Trained to the sport and eager for the game,
Wide ranging in his front; but soon were

seen,

Though by so short a course, with spirits tame,

The father and his whelps to flag at once,

And then the sharp fangs gored their bosoms deep.

Ere morn I roused myself, and heard my sons,

For they were with me, moaning in their sleep, And begging bread. Ah for those darling ones! Right cruel art thou, if thou dost not weep

In thinking of my soul's sad augury;

And if thou weepest not now, weep never more! They were already waked, as wont drew nigh

The allotted hour for food, and in that hour Each drew a presage from his dream. When I Heard locked beneath me of that horrible tower

The outlet; then into their eyes alone
I looked to read myself, without a sign
Or word. I wept not turned within to stone.

They wept aloud, and little Anselm mine, Said, 'twas my youngest, dearest little one, "What ails thee, father! why look so at thine?"

In all that day, and all the following night,
I wept not, nor replied; but when to shine.
Upon the world, not us, came forth the light

Of the new sun, and thwart my prison thrown Gleamed through its narrow chink, a doleful sight, Three faces, each the reflex of my own,

Were imaged by its faint and ghastly ray;
Then I, of either hand unto the bone,
Gnawed, in my agony; and thinking they

'Twas done from hunger pangs, in their excess,
All of a sudden raise themselves, and say,
"Father! our woes, so great, were yet the less

Would but eat of us, you

'twas you who clad Our bodies in these weeds of wretchedness,

Despoil them." Not to make their hearts more sad,

I hushed myself. That day is at its close,
Another still we were all mute. Oh, had
The obdurate earth opened to end our woes!

The fourth day dawned, and when the new sun shone,
Outstretched himself before me as it rose
My Gaddo, saying, "Help, father! hast thou none

For thine own child—is there no help from thee?” He died there at feet my and one by one,

I saw them fall, plainly as you see me.

Between the fifth and sixth day, ere 'twas dawn, I found myself blind-groping o'er the three. Three days I called them after they were gone.

Famine of grief can get the mastery.

48 yet, Rossetti || not, Medwin, 1847.

SONNET

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF CAVALCANTI

GUIDO CAVALCANTI to DANTE ALIGHIERI

RETURNING from its daily quest, my Spirit
Changed thoughts and vile in thee doth weep to find.
It grieves me that thy mild and gentle mind
Those ample virtues which it did inherit

Has lost.

Once thou didst loathe the multitude Of blind and madding men; I then loved thee I loved thy lofty songs and that sweet mood When thou wert faithful to thyself and me. I dare not now through thy degraded state Own the delight thy strains inspire—in vain I seek what once thou wert

we cannot meet

As we were wont. Again, and yet again,
Ponder my words: so the false Spirit shall fly
And leave to thee thy true integrity.

SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF CALDERON

SCENE I. Enter CYPRIAN, dressed as a Student; CLARIN and MOSCON as poor Scholars, with books.

CYPRIAN

In the sweet solitude of this calm place,

This intricate wild wilderness of trees

Sonnet. Translated from the Italian of Cavalcanti.

by Forman, 1876, and dated by him 1815.

Published

Scenes from the Magico Prodigioso. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824, dated March, 1822. The text follows Mrs. Shelley, 1824, except as noted.

And flowers and undergrowth of odorous plants,
Leave me; the books you brought out of the house
To me are ever best society.

And while with glorious festival and song,
Antioch now celebrates the consecration
Of a proud temple to great Jupiter,
And bears his image in loud jubilee

To its new shrine, I would consume what still
Lives of the dying day in studious thought,
Far from the throng and turmoil. You, my friends,
Go, and enjoy the festival; it will

Be worth your pains. You may return for me
When the sun seeks its grave among the billows,
Which among dim gray clouds on the horizon,
Dance like white plumes upon a hearse; and here
I shall expect you.

MOSCON

I cannot bring my mind,

Great as my haste to see the festival

Certainly is, to leave you, Sir, without

Just saying some three or four thousand words.

How is it possible that on a day

Of such festivity you can be content

To come forth to a solitary country

With three or four old books, and turn your back On all this mirth?

14 Mrs. Shelley, transcript || Be worth the labor, and return for me, Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

16, 17:

Hid among dim gray clouds on the horizon
Which dance like plumes -

Mrs. Shelley, transcript.

21 thousand, Mrs. Shelley, transcript, Forman || hundred, Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

23 be content, Mrs. Shelley, transcript || bring your mind, Mrs. Shelley, 1824,

CLARIN

My master's in the right;

There is not anything more tiresome

Than a procession day, with troops, and priests,
And dances, and all that.

MOSCON

From first to last,

Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer;

You praise not what you feel but what he does.

For this is the most civil sort of lie

That can be given to a man's face. I now

Say what I think.

CYPRIAN

Enough, you foolish fellows!

Puffed up with your own doting ignorance,

You always take the two sides of one question. and as I said, return for me

Now go;

When night falls, veiling in its shadows wide
This glorious fabric of the universe.

MOSCON

How happens it, although you can maintain
The folly of enjoying festivals,

That yet you go there?

28 and priests, Mrs. Shelley, transcript of men, Mrs. Shelley,

1824.

36 doting ignorance || ignorance and pride, Mrs. Shelley, transcript.