Grieved at long civil feuds, from thee a change
They now expect, while, ever insecure,

To worship Heaven none unmolested go;
And places, once so sacred, dwellings grow
Of violence, and seem but dens of thieves.
There entrance only is refused the good;
And, where the shrines and altars lately stood
So rich, the world new horrors plann'd perceives,
He scarce, who knew the past, believes,

And bells excite to arms, that only hung
Aloft, the signal of Devotion, rung.

The weeping Female Train, with clamour loud,
Weak Age and Childhood, whom the light of day
Grieves, and whate'er abhorr'd Existence shews;
Religious Brothers, white, and black, and gray;
And all, however by Affliction bow'd,

Call out "O mighty Chief, relieve our woes!"
The wretches such unnumber'd harms disclose,

As in a ruthless Hannibal, would wake
Pity for hated Rome: and, if we search

Around the fire that wraps the holy church,

Soon shall we see the fuel whence to take,
And how the blaze less powerful make;
The blaze of Passion, that so wide extends:
Do this; Heaven's blessing on the deed attends.

Though bears, wolves, lions, eagles, serpents, all
Should try against a marble Column* born,

To shake it, ill their strength the attempt would suit.
That senseless rage see Rome afflicted mourn,
And on thy active virtue loudly call,

Poor plants, with ardour, from the soil to root,
Bless'd, in a thousand years, with little fruit.
Those lofty spirits are not now beheld,

That made her glorious, as she was before:
O race, whose breasts with anger I deplore,
Are now against so great a mother swell'd!
But thou, her father, husband, held,

* The bears mean the Orsini family, from the word Orso. The rest are supposed to mean those families who united with them, in opposition to the Column, Colonna.

Thy succour bring; for such good deeds, by one She claims alike,* will now be left undone.

Seldom it happens that, to high designs
Propitious, Fortune cares the just reward
Of worth to allot, as she now seeks to do:
But favours with her rule that ill accord,
Scarce granted thee, to pardon so inclines,

I see her wrongs with patience, though not few.
The worthies of whom History boasts, ne'er knew

A road so clear to everliving Fame;

For thou preparest the Monarchy's return

To former greatness, if I well discern
True merit, kindled by its generous aim.
How will this praise exalt thy name,

"Others, its youth assisting, raised the state;
"He, while it totter'd beneath age's weight?"

"The Pope," as Gesualdo explains in his note, "who lives at Avignon, attentive to the spiritual go"vernment, and not the republic, and is quite given up "to luxury, indifferent to the fate of Rome and Italy."

On the Tarpeian hill thou wilt behold,

My song, a Chief, all Italy esteems,

Of others' good more thoughtful than his own. Tell him, that one, to whom he is unknown, Save by applauding Fame, yet worthiest seems, "with tears, pour'd forth in streams Through faded eyes, on thee does Rome, from all "Her seven famed hills for just compassion call."

Thus says,

MADRIGAL.*

A FOREIGN beauty touch'd my heart, whose face, Love's genuine badge, declared her of his train. (All others seem'd less worthy of her place.) Whom following along the verdant grass, These words I caught, at distance utter'd plain. "Thou with lost labour through the wood wilt pass

* Supposed the description of a warning, which he thinks effectual, from his confessor, father Dennis; who wrote to him, that it was unbecoming to lose his time, by the consequences of his passion.

"On this pursuit." Then in the shade I stood Of a tall beech, and mused awhile, till soon

I saw around what dangers in the wood

Beset me, and return'd content at noon.

SONNET. +

ON A MINIATURE OF LAURA, PAINTED FOR PETRARCH BY SIMON, A DICIPLE OF GIOTTO.

THAT master, Policletus, and the rest

Whom History boasts, exerting all their art
A thousand years, could only shew a part
Of the unrivall❜d grace that fires my breast;
But surely, Simon, in the regions bless'd,

This allegory had been used by Dante. He means by Noon, the age of thirty-five years, as being half the age of a man, and likewise his own at that time.

+ This and the following sonnet, are those which Vasari speaks of, as a modern connoisseur would of Pope's epistle to Jervis; or, in other words, as a compliment paid by an eminent poet to an indifferent artist.