To Della Crusca

Ambiguous NATURE form'd the female heart So proud, capricious, cold and warm, That much she fear'd her FIRST COMMAND Inert would prove, throughout the land; So gave the counteracting charm— On favour'd Man bestow'd sagacious ART. Thus whilst my keen resentment flow'd, Thy Vow upon my bosom glow'd; Sage anger instant took her flight, And from thy muse a joy so bright Dissus'd itself through all my veins, That hanging o'er thy charming strains, My lips spontaneously unclose, And thus the proud petition rose:—

"O! MONARCH of the Heaven-given lyre! Thou, who the Theban Peasant didst inspire With radiant knowledge, and poetic taste, To spread thy numbers o'er the flinty waste— In my yet darker mind thy beam infuse, And let me feel the high-inspiring muse: Give me one spark of DELLA CRUSCA's light, Teach me like him to think—to paint—to write! Pour on my pen his rich abounding lay, Which EARTH and HEAVEN sublimely can display. Mark! how his varying touch makes ever new Objects grown flat, on long accustom'd view;— E'en TRUTH itself his pencil can command— IMMUTABLE! she bends beneath his hand; In diff'ring characters she starts from rust, Deck'd in OPPOSING colours; yet opposing, JUST,"

Thus as I pray'd, unwelcome slumbers came, But lively, wakeful thought remain'd the same— And to APOLLO's Temple led my feet, The same ambitious wishes to repeat. With downcast eyes I near the Altar kneel, And sacred fervours on my bosom steal; My folded hair devoutly I unbound, And dash'd my once-proud laurels on the ground. My robes, more white than the soft down which flies O'er thistled deserts, thro' autumnal skies, Wide, o'er the tesselated pavement flow'd; And round, the everlasting tapers glow'd: Again I utter forth my fond desire, But 'midst the incense my proud hopes expire. The Paean'd GOD now shook his beamy throne, And through the dome indignant radiance shone; "Presumptuous ANNA!" was the stern reply From HIM, who rolls day's orbit through the sky, "The mighty boon thou'st ask'd shall ne'er be thine; PARNASSUS hear! record the oath divine! Yet more—to punish thy aspiriring hope Which led thee with MY CHOSEN SON to cope, The small—small portion of celestial flame Thou stol'st from him of the immortal name, Hence MOULDERS!—fades upon thy darken'd soul, Nor leaves one spark, thro' the chill void to roll."

Shock'd at my fate, my ready lids unclose, And the harsh vision from my pillow rose! Oh, barb'rous vision! which I live to rue— For tho' a dream thou wert—my doom is true; APOLLO's just decree too sure I feel, And on my spirit torpid languors steal. Hah! what avails my DELLA CRUSCA's vow? Poetic ardors fly me now! What! tho' the ROSE's morning blush Rivals the Western clouds, which rush To mix their crimson with the gold That round the SINKING SUN is roll'd;— What! tho' MAY's Zephyrs in the groves, Attentive to the harmonious loves Of the bewitching feather'd race, Forget to breathe on EARTH's moist face;— What! tho' the blossoms in the mead, Beneath the heifer's fragrant tread, Exude soft balm upon the wind, And all their mingled sweets unbind; Yet shall sad ANNA never know The boundless sweets which round her flow. Whether the MOUNTAIN's breath I drink, Or midst the Vale's embroid'ry sink,— FANCY no more will aid the scene, Nor flutter o'er me on the Green. With liquid step when the pure stream Dancing, shall thro' its borders gleam; When FLORA from her rainbow wing Shall shake the tints which from the spring, When music wanders 'midst the shade, When perfumes AIR's blue sea pervade, A WINTER o'er my mind will spread, Nor tints, nor scents, nor liquid streams be read.

HAPLESS MY FATE! unoccupy'd, unblest Sick'ning with ease—hating the tasteless rest— Whilst LAURA still may dress the lay In all the lustre of the day; With such sweet pensiveness complain, That mortals are in love with pain; For, ah! it falls like APRIL's snow Upon the Crocus' purple glow; Soft, as the flutt'rings of the fainting gale, Oppress'd by LEO, flaming o'er the vale! But shall not DELLA CRUSCA sue For her who to HIS MUSE is true? For ONE who round her heart hath wreath'd All the rich strains he ever breath'd;— Will HE not strive to break th' avenging rod?— Oh fly, thou Poet blest, AND STRUGGLE WITH THE GOD!