"There oft exhaused, and replenish'd oft,
"Oh! let me still supply th' eternal draught;
"Till care within the deep abyss be drown'd,
"And thought grows giddy at the vast profound."
More had the goblet spoke, but lo! appears
An ancient Sybil furrow'd o'er with years;
Her aspect sour, and stern ungracious look
With sudden damp the conscious vessel struck ;
Chill'd at her touch its mouth it slowly clos'd,
And in long silence all its griefs repos'd:
Yet still low murmurs creep along the ground,'
And the air vibrates with the silver sound.

TRANSLATION from DANTE, Canto XXXIII.

By the EARL of CARLI S L E.

DANTE, being conducted by VIRGIL into the infernal regions, sees a person devouring a human skull, and, struck by so horrid a sight, inquires into his history, and receives this account.

OW from the fell repast, and horrid food,

NOW

The Sinner rose, but first (the clotted blood
With hair depending from the mangled head)
His jaws he wiped, and thus he wildly said:

Ah! wilt thou then recall this scene of woe,
And teach again my scalding tears to flow?
Thou know'st not how tremendous is the tale,
My brain will madden, and my utterance fail.
But could my words bring horror and despair
To him whose bloody skull you see me tear,

Then should the voice of sweet revenge ne'er sleep,

For ever would I talk, and talking weep.
Mark'd for destruction, I in luckless hour.
Drew my first breath on the Etruscan shore,
And Ugolino was the name I bore.

Count Ugolino, a nobleman of Pisa, entered into a conspiracy with the Archishop Rugieri, of the Ubaldini family, to depose the Governor of Pisa ; in which enterprize having succeeded, Ugolino assumed the government of the city; but the Archbishop,jealous of his power, incited the people against him; and gaining the assistance of the three powerful families of the Gulandi, Lanfranchi, and Sismondi, marched with the enraged multitude to attack the house of the unfortunate Ugolino, and making him their prisoner, confined him in a tower, with his four sons: at length, refusing them food, and casting the key of the dungeon into the river Arno, he left them in this horrible situation to be starved to death.

This skull contain'd an haughty Prelate's brain,
Cruel Rugeiro's; why he's blood I drain,
Why to my rage his yielded here below,
Stranger, 'twill cost thee many a tear to know.
Thou know'st perhaps how trusting to this slave
I and my children found an early grave.
This thou may'st know; the Dead alone can tell
The Dead, the tenants of avenging hell,
How hard our fate, by what inhuman arts we fell.
Through the small opening of the prison's height
One Moon had almost spent its waining light.
It was then sleep had charm'd my cares to rest,
And wearied grief lay dozing in my breast:
Futurity's dark veil was drawn aside,

I in my dream the troubled prospect eyed.
On those high hills, it seem'd, (those hills which hide
Pisa from Lucca), that, by Sisinond's side,
Guland and Landfranc, with dicordant cry,
Rouse from its den a wolf and young, who fly
Before their famish'd dogs; I saw the sire
- And little trembling young ones faint and tire,
Saw them become the eager blood-hounds prey,
Who soon with savage rage their haunches flay.
I first awoke, and view'd my slumbering boys,
Poor hapless product of my nuptial joys,
Scar'd with their dreams, toss o'er their stony bed,
And starting scream with frightful noise for bread.

Hard is thy heart, no tears those eyes can know,
If they refuse for pangs like mine to flow.
My children wake; for now the hour drew near
When we were wont our scanty food to share.
A thousand fears our trembling bosoms fill,
Each from his dream forboding some new ill.
With horrid jar we heard the prison door
Close on us all, never to open more,
My senses fail, absorb'd in dumb amaze,'
Depriv'd of motion on my boys gaze:
I
Benumb'd with fear, and harden'd into stone,
I could not weep, nor heave one easing groan.
My children moan, my youngest trembling cried,
"What ails my father?" still my tongue denied
To move; they cling to me with wild affright:
That mournful day, and the succeeding night,
We all the dreadful horrid silence kept:
Fearful to ask, with silent grief they wept.
Now in the gloomy cell a ray of light
New horrors added by dispelling night.
When looking on my boys, in frantic fit
Of maddening grief, my senseless hands I bit.

Struggling with pain, with his last fleeting breath,
Help me, my Sire," he cried, and sunk in death.
I saw the others follow one by one,

Heard their last scream, and their expiring groan.
And now arose the last concluding day;

As o'er each corse I grop'd my stumbling way,
I call'd my boys, though now they were no more,
Yet still I call'd, till sinking on the floor,

Pale Hunger did what Grief refus'd to do.
For ever clos'd this scene of pain and woe.

Extracts from the ACADEMIC SPORTSMAN; or a WINTER'S DAY: a Poem by the Rev. Gerald Fitzgerald, Fellow of Trinity-College, Dublin.

TH

Studio fallente laborem.

