Viewing page 256 of 285

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

202  ANNUAL REGISTER  For the YEAR 1772.  203

I see, where late the verdant meadow smil'd,
A joyless desert, and a dreary wild.
For those dear eyes, that pierc'd my heart before
Are clos'd in death, and charm the world no more:
Lost are those tresses, that outshone the morn,
And pale those cheeks, that might the skies adorn.
Ah death! thy hand has crop'd the fairest flow'r,
That shec its smiling rays in beauty's bow'r;
They dart has lay'd on yonder fable bier
All my soul lov'd, and all the world held dear,
Celestial sweetness, love-inspiring youth,
Soft-ey'd benevolence, and white-rob'd truth.
  Hard fate of man, on whom the heav'ns bestow
A drop of pleasure for a sea of wo!
Ah, live of care, in fears or hopes consum'd,
Vain hopes, that wither ere they will have bloom'd!
How oft, emerging from the shades of night,
Laughs the gay morn, and spreads a purple light,
But soon the gath'ring clouds o'ershade the skies,
Red lightnings play, and thund'ring storms arise!
How oft a day, that fair and mild appears,
Grows dark with fate, and mars the toil of years!
  *Not far remov'd, yet hid from distant eyes,
Low in her secret grot a Naiad lies.
Steep arching rocks, with verdant moss o'ergrown,
Form her rude diadem, and native throne:
There in a gloomy cave her waters sleep,
Clear as a brook, yet as an ocean deep.
But when the waking flow'rs of April blow,
And warmer sun-beams melt the gather'd snow,
Rich with the tribute of the vernal rains
The nymph exulting bursts her silver chains:
Her living waves in sparkling columns rife,
And shine like rainbows to the sunny skies.
From cliff to cliff the falling waters roar,
Then die in murmurs, and are heard no more.
Hence, softly flowing in a dimpled stream,
The crystal Sorga spreads a lively gleam,
From which a thousand rills in mazes glide,
And deck the banks with summer's gayest pride;
Brighten the verdue of the smiling plains,
And crown the labour of the joyful swains.

*See a description of this celebrated fountain in a poem of Madame Deshoulieres.  Our author says in his preface, "that the description of the fountain of Valchiusa, or Vallis Clausa, which was close to Petrarch's house, was added to the Elegy n the year 1769, and was composed on the very spot, which I coul dnot forbear visiting, when I passed by Avignon."
    First

  First on those banks (ah, dream of short delight!)
The charms of Laura struck my dazzled sight,
Charms, that the gliss of Eden might restore,
That heav'n might envy, and mankind adore.
I say-and O! what heart could long rebel?
I saw, I lov'd, and bade the world farewel.
Where'er she mov'd, the meads were fresh and gay,
And ev'ry bow'r exhal'd the sweets of May;
Smooth flow'd the streams, and softly blew the gale;
And rising flow'rs impurpled every dale;
Calm was the ocean, and the sky serene;
An universal smile o'erspread the shining scene:
But when in death's cold arms entranc'd she lay,
(*Ah, ever dear, yet ever fatal day!)
O'er all the air a direful gloom was spread;
Pal were the meads, and all their blossoms dead;
The clouds of April shed a baleful dew,
All nature wore a veil of deadly hue.
  Go, plaintive breeze, to Laura's flow'ry bier,
Heave the warm sigh, and shed the tender tear.
There to the awful shade due homage pay,
And softly thus address the sacred clay:
"Say, envied earth, that dost those charms in fold,
"Where are those cheeks, and where those locks of gold?
"Where are those eyes, which oft the Muse has sung?
"Where those sweet lips, and that enchanting tongue?
"Ye radiant tresses, and thou, nectar'd smile,
"Ye looks that might the melting skies beguile,
"You robb'd my soul of rest, my eyes of sleep,
"You taught me how to love, and how to weep."
  No shrub o'erhangs the dew-bespangled vale,
No blossom trembles to the dying gale,
No flow'ret blushes in the morning rays,
No stream along the winding valley plays,
But knows what anguish thrills my tortur'd breast,
What pains consume me, and what cares infest.
At blush of dawn, and in the gloom of night,
Her pale-eyed phantom swims before my sight,
Sits on the border of each purling rill,
Crowns ev'ry bow'r, and glides o'er ev'ry hill.
Flows the loud riv'let down the mountain's brow?
Or pants the Zephyr on the waving bough?
Or sips the lab'ring bee her balmy dews,
And with soft strains her fragrant toil pursues?
Or warbles from yon silver-blossom'd thorn
The wakeful bird, that hails the rising morn?

*Laura was first seen by Petrarch on the 6th of April in the year 1327, and she died on the same day in 1348.
    My