THE

ABBOT OF FLORENCE:

A Tale of Boccacio.

то

THE SPIRIT OF BOCCACIO.

PARDON, great soul, that I have dared to speak
In Northen tongue thy golden song again:
Oh! for the accent of some glorious Greek,

Who sung his music to the sounding main, O'er which the critic Xerxes threw his chain ;As is the tale in Ancient Story found,

So deathless Mind, look down with thy disdain On all who deem thy impulses unsound,

And strive to fetter Thought, which never can be

bound!

THE PROLOGUE.

LONG years have rolled-long, bitter, tearful years,
Since first I threw my verses on the wave,
With all a youthful author's hopes and fears,

And dreading censure, as a trembling slave,
Who sees his tyrant hastening with the scourge:
But that has passed away :-the rushing surge
Of popular applause, and loud acclaim,
Which hails a poet, when he conquers Fame,
I never knew :-but still to me was given

Deep consolation :-haply sweeter joys: Calmer rewards, with more in them of Heaven

Than those who live upon the million's noise ;The restless conquerors of the realms of thought, Who count their glories by the battles fought,

Not by the years enjoyed!—by war-not rest!
Oh! for some hermit's cell, some quiet nest-
Hid far away in some sequestered wood,
Where I alone the sunny day might brood,
And as the twilight crept o'er earth and sea,
To sit alone beneath some lofty tree,

Waiting that moment, when the Angel Death

Would close my failing eyes, and take my troubled

breath!

PREFACE APOLOGETICAL.

HAVING, On my last appearance before the public, declared my intention to retire from the literary arena, some explanation may be required in order to render my present venture intelligible. Yet the garrulity of an old man may be pardoned, and probably endured, when I say that now it is for the last time. The history of the following tales, though simple, is not altogether destitute of interest :-some months ago, during my residence in Italy, the music of the Adriatic, to which I had so often listened in my younger days (alas! more than 30 years ago!) brought back to my mind those seasons when wandering with Byron, we had those mighty talks, to recall which constitute the chief "pleasures of memory" to an old man. This music came on my soul like a tide suddenly rushing into a river bed long dry and