of Genoa, full of gay gardens, white houses, and gleaming pinnacles, which, being struck by the sun's rays, flash with such burning rays that they can scarcely be looked at. All these things which were being seen from the ship, might have caused content, as indeed they did to all those who were on board the ship, except to me, for to me they were the cause of greater sorrow. The only relief I had was to occupy myself in lamenting my woes, singing them, or, let me say rather, bewailing them to the sound of a lute belonging to one of the sailors; and one night I remember--and indeed it is well that I should remember, since then my day began to dawn,--that, the sea being calm, the winds still, the sails fixed to the mast, and the sailors without any care lying stretched in different parts of the ship, and the helmsman almost asleep by reason of the fair weather there was, and that which the sky promised, in the midst of this silence and in the midst of my fancies, as my griefs did not suffer me to yield my eyes to sleep, seated on the poop, I took the lute, and began to sing some verses, which I must now repeat, in order that it may be noted from what extreme of sadness, and how without thinking it, fate led me to the greatest extreme of joy imaginable; this, if I remember right, was what I sang: TIMBRIO. Now that silent is the wind And the peaceful sea at rest, Let my pain no silence find, For my grieving from my breast Issue soul with voice conjoined; To recount wherefore I grieve, Showing that my grief in part Comes perforce, the soul must give Tokens, and likewise the heart, Of the deadly pangs that live. Once Love bore me off in flight Through the ranks of bitter woe, Raising me to Heaven's height: Death and Love to earth below Now have hurled this hapless wight; Love and death it was ordained Such a love and death as this, O'er sweet Nisida they reigned, From her woe and from my bliss Fame unending they attained. With new voice, more terrible Henceforth, and with awesome sound, Fame will make it credible That Love is a champion found And death is invincible; Satisfied the world will be At their might, whene'er it knows How the twain have wrought in me: Death her glorious life did close, Love my bosom holds in fee. But I think, since I am brought Nor to madness nor to death By the anguish they have wrought, That death little power hath, Or that feeling I have not; For if I but feeling had, So the increasing anguish strives Everywhere to drive me mad, Though I had a thousand lives, Countless times had I been dead.