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The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, I sought it not by any baser lure;

Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name May form a monument not all obscure, Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, Tc add to the vainglorious list of those Who dabble in the pettiness of fame, And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows Their sail, and deem it glory to be class'd With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, In bloody chronicles of ages past.

I would have had my Florence great and free:' Oh Florence! Florence! unto me thou wast Like that Jerusalem which the Almighty He

Wept over, "but thou would'st not;" as the bird Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard

My voice; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce,

And doom this body forfeit to the firc. Alas! how bitter is his country's curse To him who for that country would expire, But did not merit to expire by her, And loves her, loves her even in her ire. The day may come when she will cease to err, The day may come she would be proud to have The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer Of him whom she denied a home, the grave.

But this shall not be granted; let my dust Lie where it falls; nor shall the soil which gave Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust

Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume My indignant bones, because her angry gust Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom;

No, she denied me what was mine-my roof, And shall not have what is not hers-my tomb. Too long her armed wrath hath kept aloof

The breast which would have bled for her, the heart That beat, the mind that was temptation proof, The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each part Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw

For his reward the Guelf's ascendant art Pass his destruction even into a law.

These things are not made for forgetfulness, Florence shall be forgotten first; too raw The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress Of such endurance too prolong'd to make My pardon greater, her injustice less, Though late repented; yet-yet for her sake I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine My own Beatrice, I would hardly take Vengeance upon the land which once was mine, And still is hallow'd by thy dust's return, Which would protect the murderess like a shrine And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn.

Though, like old Marius from Minturnæ's marsh And Carthage ruins, iny lone breast may burn At times with evil feelings hot and harsh,

And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe
Writhe in a dream before me, and o'er-arch
M; brow with hopes of triumph,-let them go !
Such are the last infirmities of those
Who long have suffer'd more than mortal wo,
And yet being mortal still, have no repose

But on the pillow of Revenge-Revenge,
Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows

With the oft-baffled, slakeless thirst of change,
When we shall mount again, and they that trod
Be trampled on, while Death and Até range
O'er humbled heads and sever'd necks-Great God!
Take these thoughts from me-to thy hands I yield
My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod
Will fall on those who smote me,-be my shield!
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain,
In turbulent cities, and the tented field-
In toil, and many troubles borne in vain

For Florence.-I appeal from her to Thee! Thee, whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, Even in that glorious vision, which to see And live was never granted until now,

And yet thou hast permitted this to me. Alas! with what a weight upon my brow

The sense of earth and earthly things come back, Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, Long day, and dreary night; the retrospect Of half a century bloody and black, And the frail few years I may yet expect

Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear, For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd On the lone rock of Desolate Despair

To lift my eyes more to the passing sail
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare
Nor raise my voice-for who would heed my wail?
I am not of this people, nor this age,
And yet my harpings will unfold a tale
Which shall preserve these times when not a page
Of their perturbed annals could attract
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage,
Did not my verse embalm full many an act
Worthless as they who wrought it: 'tis the doom
Of spirits of my order to be rack'd

In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume
Their days in endless strife, and die alone;
Then future thousands crowd around their tomb,
And pilgrims come from climes where they have known
The name of him-who now is but a name,
And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone,
Spread his-by him unheard, unheeded-fame ;
And mine at least hath cost me dear: to die
Is nothing, but to wither thus-to tame
My mind down from its own infinity-

To live in narrow ways with little men,
A common sight to every common eye,
A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den
Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all tnings
That make communion sweet, and soften pain-
To feel me in the solitude of kings

Without the power that makes them bear a crownsTo envy every dove his nest and wings Which waft him where the Apennine looks down On Arno, till he perches, it may be, Within my all inexorable town, Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,

Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought Destruction for a dowry-this to see And feel, and know without repair, hath taught A bitter lesson; but it leaves me free: I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, They made an Exile-not a slave of me.


The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, When words were things that came to pass, and thought

Flash'd o'er the future, bidding men behold Their children's children's doom already brought Forth from the abyss of time which is to be, The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought

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Confess its barbarism, when compared with thine. This shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, Thy Tuscan Bard, the banish'd Ghibelline.

