The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch

MADRIGALE IV

Or vedi, Amor, che giovinetta donnaA PRAYER TO LOVE THAT HE WILL TAKE VENGEANCE ON THE SCORNFUL PRIDE OF LAURANow, Love, at length behold a youthful fair,Who spurns thy rule, and, mocking all my care,'Mid two such foes, is safe and fancy free.Thou art well arm'd, 'mid flowers and verdure she,In simplest robe and natural tresses found,Against thee haughty still and harsh to me;I am thy thrall: but, if thy bow be sound,If yet one shaft be thine, in pity, takeVengeance upon her for our common sake.Macgregor.

SONNET XCVI

Quelle pietose rime, in ch' io m' accorsiTO ANTONIO OF FERRARA, WHO, IN A POEM, HAD LAMENTED PETRARCH'S SUPPOSED DEATHThose pious lines wherein are finely metProofs of high genius and a spirit kind,Had so much influence on my grateful mindThat instantly in hand my pen I setTo tell you that death's final blow—which yetShall me and every mortal surely find—I have not felt, though I, too, nearly join'dThe confines of his realm without regret;But I turn'd back again because I readWrit o'er the threshold that the time to meOf life predestinate not all was fled,Though its last day and hour I could not see.Then once more let your sad heart comfort know,And love the living worth which dead it honour'd so.Macgregor.

SONNET XCVII

Dicesett' anni ha già rivolto il cieloE'EN IN OUR ASHES LIVE OUR WONTED FIRESThe seventeenth summer now, alas! is gone,And still with ardour unconsumed I glow;Yet find, whene'er myself I seek to know,Amidst the fire a frosty chill come on.Truly 'tis said, 'Ere Habit quits her throne,Years bleach the hair.' The senses feel life's snow,But not less hot the tides of passion flow:Such is our earthly nature's malison!Oh! come the happy day, when doom'd to smartNo more, from flames and lingering sorrows free,Calm I may note how fast youth's minutes flew!Ah! will it e'er be mine the hour to see,When with delight, nor duty nor my heartCan blame, these eyes once more that angel face may view?Wrangham.
For seventeen summers heaven has o'er me roll'dSince first I burn'd, nor e'er found respite thence,But when to weigh our state my thoughts commenceI feel amidst the flames a frosty cold.We change the form, not nature, is an oldAnd truthful proverb: thus, to dull the senseMakes not the human feelings less intense;The dark shades of our painful veil still hold.Alas! alas! will e'er that day appearWhen, my life's flight beholding, I may findIssue from endless fire and lingering pain,—The day which, crowning all my wishes here,Of that fair face the angel air and kindShall to my longing eyes restore again?Macgregor.

SONNET XCVIII

Quel vago impallidir che 'l dolce risoLEAVE-TAKINGThat witching paleness, which with cloud of loveVeil'd her sweet smile, majestically bright,So thrill'd my heart, that from the bosom's nightMidway to meet it on her face it strove.Then learnt I how, 'mid realms of joy above,The blest behold the blest: in such pure lightI scann'd her tender thought, to others' sightViewless!—but my fond glances would not rove.Each angel grace, each lowly courtesy,E'er traced in dame by Love's soft power inspired,Would seem but foils to those which prompt my lay:Upon the ground was cast her gentle eye,And still methought, though silent, she inquired,"What bears my faithful friend so soon, so far away?"Wrangham.
There was a touching paleness on her face,Which chased her smiles, but such sweet union madeOf pensive majesty and heavenly grace,As if a passing cloud had veil'd her with its shade;Then knew I how the blessed ones aboveGaze on each other in their perfect bliss,For never yet was look of mortal loveSo pure, so tender, so serene as this.The softest glance fond woman ever sentTo him she loved, would cold and rayless beCompared to this, which she divinely bentEarthward, with angel sympathy, on me,That seem'd with speechless tenderness to say,"Who takes from me my faithful friend away?"E. (New Monthly Magazine.)

