and being come to the block, she stripped herself, with her own hands, of all her ornaments, and, wrapping a cloth round her head, submitted to the fatal stroke which terminated the cruel scene. The same punishment was inflicted on Rangoni, who, together with the others, according to two calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was buried in the cemetery of that con

vent.

The marquis kept watch the whole of that dreadful night, and, as he was walking backwards and forwards, inquired of the captain of the castle if Ugo was dead yet; he was answered yes, and then gave himself up to the most desperate lamentations, exclaiming-‘Oh, that I too were dead, since I have been hurried on to resolve thus against my own Ugo!' then, gnawing with his teeth a cane which he had in his hand, he passed the rest of the night in sighs and in tears, calling frequently upon his own dear Ugo.

'On the following day, calling to mind that it would be necessary to make public his justification, (seeing that the transaction could not be kept secret,) he ordered the narrative to be drawn out upon paper, and sent it to all the courts of Italy. On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Francesco Foscari, gave orders, but without publishing his reasons, that a stop should be put to the preparations for a tournament, which, under the auspices of the marquis, and at the expense of the city of Padua, was about to take place in the square of St. Mark, in order to celebrate his advancement to the ducal chair.

The marquis, in addition to what he had already done, from some, unaccountable burst of vengeance, commanded that as many of the married women as were well known to him to be faithless, like his Parasina, should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst others Barberina, or, as some call her, Loadamia Romei, wife of the court judge, underwent this sentence at the usual place of execution, that is to say in the Borgo of St. Giacomo, opposite the present fortress beyond St. Paul's. It cannot be told how strange appeared this

proceeding in a prince who, considering his own disposition, should, as it seemed, have been in such cases most indulgent. Some, however, there were, who did not fail to commend him.'

Such is the plain and revolting narrative which Lord Byron selected for poetical embellishment-with what success the reader can now decide.

October, 1829.

THE MIND A FLOWER.

IMITATED FROM A FRENCH ROMANCE.

OH! come, my love, and we will stray
Where yonder flow'rets fondly beam,
And haste! they soon will fade away,
Though beautiful they now may seem;
At rise of sun, the violet

Bepearled with dew, will spread around
Her sweets, but ere that sun is set

The lovely flower no more is found;
This rose, which I have culled for thee,
See! how its beauteous leaves expand,
Its ruby tints, how bright they be !
But, ah! they vanish in my hand;
For 'tis their doom-each earthly thing
Must feel a bitter withering.

But there's an amaranthine flower
Knows no decay, and fears no blight,
Defies destruction's cruel power,

And blossoms ever fair and bright;
'Tis neither violet, nor rose,

Nor garden flower, nor flower of field,
Deep rooted in the soul it blows,
And ever fragrant scents will yield.
Then, dearest Immalee, we'll try
To cultivate the precious flower,
It will not fade, it will not die,

But cheer us in each lonely hour;
This flower is ever in its spring,
And feels no bitter withering.

B.

K.

ザ

NEW YEAR'S EVE AND DAY.

The king of light, father of aged Time,
Hath brought about that day which is the prime
To the slow gliding months, when every eye
Wears symptoms of a sober jollity;

And every hand is ready to present.
Some service in a real compliment.'

No day is of greater interest than, no day is of such universal interest as, New Year's Day. There certainly are days of as great, but, I repeat, they are not of so universal an interest as this. They have only a particular interest attached to them. None, perhaps, can be held in higher consideration than Valentine's Day by lovers; or their wedding day by comfortable married folk;' Christmas Day, Good Friday, or Easter Sunday, by all true Christians; or their birth-day, by such as recollect it (for I have forgotten, probably never knew mine) but every one must hold in the highest consideration New Year's Day, which is, as it were, the anniversary of the creation-the birth-day of time, of the universe. Indeed, it is most reasonable that this should be the case. I hate melancholy, though I am not at this moment in a very lively humour: I shall, therefore, dismiss at once the perhaps unavoidable, but certainly unavailing, reflections of melancholy, which the arrival of the thirty-first of December forces upon us, that we have just completed one more long or short-as it may have been painful or pleasant-stage towards

'That undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns.'

Why should we now think of such things? Is not this the season of mirth and festivity, of joy and congratulation? While the world without doors is black, and cold, and frost-bound, its inhabitants within are enjoying with open hearts and cheerful faces the genial pleasures of their warm firesides. It is now that the father feels himself proudly and truly happy, while surrounded by his children, lately come home for the

Christmas holidays, some of whom are hanging upon his chair, delightfully teasing him with their artless and unceasing prattle, and others standing about the highheaped hearth, planning many a prank for the morrow; -and their mother thinks herself most blessed, while she one minute chides them for their little tricks, and the next joins them in their harmless frolics. It is now that friends meet every where with hearty greetings and mutual good wishes. And, above all, it is now that the lover right early seeks his mistress, and claims from her the long-looked, and ardently-wished for salute, at the same time putting into her expectant and expected hand a fairly-penned and tenderly-worded copy of verses, or orally repeating his former protestations, with the addition of a prayer, that the New Year may be productive to her of greater blessings than she has hitherto enjoyed, and, if possible, of more graces than she is yet adored with, and an assurance, that it shall no otherwise serve to alter his affection for her than to increase it. Alas! for me to seek my mistress early or late, for any such purpose, would be useless! She is far, far from me.

But, ah! what sound is that? 'Tis a merry one! What a lively welcome those bells are pealing forth to the infant year? And

'How many a tale their music tells!'

as says that sweet song, the first, the last, I ever heard you sing. Oh! when shall I again hear that delicious voice pouring out those touching notes of melody?

Let others prize the Bacchanal's rude lay,

And turn from sadder, sweeter themes away;
But, oh! give me the tones that seem to borrow
The soul of music from a harp of sorrow;
Which, like the words of lovers, when they part,
In broken whispers die upon the heart.'

But I ought not now to be sad; if I cannot rejoice like others, I will not give myself up to useless sorrow. No, no ;

'Be my plan,

To live as merry as I can,

Regardless how the fashions go,
Whether there's reason for't, or no;
Be my employment here on earth,

To give a liberal scope to mirth.'

Why, then, am I here alone? Oh! I will not think of myself, but of those who are where I should have been. I wonder whether they have observed the good old custom of making a well-spiced' wassail-bowl. I think they must, at all events they ought to, have done so. If they have, it will, ere this, have been once emptied, and is, perhaps, at this moment being replenished. They filled it first on the departure of the old year, and they are now filling it a second time on the entrance of the new one. May they prove as happy, as they are earnest in the healths they have been and are drinking round the glowing Christmas block! I fear, however, that they will not have the noble boar's head, with its 'garlands and rosemary,' on their midnight board; but that is not of much consequence (though I should like to hear it was there) as they will certainly have plenty of turkeys with the chine'-' crammed capons'-and fat hens with dumpling legs'-for

Without their help, who can good Christmas keep?' If, too, no simple yule cakes have been prepared for the feast, there will be no lack in it of the more eatable 'consecrated' mince pie, and no longer heretical' plum-porridge. I fancy I see the maidens and youths of the party playfully exchanging the oranges and lemons stuck with cloves, those pretty little memorials of the more substantial, but, as testimonies of continued or renewed friendship and affection, not more valuable, presents, which used to be made on these joyful occa, sions. And I fancy I hear the jovial songs and lively jokes that are setting the table in a roar;' for

'Tis mirth, not dishes, sets a table off.'

But, perhaps, by this time that table is cleared, the wassail-bowl again dry, each turkey, capon, and fat hen, devoured; every mince-pie and mess of plumporridge finished, and the basket of oranges and lemons exhausted. Well! there are the ' merry disports' yet