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The Sonnets, Triumphs, and Other Poems of Petrarch
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SESTINA VI
Anzi tre di creata era alma in parteTHE HISTORY OF HIS LOVE; AND PRAYER FOR HELPLife's three first stages train'd my soul in partTo place its care on objects high and new,And to disparage what men often prize,But, left alone, and of her fatal courseAs yet uncertain, frolicsome, and free,She enter'd at spring-time a lovely wood.A tender flower there was, born in that woodThe day before, whose root was in a partHigh and impervious e'en to spirit free;For many snares were there of forms so new,And such desire impell'd my sanguine course,That to lose freedom were to gain a prize.Dear, sweet, yet perilous and painful prize!Which quickly drew me to that verdant wood,Doom'd to mislead me midway in life's course;The world I since have ransack'd part by part,For rhymes, or stones, or sap of simples new,Which yet might give me back the spirit, free.But ah! I feel my body must be freeFrom that hard knot which is its richest prize,Ere medicine old or incantations newCan heal the wounds which pierced me in that wood,Thorny and troublous, where I play'd such part,Leaving it halt who enter'd with hot course.Yes! full of snares and sticks, a difficult courseHave I to run, where easy foot and sureWere rather needed, healthy in each part;Thou, Lord, who still of pity hast the prize,Stretch to me thy right hand in this wild wood,And let thy sun dispel my darkness new.Look on my state, amid temptations new,Which, interrupting my life's tranquil course,Have made me denizen of darkling wood;If good, restore me, fetterless and free,My wand'ring consort, and be thine the prizeIf yet with thee I find her in blest part.Lo! thus in part I put my questions new,If mine be any prize, or run its course,Be my soul free, or captived in close wood.Macgregor.SONNET CLXXIX
In nobil sangue vita umile e quetaSHE UNITES IN HERSELF THE HIGHEST EXCELLENCES OF VIRTUE AND BEAUTYHigh birth in humble life, reserved yet kind,On youth's gay flower ripe fruits of age and rare,A virtuous heart, therewith a lofty mind,A happy spirit in a pensive air;Her planet, nay, heaven's king, has fitly shrinedAll gifts and graces in this lady fair,True honour, purest praises, worth refined,Above what rapt dreams of best poets are.Virtue and Love so rich in her unite,With natural beauty dignified address,Gestures that still a silent grace express,And in her eyes I know not what strange light,That makes the noonday dark, the dusk night clear,Bitter the sweet, and e'en sad absence dear.Macgregor.Though nobly born, so humbly calm she dwells,So bright her intellect—so pure her mind—The blossom and its bloom in her we find;With pensive look, her heart with mirth rebels:Thus by her planets' union she excels,(Nay—His, the stars' proud sov'reign, who enshrinedThere honour, worth, and fortitude combined!)Which to the bard inspired, his hope dispels.Love blooms in her, but 'tis his home most pure;Her daily virtues blend with native grace;Her noiseless movements speak, though she is mute:Such power her eyes, they can the day obscure,Illume the night,—the honey's sweetness chase,And wake its stream, where gall doth oft pollute.Wollaston.
