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I FIORELLI ITALIANI.-NO III.

SONNETS BY FRANCIS PETRARCH.

ON THE DEATH OF LAURA.

I.

Gone, oh! for ever gone, are those bright years
When I have blest the fires within me burning;
And she, my theme of song, my cause of tears,
Is gone and left me agony and mourning.
Gone is that face of holy loveliness;

But oh! those eyes upon my heart still shine,
The heart once mine, which fled the wilderness

Of my lone breast to seek its first loved shrine,
She bore it to the grave's chill gloom and to the skies
Where now she dwells, her angel forehead crown'd
With laurels bright, her taintless virtue's prize.

Thus from my mortal shroud myself unwound,

Scarce held by one frail coil, my spirit sighs

To join them 'mongst the blest where grief no more is found.

II.

Spirit beatified! that, from thy glory bending

O'er thy lone lover, cheer'st his dark drear nights

Of sighs and ceaseless tears, with those pure lights

Which Death could quench not-but strange lustre lending,

Made bright past mortal orbs. How fervently

He blesses thee that thou hast deigned to brighten

His sunless days, and teach his soul to see,

In fancy fond, these haunts thy beauties lighten,
These shades, where I have winged the lagging years
With song of thee, now echo to my sighs,
Mourning o'er thee-yet no, my selfish tears
Mourn not the blest, but my own miseries.

I know no rest save when my cheated brain
Gives me thy gate and voice and face and garb again.

III.

I mourn with bootless sighs the perished days
That I have spent in thrall of mortal love,
Nor sought to waft my earthward soul above
On her strong wings to win unfading bays.
Thou who see'st all my faults and wanderings,
Eternal King of heaven! in mercy deign
A mazed, frail, feeble spirit to sustain,
And let thy boundless grace blot out my sins.
So, if I've lived in strife and tempest shattered,

Harboured in peace, oh, may my soul repose,
And though my life were vain, still let its close
Be decent, and till its few sands are scattered,

Vouchsafe to stretch thy saving hand to me,

For well thou know'st, oh, God! I have no hope save thee.

IOTA.

this unity, but the strong contrasts of life and death, of remorse and hope, of calm and trouble, which suggest each other in the poet's mind, give it a charm that compensates for the desertion of the stricter rules of this species of composition.

GALLERY OF ILLUSTRIOUS IRISHMEN.

WE have long meditated a series of papers such as that of which we now present the first to our readers—a series devoted to a national object, and which can hardly fail to possess a national interest-a series in which we would endeavour to bring successively before our readers the characters of those illustrious among our countrymen, who have made the name of Ireland respected among the nations. We have commenced these papers with the honoured name of Goldsmith. But we cannot permit our readers to enter on the perusal of the series without detaining them by a few words of introductory preface, at least sufficient to enable them to comprehend the nature of our plan.

It has been said, perhaps with almost as much truth as bitterness, that Ireland has no history. We look back in vain along her annals to discover anything of which a nation might be proud.-They present a dreary and a desolate blank, only stained by the stories of petty oppression, and of miserable dissension. From the earliest period our country seems, as it were, destined to be the prey of faction, and her sons at once the guilty partizans and the wretched victims of lawless and embittered feuds. Wearied and sickened by the humiliating prospect of "Ireland as she is," the eye of patriotism turns back with the fondness that the patriot can only feel to "Ireland as she was," and longs to console its sorrow for her present degradation, by contemplating the glories that are gone. But, alas! it can discover nothing that the fondest partiality can dignify with the name of history. Nothing but the same miserable tale of fanatical and misguided insurrections then their perhaps too cruel suppression, and then again the terrible retaliation of those who were, or fancied themselves, wronged. The page of her annals is stained, it is true, with blood-blood more than might have sufficed for a hundred Marathons and Thermopylæs; but it has been shed, not in the glorious battle-field, but by the cruel hand of midnight murder--and where it stains it blots with crime. In these recollections the lover of his country can find but little to reflect on with delight-in vain he looks to the records of the past—until, unwilling to believe that his cherished national pride is but a dream, he finds a refuge in the dim traditions of an antediluvian glory, or indulges in equally fond, God grant they may not be equally visionary, speculations of "Ireland as she will be."

