If thus thy fallen grandeur I behold, My native Genoa! with a tearless eye, Think not thy son’s ungrateful heart is cold; But know--I deem rebellious every sigh! Thy glorious ruins proudly I survey, Trophies of firm resolve, of patriot might! And in each trace of devastation’s way, Thy worth, thy courage, meet my wandering sight. Triumphs far less than suffering virtue shine! And on the spoilers high revenge is thine, While thy strong spirit unsubdued remains. And lo! fair Liberty rejoicing flies To kiss each noble relic, while she cries, “_Hail! though in ruins, thou wert ne’er in chains!_” LOPE DE VEGA. “Estese el cortesano.” Let the vain courtier waste his days, Lured by the charms that wealth displays, The couch of down, the board of costly fare; Be his to kiss th’ ungrateful hand That waves the sceptre of command, And rear full many a palace in the air; Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, The glowing sun, the genial wind, And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assign’d; And prize far more, in peace and health, Contented indigence than joyless wealth. Not mine in Fortune’s fane to bend, At Grandeur’s altar to attend, Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown; Nor mine a fond aspiring thought, A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught With Fame’s bright phantom, Glory’s deathless crown! Nectareous draughts and viands pure Luxuriant nature will insure; These the clear fount and fertile field Still to the wearied shepherd yield; And when repose and visions reign, Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain. FRANCISCO MANUEL. ON ASCENDING A HILL LEADING TO A CONVENT. “No baxes temeroso, o peregrino!” Pause not with lingering foot, O pilgrim! here, Pierce the deep shadows of the mountain-side; Firm be thy step, thy heart unknown to fear-- To brighter worlds this thorny path will guide. Soon shall thy feet approach the calm abode, So near the mansions of supreme delight; Pause not, but tread this consecrated road-- ’Tis the dark basis of the heavenly height. Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, How many a fountain glitters down the hill! Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play, Bright sunshine guides--and wilt thou linger still? Oh! enter there, where, freed from human strife, Hope is reality, and time is life. DELLA CASA. VENICE. “Quest! palazzi, e queste logge or colte.”