SONNET CLXXX
Tutto 'l di piango; e poi la notte, quandoHER CRUELTY RENDERS LIFE WORSE THAN DEATH TO HIMThrough the long lingering day, estranged from rest,My sorrows flow unceasing; doubly flow,Painful prerogative of lover's woe!In that still hour, when slumber soothes th' unblest.With such deep anguish is my heart opprest,So stream mine eyes with tears! Of things belowMost miserable I; for Cupid's bowHas banish'd quiet from this heaving breast.Ah me! while thus in suffering, morn to mornAnd eve to eve succeeds, of death I view(So should this life be named) one-half gone by—Yet this I weep not, but another's scorn;That she, my friend, so tender and so true,Should see me hopeless burn, and yet her aid deny.Wrangham.SONNET CLXXXI
Già desiai con sì giusta querelaHE LIVES DESTITUTE OF ALL HOPE SAVE THAT OF RENDERING HER IMMORTALErewhile I labour'd with complaint so true,And in such fervid rhymes to make me heard,Seem'd as at last some spark of pity stirr'dIn the hard heart which frost in summer knew.Th' unfriendly cloud, whose cold veil o'er it grew,Broke at the first breath of mine ardent wordOr low'ring still she others' blame incurr'dHer bright and killing eyes who thus withdrewNo ruth for self I crave, for her no hate;I wish not this—that passes power of mine:Such was mine evil star and cruel fate.But I shall ever sing her charms divine,That, when I have resign'd this mortal breath,The world may know how sweet to me was death.Macgregor.SONNET CLXXXII
Tra quantunque leggiadre donne e belleALL NATURE WOULD BE IN DARKNESS WERE SHE, ITS SUN, TO PERISHWhere'er she moves, whatever dames among,Beauteous or graceful, matchless she below.With her fair face she makes all others showDim, as the day's bright orb night's starry throng.And Love still whispers, with prophetic tongue,—"Long as on earth is seen that glittering brow,Shall life have charms: but she shall cease to glowAnd with her all my power shall fleet along,Should Nature from the skies their twin-lights wrest;Hush every breeze, each herb and flower destroy;Strip man of reason—speech; from Ocean's breastHis tides, his tenants chase—such, earth's annoy;Yea, still more darken'd were it and unblest,Had she, thy Laura, closed her eyes to love and joy."Wrangham.Whene'er amidst the damsels, blooming bright,She shows herself, whose like was never made,At her approach all other beauties fade,As at morn's orient glow the gems of night.Love seems to whisper,—"While to mortal sightHer graces shall on earth be yet display'd,Life shall be blest; 'till soon with her decay'd,The virtues, and my reign shall sink outright."Of moon and sun, should nature rob the sky,The air of winds, the earth of herbs and leaves,Mankind of speech and intellectual eye,The ocean's bed of fish, and dancing waves;Even so shall all things dark and lonely lye,When of her beauty Death the world bereaves!Charlemont.
SONNET CLXXXIII
Il cantar novo e 'l pianger degli augelliMORNINGThe birds' sweet wail, their renovated song,At break of morn, make all the vales resound;With lapse of crystal waters pouring round,In clear, swift runnels, the fresh shores among.She, whose pure passion knows nor guile nor wrong,With front of snow, with golden tresses crown'd,Combing her aged husband's hoar locks found,Wakes me when sportful wakes the warbling throng.Thus, roused from sleep, I greet the dawning day,And its succeeding sun, with one more bright,Still dazzling, as in early youth, my sight:Both suns I've seen at once uplift their ray;This drives the radiance of the stars away,But that which gilds my life eclipses e'en his light.Nott.Soon as gay morn ascends her purple car,The plaintive warblings of the new-waked grove,The murmuring streams, through flowery meads that rove,Fill with sweet melody the valleys fair.Aurora, famed for constancy in love,Whose face with snow, whose locks with gold compare.Smoothing her aged husband's silvery hair,Bids me the joys of rural music prove.Then, waking, I salute the sun of day;But chief that beauteous sun, whose cheering rayOnce gilt, nay gilds e'en now, life's scene so bright.Dear suns! which oft I've seen together rise;This dims each meaner lustre of the skies,And that sweet sun I love dims every light.Anon. 1777.
SONNET CLXXXIV
Onde tolse Amor l' oro e di qual venaTHE CHARMS OF HER COUNTENANCE AND VOICEWhence could Love take the gold, and from what vein,To form those bright twin locks? What thorn could growThose roses? And what mead that white bestowOf the fresh dews, which pulse and breath obtain?Whence came those pearls that modestly restrainAccents which courteous, sweet, and rare can flow?And whence those charms that so divinely show,Spread o'er a face serene as heaven's blue plain?Taught by what angel, or what tuneful sphere,Was that celestial song, which doth dispenseSuch potent magic to the ravish'd ear?What sun illumed those bright commanding eyes,Which now look peaceful, now in hostile guise;Now torture me with hope, and now with fear?Nott.Say, from what vein did Love procure the goldTo make those sunny tresses? From what thornStole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn,Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty's mould?What depth of ocean gave the pearls that toldThose gentle accents sweet, though rarely born?Whence came so many graces to adornThat brow more fair than summer skies unfold?Oh! say what angels lead, what spheres controlThe song divine which wastes my life away?(Who can with trifles now my senses move?)What sun gave birth unto the lofty soulOf those enchanting eyes, whose glances strayTo burn and freeze my heart—the sport of Love?Wrottesley.
