MINOR PIECES. ALFIERI'S BENEDICTION. SIA pace ai frati E pace ai preti, Non tolga lume: Il maggior prete Leggi, e non re: PEACE be to the friars, Peace, priests, to you also, Our cardinals bright Let 'em leave us our light: The chief of the set Let him take to his net: Then laws, and no king; And let Italy sing. AN ULTRA LICENSE. FROM ALFIERI. APPROVAZIONE Di Fra Tozzone Ai piedi pone Di un principone Con dedicone. SI STAMPI PUR, SI STAMPI : QUI NON C'E NULLA, NE RAGION, NE LAMPI. THE approbation Of Father Stuffation For the imprimation Of a pamphliteration Which a light of the nation With all humiliation Sends a man in great station With a dedication. PRINT IT BY ALL MEANS, PRINT IT: THERE'S NOTHING RATIONAL, NOT E'EN A HINT, IN'T. FROM THE FRENCH. ÆGLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes; She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes. SONG, WRITTEN FOR AN INDIAN AIR. I ARISE from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, Hath led me, Who knows how? The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream, The Champak odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream. It dies upon her heart ; As I must on thine, Beloved as thou art! Oh, lift me from the grass! On my lips and eye-lids pale. My heart beats loud and fast ;— MARTIAL.-LIB. 1. EPIG. 1. Hic est, quem legis, ille, quem requiris, HE unto whom thou art so partial, Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving; NEW DUET. TO THE TUNE OF WHY HOW NOW, SAUCY JADE?" WHY how now, saucy Tom, If you thus must ramble, I will publish some 'Remarks on Mister Campbell. ANSWER: Why how now, Parson Bowles, Sure the priest is maudlin! [To the Public] How can you, d-n your souls! Listen to his twaddling? PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF, BY ALFIERI. SUBLIME specchio di veraci detti, Mostrami in corpo e in anima qual sono. Or duro, acerbo; ora piaghevol, mite; Or stimandomi Achille, ed or Tersite. Uom, se' tu grande, o vil ?-Muori, e il saprai. THOU lofty mirror, Truth, let me be shewn Fair skin, blue eyes, good look, nose well design'd; And pale in face, more than a king on throne. Now harsh and crabbed, mild and pleasant soon; My head and heart and I never in tune; Of spirits, I feel now hero, now buffoon ; Man, art thou great or vile?-Die, and thou'lt know. |