South;" yet, before we quit it for the present, I must allude to one or two names which cannot be entirely passed over, as belonging to the period of which we have been speaking-the golden age of Italy and of literature. Bernardino Rota, who died in 1575, a poet of considerable power and pathos, has left a volume of poems, "In vita e in morte di Porzia Capece;' she was a beautiful woman of Naples, whom he loved and afterwards married, and who was snatched from him in the pride of her youth and beauty. Among his Sonnets, I find one peculiarly striking, though far from being the best. The picture it presents, with all its affecting accompaniments, and the feelings commemorated, are obviously taken from nature and reality. The poet-the husband-approaches to contemplate the lifeless form of his Portia, and weeping, he draws from her pale cold hand the nuptial ring, which he had himself placed on her finger with all the fond anticipations of love and hope-the pledge of a union which death alone could dissolve: and now, with a breaking heart, he transfers it to his own. Such is the subject of this striking poem, which, with some few faults against taste, is still singularly pic turesque and eloquent, particularly the last six lines. SONETTO. Questa scolpita in oro, amica fede, Che santo amor nel tuo bel dito pose, O prima a me delle terrene cose! Donna! caro mio pregio,—alta mercede— Ben fu da te serbata; e ben si vede Che al commun' voler' sempre rispose, Ecco ch' io la t' invola-ecco ne spoglio Il freddo avorio che l' ornava; e vesto La mia, più assai che la tua, mano esangue. Dolce mio furto! finchè vivo io voglio Che tu stia meco-ne le sia molesto Ch' or di pianto ti bagni,-e poi di sangue! LITERAL TRANSLATION. "This circlet of sculptured gold-this pledge which sacred affection placed on that fair hand—O Lady! dearest to me of all earthly things,--my sweet possession and my lovely prize,--well and faithfully didst thou preserve it! the bond of a mutual love and mutual faith, even from that hour when Heaven bestowed on me all it could bestow of bliss. Now then-O now do I take it from thee! and thus do I withdraw it from the cold ivory of that hand which so adorned and honoured it. I place it on mine own, now chill, and damp, and pale as thine. O beloved theft !-While I live thou shalt never part from me. Ah! be not offended if thus I stain thee with these tears, and soon perhaps with life drops from my heart." * Castiglione, besides being celebrated as the finest gentleman of his day, and the author of that code of all noble and knightly accomplishments, of perfect courtesy and gentle bearing— “Il Cortigiano," must have a place among our conjugal poets. He had married in 1516, Hypolita di Torrello, whose accomplishments, beauty, and illustrious birth, rendered her worthy of him. It appears, however, that her family, who were of Mantua, could not bear to part with her,* and that after her marriage, she remained in that city, while Castiglione was ambassador at Rome. This separation gave rise to a very impassioned cor * Serassi.-Vita di Baldassare Castiglione. respondence; and the tender regrets and remonstrances scattered through her letters, he transposed into a very beautiful poem, in the form of an epistle from his wife. It may be found in the appendix to Roscoe's Leo X. (No. 196.) Hypolita died in giving birth to a daughter, after a union of little more than three years, and left Castiglione for some time inconsolable. We are particularly told of the sympathy of the Pope and the Cardinals on this occasion, and that Leo condoled with him in a manner equally unusual and substantial, by bestowing on him immediately a pension of two hundred gold crowns. 94 CHAPTER VII. CONJUGAL POETRY CONTINUED. STORY OF DR. DONNE AND HIS WIFE. My next instance of conjugal poetry is taken from the literary history of our own country, and founded on as true and touching a piece of romance as ever was taken from the page of real life. Dr. Donne, once so celebrated as a writer, now so neglected, is more interesting for his matrimonial history, and for one little poem addressed to his wife, than for all his learned, metaphysical, and theological productions. As a poet, it is probable that even readers of poetry know little of him, except from the lines at the bottom of the pages in Pope's version, or rather translation, of |