SONNET CLXXXV
Qual mio destin, qual forza o qual ingannoTHOUGH HER EYES DESTROY HIM, HE CANNOT TEAR HIMSELF AWAYWhat destiny of mine, what fraud or force,Unarm'd again conducts me to the field,Where never came I but with shame to yield'Scape I or fall, which better is or worse?—Not worse, but better; from so sweet a sourceShine in my heart those lights, so bright reveal'dThe fatal fire, e'en now as then, which seal'dMy doom, though twenty years have roll'd their courseI feel death's messengers when those dear eyes,Dazzling me from afar, I see appear,And if on me they turn as she draw near,Love with such sweetness tempts me then and tries,Tell it I cannot, nor recall in sooth,For wit and language fail to reach the truth!Macgregor.SONNET CLXXXVI
Liete e pensose, accompagnate e soleNOT FINDING HER WITH HER FRIENDS, HE ASKS THEM WHY SHE IS ABSENTP. Pensive and glad, accompanied, alone,Ladies who cheat the time with converse gay,Where does my life, where does my death delay?Why not with you her form, as usual, shown?L. Glad are we her rare lustre to have known,And sad from her dear company to stay,Which jealousy and envy keep awayO'er other's bliss, as their own ill who moan.P. Who lovers can restrain, or give them law?L. No one the soul, harshness and rage the frame;As erst in us, this now in her appears.As oft the face, betrays the heart, we sawClouds that, obscuring her high beauty, came,And in her eyes the dewy trace of tears.Macgregor.SONNET CLXXXVII
Quando 'l sol bagna in mur l' aurato carroHIS NIGHTS ARE, LIKE HIS DAYS, PASSED IN TORMENTWhen in the sea sinks the sun's golden light,And on my mind and nature darkness lies,With the pale moon, faint stars and clouded skiesI pass a weary and a painful night:To her who hears me not I then rehearseMy sad life's fruitless toils, early and late;And with the world and with my gloomy fate,With Love, with Laura and myself, converse.Sleep is forbid me: I have no repose,But sighs and groans instead, till morn returns,And tears, with which mine eyes a sad heart feeds;Then comes the dawn, the thick air clearer grows,But not my soul; the sun which in it burnsAlone can cure the grief his fierce warmth breeds.Nott.When Phœbus lashes to the western mainHis fiery steeds, and shades the lurid air;Grief shades my soul, my night is spent in care;Yon moon, yon stars, yon heaven begin my pain.Wretch that I am! full oft I urge in vainTo heedless beings all those pangs I bear;Of the false world, of an unpitying fair,Of Love, and fickle fortune I complain!From eve's last glance, till morning's earliest ray,Sleep shuns my couch; rest quits my tearful eye;And my rack'd breast heaves many a plaintive sigh.Then bright Aurora cheers the rising day,But cheers not me—for to my sorrowing heartOne sun alone can cheering light impart!Anon. 1777.
SONNET CLXXVIII
S' una fede amorosa, un cor non fintoTHE MISERY OF HIS LOVEIf faith most true, a heart that cannot feign,If Love's sweet languishment and chasten'd thought,And wishes pure by nobler feelings taught,If in a labyrinth wanderings long and vain,If on the brow each pang pourtray'd to bear,Or from the heart low broken sounds to draw,Withheld by shame, or check'd by pious awe,If on the faded cheek Love's hue to wear,If than myself to hold one far more dear,If sighs that cease not, tears that ever flow,Wrung from the heart by all Love's various woe,In absence if consumed, and chill'd when near,—If these be ills in which I waste my prime,Though I the sufferer be, yours, lady, is the crime.Dacre.If fondest faith, a heart to guile unknown,By melting languors the soft wish betray'd;If chaste desires, with temper'd warmth display'd;If weary wanderings, comfortless and lone;If every thought in every feature shown,Or in faint tones and broken sounds convey'd,As fear or shame my pallid cheek array'dIn violet hues, with Love's thick blushes strown;If more than self another to hold dear;If still to weep and heave incessant sighs,To feed on passion, or in grief to pine,To glow when distant, and to freeze when near,—If hence my bosom's anguish takes its rise,Thine, lady, is the crime, the punishment is mine.Wrangham.
