Fly, poor villain; draw thy hat down, Close be thy mantle about thee thrown; And if ever my words weigh on thy heart, Betake thyself to some church apart; There, “Lord, have mercy!” weep and cry: “I am a spy!” Forgiveness for thy great sin alone Thou may'st hope to find before his throne. Dismayed by thy snares that all abhor, Brothers on earth thou hast no more; Poor wretch, thou fill'st me with loathing; fly! Thou art a spy! ALEARDO ALEARDI I. In the first quarter of the century was born a poet, in the village of San Giorgio, near Verona, of parents who endowed their son with the magnificent name of Aleardo Aleardi. His father was one of those small proprietors numerous in the Veneto, and, though not indigent, was by no means a rich man. He lived on his farm, and loved it, and tried to improve the condition of his tenants. Aleardo's childhood was spent in the country,--a happy fortune for a boy anywhere, the happiest fortune if that country be Italy, and its scenes the grand and beautiful scenes of the valley of the Adige. Here he learned to love nature with the passion that declares itself everywhere in his verse; and hence he was in due time taken and placed at school in the Collegio {note: Not a college in the American sense, but a private school of a high grade.} of Sant' Anastasia, in Verona, according to the Italian system, now fallen into disuse, of fitting a boy for the world by giving him the training of a cloister. It is not greatly to Aleardi's discredit that he seemed to learn nothing there, and that he drove his reverend preceptors to the desperate course of advising his removal. They told his father he would make a good farmer, but a scholar, never. They nicknamed him the _mole_, for his dullness; but, in the mean time, he was making underground progress of his own, and he came to the surface one day, a mole no longer, to everybody's amazement, but a thing of such flight and song as they had never seen before,--in fine, a poet. He was rather a scapegrace, after he ceased to be a mole, at school; but when he went to the University at Padua, he became conspicuous among the idle, dissolute students of that day for temperate life and severe study. There he studied law, and learned patriotism; political poetry and interviews with the police were the consequence, but no serious trouble. One of the offensive poems, which he says he and his friends had the audacity to call an ode, was this: Sing we our country. 'T is a desolate And frozen cemetery; Over its portals undulates A banner black and yellow; And within it throng the myriad Phantoms of slaves and kings: A man on a worn-out, tottering Throne watches o'er the tombs: The pallid lord of consciences, The despot of ideas. Tricoronate he vaunts himself And without crown is he.