HE IMAGINES THE DEATH OF HIS LADY.

The sad bell that within my bosom aye
Clamors and bids me still renew my tears,
Doth stun my senses and my soul bewray
With wandering fantasies and cheating fears;
The gentle form of her that is but ta'en
A little from my sight I seem to see
At life's bourne lying faint and pale with pain,--
My love that to these tears abandons me.
"O my own true one," tenderly she cries,
"I grieve for thee, love, that thou winnest naught
Save hapless life with all thy many sighs."
Life? Never! Though thy blessed steps have taught
My feet the path in all well-doing, stay!--
At this last pass 't is mine to lead the way.

There is a still more characteristic sonnet of Alfieri's, with which I
shall close, as I began, in the very open air of his autobiography:

HIS PORTRAIT.

Thou mirror of veracious speech sublime,
What I am like in soul and body, show:
Red hair,--in front grown somewhat thin with time;
Tall stature, with an earthward head bowed low;
A meager form, with two straight legs beneath;
An aspect good; white skin with eyes of blue;
A proper nose; fine lips and choicest teeth;
Face paler than a throned king's in hue;