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C'est pour ce bonheur légitime
Que le modeste Abdolonyme
N'acceptoit qu'à regret le sceptre de Sidon:
Plus libre dans un sort champêtre.
Et plus heureux qu'il ne scût l'être
Sur le trône éclatant des ayeux de Didon.

C'est pas ces vertus pacifiques,
Par ces plaisirs philosophiques,

Que tu scais, cher R***, remplir d'utiles jours,
Dans ce Tivoli solitaire,

Où le Cher de son onde claire

Vient à l'aimable Loire associer le cours.

Fidèle à ce sage sistême,

Là, dans l'étude de toi-même,

Chaque soleil te voit occupertes loisirs;

Dans le brillant fracas du monde,

Ton nom, ta probité profonde

Content with all a farm woul. j.cm,
Thus Sidon's monarch liv'd unknown,
And sigh'd to leave his little field,

For the long glories of a throne-
There once more happy and more free,
Than rank'd with Dido's ancestry.
With these pacific virtues blest,

These charms of philosophic ease, Wrapt in your Richmond's tranquil rest, You pass, dear C, your useful days, Where Thames your silent vallies laves, Proud of his yet untainted waves. Should life's more public scenes engage

Your time that thus consistent flows, And following still these maxims sage For ever brings the same repose; Your worth may greater fame procure,

T'eut donné plus d'éclat, mais moins de vrais But hope not happiness so pure.

plaisirs.

SONETTO CLXXIX.

IN nobil sangue vita umile e queta,
Ed in alto intelletto un puro core;
Frutto senile in sul giovenil fiori,
E'n aspetto pensoso anima lieta,
Raccolto ha 'n quessa donna 'l suo pianeta,
Anzi'l re delle stelle; e'l vero onore,
Le degne lode, e 'l gran pregio, e 'l valore,
Ch'è da stancar ogni divin poeta.
Amor s'è in lei con onestate aggiunto ;
Con beltà naturale abito adorno;
Ed un atto, che parla con silenzio ;
E non so, che negli occhi, che 'n un punto
Può far chiara la notte, oscuro il giorno,
E'l mel amaro, ed addolcir l'assenzio.

TRANSLATIONS FROM PETRARCH.

1765.

SONNET CLXXIX.

THо' nobly born, to humble life resign'd;
The purest heart, the most enlighten'd mind;
A vernal flower that bears the fruits of age!
A cheerful spirit, with an aspect sage,-
The power that rules the planetary train
To her has given, nor shall his gifts be vain.
But on her worth, her various praise to dwell,
The truth, the merits of her life to tell,
The Muse herself would own the task too hard,
Too great the labour for the happiest bard.
Dress that derives from native beauty grace,
And love that holds with honesty his place;
Action that speaks-and eyes whose piercing ray
Might kindle darkness, or obscure the day!

*

SONETTO CCLXXIX.

ROTTA è l' alta colonna, e 'l verde lauro, Che facean ombra al mio stanco pensero: Perdut' ho quel, che ritrovar non spero

SONNET CCLXXIX.

FALL'N the fair column, blasted is the bay,
That shaded once my solitary shore!
I've lost what hope can never give me more.

Dal Borea all' Austro, O dal Mar Indo al Tho' sought from Indus to the closing day.

Mauro,

Tolto m'hai, morte, il mio doppio tesauro,
Che mi fea viver lieto, e gire altero;
E ristorar nol può terra, nè impero,
Nè gemma oriental, nè forza d'auro,
Ma se consentimento è di destino;

Che poss' io più, se no aver l' alma trista;
Umidi gli occhi sempre, e 'l viso chino?

O nostra vita, ch' é si bella in vista;

Com' per de agevolmente in un mattino
Quel, che 'n molt' anni a gran pena s'aquista!

SONETTO CCLVII.

Ov'è la fronte' che con picciol cenno
Volgea'l mio core in questa parte, e' n quella?
Ov'è'l bel ciglio, e l' una, e l'altra stella
Ch' al corso di mia viver lume demo?

My twofold treasure death has snatch'd away, My pride, my pleasure left me to deplore; What fields far-cultur'd, nor imperial sway, Nor orient gold, nor jewels can restore.

O destiny severe of human kind!

What portion have we unbedew'd with tears! The downcast visage, and the pensive mind Thro' the thin veil of smiling life appears; And in one moment vanish into wind The hard-earn'd fruits of long, laborious years.