SONNET CLXXXIX
Dodici donne onestamente lasseHAPPY WHO STEERED THE BOAT, OR DROVE THE CAR, WHEREIN SHE SAT AND SANGTwelve ladies, their rare toil who lightly bore,Rather twelve stars encircling a bright sun,I saw, gay-seated a small bark upon,Whose like the waters never cleaved before:Not such took Jason to the fleece of yore,Whose fatal gold has ev'ry heart now won,Nor such the shepherd boy's, by whom undoneTroy mourns, whose fame has pass'd the wide world o'er.I saw them next on a triumphal car,Where, known by her chaste cherub ways, asideMy Laura sate and to them sweetly sung.Things not of earth to man such visions are!Blest Tiphys! blest Automedon! to guideThe bark, or car of band so bright and young.Macgregor.SONNET CXC
Passer mai solitario in alcun tettoFAR FROM HIS BELOVED, LIFE IS MISERABLE BY NIGHT AS BY DAYNever was bird, spoil'd of its young, more sad,Or wild beast in his lair more lone than me,Now that no more that lovely face I see,The only sun my fond eyes ever had.In ceaseless sorrow is my chief delight:My food to poison turns, to grief my joy;The night is torture, dark the clearest sky,And my lone pillow a hard field of fight.Sleep is indeed, as has been well express'd.Akin to death, for it the heart removesFrom the dear thought in which alone I live.Land above all with plenty, beauty bless'd!Ye flowery plains, green banks and shady groves!Ye hold the treasure for whose loss I grieve!Macgregor.SONNET CXCI
Aura, che quelle chiome bionde e crespeHE ENVIES THE BREEZE WHICH SPORTS WITH HER, THE STREAM THAT FLOWS TOWARDS HERYe laughing gales, that sporting with my fair,The silky tangles of her locks unbraid;And down her breast their golden treasures spread;Then in fresh mazes weave her curling hair,You kiss those bright destructive eyes, that bearThe flaming darts by which my heart has bled;My trembling heart! that oft has fondly stray'dTo seek the nymph, whose eyes such terrors wear.Methinks she's found—but oh! 'tis fancy's cheat!Methinks she's seen—but oh! 'tis love's deceit!Methinks she's near—but truth cries "'tis not so!"Go happy gale, and with my Laura dwell!Go happy stream, and to my Laura tellWhat envied joys in thy clear crystal flow!Anon. 1777.Thou gale, that movest, and disportest roundThose bright crisp'd locks, by them moved sweetly too,That all their fine gold scatter'st to the view,Then coil'st them up in beauteous braids fresh wound;About those eyes thou playest, where aboundThe am'rous swarms, whose stings my tears renew!And I my treasure tremblingly pursue,Like some scared thing that stumbles o'er the ground.Methinks I find her now, and now perceiveShe's distant; now I soar, and now descend;Now what I wish, now what is true believe.Stay and enjoy, blest air, the living beam;And thou, O rapid, and translucent stream,Why can't I change my course, and thine attend?Nott.
SONNET CXCII
Amor con la man destra il lato mancoUNDER THE FIGURE OF A LAUREL, HE RELATES THE GROWTH OF HIS LOVEMy poor heart op'ning with his puissant hand,Love planted there, as in its home, to dwellA Laurel, green and bright, whose hues might wellIn rivalry with proudest emeralds stand:Plough'd by my pen and by my heart-sighs fann'd,Cool'd by the soft rain from mine eyes that fell,It grew in grace, upbreathing a sweet smell,Unparallel'd in any age or land.Fair fame, bright honour, virtue firm, rare grace,The chastest beauty in celestial frame,—These be the roots whence birth so noble came.Such ever in my mind her form I trace,A happy burden and a holy thing,To which on rev'rent knee with loving prayer I cling.Macgregor.SONNET CXCIII
Cantai, or piango; e non men di dolcezzaTHOUGH IN THE MIDST OF PAIN, HE DEEMS HIMSELF THE HAPPIEST OF MENI sang, who now lament; nor less delightThan in my song I found, in tears I find;For on the cause and not effect inclined,My senses still desire to scale that height:Whence, mildly if she smile or hardly smite,Cruel and cold her acts, or meek and kind,All I endure, nor care what weights they bind,E'en though her rage would break my armour quite.Let Love and Laura, world and fortune join,And still pursue their usual course for me,I care not, if unblest, in life to be.Let me or burn to death or living pine,No gentler state than mine beneath the sun,Since from a source so sweet my bitters run.Macgregor.SONNET CXCIV
I' piansi, or canto; che 'l celeste lumeAT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISHI wept, but now I sing; its heavenly lightThat living sun conceals not from my view,But virtuous love therein revealeth trueHis holy purposes and precious might;Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springsTo shorten of my life the friendless course,Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have forceTo forward mine escape, nor even wings.But so profound and of so full a veinMy suff'ring is, so far its shore appears,Scarcely to reach it can e'en thought contrive:Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain,But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears,And checks my grief and wills me to survive.Macgregor.SONNET CXCV
I' mi vivea di mia sorte contentoHE FEARS THAT AN ILLNESS WHICH HAS ATTACKED THE EYES OF LAURA MAY DEPRIVE HIM OF THEIR SIGHTI lived so tranquil, with my lot content,No sorrow visited, nor envy pined,To other loves if fortune were more kindOne pang of mine their thousand joys outwent;But those bright eyes, whence never I repentThe pains I feel, nor wish them less to find,So dark a cloud and heavy now does blind,Seems as my sun of life in them were spent.O Nature! mother pitiful yet stern,Whence is the power which prompts thy wayward deeds,Such lovely things to make and mar in turn?True, from one living fount all power proceeds:But how couldst Thou consent, great God of Heaven,That aught should rob the world of what thy love had given?Macgregor.SONNET CXCVI
Vincitore Alessandro l' ira vinseTHE EVIL RESULTS OF UNRESTRAINED ANGERWhat though the ablest artists of old timeLeft us the sculptured bust, the imaged formOf conq'ring Alexander, wrath o'ercameAnd made him for the while than Philip less?Wrath to such fury valiant Tydeus droveThat dying he devour'd his slaughter'd foe;Wrath made not Sylla merely blear of eye,But blind to all, and kill'd him in the end.Well Valentinian knew that to such painWrath leads, and Ajax, he whose death it wrought.Strong against many, 'gainst himself at last.Wrath is brief madness, and, when unrestrain'd,Long madness, which its master often leadsTo shame and crime, and haply e'en to death.Anon.SONNET CXCVII
Qual ventura mi fu, quando dall' unoHE REJOICES AT PARTICIPATING IN HER SUFFERINGSStrange, passing strange adventure! when from oneOf the two brightest eyes which ever were,Beholding it with pain dis urb'd and dim,Moved influence which my own made dull and weak.I had return'd, to break the weary fastOf seeing her, my sole care in this world,Kinder to me were Heaven and Love than e'enIf all their other gifts together join'd,When from the right eye—rather the right sun—Of my dear Lady to my right eye cameThe ill which less my pain than pleasure makes;As if it intellect possess'd and wingsIt pass'd, as stars that shoot along the sky:Nature and pity then pursued their course.Anon.SONNET CXCVIII
O cameretta che già fosti un portoHE NO LONGER FINDS RELIEF IN SOLITUDEThou little chamber'd haven to the woesWhose daily tempest overwhelms my soul!From shame, I in Heaven's light my grief control;Thou art its fountain, which each night o'erflows.My couch! that oft hath woo'd me to repose,'Mid sorrows vast—Love's iv'ried hand hath stoleGriefs turgid stream, which o'er thee it doth roll,That hand which good on all but me bestows.Not only quiet and sweet rest I fly,But from myself and thought, whose vain pursuitOn pinion'd fancy doth my soul transport:The multitude I did so long defy,Now as my hope and refuge I salute,So much I tremble solitude to court.Wollaston.Room! which to me hast been a port and shieldFrom life's rude daily tempests for long years,Now the full fountain of my nightly tearsWhich in the day I bear for shame conceal'd:Bed! which, in woes so great, wert wont to yieldComfort and rest, an urn of doubts and fearsLove o'er thee now from those fair hands uprears,Cruel and cold to me alone reveal'd.But e'en than solitude and rest, I fleeMore from myself and melancholy thought,In whose vain quest my soul has heavenward flown.The crowd long hateful, hostile e'en to me,Strange though it sound, for refuge have I sought,Such fear have I to find myself alone!Macgregor.