We have not darkened the picture of the past; it requires no gloomy colouring from us. One would think that in that picture there was but little to minister to national pride; and yet, of all nations, the Irish possess the most; and withal they have much to be proud of. Acutely as we feel, and deeply as we mourn the degradation of Ireland, we, too, have our national pride; and we would not exchange the glorious distinction of our birth to be the favoured sons of the richest empire in the world. We are proud of our countrymen. Superstition may keep them in ignorance-ignorance may lead them into crime-want may aggravate the recklessness of their temper, until many of them are bound in the bonds of lawless conspiracy; but still there is, amid all this, a nobleness of impulse, a generosity of character, that tells you that guilt is not natural to an Irishman. And even when we retrace the past, let us forget the nation, and think of individuals. How many sons have been born to Ireland of whom she may be proud? This, her worst enemies never have denied to her. Branded as she is with the stigma of crime, and charitably consigned by some to the tender mercies of an imagined evil destiny that dooms her to perpetual misery, no calumny has ever yet refused her the title of THE LAND OF GENIUS. Proudly have her children vindicated her claim; in almost all the departments of intellectual exertion they have asserted their superiority; as orators, as statesmen, as poets, Irishmen have borne the first honours of the British arena; and this is to be the conquerors of the world. A foolish and conceited attempt was made to sneer at Irish oratory, as if it was forgotten that Burke, and Grattan, and Sheridan, were Irishmen; but yet of her orators it may be said, that "their voice is gone out through all lands." Need we speak of her poets when we are

about to write the name of Goldsmith? But we must stop. What Briton forgets Waterloo, and who that thinks on Waterloo forgets that to the gigantic mind of an Irishman Britain owes her existence as a nation? Well may we be proud of our country. Her adversity has made Ireland rest her glory on the reputation of her sons; but nobly have they sustained, or, we should say, created her fame. If she has no history; in their success you read her triumphs. And when we look on the long list of names that fame has blazoned in letters of immortal light, we feel that Ireland bears a prouder scutcheon than if she could engrave on it the emblems of a thousand battle fields. And this, we repeat, is a glory that never has been denied to her. Ireland has been oppressed-has been insulted-has been neglected-has been pitied

"That base word with which men

"Cloke their soul's hoarded triumph-"

but, amid all the indignities that have been heaped on her, no one has been found hardy enough to dispute her title of the " LAND OF GENIUS."

We have said that Ireland's adversity makes her glory to rest upon the reputation of her sons. As Irishmen, we have no ancient monarchy to look back to with reverence-we have no monuments of national greatness-no trophies of national success. If it were not for the genius of her children, Ireland would be undistinguished and unknown. Individuals have borne our country's fame. But we ought therefore to cherish with the more intense devotion the memories of those whose individual exertions have thus accomplished a task which might seem to belong to the combined energies of a community---who have given to their country a distinction and a name. It is with this feeling that we enter on the task we have proposed to ourselves. To Ireland we consecrate this portion of our work. There are those who stigmatize our politics as antinational, and would fain have it believed that we do not care for our country. Our politics may be wrong-no human judgment is infallible; but God is our witness that we have no desire but to see Ireland as she ought to be. Bitterly do we mourn over the miseries and follies of her people, and ardently do we long for the time when that people shall be peaceable and happy--when there shall be "no violence in our borders, and no complaining in our streets." We have our own views as to the means most likely to realize the speculations of good for Ireland, which, we are willing to believe men of all parties fondly cherish. We are not now about to enter on controverted topics. But when we thus professed ourselves jealous for the honour of Ireland, and when we thus ventured to lay upon the altar of our country the humble offering of our labours in her cause, we could not but say this much in anticipation of the objections of those who claim a monopoly of patriotism, and would fain have it believed that no one loves Ireland but themselves.

