ORIGINAL POETRY. SONNET. A POWER is on the earth and in the air Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den; B. TRANSLATIONS FROM THE PASTOR FIDO.* ACT I. SCENE V. SILVIO. LINCO. SIL. THERE is no life, forsooth, But that which nurture hath From wanton and mad phantasy! LIN. Tell me, if in this glad and beautiful tide, *These versions are intended to come as near metaphrase as the structure of the languages permits; and if they do not, the attempt is a failure. The measure has been exactly preserved, and the transitions from rhyme to blank verse and vice versâ in the first of these specimens correspond with those in the original. Beech, ash, and all the woodland family, Wouldst thou not say, "Earth waxes sick and pale, Feel at thyself. Heaven to the course of years Accords not with the thoughts of grey-haired men, Affronts great nature and opposes heaven.— All in this world that 's fair and excellent Is Love's creation: heaven is full of love; And earth, and ocean's depths. And that sweet star, forerunner of the dawn, Which yonder thou mayst mark, Glows with that flame; she too in her pure sphere Kindles with her son's fires; the source of love Herself enamoured shines; And now, even now, perchance, Dear, secret raptures and the chosen breast Of her own love she quits. Lo! how she sparkles and smiles radiant! Deep in the desart woods The monstrous creatures love; amidst the waves, Swift gliding dolphins and the shapeless orc. That warbler who his chant Prolongs so sweetly, winged in wanton flight From th' ash tree to the beech, From the beech to myrtle spray, Had he human wit, would say In his articulate song, "I love! I love!" Yet what his song doth move, The language of his heart, The mistress of his music understands. The mistress of his strain Doth answer with her song, "I love again." The lion roars in the wood Thus then does love inspire, In fine, each living thing, Shall Silvio be alone, In heaven, and earth, and sea, A soul that feels not love? Ah! then, forsake the woods, Fond boy, forsake the chase, and learn to love. CHORUS IN ACT IV. CANZONE. BLEST golden age, when men From milk their nurture drew; In the young world, in woodland cradle reared; The tender offspring then Of the herd around them grew, Nor sword nor mortal venom then was feared. Nor cloudy thoughts and bleared Veiled then the eternal light, The sun of nature pure; Now reason, 'mid obscure Dim mists of sense, doth hide the heavens with night. And hence the wandering tree Seeks stranger lands and ploughs the troubled sea. That pompous sound and vain, That idle theme for all, Blazoned by flattery, titles, empty show Which the multitude insane And ignorant, honor call, Then was not tyrant of the mind below. But pain to undergo, For that enjoyment true And homefelt bliss, that sprung Their groves and herds among, And faith to sacred laws was all they knew Their lawful joys to prize, by honest thought. 'Mid meads and runnels clear, Sly Sport and frolic Jest In the path of honest love their torches lit; In speech their hearts exprest; And bonds of joy and rapture Hymen knit, Close hid from furtive view Of passion unavowed, whose inquest failed By cavern, mere, and grove; And it was one sole name, marriage, and love. O guilty age! which hides With pleasures gross and base The soul's true beauty; and for vice secure A formal cloak provides Of the dissembled face; While uncontrolled rove secret thoughts impure! Like that extended lure, 'Mid flowers and leaves which lies, Thou low desires dost screen With holy, modest mien; Virtue, thou deemest show, and life, disguise : Nay, most thyself dost laud For love betrayed, if secret be the fraud. But thou inform our souls With longings high and fair, True honor, dowery of the noble mind! And thou! whose power controls Kings, to this nook repair, Since without thee, no bliss attends mankind. 'Tis thy quick promptings bind The tangled threads of fate; The grovelling wish that tires, Forsakes all ancestry revered as great. Yet, sometimes, truce from iil, Let us expect, if hope be with us still. Let us hope. The sun that sets is born anew, And heaven's most sombre hue Serene, unclouded glory oft breaks through. THE WIDOW. S. "But now will canker sorrow eat my bud, And chase the native beauty from his cheek, As dim and meagre as an ague's fit; And so he 'll die." SHE said she was alone within the world :— How could she but be sad! She whispered something of a lad, With eyes of blue and light hair sweetly curled But the grave had the child! And yet his voice she heard, When at the lattice, calm and mild, The mother in the twilight saw the vine-leaves stirred. "Mother," it seemed to say, "I love thee; When thou dost by the side of thy lone pillow pray, My spirit writes the words above thee ; Mother, I watch o'er thee-I love thee." |