Sonnet to Petrarch

O for that shell, whose melancholy sound, Heard in Valclusa by the lucid stream Of laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme, Fair Laura and her scorn, to all around High-built Avignon, on the rocky mound That banks the impetuous Rhone, and like a steam From some rich incense rising, to the extreme Of desolate Hesperia did rebound, And gently waked the Muses:—so might I, Studious of song like thee, and ah! too like In sad complaint of ill-requited love, So might I, hopeless now, have power to strike Such notes, as lovers’ tears should sanctify, And cold Fidele’s melting sighs approve.