We do not know what may be thought of the title we have given to these papers to ourselves there seems something appropriate in the name. A gallery is appropriated to the pictures or statues of the dead. Have you ever stood at the end of the magnificent library belonging to our Irish University? Have you ever looked up the long vista of its centre, and marked how in the peacefulness of its repose-resting, as it were, in the quiet temple of learning-the busts that are placed upon either side appear, as it were, living, still capable of motion and voice, and only chastened into stillness and silence by the solemnity of the scene? Have you then felt as if you were standing in the presence of the mighty dead-as if the spirits of the sages of other days really tenanted the cold marble in which the sculptor has traced their forms? There was nothing terrible, but there was something solemn and elevating in the thought. Just into such a gallery as this we would take you to muse with us; we will shew you the statues of those whose names you have long revered familiar as household words" each statue placed in its proper niche, and we will gaze together on the forms and features of the image until, in the solemnity of our meditations, you believe that you behold again the mighty men of other days; and, elevated above the dull realities of life or death, forget that those with whom you deem

yourself communing are long since mouldering in the dust, unto which all men, even the children of genius, must return.

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We will endeavour to continue our series with as little interruption as possible. We should suppose that the fable of a perfect editorial unity is discarded, and that few persons are so simple as to imagine that a whole magazine is written by the same mysterious personage known to its readers by the formidable name of WE. Perhaps, then, it will not be revealing any state secrets to confess that arrangements have been made by which different persons will supply the different papers of this series. We (this mysterious monosyllable is now employed to designate Anthony Poplar in propriâ personâ) will endeavour that each character shall be assigned to the individual best qualified by taste and pursuits to do justice to its peculiar merits. Thus you will perceive that Goldsmith has been in the hands of a poet. We have a metaphysician for Berkeley; and so of the rest. The series will thus scarcely lose anything in unity of purpose--it will gain incalculably both in variety and in efficiency of execution.

If we mistake not, the biography of "Illustrious Irishmen" presents a field in which much may be found to interest, perhaps not a little to instruct. History has been said to be philosophy teaching by examples---the same may be said, with truth, of biography. History and biography are two schools; philosophy is the teacher; in both the mode of instruction is the same. But in history the subject of her lessons are the concerns of states and empires; in biography, those of individual men. It may not be easy to decide in which her instructions are abstractedly more attractive until we can determine whether there is more to engage us in the contemplation of mankind or of man; of human nature, as it shews itself in the aggregate of communities, or as it is exhibited in the mysterious workings of each single heart. Perhaps each study has its peculiar points of attraction. In the one we are occupied with grander events, and more important interests; in the other we are brought in contact with reflections that possess a nearer interest for ourselves. If history more elevates our conceptions, biography more excites our feelings; in the one, philosophy appears occupied with thoughts and concerns whose very grandeur makes them distant from ourselves; in the other she descends to our own level, and, without divesting herself of her dignity, becomes our guide and companion in the affairs of everyday life. Most men will find more practical, and therefore more important instruction in observing the indiscretions that caused the ruin of an individual, than in investigating the causes that produced the downfall of an empire. The instructions of history are for statesmen; the lessons of biography are for all. By the one we are taught to study mankind in the gross; in the other we learn to know them in detail.

There are few feelings of our nature that may not be called into action as we muse in the Gallery of Illustrious Irishmen. Our national pride may be cherished by the recollection that all these worthies are our countrymen; and if our vanity be humbled our patriotism may be quickened, by the thought that all this genius has done so little for the country that gave it birth. As we dwell upon the dark destiny of some, we might be almost tempted to believe that they shared that of their country, and exclaim with Grattan, "The curse of Swift was upon them-they were Irishmen!" But as we turn to the brighter history of others, we will learn that "the sin of their nativity" was not an unpardonable one, and that although it may be difficult, it is possible for an Irishman to attain the rewards of industry and talent. There was some truth in the indignant exclamation of our great orator, but its spirit has been too generally adopted with but little grounds, and even for these little we are answerable ourselves. The truth is and after all it is not a flattering one-that while no nation is so fond of complaining that native genius is not rewarded, there is none that is disposed to give it so little encouragement. There is something admirably suited to the excitable temperament of the Irish in the feeling complaint as to the depression of native talent; but unfortunately there is something equally unpalatable to that temperament in the steady exertion to encourage it. We talk nationality far more than we act it. It has been said, but perhaps with too

