Here is one, which loses, of course, by translation. In this and other of my versions, I have rarely found the English too concise for the Italian, and often not concise enough: HE IMAGINES THE DEATH OF HIS LADY. The sad bell that within my bosom aye Clamors and bids me still renew my tears, Doth stun my senses and my soul bewray With wandering fantasies and cheating fears; The gentle form of her that is but ta'en A little from my sight I seem to see At life's bourne lying faint and pale with pain,-- My love that to these tears abandons me. “O my own true one,” tenderly she cries, “I grieve for thee, love, that thou winnest naught Save hapless life with all thy many sighs.” Life? Never! Though thy blessed steps have taught My feet the path in all well-doing, stay!-- At this last pass 't is mine to lead the way. There is a still more characteristic sonnet of Alfieri's, with which I shall close, as I began, in the very open air of his autobiography: HIS PORTRAIT. Thou mirror of veracious speech sublime, What I am like in soul and body, show: Red hair,--in front grown somewhat thin with time; Tall stature, with an earthward head bowed low; A meager form, with two straight legs beneath; An aspect good; white skin with eyes of blue; A proper nose; fine lips and choicest teeth; Face paler than a throned king's in hue; Now hard and bitter, yielding now and mild; Malignant never, passionate alway, With mind and heart in endless strife embroiled; Sad mostly, and then gayest of the gay. Achilles now, Thersites in his turn: Man, art thou great or vile? Die and thou 'lt learn! VINCENZO MONTI AND UGO FOSCOLO I