No one could be more opposed, in spirit and method, to Aleardo Aleardi than Giulio Carcano; but both of these poets betray love and study of English masters. In the former there is something to remind us of Milton, of Ossian, who is still believed a poet in Latin countries, and of Byron; and in the latter, Arnaud notes very obvious resemblances to Gray, Crabbe, and Wordsworth in the simplicity or the proud humility of the theme, and the courage of its treatment. The critic declares the poet's aesthetic creed to be God, the family, and country; and in a beautiful essay on Domestic Poetry, written amidst the universal political discouragement of 1839, Carcano himself declares that in the cultivation of a popular and homelike feeling in literature the hope of Italy no less than of Italian poetry lies. He was ready to respond to the impulses of the nation's heart, which he had felt in his communion with its purest and best life, when, in later years, its expectation gave place to action, and many of his political poems are bold and noble. But his finest poems are those which celebrate the affections of the household, and poetize the pathetic beauty of toil and poverty in city and country. He sings with a tenderness peculiarly winning of the love of mothers and children, and I shall give the best notion of the poet's best in the following beautiful lullaby, premising merely that the title of the poem is the Italian infantile for sleep: Sleep, sleep, sleep! my little girl: Mother is near thee. Sleep, unfurl Thy veil o'er the cradle where baby lies! Dream, baby, of angels in the skies! On the sorrowful earth, in hopeless quest, Passes the exile without rest; Where'er he goes, in sun or snow, Trouble and pain beside him go. But when I look upon thy sleep, And hear thy breathing soft and deep, My soul turns with a faith serene To days of sorrow that have been, And I feel that of love and happiness Heaven has given my life excess; The Lord in his mercy gave me thee, And thou in truth art part of me! Thou knowest not, as I bend above thee, How much I love thee, how much I love thee; Thou art the very life of my heart, Thou art my joy, thou art my smart! Thy day begins uncertain, child: Thou art a blossom in the wild; But over thee, with his wings abroad, Blossom, watches the angel of God. Ah! wherefore with so sad a face Must thy father look on thy happiness? In thy little bed he kissed thee now, And dropped a tear upon thy brow. Lord, to this mute and pensive soul Temper the sharpness of his dole: Give him peace whose love my life hath kept: He too has hoped, though he has wept.