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On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate
To sacred studies; and the Roman Shepherd
Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous flock.
Well did I watch, much labored, nor had power
To escape from many and strange indignities;
Was smitten by the great ones of the world,
But did not fall; for Virtue braves all shocks,
Upon herself resting immovably.

Me did a kindlier fortune then invite

To serve the glorious Henry, King of France,
And in his hands I saw a high reward
Stretched out for my acceptance,

came.

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but Death

Now, Reader, learn from this my fate, how false, How treacherous to her promise, is the world;

And trust in God, - to whose eternal doom

Must bend the sceptred Potentates of earth.

IV.

THERE never breathed a man who, when his life
Was closing, might not of that life relate
Toils long and hard. — The warrior will report
Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field,
And blast of trumpets. He who hath been doomed
To bow his forehead in the courts of kings,
Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate,
Envy and heart-inquietude, derived

From intricate cabals of treacherous friends.

:

I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth,
Could represent the countenance horrible
Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage
Of Auster and Boötes. Fifty years
Over the well-steered galleys did I rule:-
From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars,
Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown;
And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft.
Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir
I knew the force; and hence the rough sea's pride
Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow.

What noble pomp and frequent have not I
On regal decks beheld! yet in the end

I learned that one poor moment can suffice
To equalize the lofty and the low.

We sail the sea of life,

And one a Tempest,

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a Calm one finds,

and, the voyage o'er,

Death is the quiet haven of us all.

If more of my condition ye would know,
Savona was my birthplace, and I

sprang

Of noble parents: seventy years and three

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TRUE is it that Ambrosio Salinero,

With an untoward fate, was long involved
In odious litigation; and full long,

Fate harder still! had he to endure assaults

Of racking malady. And true it is,
That not the less a frank, courageous heart
And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain;
And he was strong to follow in the steps
Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path
Leads to the dear Parnassian forest's shade,
That might from him be hidden; not a track
Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he
Had traced its windings. — This Savona knows,
Yet no sepulchral honors to her Son

She paid, for in our age the heart is ruled
Only by gold. And now a simple stone
Inscribed with this memorial here is raised
By his bereft, his lonely Chiabrera.

Think not, O Passenger who read'st the lines!
That an exceeding love hath dazzled me;
No, he was one whose memory ought to spread
Where'er Permessus bears an honored name,
And live as long as its pure stream shall flow.

VI.

DESTINED to war from very infancy
Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took

In Malta the white symbol of the Cross:
Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun
Hazard or toil; among the sands was seen
Of Lybia; and not seldom on the banks
Of wide Hungarian Danube, 't was my lot

To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded.
So lived I, and repined not at such fate:
This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong,
That, stripped of arms, I to my end am brought
On the soft down of my paternal home.

Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause
To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt
In thy appointed way, and bear in mind
How fleeting and how frail is human life!

VII.

O FLOWER of all that springs from gentle blood,
And all that generous nurture breeds to make
Youth amiable! O friend so true of soul
To fair Aglaia! by what envy moved,
Lelius! has death cut short thy brilliant day
In its sweet opening? and what dire mishap
Has from Savona torn her best delight?

For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to mourn;
And, should the outpourings of her eyes suffice not
For her heart's grief, she will entreat Sebeto
Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto,
Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to death,
In the chaste arms of thy beloved Love!
What profit riches? what does youth avail?
Dust are our hopes; - I, weeping bitterly,
Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray
That every gentle Spirit hither led

May read them not without some bitter tears.

VIII.

NOT without heavy grief of heart did he
On whom the duty fell (for at that time
The father sojourned in a distant land)
Deposit in the hollow of this tomb

A brother's Child, most tenderly beloved!
FRANCESCO was the name the Youth had borne,
POZZOBONNELLI his illustrious house;

And when beneath this stone the Corse was laid,
The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears.
Alas! the twentieth April of his life

Had scarcely flowered: and at this early time,
By genuine virtue he inspired a hope

That greatly cheered his country: to his kin
He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts
His friends had in their fondness entertained,*
He suffered not to languish or decay.

Now is there not good reason to break forth
Into a passionate lament? O Soul!

Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world,
Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air;
And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,
An everlasting spring! in memory
Of that delightful fragrance which was once
From thy mild manners quietly exhaled.

*In justice to the Author, I subjoin the original: — e degli amici

Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri.

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