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Who, then, unclouded bliss would seek

On this terrestrial sphere; When e'en Delight can only speak,

Like Sorrow-in a tear?

"Al furor d'avversa Sorte."

HE shall not dread Misfortune's angry mien,
Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude,
Whose soul hath learn'd, through many a trying


To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued.

In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms, Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art: Thus Fate's dread ire, by many a conflict, forms The lofty spirit and enduring heart!

"Che speri, instabil Dea, di sassi e spine."

FORTUNE! why thus, where'er my footsteps tread, Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these?

Think'st thou that I thy threatening mien shall dread,

Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize?
Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude,
For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway!
My constant soul should triumph unsubdued,
Were the wide universe destruction's prey.
Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried?
No! I have long thine utmost power defied,

And drawn fresh energies from every fight. Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel, With each successive shock the temper'd steel More keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright.

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ITALIA! O Italia! thou, so graced

With ill-starr'd beauty, which to thee hath been A dower whose fatal splendour may be traced In the deep-graven sorrows of thy mien ; Oh that more strength, or fewer charms were thine! That those might fear thee more, or love thee less, Who seem to worship at thy radiant shrine,

Then pierce thee with the death-pang's bitterness!

Not then would foreign hosts have drain'd the tide Of that Eridanus thy blood hath dyed:

Nor from the Alps would legions, still renew'd, Pour down; nor wouldst thou wield an alien brand, And fight thy battles with the stranger's hand, Still, still a slave, victorious or subdued!


"Estese el cortesano."

LET the vain courtier waste his days, Lured by the charms that wealth displays, The couch of down, the board of costly fare; Be his to kiss th' ungrateful hand That waves the sceptre of command, And rear full many a palace in the air; Whilst I enjoy, all unconfined, The glowing sun, the genial wind, And tranquil hours, to rustic toil assign'd; And prize far more, in peace and health, Contented indigence than joyless wealth.

Not mine in Fortune's fane to bend,
At Grandeur's altar to attend,
Reflect his smile, and tremble at his frown;
Nor mine a fond aspiring thought,

A wish, a sigh, a vision, fraught

With Fame's bright phantom, Glory's deathless crown!

Nectareous draughts and viands pure Luxuriant nature will insure; These the clear fount and fertile field Still to the wearied shepherd yield; And when repose and visions reign, Then we are equals all, the monarch and the swain.


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Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way,
How many a fountain glitters down the hill!
Pure gales, inviting, softly round thee play,
Bright sunshine guides-and wilt thou linger still?
Oh! enter there, where, freed from human strife,
Hope is reality, and time is life.



"Questi palazzi, e queste logge or colte."

THESE marble domes, by wealth and genius graced, With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian stone,

Were once rude cabins midst a lonely waste,

Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. Pure from each vice, 'twas here a venturous train Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea; Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign,

They sought these island precincts-to be free. Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose, No dream of avarice broke their calm repose; Fraud, more than death, abhorr'd each artless breast:

Oh! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day, Let not those virtues languish and decay,

O'erwhelm'd by luxury, and by wealth opprest!


"L'anima bella, che dal vero Eliso."

THE sainted spirit which, from bliss on high, Descends like dayspring to my favour'd sight, Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky,

Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright! But with the sweetness of her well-known smile, That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart, And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, And heaven's full glory pictures to my heart. Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold, And now, e'en now, in thought my wings unfold, To soar with her, and mingle with the blest! But ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, That I, in vain aspiring to the skies,

Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds




"Buscas en Roma á Roma, o peregrino!"

AMIDST these scenes, O pilgrim ! seek'st thou Rome?

Vain is thy search-the pomp of Rome is fled; Her silent Aventine is glory's tomb;

Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. That hill, where Cæsars dwelt in other days, Forsaken mourns, where once it tower'd sublime; Each mouldering medal now far less displays

The triumphs won by Latium than by Time. Tiber alone survives-the passing wave That bathed her towers now murmurs by her grave,

Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes. Rome! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, That seem'd for years eternal framed to last: Nought but the wave-a fugitive, remains.


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"Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos.' THOU, who hast fled from life's enchanted bowers, In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glowing morn, Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers, For the rude convent-garb and couch of thorn; Thou that, escaping from a world of cares,

Hast found thy haven in devotion's fane, As to the port the fearful bark repairs

To shun the midnight perils of the mainNow the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour, While on thy soul the beams of glory rise! For if the pilot hail the welcome shore

With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies, Oh! how shouldst thou the exulting paan raise, Now heaven's bright harbour opens on thy gaze i


"Negli anni acerbi tuoi, purpurea rosa.' THOU in thy morn wert like a glowing rose To the mild sunshine only half display'd, That shunn'd its bashful graces to disclose, And in its veil of verdure sought a shade:

Or like Aurora did thy charms appear,

(Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught so bright,)

Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere,

O'er vale and mountain shedding dew and light. Now riper years have doom'd no grace to fade; Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array'd, Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour, More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm.


"Quest' ombra che giammai non vide il sole."

THIS green recess, where through the bowery gloom Ne'er, e'en at noontide hours, the sunbeam play'd,

Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom

Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade; Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals, Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows, No more its bed of yellow sand conceals

Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose; This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, God of soft slumbers and of visions fair!

A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee! Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close, Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops never free.

"Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde."

IF to the sighing breeze of summer hours

Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird; Or from some fount's cool margin, fringed with flowers,

The soothing murmur of the wave is heard; Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, I see and hear: though dwelling far above, Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs,

Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. "Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day," (Her gentle accents thus benignly say,)

"While from thine eyes the tear unceasing


Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light Whose eyes but open'd, when they seem'd to close!"


"O Muerte! que sueles ser."

THOU, the stern monarch of dismay, Whom nature trembles to survey, O Death! to me, the child of grief, Thy welcome power would bring relief, Changing to peaceful slumber many a care. And though thy stroke may thrill with pain Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein; The pangs that bid existence close,

Ah! sure are far less keen than those Which cloud its lingering moments with despair,


"Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura."

THOU that wouldst mark, in form of human birth,
All heaven and nature's perfect skill combined,
Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth,
Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind :
And haste! for Death, who spares the guilty long,
First calls the brightest and the best away;
And to her home, amidst the cherub throng,
The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay!
Haste! and each outward charm, each mental grace,
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace,
Model of loveliness, for earth too fair!
Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays,
My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze:

But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare.


"O Zefiretto, che movendo vai."

SYLPH of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light
Wave gently round the tree I planted here,
Sacred to her whose soul hath wing'd its flight
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere;
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale!

To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour; Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail

To rend its honours from the sylvan bower. Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form, Pride of the wood, secure from every storm,

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