The Sun.
London, England, 1851-02-20 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

TRADITIONS of TUSCANY in Terse. By
firs. D. Ogilvy.
The same skilful pen which, some time back, cele-
brated in " a book of Highland Minstrelsy" the
beautiful legends of the north country, has now been
employed on a theme of similar interest, but of dif-
felynt attractions. Instead of heath-covered hills, we
read of sunny landscapes, and in place of the exploits
of the hardy mountaineers we have thrilling legends
of crime and passion. Dissimilar in character are the
Highlander and Italian, and equally dissimilar are
their respective climates, as described by Mrs. Ogilvy
in some lines on "A December Day in the Campagna :
On Scottish graves the sncw is thick,
Its flakes of wintry foliage cling
Along the planetree's withered stick,
That querulously moans for Spring. .
But round the Roman Lady's Tomb
That looks upon the Appia❑ Way,
Geraniums scatter wilding bloom,
And sunshine•loving lizards play.
The mountains of my Scottish home
Are labouring in December's storms,
The driving mists, in wreaths of foam,
Like vapory mantles, wrap their forms,
But here Soracte pales the rose,
The reddest rose that tempts the bee,
And gleam the high Abruzzi snows,
Like frigate-sails far out at sea.

In Scottish Tow❑ from murky skies,
The shiverer to his hearth repairs,
Heaps up the blaze, the flagon plies,
Forgets the cold and all his cares.
Far different our December joy
In the long heathy grass to muse,
Until our ravished soul we cloy,
Drinking the Noon's delicious hues.

A dreamy and reflective mood,
It gendereth our eyes to cast
Here on the Peasant's cabin rude,
There on the ReNcs of the Past,.
The antechamber and the hall,
Vaster than palaces—to lave
A Caesar's luxury, and the small,
Low niches where they Combed the slave.

Slowly a long, long sigh we fetch,
And turn away our saddened eyes
To where the Volscian mountains stretch,
Like violets budding in the skies.

To where the nearer Sabine hills
Reflect the Amethystine ray,
And Alba with red life-blood fills -
At the last kisses of the Day. •
This man changed never—cannot change,
The wolf-nursed Twins beheld it too,
In their" fierce eyes yon mountain range
Wore the same rich exhaustless hue.

Trampled beneath the victor's hoof,
No widow-weeds can Rome assume,
Her raiment must be sunbeam woof,
Her cheek bath everlasting bloom:
Girdled she is with cestus rare,
That must bewitch us through all time,
Through all her misery and despair,
Meet for the canvas and the rhyme!
The traditions of Tuscany selected by Mrs. Ogilvy
are the eventful history of "Bianca Cappello," ar-
ranged in a dramatic form, and described with con-
siderable power; the often•told tale of "Madonna
Pia," the victim of the Maremma ; " Camilla Mar-
telli ;" the jealous artist, "Andrea dal Castagno ;"
" Ginevra Degli Anieri," and some others. Some
passages from this last story afford a felicitous spe-
cimen of Mrs. Ogilvy's abilities as a ballad-writer :--
And at this her memory starting,
Told what did her trance precede,
How they wedded her repugnant,
And protesting 'gainst the deed.

How her spirits ebbed with anguish
Till the tide of life ran dry,
Till the sleepless nights of weeping
Drained the moisture from her eye.

How she stood before the altar
Stunßed through every priestly prayer,
Till the kiss of marriage slew her
As the climax of despair.

More returned not, sate this waking
Cold, deserted on her bier,
Friends and Bridegroom all forsaking
In their selfishness of fear.

" I will up and seek some dwelling,"
With affrighted sigh she said;
" E'en my Husband's loveless bosom
Will seem warmer than these Dead."
Slow she reared her on her elbow
Gasped an Ave in her need
To the saintly-brewed Madonna,
Saying, " Mary, bid me speed!"
O'er her naked feet she gathered
Her robe's amplitude of fold,
On her brows the bridal chaplet
Did her raven braids uphold.

White and shining as New Salem
Moving down to meet the Lamb,
In the stream of holy moonlight,
Visionary fair she swain.

Cold the pavement to the pressing
Of her small feet, bare of shoon,
Al]! but colder was the welcome
That repelled her all too soon !
In the deep and starry silence
She bath found her husband's gate,
On the outer threshold pausing
Suddenly, afraid of Fate!
The poetic legends are prefixed with brief expla-
nations of some of the historical events to which they
relate. The most remarkable is the following, a
striking instance of the evanescence of popular
favour :