that great source of its peculiar effect springing
from the employment of the _terza rima_! It is in vain to say, that it
is enormously difficult to produce the _terza rima_ in English. To
translate the "gran padre Alighier" into English _worthily_, the _terza
rima must_ be employed, whatever be the obstacles presented by the
dissimilarities existing between the Italian and English languages.

THE MOB.

"Procul este, profani!"

A Poet o'er his glowing lyre
A wild and careless hand had flung.
The base, cold crowd, that nought admire,
Stood round, responseless to his fire,
With heavy eye and mocking tongue.

"And why so loudly is he singing?"
('Twas thus that idiot mob replied,)
"His music in our ears is ringing;
But whither flows that music's tide?
What doth it teach? His art is madness!
He moves our soul to joy or sadness.
A wayward necromantic spell!
Free as the breeze his music floweth,
But fruitless, too, as breeze that bloweth,
What doth it profit, Poet, tell?"

POET.--Cease, idiot, cease thy loathsome cant!
Day-labourer, slave of toil and want!
I hate thy babble vain and hollow.
Thou art a worm, no child of day:
Thy god is Profit--thou wouldst weigh
By pounds the Belvidere Apollo.
Gain--gain alone to thee is sweet.
The marble is a god! ... what of it
Thou count'st a pie-dish far above it--
A dish wherein to cook thy meat!

MOB.--But, if thou be'st the Elect of Heaven,
The gift that God has largely given,
Thou shouldst then for our good impart,
To purify thy brother's heart.
Yes, we are base, and vile, and hateful,
Cruel, and shameless, and ungrateful--
Impotent and heartless tools,
Slaves, and slanderers, and fools.
Come then, if charity doth sway thee,
Chase from our hearts the viper-brood;
However stern, we will obey thee;
Yes, we will listen, and be good!

POET.--Begone, begone! What common feeling
Can e'er exist 'twixt ye and me?
Go on, your souls in vices steeling;
The lyre's sweet voice is dumb to ye:
Go! foul as reek of charnel-slime,
In every age, in every clime,
Ye aye have felt