SONNET CXCIX
Lasso! Amor mi trasporta ov' io non voglioHE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR VISITING LAURA TOO OFTEN, AND LOVING HER TOO MUCHAlas! Love bears me where I would not go,And well I see how duty is transgress'd,And how to her who, queen-like, rules my breast,More than my wont importunate I grow.Never from rocks wise sailor guarded soHis ship of richest merchandise possess'd,As evermore I shield my bark distress'dFrom shocks of her hard pride that would o'erthrowTorrents of tears, fierce winds of infinite sighs—For, in my sea, nights horrible and darkAnd pitiless winter reign—have driven my bark,Sail-less and helm-less where it shatter'd lies,Or, drifting at the mercy of the main,Trouble to others bears, distress to me and pain.Macgregor.SONNET CC
Amor, io fallo e veggio il mio fallireHE PRAYS LOVE, WHO IS THE CAUSE OF HIS OFFENCES, TO OBTAIN PARDON FOR HIMO Love, I err, and I mine error own,As one who burns, whose fire within him liesAnd aggravates his grief, while reason dies,With its own martyrdom almost o'erthrown.I strove mine ardent longing to restrain,Her fair calm face that I might ne'er disturb:I can no more; falls from my hand the curb,And my despairing soul is bold again;Wherefore if higher than her wont she aim,The act is thine, who firest and spur'st her so,No way too rough or steep for her to go:But the rare heavenly gifts are most to blameShrined in herself: let her at least feel this,Lest of my faults her pardon I should miss.Macgregor.SESTINA VII
Non ha tanti animali il mar fra l' ondeHE DESPAIRS OF ESCAPE FROM THE TORMENTS BY WHICH HE IS SURROUNDEDNor Ocean holds such swarms amid his waves,Not overhead, where circles the pale moon,Were stars so numerous ever seen by night,Nor dwell so many birds among the woods,Nor plants so many clothe the field or hill,As holds my tost heart busy thoughts each eve.Each day I hope that this my latest eveShall part from my quick clay the sad salt waves,And leave me in last sleep on some cold hill;So many torments man beneath the moonNe'er bore as I have borne; this know the woodsThrough which I wander lonely day and night.For never have I had a tranquil night,But ceaseless sighs instead from morn till eve,Since love first made me tenant of the woods:The sea, ere I can rest, shall lose his waves,The sun his light shall borrow from the moon,And April flowers be blasted o'er each hill.Thus, to myself a prey, from hill to hill,Pensive by day I roam, and weep at night,No one state mine, but changeful as the moon;And when I see approaching the brown eve,Sighs from my bosom, from my eyes fall waves,The herbs to moisten and to move the woods.Hostile the cities, friendly are the woodsTo thoughts like mine, which, on this lofty hill,Mingle their murmur with the moaning waves,Through the sweet silence of the spangled night,So that the livelong day I wait the eve,When the sun sets and rises the fair moon.Would, like Endymion, 'neath the enamour'd moon,That slumbering I were laid in leafy woods,And that ere vesper she who makes my eve,With Love and Luna on that favour'd hill,Alone, would come, and stay but one sweet night,While stood the sun nor sought his western waves.Upon the hard waves, 'neath the beaming moon,Song, that art born of night amid the woods,Thou shalt a rich hill see to-morrow eve!Macgregor.Count the ocean's finny droves;Count the twinkling host of stars.Round the night's pale orb that moves;Count the groves' wing'd choristers;Count each verdant blade that grows;Counted then will be my woes.When shall these eyes cease to weep;When shall this world-wearied frame,Cover'd by the cold sod, sleep?—Sure, beneath yon planet's beam,None like me have made such moan;This to every bower is known.Sad my nights; from morn till eve,Tenanting the woods, I sigh:But, ere I shall cease to grieve,Ocean's vast bed shall be dry,Suns their light from moons shall gain.And spring wither on each plain.Pensive, weeping, night and day,From this shore to that I fly,Changeful as the lunar ray;And, when evening veils the sky,Then my tears might swell the floods,Then my sighs might bow the woods!Towns I hate, the shades I love;For relief to yon green height,Where the rill resounds, I roveAt the grateful calm of night;There I wait the day's decline,For the welcome moon to shine.Oh, that in some lone retreat,Like Endymion I were lain;And that she, who rules my fate,There one night to stay would deign;Never from his billowy bedMore might Phœbus lift his head!Song, that on the wood-hung streamIn the silent hour wert born,Witness'd but by Cynthia's beam.Soon as breaks to-morrow's morn,Thou shalt seek a glorious plain,There with Laura to remain!Dacre.
