I know that thou wilt love me; though to drain

My blood from out thy being were an aim,

And an attainment,-all would be in vain,

Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain.

CXVIII.

The child of love, though born in bitterness,

And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire
These were the elements, and thine no less.

As yet such are around thee, but thy fire
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far higher.
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the sea
And from the mountains where I now respire,
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee,

As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st have been to me!

CANTO THE FOURTH.

"Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna,
Quel Monte che divide, e quel che serra
Italia, e un mare e l' altro, che la bagna."

Ariosto, Satira iii.