Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let nothing control

This "feast of our reason, and flow of the soul."
Oh! my dear Mr. Botherby! sympathize!-I
Now feel such a rapture, I'm ready to fly,
I feel so elastic-" so buoyant !-so buoyant !"}
Ink. Tracy! open the window.

Tra.
I wish her much joy on 't.
Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check
not

This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot
Upon earth. Give it way; 't is an impulse which
lifts

Our spirits from earth; the sublimest of gifts; For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his mountain:

'Tis the source of all sentiment-feeling's true fountain;

'Tis the Vision of Heaven upon Earth: 't is the gas Of the soul: 't is the seizing of shades as they pass, And making them substance-'t is something di

vine: