But say, when first affection's sighs arose
What soft, what tender arts did love provide,
To each the secret passion to disclose ?” –
"Sure 'tis the sharpest anguish," she replied,
"When fall'n on evil days, and woes assail,

To think of blessings past; that knows your guide:But yet, if still an eager wish prevail

To know how first the guilty flame had way;
I'll speak, like one who weeping tells his tale.
"Twas thus: It chane'd that on one fatal day,
The gallant tale of Lancelot's love we read;
Alone in soft security we lay,

Oft, as we turn'd the page, our colour fled,
Oft from the story stray'd th' unconscious eye:-
To dire excess one fatal passage led;

For when the story told of raptures high, &
When Lancelot's kiss the fair Geneura blest;
This fond and gentle youth, who still was nigh,
My glowing lips with trembling ardour prest.
Vile panders were the writer and his book;~
That day we read no more:"-She sigh'd and ceas'd.—
But as she told her tale, with piteous look,
The other wept so sore, that, wrung with pain,
My swimming eyes the light of life forsook,

And, as one dead, I sunk upon the plain.

The Story of UGOLINO, from the same.

All as I wander'd on the frozen plain,

Where he, my Mantuan guide and guardian led, Through ghastly scenes, and various forms of pain: Froze, in a chink, I saw a grisly head, Which, like a casque, in horrid contact lay Cov'ring another;-saw it gnaw, like bread By rav'ning hunger eat, the flesh away;

- Not with such vengeful rage did Tydeus tear The Theban's head, his foul and impious prey.

"O you, that with such bestial signs declare Your horrid hate, awhile that hate refrain ;

O say the cause, and I to upper air
Will bear the tale, if rightly you complain :

Sing the dire scene, unless, return'd no more,
The silence of the grave suppress the strain !”
The sinner strait his foul repast forbore,
And with the torn hair of that mangled head,

He wip'd his horrid mouth, besmear'd with gore:"Thou will'st that I renew my griefs,” he said, "And tell a tale of woes, so sad, so deep, That e'er I speak my bosom aches with dread. But if my words still fouler shame may heap On this curst head of my relentless foe,

I'll tell thee all-though, while I tell, I weep.
I know not who thou art, I know not how

Thou cam'st down hither; but of Tuscan race
Thou art, so stranger, by thy speech I know.
Hear then ;-Count Ugolino once I was,
The priest Ruggieri this, and hear yet more,
Why to the partner of my dire disgrace

Such hate I bear; for, that by fraudful lore
Of this bad man, I lost both life and light,
I need not tell thee, thou hast heard before:-

But things unheard, my tortures I recite,
Deeds far more dreadfu!, deeds without a name!
Hear these, and judge if my revenge be right.
Full oft the pale moon through the crevic'd frame
Of that foul den had shone,-which call'd from me
The tower of famine, still remains the same,

The dreary den of others doom'd to be ;—
When dire and ominous visions of the night
Gave me unveil'd my future fate to see.
I saw this traitor, to the mountain's height

A wolf and four small whelps with fury chase;There where our Pisa sinks from Lucca's sight,With eager bounds and swift he urg'd the race, The fell Gualandi, Sismond too pursued,

And the fierce Lanfranc in the foremost place. Short was the course, for wearied soon I view'd

Both sire and sons the wretched victims bled, And the fierce hell-hounds wallow'd in their blood! But when at day's approach my dream had fled, I heard my sleeping sons with piteous moan,For they were prison'd with me,-cry for bread. O stranger, thou must have a heart of stone,

If yet thou dost not weep, if woes so hard Thou weep'st not, surely thou canst weep for none ! The hour of food was come;-no food appear'd! So fear'd we from our dreams, but in the stead

I heard,--oh heav'n!-I heard more closely barr'd The massy portal of that dungeon dread!I look'd all round, my sons in silence ey'd,

Yet petrified with grief, no tear I shed.

But they, poor wretches, wept!-and Anselm cry'd,My little Anselm !-Sire what ails thee? say Why look'st thou thus? I wept not, nor reply'd; But silent all, from morn 'till eve I lay,

In dreadful silence lay the following night : Till, faintly in my den, the dawning ray

On those four faces cast a glimm'ring light Which nature's plastic hand had stamp'd like mine;I gnaw'd my hands, all frantic with the sight! They, thinking hunger urg'd me, rising join

In loud lament;-"Ah less," they cry'd, "the pain If thou wouldst feed on us ;-these limbs are thine; Thou gav'st this flesh;-Ah take this flesh again!" spare their grief, I ceas'd, nor tear let fall;

Το

And we that day and all the next remain In dreadful silence! -we were silent all!

O earth! why didst not ope thy womb, and hide Thy suff'ring sons, relentless to our call?

And now the fourth dạy came, when at my side Poor Gaddo fell, and falt'ring faintly said

"Why dost not help me, father ?"-spake and died!
The rest like him you see, of hunger dead,
Fell on the following days, fell famish'd all!
And one by one their gentle spirits fled;

And I on each cold corse began to crawl,
Grop'd on my hands and felt, my sight was gone;
Each by his name I call'd, nor ceas'd to call
For three long days, but answer made they none !
For me left hopeless, father now no more,
What sorrow did not was by hunger done!"
He added not, but turn'd him as before,

Rolling his wild eyes, and as, hunger-led,

Gaunt mastiffs gnaw a bone, he turn'd and tore
With greedy teeth and sharp, that horrid head.-
Ah Pisa, impious town, thou foul disgrace
Of Latium, since to righteous pity dead,

Thy neighbours punish not a deed so base,
Oh that yon Isles might move, and rooted stand
Oppos'd, where Arno's issuing waters pass,
And urge back ruin on thy delug'd land!

What! though for deeds of darkest mischief done, Such woes the father's treasons might demand, Why for his crimes devote each guiltless son? Brigata, Uguccione, and the pair

I nam'd before,-whose youth, accursed town! Allow'd not in their father's crimes to share!

SONNETS.

On Solitude.

Let the lone hermit praise the darkling dell
O'erhung with pine, with foliage thick embrown'd,
The bosky bourn, cool grot, and cave profound,
Where solitude and silence ever dwell:

Save where the Fairies weave their magic round,
Unseen by vulgar eyes, as poets tell:

Or save, while echo's voice returns the sound,
Night listens to the song of Philomel.-
But me, nor woody vale, nor shadowy pine
Delight, unless to chear the dull serene,
Some jovial youths and merry maidens join,
And more than echo talks along the green;
Unless that ever and anon, between

The foliage, peeps "the human face divine."