Wo! wo! the veil of coming centuries

Is rent, a thousand years which yet supine
Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise,
Heaving in dark and sullen undulation,
Float from eternity into these eyes;

The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their station,
The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb,
The bloody chaos yet expects creation,

But all things are disposing for thy doom;

The elements await but for the word,

"Let there be darkness!" and thou grow'st a tomb! Yes! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the sword,

Thou, Italy: so fair that Paradise,

Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored: Ah! must the sons of Adam lose it twice?

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Thou, Italy! whose ever golden fields, Plough'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice For the world's granary; thou whose sky heaven gilds With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue; Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds Her palace, in whose cradled Empire grew,

And form'd the Eternal City's ornaments From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew; Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints,

Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made Her home; thou, all which fondest fancy paints, And finds her prior vision but portray'd

In feeble colours, when the eye-from the Alp Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp

Nods to the storm-dilates and dotes o'er thee, And wistfully implores, as 't were, for help To see thy sunny fields, my Italy,

Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still

The more approach'd, and dearest were they free, Thon-Thou must wither to each tyrant's will:

The Goth hath been,-the German, Frank, and Hun Are yet to come, and on the imperial hill Ruin, already proud of the deeds done

By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won Rome at her feet lies bleeding; and the hue

Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue,
And deepens into red the saffron water

Of Tiber, thick with dead; the helpless priest,
And still more helpless nor less holy daughter

Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased
Their ministry: the nations take their prey
Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast
And bird, wolf, vulture, more humane than they
Are; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore
Of the departed, and then go their way;
But those, the human savages, explore

All paths of torture, and insatiate yet,
With Ugolino hunger prowl for more.
Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set
The chiefless army of the dead, which late
Beneath the traitor Prince's banner met,
Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate;

Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance Tho hadst been spared, but his involved thy fate Oh! Rome, the spoiler or the spoil of France, From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never Shall foreign standard to thy walls advance But Tiber shall become a mournful river.

Oh! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, Crush them, ye rocks! floods whelm them, and for


Why sleep the idle avalanches so,

To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head?
Why doth Eridanus but overflow
The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed?
Were not cach barbarous horde a nobler prey
Over Cambyses' host the desert spread
Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway
Roll'd over Pharaoh and his thousands,-why
Mountains and waters, do ye not as they?
And you, ye men! Romans, who dare not die,
Sons of the conquerors who overthrew

Those who overthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie The dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew,

Are the Alps weaker than Thermopyla?

Their passes more alluring to the view Of an invader? is it they, or ye,

That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, And leave the march in peace, the passage free? Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car,

And makes your land impregnable, if earth Could be so; but alone she will not war, Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth

In a coil where the mothers bring forth men: Not so with those whose souls are little worth; For them no fortress can avail,-the den

Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting Is more secure than walls of adamant, when The hearts of those within are quivering.

Are ye not brave? Yes, yet the Ausonian soil
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to bring
Against Oppression; but how vain the toil,

While still Division sows the seeds of wo
And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil.
Oh! my own beauteous land! so long laid low,

So long the grave of thy own children's hopes,
When there is but required a single blow
To break the chain, yet-yet the Avenger stops

And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and then, And join their strength to that which with thee cop; What is there wanting then to set thee free

And show thy beauty in its fullest light?
To make the Alps impassable; and we,
Her sons, may do this with one deed-Unite.