SONNET XCIX

Amor, Fortuna, e la mia mente schivaTHE CAUSES OF HIS WOELove, Fortune, and my melancholy mind,Sick of the present, lingering on the past,Afflict me so, that envious thoughts I castOn those who life's dark shore have left behind.Love racks my bosom: Fortune's wintry windKills every comfort: my weak mind at lastIs chafed and pines, so many ills and vastExpose its peace to constant strifes unkind.Nor hope I better days shall turn again;But what is left from bad to worse may pass:For ah! already life is on the wane.Not now of adamant, but frail as glass,I see my best hopes fall from me or fade,And low in dust my fond thoughts broken laid.Macgregor.
Love, Fortune, and my ever-faithful mind,Which loathes the present in its memoried past,So wound my spirit, that on all I castAn envied thought who rest in darkness find.My heart Love prostrates, Fortune more unkindNo comfort grants, until its sorrow vastImpotent frets, then melts to tears at last:Thus I to painful warfare am consign'd.My halcyon days I hope not to return,But paint my future by a darker tint;My spring is gone—my summer well-nigh fled:Ah! wretched me! too well do I discernEach hope is now (unlike the diamond flint)A fragile mirror, with its fragments shed.Wollaston.

CANZONE XIII

Se 'l pensier che mi struggeHE SEEKS IN VAIN TO MITIGATE HIS WOEOh! that my cheeks were taughtBy the fond, wasting thoughtTo wear such hues as could its influence speak;Then the dear, scornful fairMight all my ardour share;And where Love slumbers now he might awake!Less oft the hill and meadMy wearied feet should tread;Less oft, perhaps, these eyes with tears should stream;If she, who cold as snow,With equal fire would glow—She who dissolves me, and converts to flame.Since Love exerts his sway,And bears my sense away,I chant uncouth and inharmonious songs:Nor leaves, nor blossoms show,Nor rind, upon the bough,What is the nature that thereto belongs.Love, and those beauteous eyes,Beneath whose shade he lies,Discover all the heart can comprehend:When vented are my caresIn loud complaints, and tears;These harm myself, and others those offend.Sweet lays of sportive vein,Which help'd me to sustainLove's first assault, the only arms I bore;This flinty breast say whoShall once again subdue,That I with song may soothe me as before?Some power appears to traceWithin me Laura's face,Whispers her name; and straight in verse I striveTo picture her again,But the fond effort's vain:Me of my solace thus doth Fate deprive.E'en as some babe untiesIts tongue in stammering guise,Who cannot speak, yet will not silence keep:So fond words I essay;And listen'd be the layBy my fair foe, ere in the tomb I sleep!But if, of beauty vain,She treats me with disdain;Do thou, O verdant shore, attend my sighs:Let them so freely flow,That all the world may know,My sorrow thou at least didst not despise!And well art thou aware,That never foot so fairThe soil e'er press'd as that which trod thee late;My sunk soul and worn heartNow seek thee, to impartThe secret griefs that on my passion wait.If on thy margent green,Or 'midst thy flowers, were seenSome traces of her footsteps lingering there.My wearied life 'twould cheer,Bitter'd with many a tear:Ah! now what means are left to soothe my care?Where'er I bend mine eye,What sweet serenityI feel, to think here Laura shone of yore.Each plant and scented bloomI gather, seems to comeFrom where she wander'd on the custom'd shore:Ofttimes in this retreatA fresh and fragrant seatShe found; at least so fancy's vision shows:And never let truth seekTh' illusion dear to break—O spirit blest, from whom such magic flows!To thee, my simple song,No polish doth belong;Thyself art conscious of thy little worth!Solicit not renownThroughout the busy town,But dwell within the shade that gave thee birth.Nott.

CANZONE XIV

Chiare, fresche e dolci acqueTO THE FOUNTAIN OF VAUOLUSE—CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATHYe limpid brooks, by whose clear streamsMy goddess laid her tender limbs!Ye gentle boughs, whose friendly shadeGave shelter to the lovely maid!Ye herbs and flowers, so sweetly press'dBy her soft rising snowy breast!Ye Zephyrs mild, that breathed aroundThe place where Love my heart did wound!Now at my summons all appear,And to my dying words give ear.If then my destiny requires,And Heaven with my fate conspires,That Love these eyes should weeping close,Here let me find a soft repose.So Death will less my soul affright,And, free from dread, my weary sprightNaked alone will dare t' essayThe still unknown, though beaten way;Pleased that her mortal part will haveSo safe a port, so sweet a grave.The cruel fair, for whom I burn,May one day to these shades return,And smiling with superior grace,Her lover seek around this place,And when instead of me she findsSome crumbling dust toss'd by the winds,She may feel pity in her breast,And, sighing, wish me happy rest,Drying her eyes with her soft veil,Such tears must sure with Heaven prevail.Well I remember how the flowersDescended from these boughs in showers,Encircled in the fragrant cloudShe set, nor midst such glory proud.These blossoms to her lap repair,These fall upon her flowing hair,(Like pearls enchased in gold they seem,)These on the ground, these on the stream;In giddy rounds these dancing say,Here Love and Laura only sway.In rapturous wonder oft I said,Sure she in Paradise was made,Thence sprang that bright angelic state,Those looks, those words, that heavenly gait,That beauteous smile, that voice divine,Those graces that around her shine:Transported I beheld the fair,And sighing cried, How came I here?In heaven, amongst th' immortal blest,Here let me fix and ever rest.Molesworth.
Ye waters clear and fresh, to whose blight waveShe all her beauties gave,—Sole of her sex in my impassion'd mind!Thou sacred branch so graced,(With sighs e'en now retraced!)On whose smooth shaft her heavenly form reclined!Herbage and flowers that bent the robe beneath,Whose graceful folds compress'dHer pure angelic breast!Ye airs serene, that breatheWhere Love first taught me in her eyes his lore!Yet once more all attest,The last sad plaintive lay my woe-worn heart may pour!If so I must my destiny fulfil,And Love to close these weeping eyes be doom'dBy Heaven's mysterious will,Oh! grant that in this loved retreat, entomb'd,My poor remains may lie,And my freed soul regain its native sky!Less rude shall Death appear,If yet a hope so dearSmooth the dread passage to eternity!No shade so calm—serene,My weary spirit finds on earth below;No grave so still—so green,In which my o'ertoil'd frame may rest from mortal woe!Yet one day, haply, she—so heavenly fair!So kind in cruelty!—With careless steps may to these haunts repair,And where her beaming eyeMet mine in days so blest,A wistful glance may yet unconscious rest,And seeking me around,May mark among the stones a lowly mound,That speaks of pity to the shuddering sense!Then may she breathe a sigh,Of power to win me mercy from above!Doing Heaven violence,All-beautiful in tears of late relenting love!Still dear to memory! when, in odorous showers,Scattering their balmy flowers,To summer airs th' o'ershadowing branches bow'd,The while, with humble state,In all the pomp of tribute sweets she sate,Wrapt in the roseate cloud!Now clustering blossoms deck her vesture's hem,Now her bright tresses gem,—(In that all-blissful day,Like burnish'd gold with orient pearls inwrought,)Some strew the turf—some on the waters float!Some, fluttering, seem to sayIn wanton circlets toss'd, "Here Love holds sovereign sway!"Oft I exclaim'd, in awful tremor rapt,"Surely of heavenly birthThis gracious form that visits the low earth!"So in oblivion lapp'dWas reason's power, by the celestial mien,The brow,—the accents mild—The angelic smile serene!That now all sense of sad realityO'erborne by transport wild,—"Alas! how came I here, and when?" I cry,—Deeming my spirit pass'd into the sky!E'en though the illusion cease,In these dear haunts alone my tortured heart finds peace.If thou wert graced with numbers sweet, my song!To match thy wish to please;Leaving these rocks and trees,Thou boldly might'st go forth, and dare th' assembled throng.Dacre.
Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams,Which the fair shape, who seemsTo me sole woman, haunted at noon-tide;Fair bough, so gently fit,(I sigh to think of it,)Which lent a pillar to her lovely side;And turf, and flowers bright-eyed,O'er which her folded gownFlow'd like an angel's down;And you, O holy air and hush'd,Where first my heart at her sweet glances gush'd;Give ear, give ear, with one consenting,To my last words, my last and my lamenting.If 'tis my fate below,And Heaven will have it so,That Love must close these dying eyes in tears,May my poor dust be laidIn middle of your shade,While my soul, naked, mounts to its own spheres.The thought would calm my fears,When taking, out of breath,The doubtful step of death;For never could my spirit findA stiller port after the stormy wind;Nor in more calm, abstracted bourne,Slip from my travail'd flesh, and from my bones outworn.Perhaps, some future hour,To her accustom'd bowerMight come the untamed, and yet the gentle she;And where she saw me first,Might turn with eyes athirstAnd kinder joy to look again for me;Then, oh! the charity!Seeing amidst the stonesThe earth that held my bones,A sigh for very love at lastMight ask of Heaven to pardon me the past:And Heaven itself could not say nay,As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away.How well I call to mind,When from those boughs the windShook down upon her bosom flower on flower;And there she sat, meek-eyed,In midst of all that pride,Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous showerSome to her hair paid dower,And seem'd to dress the curls,Queenlike, with gold and pearls;Some, snowing, on her drapery stopp'd,Some on the earth, some on the water dropp'd;While others, fluttering from above,Seem'd wheeling round in pomp, and saying, "Here reigns Love."How often then I said,Inward, and fill'd with dread,"Doubtless this creature came from Paradise!"For at her look the while,Her voice, and her sweet smile,And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes;So that, with long-drawn sighs,I said, as far from men,"How came I here, and when?"I had forgotten; and alas!Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was;And from that time till this, I bearSuch love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere.Leigh Hunt.

