Imágenes de páginas

took an opportunity to relate the foregoing trait of his new nation; and, as I felt that no waltz-loving prince could refuse a petition while dancing to "The Notre-dame," I made mine in such effective terms, that I had the pleasure, soon afterwards, of adding a bright ornament to his court in the fascinating Anastásoula, the devoted young GREEK WIFE.




LADY! to decorate thy marriage morn

Rare gems and flowers and lofty songs are brought;
Thou the plain utt'rance of a poet's thought,
Thyself at heart a poet, wilt not scorn.
The name, into whose splendor thou wert born,
Thou art about to change for that which stands
Writ on the proudest work* that mortal hands

Have raised from earth Religion to adorn ;
Take it rejoicing, take with thee thy dower,

Britain's best blood and beauty ever new,
Beauty of mind.-May the cool northern dew
Still rest upon thy leaves, transplanted flower!
Mingling thy English nature, pure and true,
With the bright growth of each Italian hour.

Rome, May 11th, 1835

*St. Peter's.



COME to me from the Spirit-land!

Half of my soul! gone on before— Thou shouldest not leave me thus to stand Shivering on life's tempestuous shore!

Part of my thoughts to me are lost,
Part of my powers and feelings gone;
And I am weak and whirlwind-tossed,
And sad, and weary, and alone !
My soul is rent in twain-in twain,
My thoughts are loose as shaken sand;
I feel a weight, I feel a pain,
Come-lead me to the Spirit-hand!



BLESS'D is he who ne'er repines

'Gainst his glorious Maker's will; Who through sickness, pain, and death, Grounds his hope on Heaven still! As the sun in winter's time,Though he cannot shine so bright As in summer, still his rays Send a pleasing mellow light; So the good man's flick'ring flame, Though its brightest glory's o'er, Still sends forth a cheering gleam, Which, though fainter, pleases more.




GLORY be to the Virgin Mary, holy mother of the child Jesus!

With her blessing, we will this day devoutly meditate upon a story that I have read in an old book of piety, and which a very learned abbot has affirmed to me to be perfectly true.

Learn, my good friends and listeners,-each of whom for a bajocchi shall hear a most astonishing story, that will strengthen his faith,-that there are countries in the cold northern regions, where neither the olive nor the bay tree flourish, and that are barren and desolate. One of these countries is Germany, the birth-place of that herecism, which has spread far and wide; and has only spared our blessed Italy, from its being under the special protection of God's most holy Vice-Regent upon earth. Beware, therefore, of wishing to visit foreign lands, for there the Italian pines away, finding neither his wine, his songs, or his religion, and dies miserably.

Many wretched heretics from that country find their way over the Alps, and even manage to reach our Papal city, they give out that they are travelling for improvement, or for the study of the fine arts, of which our city is the cradle and the palace! these are false pretences; of what use would be their artist's skill, when returned to their own country? to that country which is so dreadfully cold, that you are forced to remain within doors; where

pictures are forbidden in the churches, and where the people are little better than beasts, without reason!

I will tell you why these people travel to our land. The fewer number come to do penance, and to abjure their heresy; the greater number come to destroy your customs, to mock the respect due to our blessed ruler, to live here in revelry, and to seduce your wives and your daughters: nay, some of them have even ventured to raise their impious eyes to those virgins destined to a Heavenly bridegroom. And now, I have no doubt, you will ask me, how it is that our Holy Father should permit such villians to remain within the walls of this blessed city? My answer is ready. The long-suffering of Heaven is inexhaustible! and the sun sheds his beams alike on the just, and on the unjust!

The story I am going to relate to you, is of one of these profligate foreign painters, and it happened long since.

The painter was one of those men whom we occasionally see going about the town in odd fashioned coats, with long stinking tobacco pipes in their hands, their hair hanging over their shoulders, and but few bajocchis in their pockets.

And now, whilst I take breath, and collect my thoughts, hasten to buy, for a mere nothing, the life of the mad rebel Menotti, who was hung last week, at Modena, and which has been printed for your use and improvement; and whilst doing so, pray for his poor soul, and also for your own, that God may preserve you from the atrocity of revolution, and that you may not become like your guilty fellow-countrymen of Bologna.

Bravo, my friends! go on buying, every bajocchi that you spend will bear fruits a thousand fold, through the

thankful prayer that I will offer up for the poor souls in purgatory.

The name of the painter, whose story I am about to relate to you, was Theobaldo, and at the time to which I refer, there was a maiden named Paola, one of those Transtiverini, who have at all times been so faithful to our holy father.

This maiden used to bring bread for sale into the city; and at the same time generally brought some little delicacy as a present to her brother; who, being a mason, was then working at some palace. It was on one of these expeditions, that Paola was first seen by this foreign painter, and he became instantly enamoured with her beauty.

Our country alone is the land of beauty! In happy Italy alone, are beautiful women to be seen! But women, even in our own country, are inquisitive, vain, and cunning; and, in these respects, are not a whit behind the women of other nations.

Eh, viva! my good neighbour Lorenzo, who have just sneezed so heartily, and who have two beautiful daughters! I have no doubt that you will confirm the truth of what I say.

Paola soon perceived that Theobaldo admired her, and that he followed her whenever he could. When once she had observed this, and was not offended at it, she had already half fallen into the snares of Satan.

Those foreigners are a terrible race! Those who are rich, chink their money, and say to our beautiful women, "Give yourself up to me, my life, my treasure, my dearest soul! just think that I am here only for a moment, and that I

« AnteriorContinuar »