Ii

As on a hill-top rude, when closing day Imbrowns the scene, some past'ral maiden fair Waters a lovely foreign plant with care, That scarcely can its tender bud display Borne from its native genial airs away, So, on my tongue these accents new and rare Are flow'rs exotic, which Love waters there, While thus, o sweetly scornful! I essay Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown, And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain; So Love has will'd, and oftimes Love has shown That what He wills he never wills in vain. Oh that this hard and steril breast might be To Him who plants from heav'n, a soil as free.

III Canzone.

They mock my toil--the nymphs and am'rous swains-- And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry, Love-songs in language that thou little know'st? How dar'st thou risque to sing these foreign strains? Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd, And that thy fairest flow'rs, Here, fade and die? Then with pretence of admiration high-- Thee other shores expect, and other tides, Rivers on whose grassy sides Her deathless laurel-leaf with which to bind Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides; Why then this burthen, better far declin'd? Speak, Canzone! for me.--The Fair One said who guides My willing heart, and all my Fancy's flights, "This is the language in which Love delights."

IV To Charles Diodati.

Charles--and I say it wond'ring--thou must know That I who once assum'd a scornful air, And scoff'd at love, am fallen in his snare (Full many an upright man has fallen so) Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow Of golden locks, or damask cheek; more rare The heart-felt beauties of my foreign fair; A mien majestic, with dark brows, that show The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind; Words exquisite, of idioms more than one, And song, whose fascinating pow'r might bind, And from her sphere draw down the lab'ring Moon, With such fire-darting eyes, that should I fill My ears with wax, she would enchant me still.

V.

Lady! It cannot be, but that thine eyes Must be my sun, such radiance they display And strike me ev'n as Phoebus him, whose way Through torrid Libya's sandy desert lies. Meantime, on that side steamy vapours rise Where most I suffer. Of what kind are they, New as to me they are, I cannot say, But deem them, in the Lover's language--sighs. Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals, Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend To soften thine, they coldness soon congeals. While others to my tearful eyes ascend, Whence my sad nights in show'rs are ever drown'd, 'Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound.