opened one of them, and found that it was entitled, "The Song of
Despair." Ambrosio, hearing it, said: "This is the last thing which the
unhappy man wrote; and that all present may conceive, signor, to what a
state of misery he was reduced, read it aloud; for you will have time
enough while they are digging the grave."

"That I will do with all my heart," said Vivaldo; and, as all the
bystanders had the same desire, they assembled around him, and he read
in an audible voice as follows:--

CHRYSOSTOM'S SONG.

I.

Since, cruel maid, you force me to proclaim
From clime to clime, the triumph of your scorn,
Let hell itself inspire my tortured breast
With mournful numbers, and untune my voice;
Whilst the sad pieces of my broken heart
Mix with the doleful accents of my tongue,
At once to tell my griefs and thy exploits,
Hear, then, and listen with attentive ear--
Not to harmonious sounds, but echoing groans,
Fetched from the bottom of my laboring breast,
To ease, in spite of thee, my raging smart.

II.

The lion's roar, the howl of midnight wolves,
The scaly serpent's hiss, the raven's croak,
The burst of fighting winds that vex the main,
The widowed owl and turtle's plaintive moan,
With all the din of hell's infernal crew,
From my grieved soul forth issue in one sound--
Leaving my senses all confused and lost.
For ah! no common language can express
The cruel pains that torture my sad heart.

III.

Yet let not Echo bear the mournful sounds
To where old Tagus rolls his yellow sands,
Or Betis, crowned with olives, pours his flood,
But here, 'midst rocks and precipices deep,
Or to obscure and silent vales removed,
On shores by human footsteps never trod,
Where the gay sun ne'er lifts his radiant orb,
Or with the envenomed face of savage beasts
That range the howling wilderness for food,
Will I proclaim the story of my woes--
Poor privilege of grief!--while echoes hoarse
Catch the sad tale, and spread it round the world.

IV.

Disdain gives death; suspicions, true or false,
O'erturn the impatient mind: with surer stroke
Fell jealousy destroys; the pangs of absence
No lover can support; nor firmest hope
Can dissipate the dread of cold neglect;
Yet I, strange fate! though jealous, though disdained,
Absent, and sure of cold neglect, still live.
And amidst the various torments I endure,
No ray of hope e'er darted on my s