Her zeal to see her cousin's face,
The glory of her ancient race,
But looking nearer found my lord
Was fast asleep again, and snored.
Ne'er press upon a rich relation

Raised to the ranks of higher station;
Or, if will disturb your coz,

you

Be happy that he does but doze.

Here, then, are Abate Ravasi's verses,

PARTENZA.

Ah! non resiste il cuore

A vedermi lasciar,
Io sento a palpitar

Ei manca, ei muore.

E in mezzo a tal dolore

Co' tronchi accenti,

Co' flebili lamenti,

Altro non sa dir l' animo mio,

which he called his

Ch' addio, gran donna! eccelsa, donna, addio!

RÓNDO.

Ne' viaggi tuoi rammentati

D'un fido servidor ;
Nell' Inghilterra ancor,
Non ti scordar di me.
Ch' io, dovunque vado,
Sempre verràmmi in mente,
Che donna si eccellente

Non trovasi di te.

Conservami l' amico

L'amato tuo consorte,
Dilli che anche la morte

Potrà violar mia fè.

VERSES ON BUFFON.

WHILE we were daily receiving some tender adieux from our Milanese friends, the famous Buffon died, and changed the conversation. He was blind a few days before his death, and occasioned this epigram:

"Ah! s'il est vrai que Buffon perd les yeux,

Que le jour se refuse au foyer des lumières:
La nature à la fin punit les curieux,
Qui pénétroient tous ses mystères."

The Abate Bossi translated it thus:

"Ah! s'è ver che Buffon cieco diventa,
Se alle pupille sue il dì s' asconde;
Natura alla fin gelosa confonde
Chi entro gl' arcani suoi penetrar tenta.”

Buffon's bright eyes at length grow dim,

Dame Nature now no more will yield;
Or longer lend her light to him

Who all her mysteries revealed.

This last of course was done by your own little friend, who was careful to preserve a power over her own language, although beginning almost to think in Italian, by such constant use.

FLORENCE MISCELLANY.

Dedication (writer not specified).

WHAT a whimsical task, my dear friends, you impose
To contribute a fine Dedication in prose!

Our Piozzi, methinks, is much fitter for this,
For she writes the Preface, and can't write amiss.
But my thoughts neither beautiful are nor sublime,
So I wrap them in metre, and tag them with rhime,
Like theatrical dresses, if tinselled enough,
The tinsel one stares at, nor thinks of the stuff,

We mean not our book for the public inspection,
Then why should we court e'en a Monarch's protection?
For too oft the good Prince such a critic of lays is,
He scarcely knows how to peruse his own praises.
Ourselves and our friends we for Patrons will chuse,
No others will read us, and these will excuse.

Preface, by Mrs. Piozzi.*

PREFACES to Books, like Prologues to Plays, will seldom be found to invite readers, and still less often to convey importance. Excuses for mean Performances add only the baseness of submission to poverty of sentiment, and take from insipidity the praise of being inoffensive. We do not however by this little address mean to deprecate public Criticism, or solicit Regard; why we wrote the verses may be easily explain'd, we wrote them to divert ourselves, and to say kind things of each other; we collected them that our reciprocal expressions of kindness might not be lost, and we printed them because we had no reason to be ashamed of our mutual partiality.

Portrait Painting, though unadorn'd by allegorical allusions and unsupported by recollection of events or places, will be esteem'd for ever as one of the most durable methods to keep Ten

*See ante, p. 90.

derness alive and preserve Friendship from decay; nor do I observe that the room here where Artists of many Ages have contributed their own likenesses to the Royal Gallery is less frequented than that which contains the statue of a slave and the picture of a Sybil. Our little Book can scarcely be less important to Readers of a distant Age or Nation than we ourselves are ready to acknowledge it; the waters of a mineral spring which sparkle in the glass, and exhilarate the spirits of those who drink them on the spot, grow vapid and tasteless by carriage and keeping; and though we have perhaps transgress'd the Persian Rule of sitting silent till we could find something important or instructive to say, we shall at least be allow'd to have glisten'd innocently in Italian sunshine, and to have imbibed from its rays the warmth of mutual Benevolence, though we have miss'd the hardness and polish that some coarser Metal might have obtain❜d by heat of equal force. I will not however lengthen out my Preface; if the Book is but a feather, tying a stone to it can be no good policy, though it were a precious one; the lighter body would not make the heavy one swim, but the heavy body would inevitably make the light one sink.

SOCIAL VERSES.

ON Tuesday evening, the 26th December, 1815 (writes Mr. Fellowes), we met at the Vineyards, our conversation led to the House of Commons, and my father expressed a wish that I had been a member, adding that he believed I should have followed that line with more pleasure than physic. Mrs. Piozzi assented to this, in her usual good-humored complimentary manner. I made an observation about illusion, &c., and something was said about Spain, and the beauties of the language, and I read the following Spanish verses to her, which pleased from their simplicity and neatness:

"La otra noche soñaba,

Que feliz sueño,

A decirte lo iva,

Pero no quieso.

Permita el Amor,

Que algun dia tu sueñes,

Lo que soné yo."

On the following morning I received from Mrs. Piozzi these

lines

:

"The amorous Spaniard's glowing dream,

Joined with our doctor's soberer scheme,

Caused in my brain confusion;

Yet when before my closing eyes,
I saw Saint Stephen's chapel rise,
Say, was that all illusion?

"O, if the stream of eloquence,
I saw you gracefully dispense,
Was fancied all and vain :
Daylight no more I wish to see,
But drive back dull reality,

And turn to dream again.

"Mr. Linton takes this imitation of the verses you showed me

last night.

H. L. P.”