much bitterness, that like Tony Lumkin's correspondence, the nationality of the Irish is all "buzz." Patriotism will do for a sentiment in ballad, a toast after dinner, or an apostrophe in a speech-for anything but action. An allusion to the "emerald island" at a public meeting will draw thunders of applause. The mention of "loved Erin" in the last new song is sufficient to ensure it admirers in every drawing-room where it finds its way; but in this cheap tribute to sentiment, our nationality too often effervesces. Had we half the nationality of Scotchmen, our country would not be as she is. The Irishman will praise his country, but the Scotchman will labour that she may deserve the praise of the world. We are speaking plain truths. We never can know the little value of our mercurial nationality until we contrast it with the steady patriotism of the Scotch. The one finds its expression in the pathetic poetry of pining sentiment, or in the noisy ebullition of convivial mirth; the other is exhibited in persevering, sober, and business-like exertion. The Scotchman cultivates his thistle. in his garden; the Irishman wears his shamrock till it withers on his bosom, or he drowns it in his bowl.

As we proceed through our gallery, we will stop successively at the niche assigned to some one of whom Ireland now is proud. It will be a melancholy reflection to enumerate how many of them she neglected while they were alive. But this, perhaps, is but the common fate of genius; and Ireland is not the only country that has refused the living man bread-and yet, in the fulness of repentant generosity, has been proud to bestow upon his cold remains the monumental stone. This is no strange event in the history of genius-a history that must ever be interesting, deeply interesting; it is the history of human nature moved by its strongest impulses. We have brought our reader into our gallery with a mind solemnized by the thought that it was a temple dedicated to his country's fame; but, once within its precincts, let him, if he will, forget that its illustrious tenants were his countrymen-let him but regard them as the mighty men of other days, and have no thought of the land of their and his nativity; and, though much of the enchantment will be gone, he could not yet be an indifferent spectator. And it may be well, perhaps, if we turn a moment from the thoughts-thoughts of pride, not unmingled with sadness, that are suggested by the remembrance that they were Irishmen, and speak of them as if we could claim no nearer relationship than what belongs to us in the great family of man.

To study the history of intellectual preeminence is to contemplate the noblest triumphs of man; it is to view human nature rising by its own resources above itself, and we cannot help feeling ourselves ennobled in the contemplation. In whatever situation, or under whatever circumstances, genius is found, it possesses a mysterious power to invest with interest every thing that concerns it; it bears with it a splendour that lends its lustre to the homeliest object that is near. Of it, however, it may with truth be said that it is consecrated by death. Envy may mar the triumphs and disturb the peace of living genius, but it seldom happens that the world refuses its devotions at its tomb. To ourselves and to our readers, too, it will be a relief to turn from all the distracting and agitating turmoil that disturbs the scenes in which we move, and think on those who are gone, with whom all the bitterness of party spirit slumbers in the grave, and of whom our estimate will not be warped or dimmed by the intrusive considerations of present quarrels or of present interests. We know that our words imply a pledge, but it is a pledge which we shall endeavour conscientiously to redeem. In dealing with the characters of illustrious Irishmen, many of whom have mixed in the most exciting scenes of politics-of politics, unhappily continuing to our times-it will not be possible, it will not be expected that we should altogether abstain from the expression of our own political sentiments; this would be to descend from the noble occupation of biography to the compilation of a register-but it is to be expected, and we trust the expectation will not be disappointed, that we will not permit our political feelings to bias our judgments or interfere with the rendering of justice; this would be to invert the process, which is the use of history; it would be to decide on the events of the past by the prejudices and passions of the present. From this dishonouring

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