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seventh; then an eighth ; then a ninth, all with decent intervals, the coach in the mean time rocking as if it were giving birth to so niany dæmons. The couchman can conclude no less. He cries out, Devil! the Devil !” and is preparing to run away, when they all burst into laughter at the success of their joke. They had gone round as they descended, and got in at the other door.

We remember in our boyhood, an edifying comment on the proverb of "all is not gold that glistens." The spectacle made such an impression upon us, that we recollect the very spot, which was at the corner of a road in the way from Westminster to Kennington, near a stonemason's." It was a severe winter; and we were out on a holiday, think ing perhaps of the gallant hardships to which the ancient soldiers used to accustom themselves, when we suddenly beheld a group of hackney. coachmen, not, as Spenser says of his witch,

Bury, as seemed, about some wicked gin, but pledging each other in what appeared to us to be little glasses of cold water. What temperance! thought we.

What extraordinary and noble content! What more than Roman simplicity!

There are a set of poor Englishmen, of the homeliest order, in the very depth of winter, quenching their patient and honourable thirst, with modicums of cold water ! O true virtue and courage! O sight worthy of the Timoleons and Epaminondases !- We know not how long we remained in this error; but the first time we recognised the white devil for what it was,--the first time we saw through the chrystal purity of its appearance, -was a great blow to us. We did not then know what the drinkers went through; and this reminds us that we have omitted one great redemption of the hackney-coachman's character, his being at the mercy of all sorts of chances and weathers. Other drivers have their settled hours and pay. He only is at the mercy of every call and every casualty; he only is dragged, without notice, like the damned in Milton, into the extremities of wet and cold, from his alehouse fire to the freezing rain ;-he only must go any where, at what hour, and to whatever place you chuse, his old rheumatic limbs shaking under his weight of rags, and the snow and sleet beating into his puckered face, through -streets. wbich the wind scours like a channel.

M

ARIOSTOʻS PRISON. With all Ariosta's popularity, this is the first time, we believe, that one of his sonnets has appeared in English. Indeed, as for that mate ter, his great poem itself may be said to be very little known through the medium of the versions hitherto extant; and he must have an indestructible charm in him indeed, who with such representations

of him, can at all vindicate among us the popularity of his name · abroad.

That he deserves that name is certain. Those who 'read him in the original (and Italian is far from diflicult to any body, especially if

be reads Latin or French) koow what an endless variety he has of story, and pictòre, and passion, and the most delightful humanity, all to!d in a style the most prompt, graceful, and heart-breathing in the world. To those who do not read him in Italian, and who feel that they cannot discoxer him in his English version, perhaps even this almost literal version of one of his trifles will afford a glimpse of that pleasantness and naivete, of which they hare so often heard. The language is sufficiently unreserved it must be allowed ; but it is full of a genial impulse; it is the reverse of any thing impertinent or unsuitable; and the reader of true delicacy will know how to distinguish it accordingly from grossness. The old Italians, not excepting Petrarch, were accustomed 10 have more faith in the natural goodness of such a simplicity than w«; and of a like mind was Shakspeare. The turn round which the poet makes upon his prison, and the laurelled love which the lady had in store for herself, make up agreeable pair of images to the mind, present and absent. The repetition of the word But is remark. ably apprehensive and enjoying.

Avventuroso carcere soave,
Dove nè per furor ne per dispetto,
Ma per amor e per pierd distretto
La bella e dolce mia nemica m’ave!
Gli altri prigion al yolger de la chiave
S'attristano ; io m’allegro, che dilenio
E non martir, vila e non inorte aspetio,
Nè giudice sever nè legge grave :
Ma benigne accoglienze, ma complessi
Licenziosi, ma parole sciolte
Da ogni freno, ma risi, vezzi, ginochii,
Ma dolci baci dolcemente impressi
Ben mille e mille, e mille e mille volte ;
E se potran contarsi, anco fien pochi.

O lucky prison, blithe captivity,
Where neither out of cage nor out of spite,
But bound by love and charity's sweei miglio
She has me fast,- my lovely enemy;
Others, al turning of their prison key,
Sadden : 1-trinmph; since I have in sight
Not death but life, not suffering but delighit,
Nor law severe, nor judge that bears no plea ;
But gatherings to the heart, but wilful blisses,
But words that in such moments are no crimes,
Butlarighe, avd oricks, and winuing ways; but kisses,
Delicious kisses put deliciously,
A thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand times,
And yet liow few will all those thousands be!

Printed and published by JOSEPH A PPLEYARD, No. 19, Catherine-street, Strand.

Price 2d.–And sold also by A. GLIDDON, Importer of Snuffs, No. 31, Tavistock. streel, Covent-gardan. Orders receired ut ihe above plucer, and by all Book. sellers and Newsmen.

THE INDICATOR.

There he arriving round about doth flie,
And takes survey with busie curious eye:
Now this, now that, he tasteth teuderly.

SPBNSER.

No. XLVIII.-WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6th, 1820.

TRANSLATION OF ANDREA DE BASSO'S ODE TO A DEAD BODY ;

AND REMARKS UPON IT. We are given to understand by the Italian critics, that the following ode made a great sensation, and was alone thought sufficient to render its author of celebrity. Its loathly heroine' had been a beauty of Ferrara, proud and luxurious. It is written in a fierce Catholic spirit, and is incontestibly very striking and even appalling. Images, which would only be disgusting on other occasions, affect as beyond disgust, by the strength of such earnestness and sincerity. He lays bare the mortifying conclusions of the grave, and makes the pride of beauty bow down to them. What we have to say further on the poem,

will better follow than precede it.

RISORGA de la tomba dvara e lorda
La putrida tua salma, o donna cruda,
Orche di spirto nuda,
E cieca, e muta, e sorda,
Ai vermi dai pastura;'
E da la prima altura
Da fiera morte scossa
Fai tuo letto una fossa.
Notte, continna nowe
Ti divora ed inghiotte,
E la puzza ti smembra
Le si pastose membra,
E ti stai fitta fitta per dispetto;
Come animal immondo al laccio stretto.
Vedrai se ognun di te mettrà paura,
E fuggirà come garzon la sera
Da l'ombra lunga e nera, i
Che striscia per le mura;
Vedrai se al tuo invitare
Alcun vorrà cascare;
Vedrai se seguiranti
Le turbe de gli amanti;
E se il dl porterai
Per dove passerai;
O pur se spargerai tenebre e lezzo,
Tal che a ie siessa verrai in disprezzo :

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E tornerai dentro l'immoude bolge
Per minor pena de la tua baldanza.
La tua disonoranza
Allora in te si volge,
E grida, o sciaorata,
Che foeti si sfrenata:
Quest' è il premio che torna
A chi tanto s'adorga,
A chi nutre sue carne
Senza qua giù guardarne,
Dove tutto se volve
I'n cenere ed in polve,
E dove non è requie o penitenza,
Fino a quel dl de l'ultima seulenza.
Dov'è quel bianco seno d'alabastro,
Ch' ondoleggiava come al margin flutto?
In fango s' è ridutto.
Dove gli occhi lucenti,
Due stelle risplendenti?
Ahi che sont due caverne,
Dove orror wol Rj neepne.
Dove il labbro si bello
Che parea di pennello?
Dove le guancia tonda ?
Dove la chioma bionda:
E dove simmetria di portamento?
Tutto e smarrito, come nebbia al vento.
Non tel disa' io, lante fiate a tante,
Tempo verrà che non sarai più bella,
E non parrai più quella,
E non avrai pia amante.
Or ecco vedi il frutto
D'ogni tuo antico fasto.
Cos'è, che non sia guarto
Di gnel tuo corpo molle ?
Cos'è, dove non bolle,
E verme, e putridume,
E puzza, e sucidume?
Dimmi, cos'è, cos'è, che possa pivo
Far a' cuoi proci le figure sue ?
Dovevi altra mercè chieder che amore,
Chieder dovevi al cielo pentimento.
Amor cos'è? un tormento.
Amor cos'è? un dolore.
I tu, gonfia e superba,
Ch' eri sol frore ed erba
Che languon nati appepa,
E te credevi piena
Di balsamo immortale;
Credevi di aver l'ale
Da volar au le nobi;
E non eri che Annbi
Adorato in Egitto oggi e domani
In la sembianza di Molosso cane.
Poco giovd ch' io ti dicessi: vanne,
Vanne pentita a pie del confessores
Digli: frate, io moro
Ne le rabbiose sanne
De l'infernal dragone,
Se tua pietà non pone

Argine al mio fallire.
Io vorrei ben uscire;
Ma si mi tiene il laccio,
Che per tirar ch' io faccio
Romper nol posso punto;
Si che oramai consunto
Ho lo spirito e l'alma, e tu puoi solo
Togliermi per pietà fuori di' duolo.
Allor sì che 'I morir non saria amata,
Che morte a' giusti e sonno, e non è morte,
Vedesti mai per sorte
Putir che dormed raro,
Raro chi non s'allevi
Dai sopni ancho non brevi.
Tu Haresti ora in alto
Sopra il stellato smalto,
E di là ne la fossa
Vedresti le tue obsa
E candide e odorose
Come i gigli e le rose :
E nel dl poi de l'angelica tromba,
Volentier verria l'alma a la cua tomba.
Caozon, vanne là dentro
In quell' orrido centro;
Fuggi poi presto, e dille, che non spera
Pietà, chi aspetta di pentirsi a sera.

Rise from the loathsome and devouring tomb,
Give up thy body, woman without heart,
Now that its worldly part
1s over; and deaf, blind, and dumb,
Thou servest worms for food :
And from thine altitudo
Fierce death has shaken thee down, and thou dost fit
Thy bed within a pil.
Night, endless night bath got thee
To clutch and to englut thee;
And rottenness confounds
Thy limbs and their sleek rounds;
And thou art stuck there, stuck there, ia despite,
Like a foul animal in a trap at night.
Come in the public path, and see how all
Shall fy thee, as a child goes shrieking back
From something long and black,
That mocks along the wall.
See if the kind will stay
To hear what chou wouldst say:
See if thine arms can win
One soul to think of sing
See if the tribe of wooers
Will now become pursuers ;
And if where they make way,
Thou'lt.carry now the day:
Or whether thou wilt spread not such foul night,
That thou thyself shalt feel tke shudder and the fright.
Yes, till thou turn into the loathly hole,
As the least pain to thy bold-facedness.
There let thy foul distress
Turn round upon thy soul,

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