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""Tis only on Ferrara ground," he said,

"The penalty here threatened can befall : On ground of friendly Padua if I tread,

Do I infringe the edict? Not at all!" So, without fear of jeoparding his head,

He went to give his grace a morning call, And crossed in motley state Ferrara's bound, Perched on a wagon, labelled "Paduan Ground."

By this device, he hoped to have evaded
The clutches of the prowling men of law:
But, ah! he did not view the thing as they did,
Who stood not for entreaty or for flaw,
But pulled him down, unpitied and unaided,
And thrust him in a prison's greedy maw,-
Assuring him that, spite of needful haste,
The affair" should be conducted in good taste.

"The affair? Ha! what affair?" Gonello cried;
"Can it then be I'm under mortal ban?
Is this the way 'gainst lapses to provide,—
To cut the head off of the erring man?
To make the law a ruthless homicide?

Is this the wisest, most remedial plan?
If I escape this sentence of impiety,
I'll found an anti-blood spilling society.

Alas! 'tis only when the mischief reaches

Our own quick sense of wrong, we feel for others; 'Tis then Experience, the laggard, teaches

A truth the unfeeling world too often smothers,-
And yet a truth which conscience ever preaches,-
The good of all is lodged in one poor brother's.
O! when mankind shall feel this truth aright,
No Fourier need scheme, no Taylor fight.

But where's Gonello? To his dungeon-cell
A priest has come to give him absolution.
"Good father," quoth the jester, "all is well;-
The spirit carries its own retribution ;-
Yes, its own bias is its heaven or hell.

But hark! the signal for my execution!
The knell of fun! Lead on! Though I'm a sinner,
By this fair light, I hope to be the winner!"

There stands the scaffold-there the fatal block! What crowds have gathered to the scene of blood! Gonello bows his head, and waits the shock

That shall unseal the life-encircling flood.
An interval succeeds, that seems to mock
The horrors of the gasping multitude;
When, lo! the grinning minister of slaughter
Dashes upon the block a pail of water!

An uproar of applauses rends the air;-
"Long live the marquis, and Gonello long!
'Twas a sham sentence ! O, requital fair!
And Mercy has but worn the mask of wrong!"
Thus, while rebounding joy succeds despair,
Exclaim, 'mid wild hurrahs, the hustling throng;
And laughter treads on Grief's receding heel,
Stunning the fugitive with peal and peal.

But soft! the jester-why does he remain,
On the uncrimsoned platform, mute and still?
Has agonizing terror stunned his brain,

Or sudden gladness sent too fierce a thrill?
Faints he from rapture or excess of pain?

His heart beats not-his brow is pale and chill— Light from his eyes, heat from his limbs has fled;Jesu Maria! he is dead-is dead!

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