And, as he gazed, his homestall through his tears Fondly imagined; when a Christian ship

Of war appearing in her bravery,

A voice in anger cried, " Use all your strength!" But when, ah when, do they that can, forbear To crush the unresisting? Strange, that men, Creatures so frail, so soon, alas, to die,

Should have the power, the will to make this world A dismal prison-house, and life itself,

Life in its prime, a burden and a curse

To him who never wronged them? Who that breathes

Would not, when first he heard it, turn away
As from a tale monstrous, incredible?
Surely a sense of our mortality,

A consciousness how soon we shall be gone,
Or, if we linger—but a few short years—
How sure to look upon our brother's grave,
Should of itself incline to pity and love,
And prompt us rather to assist, relieve,
Than aggravate the evils each is heir to.

At length the day departed, and the moon
Rose like another sun, illumining

Waters and woods and cloud-capt promontories,
Glades for a hermit's cell, a lady's bower,
Scenes of Elysium, such as Night alone
Reveals below, nor often-scenes that fled
As at the waving of a wizard's wand,
And left behind them, as their parting gift,
A thousand nameless odours. All was still;
And now the nightingale her song poured forth
In such a torrent of heart-felt delight,

So fast it flowed, her tongue so voluble,
As if she thought her hearers would be gone
Ere half was told. 'Twas where in the north-west,
Still unassailed and unassailable,

Thy pharos, Genoa, first displayed itself,

Burning in stillness on its craggy seat;
That guiding star so oft the only one,
When those now glowing in the azure vault
Are dark and silent. 'Twas where o'er the sea,
(For we were now within a cable's length,)
Delicious gardens hung; green galleries,
And marble terraces in many a flight,
And fairy-arches flung from cliff to cliff,
Wildering, enchanting; and, above them all,
A Palace, such as somewhere in the East,
In Zenastan or Araby the blest,

Among its golden groves and fruits of gold,
And fountains scattering rainbows in the sky,
Rose, when Aladdin rubbed the wondrous lamp;
Such, if not fairer; and, when we shot by,
A scene of revelry, in long array

As with the radiance of the setting sun,
The windows blazing. But we now approached
A City far-renowned; and wonder ceased.

GENOA.

HIS house was Andrea Doria's. Here

he lived;1

And here at eve relaxing, when ashore,

Held many a pleasant, many a grave

discourse

With them that sought him, walking to and fro

'The Piazza Doria, or, as it is now called, the Piazza di San Matteo, insignificant as it may be thought, is to me the most interesting place in Genoa. It was there that Doria assembled the people, when he gave them their liberty (Sigonii Vita Doria); and on one side of it is the church he lies buried in, on the other a house, originally, of very small dimensions, with this inscription: S. C. Andreæ de Auria Patria Liberatori Munus Publicum.

The streets of old Genoa, like those of Venice, were constructed only for foot-passengers.

As on his deck. 'Tis less in length and breadth
Than many a cabin in a ship of war;
But 'tis of marble and at once inspires
The reverence due to ancient dignity.
He left it for a better; and 'tis now

A house of trade,1 the meanest merchandise
Cumbering its floors. Yet, fallen as it is,
Tis still the noblest dwelling-even in Genoa!
And hadst thou, Andrea, lived there to the last,
Thou hadst done well; for there is that without,
That in the wall, which monarchs could not give,
Nor thou take with thee, that which says aloud,
It was thy Country's gift to her Deliverer.

"Tis in the heart of Genoa (he who comes,
Must come on foot) and in a place of stir;
Men on their daily business, early and late,
Thronging thy very threshold. But, when there,
Thou wert among thy fellow-citizens,

Thy children, for they hailed thee as their sire; And on a spot thou must have loved, for there, Calling them round, thou gav'st them more than

life,

Giving what, lost, makes life not worth the keeping.
There thou didst do indeed an act divine;

Nor couldst thou leave thy door or enter in,
Without a blessing on thee.

Thou art now

Again among them. Thy brave mariners
They who had fought so often by thy side,
Staining the mountain-billows, bore thee back;
And thou art sleeping in thy funeral-chamber.
Thine was a glorious course; but couldst thou
there,

Clad in thy cere-cloth-in that silent vault,
Where thou art gathered to thy ancestors-

When I saw it in 1822, a basket-maker lived on the ground floor, and over him a seller of chocolate.

A A

Open thy secret heart and tell us all,

Then should we hear thee with a sigh confess,
A sigh how heavy, that thy happiest hours
Were passed before these sacred walls were left,
Before the ocean-wave thy wealth reflected,1
And pomp and power drew envy, stirring up
The ambitious man,2 that in a perilous hour
Fell from the plank.

MARCO GRIFFONI.

W

AR is a game at which all are sure to lose, sooner or later, play they how they will; yet every nation has delighted in war, and none more in their day than the little republic of Genoa, whose galleys, while she had any, were always burning and sinking those of the Pisans, the Venetians, the Greeks, or the Turks; Christian and Infidel alike to her.

But experience, when dearly bought, is seldom thrown away altogether. A moment of sober reflection came at last; and after a victory, the most splendid and ruinous of any in her annals, she resolved from that day and for ever to live at peace with all mankind; having in her long career acquired nothing but glory and a tax on every article of life.

Peace came, but with none of its blessings. No stir in the harbour, no merchandise in the mart or on the quay; no song as the shuttle was thrown

'Alluding to the Palace which he built afterwards, and in which he twice entertained the Emperor Charles the Fifth. It is the most magnificent edifice on the bay of Genoa.

2 Fiesco. For an account of his Conspiracy, see Robertson's "History of Charles the Fifth."

or the ploughshare broke the furrow.

The frenzy

Yet

had left a languor more alarming than itself. the burden must be borne, the taxes be gathered; and, year after year, they lay like a curse on the land, the prospect on every side growing darker and darker, till an old man entered the senatehouse on his crutches and all was changed.

Marco Griffoni was the last of an ancient family, a family of royal merchants; and the richest citizen in Genoa, perhaps in Europe. His parents dying while yet he lay in the cradle, his wealth had accumulated from the year of his birth; and so noble a use did he make of it when he arrived at manhood, that wherever he went, he was followed by the blessings of the people. He would often say, "I hold it only in trust for others; " but Genoa was then at her old amusement, and the work grew on his hands. Strong as he was, the evil he had to struggle with was stronger than he. His cheerfulness, his alacrity left him; and, having lifted up his voice for Peace, he withdrew at once from the sphere of life he had moved in-to become, as it were, another man.

From that time and for full fifty years he was to be seen sitting, like one of the founders of his House, at his desk among his money-bags, in a narrow street near the Porto Franco; and he, who in a famine had filled the granaries of the State, sending to Sicily and even to Egypt, now lived only as for his heirs, though there were none to inherit; giving no longer to any -but lending to all-to the rich on their bonds and the poor on their pledges; lending at the highest rate, and exacting with the utmost rigour. No longer relieving the miserable, he sought only to enrich himself by their misery; and there he sate in his gown of frieze, till every