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seventh ; then an righth ; thes a ninth, all with decent inferrals, the coach in the mean time rocking as if it were giving birth to 80°m999 dæmons. The coachman can conclade no less. Ile cries out, Devil! the Devil!" and is preparing to run away, when they all hurst into laughter at the success of their joke. They had gone

round 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 imprese sion upon us, that we

e recollect the very spot, which was at the corner of road in the way from Westminster to Kennington, near a stone'mason'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 hackney. coachmen, uot, as Spenser says of his witch,

Bury, 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 fiue rity 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 settied hours and pay. 'Ile only is at the moscy of every call and every casualty; he only is dragged, without notice, like the damned in Milton, into the extremities of wet and coli, from his alehouse fire to the freezing rain ; he only must go any slerl, at what hour, and to whatever place you chuse, his old rhesmaiic litehs shaking under his weight of sags, and the suot and sleet rating into his puckered face, through streets which the wind scours like a channel.

ARIOSTO'S PRISON.

With all Ariosío's popularity, this is the first time, we believe, iliat one of liis sonnets has appeared in English. Indeed, as for that matter, his great poem itself may be said to be very little known througi the medium of the versions hitherto extant; and he must hare an indestructible charm in him indeed, who with such representations of him, can at all vindicate among us the popularity of his wame abroad, • That he deserres that name is certain. Those who read him in the original (and Italian is far from dificult to any body, especially if

he reads Latin or Fronch) know what an endless variety be bas 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 exceptiog Petrarch, were accus-
tomed 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 remark-
ably apprehensive and enjoying.

Avventuroso carcere soare,
Dove ne per furor nè per dispetto,
Ma per amor e per pieià distretto
La bella e dolce mia nemica m'ave!
Gli alıri prigion al volger de la chiave
S'attristano ; io m'allegro, che diletto
E non mariir, vita e non morte aspetió,
Nè giudice seser nè legge grave:
Ma benigne accoglienze, ma complessi
Licenziosi, ma parole sciolte
Da ogni freno, ma risi, vezzi, giochi,
Ma dolci baci dolcemente impressi
Ben mille e mille, e mille e inille voltes
E se potran contarsi, anco fieu pochi.

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O lucky prison, blithe captivity,
Where neither out of rage nor out of spire,
But bound by love and charity's sweet might,
She has me fast,“my lovely enemy;
Others, at surning 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 3 bul kisses,
Delicious kisses put deliciously,
A thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand times;
And yet how few will all those ihousands be!

Printed and published by JOSEPH APPLEYARD, No. 19, Catherine-street, Strand.

Price 2d. And sold also by A. Glippon, Importer of Snuffs, No. 31, Tavistocka street, Covent-garden. Orders received at the above places, and by all Books sellers and Newsmen.

THE INDICATOR.

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

SPRNBER,

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 quo letto una
Notre, continua votte
Ti divora ed inghiotiė,
Ela puzza ti smembra
Le si pastose membra,
E ti siai fitta fitta per dispetto,
Come animal immondo al laccio stretto.

te se fosse.

Vedrai se ognun di te mettrà paura,
E fuggirà come garzon la séra
Da l'ombra lunga e nera, i
Che striscia per le mura s
Vedrai se al tuo invitará
Alcun vorrà cascare;
Vedrai se seguiranti
Le curbe de gli amanti;
E se il di porterai
Per dove passerais
O por se spargerai tenebre e lezzo,
Talche a le 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 sfrenala :
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 di 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?
rii (19 Ahi che son due caverne,

Dove orror gol si scerne.
Dove il labbro si bello
Che parea di pennello?
Dove la grancia tonda ?
Dove la chioma bionda ?

E dove simmetria di portamento?
ci ili Tutto e smarrito, come nebbia al vento.

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

E non parrai più quella,
wont om i Enon avrai più amante.

Or. ecco vedi il frutto
D'ogni tuo antico fasto.
Cos'è, che non sia guanto
Di quel tuo corpo molle?, sú
Cos'è, dove non bolle,
E verme, e putridume,
E puzza, e suicidume?
Dimmi, cos' è, cos' è, clie possa piùe
Far a' tuoi proci le figure sue?
Dovevi altra mercè chieder che amore,
Chieder dovevi al cielo pėntimento.
Amor cos'è? un tormento,
Amor cos' è? un dolore.
E tu, gonfia e superba,
Chieri sol fiore ed erba
Che languon nati uppera,
E te credevi piena
Di balsamo immortale;
Credevi d' aver l'ale
Da volar su le nubi;
E non eri che Aunbi
Adorato in Egitto oggi e domane
In la seinbianza di Molosso cane.
Poco giovò ch' io ti dicessi: vanne,
Vanne pentita a piè del confessores
Digli: frate, io moro
Ne le rabbiose sanne
De l'infernal dragone,
Se tua pietà non pote

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Argine al mio fallire.
lo vorrei ben uscire;
Ma si mi tiene il laccio,
Che per tirar ch'io faccio
Romper nol posso punto;
Si che oramai consunto
Ho lo spirito e l' alına, e tu puoi solo
Togliermi per pietà fuori di duolo.
Allor sì che 'I 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 rottengess 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 ihou wilt spread not such foul night, That thou thyself shalt feel tke shudder and the fright. Yes, till tliou turn into the loathly hole, As the least pain to thy bold-facedness. There let thy foul distress Turn sound upon thy soul,

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