1824.] 
phecy. The woes of Italy constitute 
one Of the subjects upon which Lord 
Byron appears to feel. 
Sranpinc Army. 
Encyc. Brit. Rome 258. (p. 397.) 
Standing army of Augustus 25 legions 
Original Poetry. 
431 
170,650. men—i, e. 6,826 in a legion. 
I find other authorities make the legion 
consist of but 6,666 ; which would give 
only 167,650. 
Happy Britain! Thine is more than an 
Augustan Age! 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
za 
SONNET, 
On the Suggestion of a Continental Excursion, 
WRITTEN IN THE SUMMER OF 1822, 
ITH no unheedful hand or grudg- 
ing toil, 
Have Iadorn’dthee, my sequester’d bower, 
Hoping in thee to spend the evening hour 
Of life’s o’erwearied day: nor of a soil 
Ungrateful can I plain; for leaf and 
flower 
Have thro’ the springtide smil’d; 
sun and shower 
Matur’d thy summer fruits, and promise 
made 
Of Autumn’s riper boon; while ’neath your 
shade, 
My elegant acacias ! I have stray’d, 
Woving the healthful breeze, or the sweet 
power 
That prompts the glowing thought and 
tuneful rhyme. 
Such joys are thine, my calm, sequester’d 
and 
home ! 
And shall I cease beneath thy shades to 
roam ; 
And trace, with pilgrim step, a foreign 
clime ? Jom. 
SONG. 
I rove thee, love! [ love thee, love ! 
Thy beauteous form so rare, my love! 
Thy hue so fair, thy graceful air ; 
For these—for these, I ‘love thee, love ! 
I love thee, love! I love thee, love! 
For all the smiles that lie, my love ; 
Enkindling joy in that dark eye 
That béams so bright on me, my love! 
I love thee, love! I love thee, love! 
Thy lips the bulbul’s rose, my love ; 
Where fragrance glows, and music flows, 
‘And glows and flows for me, my love! 
I love thee, love! I love thee, love! 
Within those arms to rest, my love; 
And on that breast, the phoenix nest, 
With fragrance stor’d for me, my love. 
But oh! J love, I love thee, love! 
For something more divine, my love ; 
That soul of thine, where graces shine, 
That make thee more than lovely, love. 
Yes, yes! I more than love thee, love! 
For that diviner part, my love ; 
That gentle heart, devoid of art— 
For that I more than love thee, love. 
THE PARTING OF OTTAVIO 
AND BIANCA, 
From G. Crayon’s “ Tales of a Traveller,” 
BY J. R. PRIOR. 
Leave me not yet, Ottavia! fly 
O! not sosoon; no! no! 
Absence, the mother of a sigh, 
Will often wet Bianca’s eye, 
To think that thou art parted so. 
The ship may be to shoals decoyed ; 
Must thou by water go? 
A storm, a wreck, thy life destroy’d, 
Would leave Biarica’s bosom void: 
Then, wherefore leave Bianca so ? 
Thou deemest that a sunnier beam 
May light and cherish me,— 
A daintier lip in Hope’s young stream 
Produce a brighter, holier dream : 
Ottavio ! that can never be. 
Prove false! Ottavio, didst thou say ? 
Never while life is free : 
Each morning, noon, and evening ray 
Will see thine own Bianca pray, 
‘To keep my heart alone for thee. 
’ Was it for this our hearts have bled, 
For this our vows have past ? 
For this our passions fasted, fed ? 
Ottavia! when Bianca’s dead, 
Decide how long my love can last. 
Farewell! I'll watch thee to the shore ; 
These eyes shall kiss thy sight, 
Ottavio !—Thou art gone—before 
The flood of fondness drowns me,—v’er 
A sad, a passionate delight, 
THE NUN. 
Lixt lilies on one stem, her fingers join 
Her slender hands in attitude divine ; 
Her dark soft eyes are shadow’d by the fall 
Of a fine pair of brows, Love’s mourning 
pall, [ within 
Which Faith, Hope’s eldest sister, keeps 
Her placid heart so purified of sin: 
A pleasing smile surrounds her lip—her 
cheek, [ Greek ; 
Her forehead, and her nose in shape are 
Serene affiance lights her upturn’d eye, 
That beams her sweet devotions to the sky: 
A black veil drops behind her raven hair ; 
Lappets embrace her neck ; her flesh so fair 
Shines on her virgin bosom ;—on her head 
A cap like snow in laceless care is spread. 
Love, peace, and truth unite this pious Nun, 
Devoutly duteous to the Eternal Son. 
J. R. Prior. 
