TRANSLATION

OF THE TWENTY-EIGHTH SONNET OF PETRARCH.

DEEP musing o'er the solitary plain,

"With wandering steps and slow," I move along, And shun each path that bids me seek again The world's rude clamours and tumultuous throng.

For only here a soft retreat I find

Where man's inquiring eyes no more molest, Nor thoughts of vanish'd joy betray the mind, And blaze each passion kindled in my breast.

But though 'mid woods, and streams, and mountains wild,

I screen my secret life from mortal view,

Yet, not by mounts, nor woods, nor streams beguil'd,
Still does unceasing Love my course pursue,
And tracks me to the desert's deepest shades,
And all my unresisting soul invades.

TRANSLATION

OF AN AIR IN METASTASIO'S OPERA OF ARTASERSE.

OF arms and strife the warrior dreams;
The hunter of the waving woods;
And still the sleeping fisher seems
To wander near the crystal floods.

So I, when wrapt in pleasing rest,
Borne on the wings of slumber, fly
To thee whose image fills my breast,

Whose name the live-long day I sigh.

TRANSLATION OF A PORTUGUESE AIR.

THE jutting rocks the ocean laves,

And soon or late the rocks decay; Until with liquid shocks the waves Sweep every rugged stone away.,

Not so those seas of tears I pour,
Ah cruel! while for thee I pine:
Those seas of tears but harden more
That unrelenting heart of thine.

KISSES.

In a company of ladies who were repeating Dean Swift's "Receipt for Courtship," it was observed that he had forgotten to mention kisses. This deficiency was supplied by two extempore* lines of the author; and one of the ladies requesting him to give her a copy with the additional couplet, he sent it to her accompanied by the following verses.

WHEN the Dean of St. Patrick's composed his receipt

To court, sigh, and flatter, talk nonsense and treat,
The ladies quite vex'd and astonish'd declar'd
That they could not imagine what was in the bard,
Who not one single word about kisses had said,
As if they had never come into his head..
But of all the dear transports from kisses that flow,
Say what should a frouzy old bachelor know,
Who ne'er dar'd the delicate odours to prove
That breathe from the lips of the object we love?
Then scorn the dull Doctor's satirical rules,
Nor heed him, ye fair, when he christens you fools:
Let courtship and love be the theme of each tongue,
And take for your tutor a swain that is young,
A swain who, well pleased your tutor to be,
Will not limit his kisses to two or to three.

The lines were these:

"Two or three kisses, or two or three score,
Or, if that's not enough, two or three hundred more."

As for me, if that office should e'er be my lot,
I assure you that they should be never forgot:
Nor hundreds nor thousands my kisses should count,
But perhaps a few millions might tell the amount;
For it is, if you'll trust me and take my advice,

Not the way to be fools, but the way to be wise.