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 s sky.

I say to Fame; 0 thou, whose sons defy The waste of years, and deathless works essay !—

She heaves a sigh as one to grief a prey, And sobbing downward casts her tearful eye.

I now proceeded, sad and thoughtful grown, When stern in aspect, o'er the ruin'd shrine

I see Oblivion stalk from stone to stone,

Ah thou, I cried, hast known ! say, what design—

He check'd my further speech with sullen tone,

' I care not whose it was, it now is mine.'

From The Italian Of Petrocchi.

Have ye a sense, ye gales, a conscious joy

In beauty, that with such an artful touch

And light, ye float about her garment folds,

Displaying what is exquisite display'd,

And thinly scattering the light veil where'er

Its shadowing may enhance the grace, and swell

With sweet officiousness the clustering hair,

Where fairest tufts its richness, and let fall

Where drooping most becomes; that thus ye love

To lose yourselves about her and expire

Upon her shape or snow-white robes ? She stood,

Her ivory arm in a soft curve stretch'd out

As only in the obedience of her steeds

Rejoicing; they, their necks arch'd proud and high