« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
AN ODE OF PETRARCH,
To the Fountain of Valchiusa.
[SIR W. JONES.]
YE clear and sparkling streams! (Warm'd by the sunny beams,) Through whose transparent crystal Laura play'd; Ye boughs, that deck the grove, Where Spring her chaplets wove, While Laura lay beneath the quivering shade; Sweet herbs! and blushing flowers!
That crown yon vernal bowers,
For ever fatal, yet for ever dear;
And ye, that heard my sighs
If heaven has fix'd
That Love must quite consume
My bursting heart, and close my eyes in death;
Ah! grant this slight request,
That, here, my urn may rest,
When to its mansion flies my vital breath.
This pleasing hope will smooth My anxious mind, and sooth The pangs of that inevitable hour:
My spirit will not grieve
Her mortal veil to leave
In these calm shades, and this enchanting bow'r. Haply the guilty maid
Through yon accustom'd glade
sad tomb will take her lonely way;
O'erpower'd my dazzled sight,
When Love on this fair border bade me stray:
Her true, but hapless lover's lowly bier;
Shall melt the pitying skies,
And her soft veil shall hide the gushing tear.
When on yon bank she lay,
Meek in her pride, and in her rigour mild;
Falling in fragrant showers,
Shone on her neck, and on her bosom smil'd :
Some in her locks were strung,
Like orient gems in rings of flaming gold;
Some, in a spicy cloud
Descending, call'd aloud,
Here Love and Youth the reins of empire hold.'
I view'd the heavenly maid:
And, rapt in wonder, said,
The groves of Eden gave this angel birth;'
Her look, her voice, her smile,
That might all heaven beguile, Wafted my soul above the realms of earth: The star-bespangled skies
Were open'd to my eyes;
Sighing I said, Whence rose this glittering scene?" Since that auspicious hour,
This bank, and odorous bower,
My morning couch, and evening haunt, have been. Well mayst thou blush, my song,
To leave the rural throng,
And fly thus artless to my Laura's ear;
But, were thy poet's fire
Ardent as his desire,
Thou wert a song that heaven might stoop to hear.
ELEGY FROM PETRARCH.
In this fair season, when the whispering gales
No mirth enlivens, and no beauty cheers:
The birds that warble, and the flowers that bloom, Relieve no more this solitary gloom.
I see where late the verdant meadow smil'd,
A joyless desert, and a dreary wild:
For those dear eyes, that pierc'd my heart before,
Ah, death! thy hand has crop'd the fairest flower,
Hard fate of man, on whom the heavens bestow A drop of pleasure for a sea of wo!
Ah, life of care, in fears or hopes consum'd,
Grows dark with fate, and mars the toil of years!
Not far remov'd, yet hid from distant eyes,
Steep arching rocks, with verdant moss o'ergrown,
Yet, when the waking flowers of April blow,