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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
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: "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,

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,

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!

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MILTON'S

ITALIAN POEMS TRANSLATED,

AND ADDRESSED TO A GENTLEMAN OF ITALY.

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

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."

1 Hanc etiam vix Tityre duco.

VIRG

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 Musc'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 cunning 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

CANZON.

GAY youths and frolic damsels round me throng,
And smiling say, "Why, shepherd, wilt thou

write

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

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.

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:"Till the sum of boundless blisses
Thus they, and yet their soothing little seems; Neither we nor envy know.
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!

Give me then a thousand kisses,
Twice ten thousand more bestow,

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