employ to save the women who love them, by carrying them off to some other world.

The deluge approaches:-the despair of the mortals, who, in agony and horror, behold it coming, is dreadfully described:

Lo! they come,

The loathsome waters in their rage !

And with their roar make wholesome Nature dumb!

The forest's trees (coeval with the hour

When Paradise upsprung,

Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower,

Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung),

So massy, vast, yet green in their old age,
Are overtopt,

Their summer blossoms by the surges lopt,
Which rise, and rise, and rise.

Vainly we look up to the lowering skies-
They meet the seas,

And shut out God from our beseeching eyes.
Fly, son of Noah, fly, and take thine ease
In thine allotted Ocean-tent;

And view, all floating o'er the element,

The corpses of the world of thy young days:
Then to Jehovah raise

Thy song of praise !

A Mortal. Blessed are the dead

Who die in the Lord!

And though the waters be o'er carth outspread,
Yet, as his word,

Be the decree adored!

He gave me life-he taketh but

The breath which is his own:

And though these eyes should be for ever shut,
Nor longer this weak voice before his throne
Be heard in supplicating tone,

Still blessed be the Lord,

For what is past,

For that which is:

For all are his,

From first to last

Time-space-eternity-life-death

The vast known and immeasurable unknown.

He made, and can unmake;

And shall I, for a little gasp of breath,
Blaspheme and groan?

No; let me die, as I have lived, in faith,
Nor quiver, though the universe may quake!
Chorus of MORTALS.

Where shall we fly?

Not to the mountains high;

For now their torrents rush with double roar,
To meet the ocean, which, advancing still,
Already grasps each drowning hill,
Nor leaves an unsearched cave.
Enter a WOMAN.

Woman. Oh, save me, save!

Our valley is no more:

My father and my father's tent,

My brethren and my brethren's herds,

The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent

And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds,

The little rivulet which freshened all

Our pastures green,

No more are to be seen.

When to the mountain cliff I climbed this morn,

I turned to bless the spot,

And not a leaf appeared about to fall ;

And now they are not!

Why was I born ?

Japh.

To die! in youth to die;

And happier in that doom,

Than to behold the universal tomb

Which I

Am thus condemned to weep above in vain.

Why, when all perish, why must I remain ?

For another number of the Liberal' Lord Byron translated the first canto of Pulci's inimitable poem, the Morgante Maggiore.' It is very well done, but a little too prosaic: it does not convey (and what translation can ?) at once the archness of the original, with the exquisite beauty of its versification. The poem itself divides, as Lord Byron says,

with that of Boiardo, 'the honour of having formed and suggested the style and story of Ariosto. The great defects of Boiardo were his treating too seriously the narratives of chivalry, and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his continuation, by a judicious mixture of the gaiety of Pulci, has avoided the one, and Berni, in his reformation of Boiardo's poem, has corrected the other. Pulci may be considered as the precursor and model of Berni altogether, as he has partly been to Ariosto, however inferior to both his copyists. He is no less the founder of a new style of poetry very lately sprung up in England. I allude to that of the ingenious Whistlecraft.'

The canto which Lord Byron translated describes the Paladin Orlando leaving the court of Charlemagne in great anger at the calumnies and treacheries of Ganellone, to which Charles lent too ready an ear. The knight journeys into distant lands, and at length reaches an abbey, where he finds the inhabitants in great dread of the attacks of three giants, who annoy them by throwing fragments of the rocks at them, and by all imaginable devices making their lives uncomfortable, and even dangerous. Orlando offers to go and fight them; and, notwithstanding the abbot's remonstrances, he actually does go. He kills two of the monstrous brethren, Passamont and Alabaster, and then goes in search of Morgante, whom he converts to Christianity:

Morgante had a palace in his mode,

Composed of branches, logs of wood, and earth,
And stretched himself at ease in this abode,
And shut himself at night within his birth.
Orlando knocked, and knocked again to goad
The giant from his sleep; and he came forth,
The door to open, like a crazy thing,
For a rough dream had shook him slumbering.

He thought that a fierce serpent had attacked him,
And Mahomet he called, but Mahomet

Is nothing worth, and not an instant backed him!
But praying blessed Jesu, he was set
At liberty from all the fears which racked him;
And to the gate he came with great regret-

'Who knocks here?' grumbling all the while, said he:

That,' said Orlando, you will quickly see.

'I come to preach to you, as to your brothers,

Sent by the miserable monks-repentance;