On Their Compositions Being Translated into English, by Sir William Jones

Boast of Italian plains, that once did’st rove Where lucid Sorga leads her winding wave From its deep fountain in Valclusa’s grove, Whose lavish laurels in her waters lave,

Thou, who so oft hast struck the silver shell To hopeless Love, and wedded LAURA’s charms, See passing ages yet enchanted dwell, On thy sweet verse, and feel thy soft alarms!

Ah! sacred shade of that enamour’d youth, Still shall thy myrtles bloom with fairest hue, While one kind tear descends from tender Truth, Again each fading blossom to renew.

But share those myrtles with that minstrel bland, Whose skill afresh hath strung thy silver lyre, And taught the echoes of his native land The plaint harmonious of thy fond desire.

With him your bright poetic honours share, You that awaked the song on Mithra’s plains, Breath’d your wild warblings on the fragrant air, And at the fount of light illumed your strains.

The veils that hid you thro’ the rounds of time From European eyes, are torn away, And all the fire of oriental rhyme Glows in our isle with undiminish’d ray.

Spirits of eastern bards, where’er shall rove Your British guardian, from your musky vales, Sun-hallow’d hills, and each odorous grove, Bring the rich incense that perfumes your gales!

O’er his young head the spicy treasures blend, And from your brightest gems a crown obtain! On him may all the tribute stores descend Who hung with Persian wreaths the Albion Muses’ fane!