seventh; then an eighth; then a ninth, all with decent intervals, the coach in the mean time rocking as if it were giving birth to so many dæmons. The coachman can contlade no less. Ile cries out, The Devil! the Devil!" and is preparing to run away, when they all burst into laughter at the success of their joke. They had gone round as they descended, and got in at the other door.

We remember in our boyhood, an edifying comment on the proverb of "all is not gold that glistens." The spectacle made such an impression upon us, that we recollect the very spot, which was at the corner of a road in the way from Westminster to Kennington, near a stonemason's. It was a severe winter; and we were out on a holiday, thinking perhaps of the gallant hardships to which the ancient soldiers used to accustom themselves, when we suddenly beheld a group of hackneycoachmen, not, as Spenser says of his witch,

drugataj ne Busy, as seemed, about some wicked gin, but pledging each other in what appeared to us to be little glasses of cold water. What temperance! thought we. What extraordinary and noble content! What more than Roman simplicity! There are a set of poor Englishmen, of the homeliest order, in the very depth of winter, quenching their patient and honourable thirst, with modicums of cold water! O true virtue and courage! O sight worthy of the Timoleons and Epaminondases!-We know not how long we remained in this error; but the first time we recognised the white devil for what it was,-the first time we saw through the chrystal purity of its appearance,—was a great blow to us. We did not then know what the drinkers went through; and this reminds us that we have omitted one great redemption of the hackney-coachman's character,— his being at the mercy of all sorts of chances and weathers. Other drivers have their settled hours and pay. He only is at the mercy of every call and every casualty; he only is dragged, without notice, like the damned in Milton, into the extremities of wet and cold, from his alehouse fire to the freezing rain; he only must go any where, at what hour, and to whatever place you chuse, his old rhenmatic limbs shaking under his weight of rags, and the snow and sleet beating into his puckered face, through streets which the wind scours like a

channel.

ARIOSTO'S PRISON.

With all Ariosto's popularity, this is the first time, we believe, that one of his sonnets has appeared in English. Indeed, as for that matter, his great poem itself may be said to be very little known through the medium of the versions hitherto extant; and he must have an indestructible charm in him indeed, who with such representations of him, can at all vindicate among us the popularity of his name abroad.

That he deserves that name is certain. Those who read him in the original (and Italian is far from diflicult to any body, especially if

he reads Latin or French) know what an endless variety he has of story, and picture, and passion, and the most delightful humanity, all told in a style the most prompt, graceful, and heart-breathing in the world. To those who do not read him in Italian, and who feel that they cannot discover him in his English version, perhaps even this almost literal version of one of his trifles will afford a glimpse of that pleasant, ness and naivete, of which they have so often heard. The language is sufficiently unreserved it must be allowed; but it is full of a genial impulse: it is the reverse of any thing impertinent or unsuitable; and the reader of true delicacy will know how to distinguish it accordingly from grossness. The old Italians, not excepting Petrarch, were accustomed to have more faith in the natural goodness of such a simplicity than we and of a like mind was Shakspeare. The turn round which the poet makes upon his prison, and the laurelled love which the lady had in store for herself, make up an agreeable pair of images to the mind, present and absent. The repetition of the word But is remarkably apprehensive and enjoying.

Avventuroso carcere soave,

Dove nè per furor ne per dispetto,
Ma per amor e per pietà distretto
La bella e dolce mia nemica m'ave!
Gli altri prigion al volger de la chiave
S'attristano io m'allegro, che diletto
E non martir, vita e non morte aspettó,
Nè giudice sever nè legge grave:

Ma benigne accoglienze, ma complessi
Licenziosi, ma parole sciolte

Da ogni freno, ma risi, vezzi, ginochi,
Ma dolci baci dolcemente impressi

Ben mille e mille, e mille e mille volte ;
E se potran contarsi, anco fien pochi.

O lucky prison, blithe captivity,
Where neither out of rage nor out of spite,
But bound by love and charity's sweel might,
She has me fast, my lovely enemy;
Others, at turning of their prison key,
Sadden; I triumph; since I have in sight
Not death but life, not suffering but delight,
Nor law severe, nor judge that hears no plea;

But gatherings to the heart, but wilful blisses,
But words that in such moments are no crimes,
But laughs, and tricks, and winning ways; but kisses,
Delicious kisses put deliciously,

A thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand times;
And yet how few will all those thousands be!

Printed and published by JOSEPH Appleyard, No. 19, Catherine-street, Strand. Price 2d. And sold also by A. GLIDDON, Importer of Snuffs, No. 81, Tavistockstreet, Covent-garden. Orders received at the above places, and by all Book sellers and Newsmen.

THE INDICATOR.

There he arriving round about doth ffie,
And takes survey with busie curious eye:
Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly.

SPENBER.

No. XLVIII.—WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6th, 1820.

