Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging

eaves; Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended, Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves ; And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden DANTE.

TUSCAN, thou wanderest through the realms

of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad majestic eyes, Stern thoughts and awful from thy soul arise, Like Farinata from his fiery tomb. Thy sacred song is like the trump of doom; Yet in thy heart what human sympathies, What soft compassion glows, as in the skies The tender stars their clouded lamps relume !

Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks,
By Fra Hilario in his diocese,
As up the convent walls, in golden streaks,
The ascending sunbeams mark the day's

decrease; And as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers, 'Peace!' TRANSLATIONS.

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