To some dark cell, or cave forlorn,
Where thou endurest, perhaps,

The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand,
Be comforted—

For lo! again the splendid hope appears
That thou may'st yet escape

The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings
Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove!

STROPHE III.

Since Rouse desires thee, and complains That though by promise his, Thou yet appear'st not in thy place Among the literary noble stores, Given to his care,

But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete. He, therefore, guardian vigilant

Of that unperishing wealth,

Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge,
Where he intends a richer treasure far
Than Iön kept (Iön, Erectheus’son
Illustrious, of the fair Creusa born)
In the resplendent temple of his god,
Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine.

ANTISTROPHE.

Haste, then, to the pleasant groves, The Muses' favourite haunt; Resume thy station in Apollo's dome. Dearer to him

Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill! Exulting go,

Since now a splendid lot is also thine,

And thou art sought by my propitious friend; For there thou shalt be read

With authors of exalted note,

The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome.

EPODE.

Ye then, my works, no longer vain,
And worthless deem'd by me!
Whate'er this steril genius has produced
Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent,
An unmolested happy home,

Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend;
Where never flippant tongue profane
Shall entrance find,

And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude
Shall babble far remote.

Perhaps some future distant age,

Less tinged with prejudice and better taught,

Then, malice silenced in the tomb,
Cooler heads and sounder hearts,
Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise

I merit, shall with candour weigh the claim.

Translations of the Italian Poems.

SONNET.

FAIR Lady! whose harmonious name the Rhine, Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear, Base were indeed the wretch, who could forbear To love a spirit elegant as thine,

That manifests a sweetness all divine,

Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare, And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine. When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gay,

Such strains, as might the senseless forest move, Ah then-turn each his eyes and ears away, Who feels himself unworthy of thy love! Grace can alone preserve him, ere the dart Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart.

SONNET.

As on a hill-top rude, when closing day Imbrowns the scene, some pastoral maiden fair Waters a lovely foreign plant with care,

Borne from its native genial airs away,

That scarcely can its tender bud display,

So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare, Are flowers 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 ofttimes 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 heaven, a soil as free!

CANZONE.

THEY mock my toil-the nymphs and amorous swains-
And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry,
Love-songs in language that thou little know'st?
How darest thou risk to sing these foreign strains?
Say truly, find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd,
And that thy fairest flowers 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 declined?

Speak, Muse! 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."

SONNET.

TO CHARLES DIODATI.

CHARLES and I say it wondering-thou must know That I, who once assumed 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 power might bind,
And from her sphere draw down the labouring Moon,
With such fire-darting eyes, that should I fill
My ears with wax, she would enchant me still.

SONNET.

LADY! it cannot be, but that thine eyes
Must be my sun, such radiance they display,
And strike me even as Phoebus him, whose way
Through horrid 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, thy coldness soon congeals.
While others to my tearful eyes ascend,

Whence my sad nights in showers are ever drown'd,
Till my Aurora come, her brow with roses bound.