Behold, to cheer thee on the toilsome way, DELLA CASA. VENICE. "Questi palazzi, e queste logge or colte." THESE marble domes, by wealth and genius graced, With sculptured forms, bright hues, and Parian stone, Were once rude cabins midst a lonely waste, Wild shores of solitude, and isles unknown. Pure from each vice, 'twas here a venturous train Fearless in fragile barks explored the sea; Not theirs a wish to conquer or to reign, They sought these island precincts-to be free. Ne'er in their souls ambition's flame arose, No dream of avarice broke their calm repose; Fraud, more than death, abhorr'd each artless breast: Oh! now, since fortune gilds their brightening day, Let not those virtues languish and decay, O'erwhelm'd by luxury, and by wealth opprest! IL MARCHESE CORNELIO BENTIVOGLIO. "L'anima bella, che dal vero Eliso." THE sainted spirit which, from bliss on high, Descends like dayspring to my favour'd sight, Shines in such noontide radiance of the sky, Scarce do I know that form, intensely bright! But with the sweetness of her well-known smile, That smile of peace! she bids my doubts depart, And takes my hand, and softly speaks the while, And heaven's full glory pictures to my heart. Beams of that heaven in her my eyes behold, And now, e'en now, in thought my wings unfold, To soar with her, and mingle with the blest! But ah! so swift her buoyant pinion flies, That I, in vain aspiring to the skies, Fall to my native sphere, by earthly bonds deprest. QUEVEDO. ROME BURIED IN HER OWN RUINS. "Buscas en Roma á Roma, o peregrino!" AMIDST these scenes, O pilgrim! seek'st thou Rome? Vain is thy search-the pomp of Rome is fled; Her silent Aventine is glory's tomb; Her walls, her shrines, but relics of the dead. That hill, where Cæsars dwelt in other days, Forsaken mourns, where once it tower'd sublime; Each mouldering medal now far less displays The triumphs won by Latium than by Time. Tiber alone survives-the passing wave That bathed her towers now murmurs by her grave, Wailing with plaintive sound her fallen fanes. Rome! of thine ancient grandeur all is past, That seem'd for years eternal framed to last: Nought but the wave-a fugitive, remains. EL CONDE JUAN DE TARSIS. "Tu, que la dulce vida en tiernas anos.' THOU, who hast fled from life's enchanted bowers, In youth's gay spring, in beauty's glowing morn, Leaving thy bright array, thy path of flowers, For the rude convent-garb and couch of thorn; Thou that, escaping from a world of cares, Hast found thy haven in devotion's fane, As to the port the fearful bark repairs To shun the midnight perils of the mainNow the glad hymn, the strain of rapture pour, While on thy soul the beams of glory rise! For if the pilot hail the welcome shore With shouts of triumph swelling to the skies, Oh! how shouldst thou the exulting pæan raise, Now heaven's bright harbour opens on thy gaze ! Or like Aurora did thy charms appear, (Since mortal form ne'er vied with aught so bright,). Aurora, smiling from her tranquil sphere, O'er vale and mountain shedding dew and light. Now riper years have doom'd no grace to fade; Nor youthful charms, in all their pride array'd, Excel, or equal, thy neglected form. Thus, full expanded, lovelier is the flower, And the bright day-star, in its noontide hour, More brilliant shines, in genial radiance warm. BERNARDO TASSO. "Quest' ombra che giammai non vide il sole." THIS green recess, where through the bowery gloom Ne'er, e'en at noontide hours, the sunbeam play'd, Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade; Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals, Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows, No more its bed of yellow sand conceals Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose; This bower of peace, thou soother of our care, God of soft slumbers and of visions fair! A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee! Then breathe around some spell of deep repose, And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close, Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops never free. "Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.” Ir to the sighing breeze of summer hours Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird; Or from some fount's cool margin, fringed with flowers, The soothing murmur of the wave is heard; Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies, I see and hear: though dwelling far above, Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs, Visits the lone retreat of pensive love. "Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day," (Her gentle accents thus benignly say,) "While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows? Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight, Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light Whose eyes but open'd, when they seem'd to close !" PETRARCH. "Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura." THOU that wouldst mark, in form of human birth, All heaven and nature's perfect skill combined, Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth, Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind : And haste! for Death, who spares the guilty long, First calls the brightest and the best away; And to her home, amidst the cherub throng, The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay! Haste! and each outward charm, each mental grace, In one consummate form thine eye shall trace, Model of loveliness, for earth too fair! Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays, My spirit dazzled by perfection's blaze: But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare. FRANCESCO LORENZINI. "O Zefiretto, che movendo vai." SYLPH of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour; Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail To rend its honours from the sylvan bower. Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form, Pride of the wood, secure from every storm, With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow; The rose will fade when storms assail the year, And Time, who changeth not his swift career, Constant in this, will change all else below! LORENZO DE MEDICI. VIOLETS. "Non di verdi giardin ornati e colti." WE Come not, fair one! to thy hand of snow From the soft scenes by Culture's hand array'd; Not rear'd in bowers where gales of fragrance blow, But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade! There once, as Venus wander'd, lost in woe, To seek Adonis through th' entangled wood, Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk'd below With print relentless drew celestial blood! Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught, Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught, Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes; We were not foster'd in our shadowy vales By guided rivulets or summer galesOur dew and air have been Love's balmy tears and sighs! PINDEMONTE. ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA. "Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi?" WHITHER, celestial maid, so fast away? What lures thee from the banquet of the skies? How canst thou leave thy native realms of day Forthis low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs? O thou, Canova! soaring high above Italian art-with Grecian magic vying! We knew thy marble glow'd with life and love, But who had seen thee image footsteps flying? Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying In many a line of undulating grace; While Nature, ne'er her mighty laws suspending, Stands, before marble thus with motion blending, One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace. [A volume of translations published in 1818, might have been called by anticipation, "Lays of many Lands." At the time now alluded to, her inspirations were chiefly derived from classical subjects. The "graceful superstitions" of Greece, and the sublime patriotism of Rome, held an influence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of the works of this period-such as "The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy," "Modern Greece," and several of the poems which formed the volume entitled " Tales and Historic Scenes." "Apart from all intercourse," says Delta, "with literary society, and acquainted only by name and occasional correspondence with any of the distinguished authors of whom England has to boast, Mrs Hemans, during the progress of her poetical career, had to contend with more and greater obstacles than usually stand in the path of female authorship. To her praise be it spoken, therefore, that it was to her own merit alone, wholly independent of adventitious circumstances, that she was indebted for the extensive share of popuFrom larity which her compositions ultimately obtained. this studious seclusion were given forth the two poems which first permanently elevated her among the writers of her age, -the Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,' and 'Modern Greece.' In these the maturity of her intellect appears; and she makes us feel, that she has marked out a path for herself through the regions of song. The versification is high-toned and musical, in accordance with the sentiment and subject; and in every page we have evidence, not only of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration and research. These efforts were favourably noticed by Lord Byron; and attracted the admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber and other judicious and intelligent counsellors cheered her on by their approbation: the reputation which, through years of silent study and exertion, she had, no doubt, sometimes with brightened and sometimes with doubtful hopes, looked forward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length unequivocally and unreluctantly accorded her by the world; and, probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The Translations from Camoens; the prize poem of Wallace, as also that of Dartmoor, the Tales and Historic Scenes, and the Sceptic, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career."-Biographical Sketch, prefixed to Poetical Remains, 1836. In reference to the same period of Mrs Hemans' career, the late acute and accomplished Miss Jewsbury (afterwards Mrs Fletcher) has the following judicious observations: "At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classical, and highly polished; but it wanted warmth: it partook more of the nature of statuary than of painting. She fettered her mind with facts and authorities, and drew upon her memory when she might have relied upon her imagination. She was diffident of herself, and, to quote her own admission, 'loved to repose under the shadow of mighty names.'' Athenæum, Feb. 1831.] |