'HE feather'd game that haunt the hoary plains,
When ice-bound winter hangs in crystal chains,

The mimic thunder of the deep-mouth'd gun
By light'ning usher'd, and by death out-run,
The spaniel springing on the new-fall'n prey,
The friend attendant, and the spirits gay;
These are the scenes which lur'd my earliest days,
And scenes like these continue still to please.

Oft when I've seen the new-fledg'd morn arise,
And spread its pinions to the polar skies,
Th' expanded air with gelid fragrance fan,
Brace the slack nerves and animate the man;
Swift from the college, and from cares I flew,
(For studious cares solicit something new)
From tinkling bells that wake the truant's fears,
And letter'd trophies of three thousand years;
Thro' length'ning streets with sanguine hopes I glide,
The fatal tube depending at my side;

No busy vender dins with clam'rous call,
No rattling carriage drives me to the wall,

The

sweep,

The close-compacted shops, their commerce laid,
In silence frown like mansions of the dead-
Save where the sooty-shrowded wretch cries "
Or drowsy watchman stalks in broken sleep,
'Scap'd from the hot-brain'd youth of midnight fame,
Whose mirth is mischief, and whose glory shame—
Save that from yonder stew the batter'd beau,
With tott'ring steps, comes reeling to and fro-
Mark how the live-long revels of the night
Stare in his face, and stupify his sight!
Mark the loose frame, yet impotently bold,
'Twixt man and beast divided empire hold!
Amphibious wretch the prey of passion's tide,
The wreck of riot, and the mock of pride.

But we, my friend, with aims far diff'rent borne,
Seek the fair fields, and court the blushing morn ;
With sturdy sinews, brush the frozen snow,
While crimson colours on our faces glow,
Since life is short, prolong it while we can,
And vindicate the ways of health to man.

Death of a Woodcock.

HIS luckless fate, immediate to repair,

The baffled sportsman beats with forward care,
Each bush explores, that plats the hedge with pride,
Brooks at its feet, and brambles at its side-
Another bird, just flushing at the sound,

Scarce tops the fence, then tumbles to the ground.
Ah! what avails him now the varnish'd die,

The tortoise-colour'd back, the brilliant eye,
The pointed bill, that steer'd his vent'rous way
From Northern climes, and dar'd the boist'rous sea;
To milder shores in vain these pinions sped,
Their beauty blasted, and their vigour fled.
Thus the poor peasant, struggling with distress,
Whom rig'rous laws and rigid hunger press,
In western regions seeks a milder state,
Braves the broad ocean, and resigns to fate:
Scarce well arriv'd, and lab'ring to procure
Life's free subsistence, and retreats secure,
Sudden! he sees the roving INDIAN nigh,
Fate in his hand, and ruin in his eye--
Scar'd at the sight, he runs, he bounds, he flies,
"Till, arrow-pierc'd, he falls-he faints-he dies.
Unhappy man! whom no extreme could shun,
By tyrants banish'd and by chance undone;
In vain! fair virtue fan'd the free-born flame,
Now fall'n alike to fortune and to fame.

But

But why, my muse! when livelier themes I sought,
Why change the rural scenes to sober thought?
Why rouse the patriot ardour in my breast,
Useless its glow, when Freedom droops deprest?
Not mine to combat lux'ry's lordly stride,
My humble lot forbids th' aspiring pride,
Forbids to s op depopulation's band,
That crushes industry, and frights the land,
That robs the poor of half their little store,
And insurrection spreads from shore to shore.
These to prevent, be still the statesman's end,
And this the task of sovereigns to attend ;
Be mine the care to range this ample field,
Try what its springs and what its thickets yield-

Reception at a Cottage.

HESE to behold, may please the vacant mind,
More pleasing far the cottage of the hind,
That yonder smokes, by russet hawthorn hedg'd':
By hay-yard back'd, and side-long cow-house edg'd
Oft have I there my thirst and toil allay'd,
Approach'd as now, and dar'd the dog that bay'd-;
The smiling matron joys to see her guests,
Sweeps the broad hearth, and hears our free requests,
Repels her little brood that throng too nigh,
The homely board prepares, the napkin dry,
The new-made butter and the rasher rare,
The new-laid egg, that's dress'd with nicest care;
The milky store, for cream collected first,
Crowns the clean noggin, and allays our thirst;
While crackling faggots, bright'ning as they burn,
Shew the neat cupboard, and the cleanly churn;
The plaintive hen, the interloping goose,
The lambkin dear that frisks about the house-
The modest maiden rises from her wheel,
Who unperceiv'd a silent look would steal;
Call'd she attends, assists with artless grace,
The bloom of nature flushing on her face,
That scorns the die, which pallid pride can lend,
And all the arts which luxury attend.

With fuel laden from the brambly rock,
Lo! forward comes the father of his flock,
Of honest front: salutes with rustic gait,
Remarks our fair, and boasts his former state,
When many a cow, nor long the time remov'd,
And many a calf his spacious pasture rov❜d,
'Till rising rents reduc'd them now to three,
Abridg'd his farm, and fix'd him as we see ;

Yet