their exile from the land of their nativity. The versatile genius of Camoens also led him to write several comedies, but they are considered inferior, and unworthy the reputation of the author of the 'Lusiad 'a poet who has been the chief if not the only boast of his native country, in a literary point of view, and almost the only Portuguese writer whose fame has extended beyond the Peninsula. The extracts given in the foregoing epitome are taken from the spirited translation of William Julius Mickle (1791).

The tragical and mournful fate of Inez de Castro, which has been briefly noticed in the preceding, is one that has been a fertile theme for poets and dramatists. None of them has, however, attained anything like the beauty and sublimity of those lines by Mrs. Hemans, which are here reproduced by way of epilogue to the 'Lusiad,' even at the risk of telling a 'twice-told tale.' They are as follow:

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO.

There was music on the midnight :

From a royal fane it rolled;

And a mighty bell, each pause between,
Sternly and slowly tolled.

Strange was their mingling in the sky,
It hushed the listener's breath;
For the music spoke of triumph high,
The lonely bell-of death!

There was hurrying through the midnight,

A sound of many feet;

But they fell with a muffled fearfulness

Along the shadowy street :

And softer, fainter grew their tread,

As it neared the minster gate,

Whence a broad and solemn light was shed

From a scene of royal state.

Full glowed the strong red radiance
In the centre of the nave,

Where the folds of a purple canopy
Swept down in many a wave;
Loading the marble pavement old
With a weight of gorgeous gloom;

For something lay 'midst their fretted gold,
Like a shadow of the tomb.

And within that rich pavilion,

High on a glittering throne,
A woman's form sat silently,
'Midst the glare of light alone.
Her jewelled robes fell strangely still-

The drapery on her breast

Seemed with no pulse beneath to thrill,

So stone-like was its rest!

But a peal of lordly music
Shook e'en the dust below,

When the burning gold of the diadem
Was set on her pallid brow!

Then died away that haughty sound,

And from the encircling band

Stepped prince and chief, 'midst the hush profound, With homage to her hand.

Why passed a faint, cold shuddering

Over each martial frame,

As one by one, to touch that hand,

Noble and leader came?

Was not the settled aspect fair?
Did not a queenly grace,
Under the parted ebon hair,
Sit on that pale, still face?

Death! death! canst thou be lovely

Unto the eye of life?

Is not each pulse of the quick high breast

With thy cold mien at strife?—

It was a strange and fearful sight,

The crown upon that head,

The glorious robes, and the blaze of light,
All gathered round the Dead !

And beside her stood in silence
One with a brow as pale,
And white lips rigidly compressed,
Lest the strong heart should fail :
King Pedro, with a jealous eye
Watching the homage done
By the land's flower and chivalry
To her, his martyred one.

But on the face he looked not,

Which once his star had been;

To every form his glance was turned,
Save of the breathless queen :

Though something, won from the grave's embrace,

Of her beauty still was there,

Its hues were all of that shadowy place,

It was not for him to bear.

Alas! the crown, the sceptre,

The treasures of the earth,

And the priceless love that poured these gifts,

Alike of wasted worth!

The rites are closed :-bear back the dead

Unto the chamber deep!

Lay down again the royal head,

Dust with the dust to sleep!

There is music on the midnight—

A requiem sad and slow,

As the mourners through the sounding aisle

In dark procession go;

And the ring of state, and the starry crown,

And all the rich array,

Are borne to the house of silence down,

With her, that queen of clay!

And tearlessly and firmly

King Pedro led the train;

But his face was wrapt in his folding robe,

When they lowered the dust again.

'Tis hushed at last the tomb above

Hymns die, and steps depart :

Who called thee strong as Death, O Love?
Mightier thou wast and art!

Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered.

‘ORQUATO TASSO, one of the greatest of Italian

TORG

poets, and author of the 'Jerusalem Delivered,' was born on March 11th, 1544, at Sorrento, in Naples, and was the son of Bernardo Tasso, himself a poet of no mean ability. The elder Tasso was attached to the court of the Prince of Salerno, who was banished for protesting against the establishment of the Inquisition at Naples, and the fall of the Prince involving the ruin of those who were connected with him, the estate of Bernardo Tasso was confiscated, and himself exiled with the Prince-one consequence of this confiscation being the life of dependence upon patrons which his son Torquato afterwards led. Retiring for two years to France, after that time Bernardo returned to Rome, to which city he sent for his son; his wife and daughter remaining in a convent at Naples. The young poet received his education for the most part at Rome, being early admitted into the communion of the