Thou mighty one, whose winged words of yore Have spread on history’s page Italia’s wars, The sad mischances of intestine jars, Like beacons blazing where the breakers roar. Still canst thou glance out civil discords o’er? Some solace for us canst thou not divine? Canst thou not oil on troubled waters pour, And soothe each petty tyrants ruthless mind? Why else unveil the falsehood of our land, Which sees not why its tale thou deign’st to tell? Why else didst thou with an unsparing hand Make bare the wounds whose angry scars will tell The lasting shame of ignomy’s brand, All petrified at history’s command? * * * * * THE DARSIES. BY EMMA C. EMBURY. _Don Pedro._ I pray you, hold me not responsible for all these travelers’ tales. I am but the mouthpiece of others: therefore, if I question the infallibility of the Pope, summon me not before the Inquisition; if I speak treason against the king, clap me not up in the Tower; and if I utter heresy against the ladies, let me not be flayed alive by the nails of enraged damsels. OLD PLAY. “There is no use in wasting words, Cousin Charles; you never can persuade me that men love more devotedly than women.” “How can you be so unreasonable, Anne? I only want to convince you that affection being an essential part of woman’s nature, she cannot help loving something or somebody all her life. The most she does, even in her most intense devotion, is to _individualize_ the general sentiment which pervades her character; but when men love, they actually take up a new nature, and concentrate upon it all their strength of mind and force of character.” “You have certainly a droll method of reasoning, cousin; because women are _loving_ creatures, therefore they cannot love as well as the rougher sex.” “You are willful, Anne, and are determined not to understand me. I mean that love is usually a habitude with women, while with men, if it exists at all, it is a positive, determinate thing—a graft, as it were, upon their sturdy natures, and partaking therefore of the strength of the stock which nourishes it.” “How can you say so when men are always in love, from the time they quit the nursery until they are gray-headed, or _married_?” “Such attachments are mere fancies.” “Pray, how is one to distinguish between a fancy and a fact in so delicate a matter?” “It is difficult to decide at first, because in their inceptive state they are much alike; but time is the true test. A fancy, a mere intoxication of the senses, is scarce worth talking about; but in a genuine manly love there is a depth, a fervor, a disinterestedness, a devotion, such as woman can never feel—nay, which they can rarely appreciate.”