YON tree, that near the rivulet's pleasing scene,
Than pines or myrtles sweeter scents the gale,
Whose boughs, for ever gay, for ever green,
Nor drop in summer, nor in winter fail,
Bears her dear name,* whose beauties fill my heart,
And o'er my senses boundless sway maintain;
From whom no change can force me to depart,
While fortune shifts her varied face in vain!
Should some fair planet, from benignant skies,
Befriend a lover's cares, a lover's sighs,
And kindly lead him to the goal designed,
Though haply Phoebus chide, or Bacchus frown,
Their slighted leaves shall ne'er my temples crown,
But this loved tree my happy brows shall bind.
* Ginevro, the juniper tree. The object of his first attachment was a young girl of the Florentine family of the Lapi, whose name was Genevra. The poet appears to have forsaken her for his more enduring affection for Alessandra Strozzi.
"Io chiesi al Tempo," &c.
I SAID to Time, "This venerable pile,
Its floor the earth, its roof the firmament,
Whose was it once?" He answered not, but fled
Fast as before. I turned to Fame, and asked.
"Names such as his, to thee they must be known.
Speak!" But she answered only with a sigh,
And, musing mournfully, looked on the ground.
Then to Oblivion I addressed myself,
A dismal phantom, sitting at the gate;
And with a voice as from the grave, she cried, "Whose it was once I care not; now 'tis mine."
LOVE, under Friendship's vesture white,
Laughs, his little limbs concealing;
And oft in sport, and oft in spite,
Like Pity meets the dazzled sight,
Smiles through his tears revealing.
But now as Rage the God appears!
He frowns, and tempests shake his frame !—
Frowning, or smiling, or in tears,
'Tis Love; and Love is still the same.
TRANSLATED FROM THE PORTUGUESE, BY LORD STRANGFORD.
WHILE on the margin of his native shores,
In death's cold hour the silver cygnet lies,
Soft melodies of woe, and tuneful sighs,
And lamentation wild, he plaintive pours,
Still charmed of life-and whilst he yet deplores
The drear, dark night that seals his closing eyes,
In murmured grief for lost existence, dies!
So, Lady, (thou whom still my soul adores,)
While scarcely ling'ring in a world of pain,
My wearied spirit treads the verge of death,
O Lady, then thy Poet's parting breath
Shall faintly animate his final song,
To tell of broken vows, and cold disdain,
And unrequited love, and cruel wrong!
EUSTACE! or when you wield the pondrous spear,
Or mingle in the bard's romantic throng,
To you, eternal palms of fame belong!
To Mars alike, and to the Muses dear,
Whether adown the waves of war you steer,
Or sail upon the tranquil streams of song.
O, if awhile, with cadence clear and strong,
My reed might hope to charm your learnèd ear,
All undebased by ought of pastoral sound,
Then, Eustace, would that humble reed proclaim,
How you (for valour as for verse renowned)
Shall win the warrior's and the poet's praise,
And like a watch-tow'r on the steeps of fame,
Show'r light upon the sons of distant days.
SLOWLY and heavily the time has run
Which I have journeyed on this earthly stage:
For scarcely entering on my prime of age,
Grief marked me for her own; ere yonder sun
Had the fifth lustrum of my days begun :
And since, compulsive Fate and fortune's rage
Have led my steps a long, long pilgrimage,
In search of lost repose, but finding none!
For that fell star which o'er my cradle hung,
Forced me from dear Alamquer's rustic charms,
To combat perils strange and dire alarms,
'Midst that rough main, whose angry waters roar Rude Abyssinia's caverned cliffs among,
Far from green Portugal's parental shore.
ON THE MORNING OF HIS DEPARTURE FROM LISBON.
TILL the lover's tears at parting cease to flow,
Nor sundered hearts by strong despair be torn ;
So long recorded be that April morn
When gleams of joy were dashed with show'rs of woe:
Scarce had the purpling east began to glow,
Of mournful men it saw me most forlorn;
Saw those hard pangs, by gentle bosoms borne,
The hardest sure that gentle bosoms know.
-But oh, it saw Love's charming secret told
By tears fast dropping from celestial eyes,
By sobs of grief, and by such piteous sighs
As e'en might turn th' infernal caverns cold,
And make the guilty deem their sufferings ease,
Their torments luxury-compared to these.
My senses lost, misjudging men declare,
And Reason banished from her mental throne,
Because I shun the crowd, and dwell alone
In the calm trance of undisturbed despair,
Tears all my pleasure-all my comfort care;
But I have known, from long experience known,
How vain the worship to those idols shown,
Which charm the world, and reign unrivalled there;
Proud dreams of pow'r, and fortune's gilded glare,
The lights that blaze in tall Ambition's tow'r.
For such, let others waste life's little hour
In toil and weary search, but be it mine,
Lady, to muse of thee, and in my bow'r
Pour to thy praise the soul-impassioned line.
WHEN from my heart the hand of Fortune tore
Those smiling hopes that cheered mine earlier day,
Would that she too had kindly borne away
The sweetly sad remembrances of yore.
I should not then, as now, in tears deplore
My buried bliss, and comfort's fast decay;
For Love (on whom my vain dependance lay)
Still ling'ring on delights that live no more,
Kills all my peace, whene'er the tyrant sees
My spirit taste a little hour of ease;
Fell star of fate, thou never canst employ
A torment teeming with severer smart,
Than that which Memory pours upon the heart, While clinging round the sepulchre of joy.
|