CANZONE XV

In quella parte dov' Amor mi spronaHE FINDS HER IMAGE EVERYWHEREWhen Love, fond Love, commands the strain,The coyest muse must sure obey;Love bids my wounded breast complain,And whispers the melodious lay:Yet when such griefs restrain the muse's wing,How shall she dare to soar, or how attempt to sing?Oh! could my heart express its woe,How poor, how wretched should I seem!But as the plaintive accents flow,Soft comfort spreads her golden gleam;And each gay scene, that Nature holds to view,Bids Laura's absent charms to memory bloom anew.Though Fate's severe decrees removeHer gladsome beauties from my sight,Yet, urged by pity, friendly LoveBids fond reflection yield delight;If lavish spring with flowerets strews the mead,Her lavish beauties all to fancy are displayed!When to this globe the solar beamsTheir full meridian blaze impart,It pictures Laura, that inflamesWith passion's fires each human heart:And when the sun completes his daily race,I see her riper age complete each growing grace.When milder planets, warmer skiesO'er winter's frozen reign prevail;When groves are tinged with vernal dyes,And violets scent the wanton gale;Those flowers, the verdure, then recall that day,In which my Laura stole this heedless heart away.The blush of health, that crimson'd o'erHer youthful cheek; her modest mien;The gay-green garment that she wore,Have ever dear to memory been;More dear they grow as time the more inflamesThis tender breast o'ercome by passion's wild extremes!The sun, whose cheering lustre warmsThe bosom of yon snow-clad hill,Seems a just emblem of the charms,Whose power controls my vanquish'd will;When near, they gild with joy this frozen heart,Where ceaseless winter reigns, whene'er those charms depart.Yon sun, too, paints the locks of gold,That play around her face so fair—Her face which, oft as I behold,Prompts the soft sigh of amorous care!While Laura smiles, all-conscious of that loveWhich from this faithful breast no time can e'er remove.If to the transient storm of nightSucceeds a star-bespangled sky,And the clear rain-drops catch the light,Glittering on all the foliage nigh;Methinks her eyes I view, as on that dayWhen through the envious veil they shot their magic ray.With brightness making heaven more bright,As then they did, I see them now;I see them, when the morning lightPurples the misty mountain's brow:When day declines, and darkness spreads the pole;Methinks 'tis Laura flies, and sadness wraps my soul.In stately jars of burnish'd goldShould lilies spread their silvery pride,With fresh-blown roses that unfoldTheir leaves, in heaven's own crimson dyed;Then Laura's bloom I see, and sunny hairFlowing adown her neck than ivory whiter far.The flowerets brush'd by zephyr's wing,Waving their heads in frolic play,Oft to my fond remembrance bringThe happy spot, the happier day,In which, disporting with the gale, I view'dThose sweet unbraided locks, that all my heart subdued.Oh! could I count those orbs that shineNightly o'er yon ethereal plain,Or in some scanty vase confineEach drop that ocean's bounds contain,Then might I hope to fly from beauty's rays,Laura o'er flaming worlds can spread bright beauty's blaze.Should I all heaven, all earth explore,I still should lovely Laura find;Laura, whose beauties I adore,Is ever present to my mind:She's seen in all that strikes these partial eyes,And her dear name still dwells in all my tender sighs.But soft, my song,—not thine the powerTo paint that never-dying flame,Which gilds through life the gloomy hour,Which nurtures this love-wasted frame;For since with Laura dwells my wander'd heart,Cheer'd by that fostering flame, I brave Death's ebon dart.Anon 1777.

