STORIES OF SCIENCE: AN HISTORICAL TALE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY, OR THEREABOUTS. TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL ITALIAN OF BERNI. BY LAURENTIUS LITTLE ARMIGER. PROEUM. WHEN granite is split by wedges of wood, As Whigs rend the rock whereon Liberty stood And Absalom dangled beneath the green bough- I. A SHY AT DESCRIPTION. Pope Gregory sat in St. Peter's chair, Which could open with ease The Great Bramah's lock, or its antipodes, As a thundering fib Is announced to the Chamber by Master Thiers. Dolefully drops the vicegerent jaw- With a visage as if he had swallowed the twaddle He could feather and pitch For an auto-da-fé every wizard and witch- To the conjuror's king Make even Old Hal diminutely to sing, Should the Evil One dare, with his "powers of the air," Greek, Trojan, or Tyrian, Esquimaux, Manx, But not over pray'r Sits Gregory there; Nor to eat, though before him smokes daintiest fare; No! Grim is his stare, Like a wolf in his lair, Laid up with lumbago. His triple tiare To a shape lachrymose— The busses have crush'd out the gout from his toes. Ye gods! they would scare from his pole the Great Bear! You had placed the Bude light, The moon would soon fling up her reins in affright- Would be all curds and whey The comets would tear off their tails in dismay; II. A QUESTION IS ASKED. Why sitteth Gregorius, "servus servorum," Thus in a brown study with demons cerulean? Why banquets he not on those plats epicurean? Those viands delicious Would tempt an Apicius, Or the stomach silicious of our Dionysius, Those cheeses Etrurian, and boarheads Apulean- Pies, jellies, and jams, Would charm a Vitellius' pharynx, or Lamb's, Are of the right sort 'Twould puzzle Lord Brougham to say, "Utrum horum." Why sitteth Gregorius, "servorum servus,” Gazing on vacancy?-id est, the face Of Lord Cardinal Sec., Who is craning his neck Like Tantalus, waiting in vain for the grace. Per Bacco!-'twould make an arch-anchorite nervous To view for a moment the blush of that Jorum: Even famed Father Mathew Would sing out, "Have at you!" And kick from his niche St. Aquarius' statue. The burly Hibernian Would swear the Falernian Was the well of fair Truth and the fountain of HopeWould gloriously tope, Like a genuine pope, And give all Teetotallers the end of a rope! III. THE FOREGOING QUESTION IS ANSWERED. "Cospetto!" burst out the vicegerent at last, I'd cheerfully set-to In my architect's face the vile gauntlet and lash! They fought in my palace-my nephew is slain ! He dies on the morrow! Does no hope remain? 'Tis a cloudless day, and the wandering breeze Floats on th' wavelets of Italy's seas; The bright blue waves which break on the shore, In sighs for the land which they love and deplore. Merrily trills the lark o'er the hills Of Apennine, joyously sparkle the rills; The cheek of the peasant is fresher in bloom, Furl'd is the mill-sail, and silent the loom, E'en the brow of the brigand has banish'd its gloom! Hark! 't is a thousand bells ringing their chimes In the city-th' eternal Medea of crimes; And a myriad of censers are clouding the air 'Tis a bright noonday, but not in the cells Of St. Angelo's mound, where the captive dwells; Where all is one unchanging night, Until the eye gains an unnatural sight, And darkness itself proves the parent of light. Antonio sleeps on his dungeon-straw; He dreams of the beautiful vision he saw And loved soon as seen, His spirit's own queen, For whom he is doom'd to the death-axe keen. With tails like the cats Of Kilkenny, are ogling his nascent moustaches! Now he dreams that old Hadrian asks, "Why his tomb Of his childhood; he prays By the knees of his mother; and now he essays But on whom does the blow Descend? On the fair Leonora? Not so! As a twenty-Whig power, When writhing beneath the Conservative knout; Of the pope such a clout, Then asks," If his mother had known he was out?" V. THE COMPACT. "Diavolo!" roar'd out old Pontifex Max, And spoil your complexion Stop all the supplies by a vertical section. So paucis te volo,' as Terence would say, Hope has not withdrawn her last flickering ray; If to the Piazza Nor care a solanum For every pillar from Tiber to Tweeddale!" Thus Gregory spake, with the tone of a Cato, The good man kept nothing malicious in petto; Though his swoll'n nose blush'd like a Yorkshire potatoe From th' effects of the blow Dealt by Antonio, Santissimo Padre! first, lowly I crave For that blow thy forgiveness, and next I accept Awaits me; but now" Hope lights up his brow! His necklace, and bracelets, and anklets enow, Melts soft as a sailor, Antonio is free as a loyal repailer; Though close at his heels The pope's sbirro steals, As at Whiggery's kibes sneaks the surveillant tail-er. VI. THE COLUMN. Bless'd be the sun's all-vital glow, The free-born waves and the jocund earth; Thrice bless'd they are to the heart which wo Corroded in slavery's clanking berth, When the maniac laugh'd in his ghastly mirth, Of the hopeless cheek, as cold and as wan Sweeter to breathe her breath on the heath, And the Penenden hero is splitting to squall. Colonna, Orsini, To those pretty boys hight the Trasteverini, |