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Ov'è 'l valor, la conoscenza, e 'l senno,

L'accorta, onesta, umil, dolce favella?
Ove son le bellezze accolte in ella,
Che gran tempo di me lor voglio fenno?
Ov'è l'ombra gentil del viso humano;

Ch' ora e riposo dava all' alma stanca,
E là, 've i miei pensier scritti eran tutti ?
Ov' e' colei, che mia vita ebbe in mano ?

Quanto al misero mondo, e quanto manca
A gli occhi miei! che mai non sieno asciutti.

SONETTO CCXXXVIII.
Sx lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde
Mover soavemente all aura estiva,
O roco mormorar di lucid' onde
S'ode d' una fiorita e fresca riva;
Là, v''io seggia d' amor pensoso, e scriva;

Lei che'l ciel ne mostrò, terra n' asconde,
Veggio, ed odo, ed intendo: ch' ancor viva
Di sì lontano a' sospir miei risponde.
Deh, perchè innanzi tempo ti consume?

Mi dice con pietate : 66 a che pur versi Degli occhi tristi un doloroso fiume? Di me non pianger tu, che miei dè fersi, Morendo, eterni, e nell 'eterno lume, Quando mostrai pi chiuder gli occhi apersi."

Where are that science, sense and worth confest,
That speech by virtue, by the graces drest?
Where are those beauties, where those charms
combin'd,

That caus'd this long captivity of mind!
Where the dear shade of all that once was fair,
The source, the solace of each amorous care;
My heart's sole sovereign, Nature's only boast?
-Lost to the world, to me for ever lost!

SONNET CCXXXVIII.

WAIL'D the Sweet warbler to the lonely shade;
Trembled the green leaf to the summer gale;
Fell the fair stream in murmurs down the dale,
Its banks, its flow'ry banks with verdure spread,
Where, by the charm of pensive Fancy led,
All as I fram'd the love-lamenting tale,

Came the dear object whom I still bewail, Came from the regions of the cheerless dead: "And why," she cried, "untimely wilt thou

die?

Ah why, for pity, shall those mournful tears, Start in wild sorrow from that languid eye? Cherish no more those visionary fears,

For me, who range yon light-invested sky! For me, who triumph in eternal years!"

MILTON'S

ITALIAN POEMS TRANSLATED,

AND ADDRESSED TO A GENTLEMAN OF ITALY.

ADDRESS TO SIGNOR MOZZI,

OF MACERATA.

To thee, the child of classic plains,

The happier hand of Nature gave Each grace of Fancy's finer strains,

Each Muse that mourn'd o'er Maro's grave. Nor yet the harp that Horace strung

With many a charm of easy art ;
Not yet what sweet Tibullus sung,
When Beauty bound him to her heart;
Nor all that gentle Provence knew,

Where each breeze bore a lover's sigh,
When Petrarch's sweet persuasion drew
The tender woe from Laura's eye;
Nor aught that nobler Science seeks,
What truth, what virtue must avoid,
Nor aught the voice of Nature speaks,
To thee unknown, or unenjoy'd?
O wise beyond each weaker aim,

That weds the soul to this low sphere,
Fond to indulge the feeble frame,

That holds awhile her prisoner here!
Trust me, my friend, that soul survives,
(If e'er had Muse prophetic skill)
And when the fated hour arrives,
That all her faculties shall fill,

1776 p.

Fit for some nobler frame she flies,
Afar to find a second birth,
And, flourishing in fairer skies,
Forsakes her nursery of Earth.
Oh! there, my Mozzi, to behold

The man that mourn'd his country's wrong,
When the poor exile left his fold,

And feebly dragg'd his goat along!!
On Plato's hallow'd breast to lean,
And catch that ray of heavenly fire,
Which smooth'd a tyrant's sullen mien,
And bade the cruel thought retire!
Amid those fairy-fields to dwell

Where Tasso's favour'd spirit saw
What numbers none but his could tell,
What pencils none but his could draw!
And oft at eve, if eve can be

Beneath the source of glory's smile, To range Elysian groves, and see

That nightly visitantere while, Who, when he left immortal choirs, To mix with Milton's kindred soul, The labours of their golden lyres Would steal, and "whisper whence he stole."

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Ausonian bard, from my fond ear

By seas and mountains sever'd long,
If, chance, these humble strains to hear,
You leave your more melodious song,
Whether, adventurous, you explore
The wilds of Apenninus' brow,
Or musing near Loretto's 2 shore,
Smile piteous on the pilgrim's vow;
The Muse's gentle offering still

Your ear shall win, your love shall woo,
And these spring-flowers of Milton fill
The favour'd vales where first they grew.
For me, depriv'd of all that's dear,

Each fair, fond partner of my life, Left with a lonely oar to steer,

-Thro' the rude storms of mortal strife ;When Care, the felon of my days,

Expands his cold and gloomy wing, His load when strong affliction lays On hope, the heart's elastic spring: For me what solace yet remains,

Save the sweet Muse's tender lyre;
Sooth'd by the magic of her strains,

If, chance, the felon Care, retire?
Save the sweet Muse's tender lyre,
For me no solace now remains!
Yet shall the felon, Care, retire;
Sooth'd by the magic of her strains.