TRANSLATION OF ANDREA DE BASSO'S ODE TO A DEAD BODY; AND REMARKS UPON IT.

We are given to understand by the Italian critics, that the following ode made a great sensation, and was alone thought sufficient to render its author of celebrity. Its loathly heroine had been a beauty of Ferrara, proud and luxurious. It is written in a fierce Catholic spirit, and is incontestibly very striking and even appalling. Images, which would only be disgusting on other occasions, affect us beyond disgust, by the strength of such earnestness and sincerity. He lays bare the mortifying conclusions of the grave, and makes the pride of beauty bow down to them. What we have to say further on the poem, will better follow than precede it.

RISORGA de la tomba avara e lorda
La putrida tua salma, o donna cruda,
Or che di spirto nuda,

E cieca, e muta, e sorda,

Ai vermi dai pastura;

E da la prima altura

Da fiera morte scossa

Fai tuo letto una fossa. July

Notte, continua notte
Ti divora ed inghiotte,

E la puzza ti smembra

Le si pastose membra,

E ti stai fitta fitta per dispetto,

Come animal immondo al laccio stretto.

Vedrai se ognun di te mettrà paura,

E fuggirà come garzon la sera

Da l'ombra lunga e nera,j
Che striscia per le mura;
Vedrai se al tuo invitare
Alcun vorrà cascare;

Vedrai se seguiranti

Le turbe de gli amanti;

E se il di porterai

Per dove passerai

O pur se spargerai tenebre e lezzo,

Tai ehe a te stessa 'verrai in disprezzo:

E tornerai dentro l'immonde bolge
Per minor pena de la tua baldanza.
La tua disonoranza

Allora in te si volge,

E grida, o sciaurata,
Che fosti si sfrenata:
Quest' è il premio che torna
A chi tanto s'adorna,

A chi nutré sue carne
Senza qua giù guardarne,
Dove tutto se volve

In cenere ed in polve,

E dove non è requie o penitenza,
Fino a quel dl de l'ultima sentenza,

Dov'è quel bianco seno d' alabastro,
Ch' ondoleggiava come al margin Butto?
In fango s' è ridutto.

Dove gli occhi lucenti,
Due stelle risplendenti?

08 GASC Ahi che son due caverne,
Dove orror sol si scerne.

Dove il labbro si bello
Che parea di pennello?.
Dove la guancia tonda?
Dove la chioma bionda ?

E dove simmetría di portamento?

Tutto e smarrito, come nebbia al vento.

Non tel diss' io, tante fiate e tante,
Tempo verrà che non sarai più bella,
E non parrai più quella,

E non avrai più amante..
Or,ecco vedi il frutto
D'ogni tuo antico fasto.

Cos'è, che non sia guasto

Di quel tuo corpo molle? adm
Cos'è, dove non bolle,

E verme, e putridume,

E puzza, e sucidume?

Dimmi, cos'è, cos' è, clie possa piùe

Far a' tuoi proci le figure sue?

Argine al mio fallire.

Io vorrei ben uscire;

Ma si mi tiene il laccio,
Che per tirar ch' io faccio
Romper nol posso punto;
Sì che oramai consunto

Ho lo spirito e l' alma, e tu puoi solo
Togliermi per pietà fuori di duolo.

Allor sì che 'l morir non saria amaro,
Che morte a' giusti è sonno, e non è morte,
Vedesti mai per sorte

Putir che dorme? raro,
Raro chi non s' allevi
Dai sonni anche non brevi.
Tu saresti ora in alto
Sopra il stellato smalto,
E di là ne la fossa
Vedresti le tue ossa
E candide e odorose
Come i gigli e le rose:

E nel dì poi de l'angelica tromba,

Volentier verria l'alma a la tua tomba.

Canzon, vanne là dentro

In quell' orrido centro;

Fuggi poi presto, e dille, che non spera

Pietà, chi aspetta di pentirsi a sera.

RISE from the loathsome and devouring tomb,

Give up thy body, woman without heart,

Now that its worldly part

Is over; and deaf, blind, and dumb,

Thou servest worms for food:

And from thine altitude

Fierce death has shaken thee down, and thou dost fit

Thy bed within a pit.

Night, endless night hath got thee

To clutch and to englut thee;

And rottenness confounds

Thy limbs and their sleek rounds;

And thou art stuck there, stuck there, in despite,

Like a foul animal in a trap at night.

Come in the public path, and see how all

Shall fly thee, as a child goes shrieking back

From something long and black,

That mocks along the wall.

See if the kind will stay

To hear what thou wouldst say;

See if thine arms can win

One soul to think of sin;

See if the tribe of wooers
Will now become pursuers;
And if where they make way,

Thou'lt carry now the day;

Or whether thou wilt spread not such foul night,

That thou thyself shalt feel the shudder and the fright.

Yes, till thou turn into the loathly hole,

As the least pain to thy bold-facedness.

There let thy foul distress

Turn round upon thy soul,