CANTO III. From out the mass of never-dying ill,

The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the Sword,

Vials of wrath but emptied to refill And flow again, I cannot all record

That crowds on my prophetic eye: the earth And ocean written o'er would not afford Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth;

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Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven, There where the farthest suns and stars have birth, Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven,

The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven Athwart the sounds of archangelic songs,

And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore, Will not in vain arise to where belongs Omnipotence and mercy evermore:

Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind,
The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er
The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind.
Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of
Earth's dust by immortality refined

To sense and suffering, though the vain may scoff,
And tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow
Before the storm because its breath is rough,
To thee, my country! whom before, as now,

I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre
And melancholy gift high powers allow
To read the future; and if now my fire

Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive!
I but foretell thy fortunes-then expire;
Think not that I would look on them and live.
A spirit forces me to see and speak,

And for my guerdon grants not to survive;
My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break:
Yet for a moment, ere I must resume
Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take
Over the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom

A softer glimpse; some stars shine through thy night,
And many meteors, and above thy tomb
Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot blight;
And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise
To give thee honour, and the earth delight;
Thy soil shall still be pregnant with the wise,

The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave,
Native to thee as summer to thy skies,
Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave,"
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name;8
For thee alone they have no arm to save,
And all thy recompense is in their fame,

A noble one to them, but not to thee-
Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same?
Oh! more than these illustrious far shall be

The being-and even yet he may be bornThe mortal saviour who shall set thee free, And see thy diadem so changed and worn

By fresh barbarians, on thy brow replaced;
And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn,
Thy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced

And noxious vapours from Avernus risen,
Such as all they must breathe who are debased
By servitude, and have the mind in prison.

Yet through this centuried eclipse of wo
Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen;
Poets shall follow in the path I show,

And make it broarder; the same brilliant sky Which cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow, And raise their notes as natural and high;

Tuneful shall be their numbers; they shall sing
Many of love, and some of liberty,

But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing,

And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze
All free and fearless as the feather'd king,
But fly more near the earth; how many a phrase
Sublime shall lavish'd be on some small prince
In all the prodigality of praise!
And language, eloquently false, evir.ce

The harlotry of genius, which, like beauty,
Too oft forgets its own self-reverence,
And looks on prostitution as a duty.

He who once enters in a tyrant's hall
As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty,
And the first day which sees the chain enthral

A captive, sees his half of manhood gone-10
The soul's emasculation saddens all
His spirit; thus the Bard too near the throne

Quails from his inspiration, bound to please,-
How servile is the task to please alone!
To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease
And royal leisure, nor too much prolong
Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize.
Or force, or forge fit argument of song!

Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to Flattery's trebles
He toils through all, still trembilng to be wrong:
For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels,
Should rise up in high treason to his brain,

He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebbles In 's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his strain But out of the long file of sonneteers

There shall be some who will not sing in vain,
And he, their prince shall rank among my peers,"
And love shall be his torment; but his grief
Shall make an immortality of tears,
And Italy shall hail him as the Chief

Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song

Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. But in a farther age shall rise along

The banks of Po two greater still than he;

The world which smiled on him shall do them wrong

Till they are ashes, and repose with me.

The first will make an epoch with his lyre, And fill the earth with feats of chivalry; His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire,

Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thought Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught,

Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme, And Art itself seem into Nae wrought By the transparency of his bright dream.

The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem; He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood Shed where Christ bled for man; and his high harp Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp Conflict, and final triumph of the brave And pious, and the strife of hell to warp Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave

The red-cross banners where the first red Cross
Was crimsom'd from his veins who died to save,
Shall be his sacred argument; the loss

Of years, of favour, freedom, even of fame
Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss
Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name.
And call captivity a kindness, meant
To shield him from insanity or shame,
Such shall be his meet guerdon! who was sent

To be Christ's Laureat-they reward him well! Florence dooms me but death or banishment, Ferrara him a pittance and a cell,

Harder to bear and less deserved, for I

Had stung the factions which I strove to quell; But this meek man, who with a lover's eye

Will look on earth and heaven, and who wil deign
To embalm with his celestial flattery

As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign,
What will he do to merit such a doom?
Perhaps he'll love,-and is not love in vain
Torture enough without a living tomb?

Yet it wil be so-he and his compeer,
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume
In penury and pain too many a year,

And, dying in despondency, bequeath

To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, A heritage enriching all who breathe

With the wealth of a genuine poets soul, And to their country a redoubled wreath, Unmatch'd by time; not Hellas can unroll

Through her olympiads two such names, though one Of hers be mighty ;-and is this the whole Of such men's destiny beneath the sun?

Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense,
The electric blood with which their arteries run,
Their body's self turn'd soul with the intense

Feeling of that which is, and fancy of
That which should be, to such a recompense
Conduct? shall their bright plumage on the rough
Storm be still scatter'd? Yes, and it must be,
For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff,
These birds of Paradise but long to flee

Back to their native inansion, soon they find
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree,
And die or are degraded, for the mind

Succumbs to long infection, and despair, And vulture passions flying close behind, Await the moment to assail and tear;

And when at length the winged wanderers stoop, Then is the prey-bird's triumph, then they share The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoop. Yet some have been untouch'd who learn'd to bear, Some whom no power could ever force to droop, Who could resist themselves even, hardest care!

And task most hopeless; but some such have been, And if my name among the number were, That destiny austere, and yet serene,

Were prouder than more dazzling fame unblest; The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest,

Whose splendour from the black abyss is flung, While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burning


A temporary torturing flame is wrung,
Shines for a night of terror, then repels

Its fire back to the hell from whence it sprung, The hell which in its entrails ever dwells


Many are poets who have never penn'd

Their inspiration, and perchance the best : They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compress'd The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars Unlaurell'd upon earth, but far more blest Than those who are degraded by the jars

Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame, Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. Many are poets but without the name,

For what is poesy but to create

From overfeeling good or ill; and aim At an external life beyond our fate,

And be the new Prometheus of new men, Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain,

And vultures to the heart of the bestower, Who having lavish'd his high gift in vain, Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the seashore? So be it: we can bear.-But thus all they Whose intellect is an o'ermastering power Which still recoils from its incumbering clay

Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er

The form which their creations may essay Are bards; the kindled marble's bust may wear More poesy upon its speaking brow Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear; One noble stroke with a whole life may glow, 'Or deify the canvass till it shine

With thought and beings of our thought reflected,
Can do no more: then let the artist share
The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected
Faints o'er the labour unapproved-Alas!
Despair and Genius are too oft connected
Within the ages which before me pass

Art shall resume and equal even the sway
Which with Apelles and old Phidias
She held in Hellas' unforgotten day.

With beauty so surpassing all below, That they who kneel to idols so divine

Break no commandment, for high heaven is there Transfused, transfigurated: and the line Of poesy, which peoples but the air

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But free; who sweats for monarchs is no more Than the gilt chamberlain, who, c.othed and fee'a Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door.

Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest! how
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power
Is likest thine in heaven in outward show,
Leas: like to thee in attributes divine,
Tread on the universa. necks that bow,
And then assure us that their rights are thine

And how is it that they, the sons of fame,
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine
From high, they whom the nations oftest name,
Must pass their days in penury or pain,
Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame
And wear a deeper brand and gaudier chain?
Or if their destiny be born aloof

From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, In their own souls sustain a harder proof,

The inner war of passions deep and fierce?
Florence! when thy harsh sentence razed my roof,
I loved thee; but the vengeance of my verse,
The hate of injuries which every year

Makes greater, and accumulates my curse,
Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear,

Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even that,
The most infernal of all evils here,

The sway of petty tyrants in a state;

For such sway is not limited to kings
And demagogues yield to them but in date
As swept off sooner; in all deadly things

Which make men hate themselves, and one another,
In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs
From Death the Sin-born's incest with his mother,

In rank oppression in its rudest shape,

The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother,
And the worst despot's far less human ape:
Florence! when this lone spirit, which so long
Yearn'd, as the captive toiling at escape,
To fly back to thee in despite of wrong,
An exile, saddest of all prisoners,

Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong,

Note 1, page 206, line 11.

Midst whom my own bright Beatrice bless'd. THE reader is requested to adopt the Italian pronunciation of Beatrice, sounding all the syllables.

Note 2, page 206, line 27.

My paradise had still been incomplete.