CANZONE XVI

Italia mia, benchè 'l parlar sia indarnoTO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREEO my own Italy! though words are vainThe mortal wounds to close,Unnumber'd, that thy beauteous bosom stain,Yet may it soothe my painTo sigh forth Tyber's woes,And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's sadden'd shoreSorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour.Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying loveThat could thy Godhead moveTo dwell a lowly sojourner on earth,Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye:See, God of Charity!From what light cause this cruel war has birth;And the hard hearts by savage discord steel'd,Thou, Father! from on high,Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield!Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confideOf this fair land the reins,—(This land for which no pity wrings your breast)—Why does the stranger's sword her plains invest?That her green fields be dyed,Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins?Beguiled by error weak,Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast,Who love, or faith, in venal bosoms seek:When throng'd your standards most,Ye are encompass'd most by hostile bands.O hideous deluge gather'd in strange lands,That rushing down amainO'erwhelms our every native lovely plain!Alas! if our own handsHave thus our weal betray'd, who shall our cause sustain?Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state,Rear her rude Alpine heights,A lofty rampart against German hate;But blind ambition, seeking his own ill,With ever restless will,To the pure gales contagion foul invites:Within the same strait foldThe gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng,Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong:And these,—oh, shame avow'd!—Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold:Fame tells how Marius' swordErewhile their bosoms gored,—Nor has Time's hand aught blurr'd the record proud!When they who, thirsting, stoop'd to quaff the flood,With the cool waters mix'd, drank of a comrade's blood!Great Cæsar's name I pass, who o'er our plainsPour'd forth the ensanguin'd tide,Drawn by our own good swords from out their veins;But now—nor know I what ill stars preside—Heaven holds this land in hate!To you the thanks!—whose hands control her helm!—You, whose rash feuds despoilOf all the beauteous earth the fairest realm!Are ye impell'd by judgment, crime, or fate,To oppress the desolate?From broken fortunes, and from humble toil,The hard-earn'd dole to wring,While from afar ye bringDealers in blood, bartering their souls for hire?In truth's great cause I sing.Nor hatred nor disdain my earnest lay inspire.Nor mark ye yet, confirm'd by proof on proof,Bavaria's perfidy,Who strikes in mockery, keeping death aloof?(Shame, worse than aught of loss, in honour's eye!)While ye, with honest rage, devoted pourYour inmost bosom's gore!—Yet give one hour to thought,And ye shall own, how little he can holdAnother's glory dear, who sets his own at noughtO Latin blood of old!Arise, and wrest from obloquy thy fame,Nor bow before a nameOf hollow sound, whose power no laws enforce!For if barbarians rudeHave higher minds subdued,Ours! ours the crime!—not such wise Nature's course.Ah! is not this the soil my foot first press'd?And here, in cradled rest,Was I not softly hush'd?—here fondly rear'd?Ah! is not this my country?—so endear'dBy every filial tie!In whose lap shrouded both my parents lie!Oh! by this tender thought,Your torpid bosoms to compassion wrought,Look on the people's grief!Who, after God, of you expect relief;And if ye but relent,Virtue shall rouse her in embattled might,Against blind fury bent,Nor long shall doubtful hang the unequal fight;For no,—the ancient flameIs not extinguish'd yet, that raised the Italian name!Mark, sovereign Lords! how Time, with pinion strong,Swift hurries life along!E'en now, behold! Death presses on the rear.We sojourn here a day—the next, are gone!The soul disrobed—alone,Must shuddering seek the doubtful pass we fear.Oh! at the dreaded bourne,Abase the lofty brow of wrath and scorn,(Storms adverse to the eternal calm on high!)And ye, whose crueltyHas sought another's harm, by fairer deedOf heart, or hand, or intellect, aspireTo win the honest meedOf just renown—the noble mind's desire!Thus sweet on earth the stay!Thus to the spirit pure, unbarr'd is Heaven's way!My song! with courtesy, and numbers sooth,Thy daring reasons grace,For thou the mighty, in their pride of place,Must woo to gentle ruth,Whose haughty will long evil customs nurse,Ever to truth averse!Thee better fortunes wait,Among the virtuous few—the truly great!Tell them—but who shall bid my terrors cease?Peace! Peace! on thee I call! return, O heaven-born Peace!Dacre.
See Time, that flies, and spreads his hasty wing!See Life, how swift it runs the race of years,And on its weary shoulders death appears!Now all is life and all is spring:Think on the winter and the darker dayWhen the soul, naked and alone,Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown,Yet ever beaten way.And through this fatal valeWould you be wafted with some gentle gale?Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain,Clouds that involve our life's serene,And storms that ruffle all the scene;Your precious hours, misspent in others' pain,On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow;Whether with hand or wit you raiseSome monument of peaceful praise,Some happy labour of fair love:'Tis all of heaven that you can find below,And opens into all above.Basil Kennet.