Blagdon-House,

June 26, 1776.

SON. I.

O LADY fair, whose honour'd name is borne By that soft vale where Rhyne so loves to stray,

And sees the tall arch crown his wat'ry way! Sure, happy he, tho' much the Muse's scorn, Too dull to die beneath thy beauty's ray, Who never felt that spirit's charmed sway, Which gentle smiles, and gentle deeds adorn, Tho' in those smiles are all love's arrows worn, Each radiant virtue tho' those deeds display! Sure, happy he who that sweet voice should hear Mould the soft speech, or swell the tuneful strain, [vain, And, conscious that his humble vows were Shut fond attention from his closed ear;

Who, piteous of himself, should timely part, Ere love had held long empire in his heart!

SON. II.

As o'er yon wild hill, when the browner light
Of evening falls, the village maiden hies
To foster some fair plant with kind supplies,
Some stranger plant, that, yet in tender plight,
But feebly buds, ere Spring has open'd quite
The soft affections of serener skies:
So I, with such like gentle thought devise

2 Within a few miles of Macerata.

This stranger tongue to cultivate with care,
All for the sake of lovely lady fair,

And tune my lays in language little try'd
By such as wont to Tamis' banks repair,
Tamis' forsook for Arno's flow'ry side,
So wrought Love's will that ever ruleth wide!.

SON. III.

CHARLES, must I say, what strange it seems to say,

This rebel heart that Love hath held as naught, Or, haply, in his cuuning mazes caught, Would laugh, and let his captive steal away; This simple heart hath now become his prey.

Yet hath no golden tress this lesson taught, Nor vermeil cheek that shames the rising day : Oh! no-'twas Beauty's most celestial ray,

With charms divine of sov'reign sweetness fraught!

The noble mien, the soul-dissolving air,

The bright arch bending o'er the lucid eye, The voice that, breathing melody so rare,

Might lead the toil'd Moon from the middle sky! Charles, when such mischief arm'd this foreign fair,

Small chance had I to hope this simple heart should fly.

SON. IV.

In truth I feel my sun in those fair eyes,
So strongly strike they, like that powerful ray,
Which falls with all the violence of day
On Lybia's sands-and oft, as there, arise
Hot wasting vapours from the source where lies
My secret pain; yet, haply, those may say,
Who talk love's language, these are only sighs,
That the soft ardours of the soul betray'.

SON. V.

Ax artless youth, who, simple in his love,
Seem'd little hopeful from his heart to fly,
To thee that heart, O lady, nor deny
The votive gift, he brings; since that shall prove
All change and fear and falsity above,

Of manners that to gentle deeds comply, And courteous will, that never asketh why; Yet mild, as is the never wrathful dove,

Firmness it hath, and fortitude to bear The wrecks of nature, or the wrongs of fate,

From envy far, and low-designing care, And hopes and fears that vulgar minds await, With the sweet Muse, and sounding lyre elate, And only weak, when love had entrance there.

The concetti of the Italian in the conclusion of this Sonnet were so obstinate, that it seemed scarce possible to reduce them into any reputable form of translation. Such trifling liberties as the translator shall appear to have taken with these poems, must be imputed to a desire of getting over blemishes of the same kind

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Thy lays of love adventurous to recite In unknown numbers and a foreign tongue? Shepherd,if Hope hath ever wrought thee wrong, Afar from her and Fancy's fairy light

Retire"-So they to sport with me delight; And "other shores," they say, "and other streams Thy presence wait; and sweetest flowers that blow,

Their ripening blooms reserve for thy fair brow, Where glory soon shall bear her brightest beams:" Thus they, and yet their soothing little seems;

If she, for whom I breathe the tender vow, Sing the soft lays, and ask the mutual song, This is thy language, Love, and I to thee belong!

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. LESBIA, live to love and pleasure, Careless what the grave may say: When each moment is a treasure, Why should lovers lose a day? Setting suns shall rise in glory,

But when little life is o'er, There's an end of all the story:

We shall sleep; and wake no more. Give me then a thousand kisses,

Twice ten thousand more bestow, Till the sum of boundless blisses Neither we nor envy know.

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