"Che sol per le belle opre

Che fanno in Cielo il sole e l' altre stelle
Dentro di lui' si crede il Paradiso,

Così se guardi fiso

Pensar ben dèi ch' ogni terren' piacere. Canzone, in which Dante describes the person of trice, Strophe third.

Note 3, page 207, line 20.

I would have had my Florence great and free. "L'Esilio che m' è dato onor mi tegno.






Cader tra' buoni è pur di lode degno." Sonnet of Dante, m which he represents Right, Generosity, and Temperance as banished from among men, and seeking refuge from Love, who inhabits his bosom.

Note 4, page 207, line 36.

The dust she dooms to scatter.

"Ut si quis predictorum ullo tempore in fortiam dicti Communis pervenerit, tallis perveniens igne comburatur, sic quod moriatur."

Second sentence of Florence against Dante, and the fourteen accused with him.-The Latin is worthy of the sentence.

Note 5, page 207, line 133.

Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she.

Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars,
Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth
Where-whatso'er his fate-he still were hers,
His country's, and might die where he had birth-
Florence! when this lone spirit shall return
To kindred spirits, thou wilt feel my worth
And seek to honour with an empty urn

The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain-Alas!
"What have I done to thee, my people?" 7 Sterr
Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass
The limits of man's common malice, for
All that a citizen could be I was;
Raised by thy will, all thine in peace or war

And for this thou hast warr'd with me.-'T is done :

I may not overleap the eternal bar
Built up between us, and will die alone,

Beholding with the dark eye of a seer
The evil days to gifted souls foreshown,
Fortelling them to those who will not hear
As in the time, till the hour be come
When Truth shall strike their eyes through many

a tear,

And make them own the Prophet in his tomb.

uoli e uffici della Repubblica nella sua Città; e Aristotele che, &c. &c. ebbe due mogli in varj tempi, ed ebbe figliuoli, e ricchezze assai.-E Marco Tullio-e Ca. tone-e Varrone-e Seneca-ebbero moglie," &c. &c. It is odd that honest Lionardo's examples, with the ex ception of Seneca, and for any thing know of Aristotle, are not the most felicitous. Tully's Terentia, and Socrates' Xantippe, by no means contributed to their husbands' happiness, whatever they might do to their philosophy-Cato gave away his wife of Varro's we know nothing-and of Seneca's, only that she was disposed to die with him, but recovered, and lived several years afterwards. But says Lionardo, "L'uoBea-mo è animale civile, secondo piace a tutti i filosofi." And thence concludes that the greatest proof of the animal's civism is "la prima congiunzione, dalla quale multiplicata nasce la Città."

Note 6, page 208, line 85.

Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set.

See "Sacco di Roma," generally attributed to Guicciardini. There is another written by a Jacopo Buonaparte, Gentiluomo Samminiatese che vi si trová presente.

This lady, whose name was Gemma, sprung from one of the most powerful Guelf families, named Donati. Corso Donati was the principal adversary of the Ghibellines. She is described as being "Admodum morosa, ut de Xantippe Socratis philosophi conjuge scriptum esse legimus," according to Giannozza Manetti. But Lionardo Aretino is scandalized with Boccace, in his life of Dante, for saying that literary men should not marry. "Qui il Boccaccio non ha pazienza, e dice, le mogli esser contrarie agli studj; e non si ricorda che Socrate ikp tú nobile filosofo che mai fosse, ebbe moglie e figli-|

Note 7, page 209, line 39.

Conquerors on foreign shores, and the far wave. Alexander of Parma, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of Savoy, Montecucco.

Note 8, page 209, line 40.

Discoverers of new worlds, which take their name. Columbus, Americus Vespusius, Sebastian Cabot, Note 9, page 209, line 73.

He who once enters in a tyrant's hall, &c.

A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which, Pompey took leave of Cornelia on entering the boat u which he was slain.

Note 10, page 209, lines 75 and 76.
And the first day which sees the chain enthral, &c.
The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer
Note 11, page 209, line 93.

And the, their prince, shall rank among my poera,

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