CANZONE XVII

Di pensier in pensier, di monte in monteDISTANCE AND SOLITUDEFrom hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought,With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly,For there in vain the tranquil life is sought:If 'mid the waste well forth a lonely rill,Or deep embosom'd a low valley lie,In its calm shade my trembling heart's still;And there, if Love so will,I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear.While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul,The wild emotions roll,Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear;That whosoe'er has proved the lover's stateWould say, He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.On mountains high, in forests drear and wide,I find repose, and from the throng'd resortOf man turn fearfully my eyes aside;At each lone step thoughts ever new ariseOf her I love, who oft with cruel sportWill mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs;Yet e'en these ills I prize,Though bitter, sweet, nor would they were removedFor my heart whispers me, Love yet has powerTo grant a happier hour:Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved:E'en then my breast a passing sigh will heave,Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe?Where shadows of high rocking pines dark waveI stay my footsteps, and on some rude stoneWith thought intense her beauteous face engrave;Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I findWith tears, and cry, Ah! whither thus aloneHast thou far wander'd, and whom left behind?But as with fixed mindOn this fair image I impassion'd rest,And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills,Love my rapt fancy fills;In its own error sweet the soul is blest,While all around so bright the visions glide;Oh! might the cheat endure, I ask not aught beside.Her form portray'd within the lucid streamWill oft appear, or on the verdant lawn,Or glossy beech, or fleecy cloud, will gleamSo lovely fair, that Leda's self might say,Her Helen sinks eclipsed, as at the dawnA star when cover'd by the solar ray:And, as o'er wilds I strayWhere the eye nought but savage nature meets,There Fancy most her brightest tints employs;But when rude truth destroysThe loved illusion of those dreamed sweets,I sit me down on the cold rugged stone,Less coid, less dead than I, and think, and weep alone.Where the huge mountain rears his brow sublime,On which no neighbouring height its shadow flings,Led by desire intense the steep I climb;And tracing in the boundless space each woe,Whose sad remembrance my torn bosom wrings,Tears, that bespeak the heart o'erfraught, will flow:While, viewing all below,From me, I cry, what worlds of air divideThe beauteous form, still absent and still near!Then, chiding soft the tear,I whisper low, haply she too has sigh'dThat thou art far away: a thought so sweetAwhile my labouring soul will of its burthen cheat.Go thou, my song, beyond that Alpine bound,Where the pure smiling heavens are most serene,There by a murmuring stream may I be found,Whose gentle airs aroundWaft grateful odours from the laurel green;Nought but my empty form roams here unblest,There dwells my heart with her who steals it from my breast.Dacre.

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