XLI. IMITATION OF AN ITALIAN SONNET BY
VINCENZO DA FILICAIA.
Он Italy! Oh Italy! to whom
The Fates imparted Beauty's hapless doom;
The gift of poison, folly, and regret,
Which in thy wreaths have their inscription yet!
Oh, hadst thou been less fair—or more severe,
With less of claim to love, and more to fear!
Thy charms had then with innocence repos'd,
Thy valour then its tyrants had oppos'd.
Now from the Alps I see the Gaul descend,
Insulting Foe, and more insulting Friend:
Assail'd and rescued by a foreign sword!
With scorn disbanded, and with shame restor❜d.
XLII. ON A HEAVY DISAPPOINTMENT IN MY
POLITICAL FORTUNE.
HERE ends the vision-it was Fancy's throne,
And melts into the air it fill'd-no more
The envy'd or the loved, as heretofore.
An outcast in my age, and left alone,
Without one refuge but in Mercy's throne
Of adamant-her sceptre I adore,
Her beam in shadows of the night implore,
And bless the wreath more brilliant than my own.
Ungrateful," said a whispering voice, "the mood "That so complains!-Thy handmaid is the Muse, "The hour is thine in social blessings pass'd,
"The luxury unbought of doing good,
"Its own reward-whose fountain shall infuse
Joys that have no caprice, and friends that last."
"Dupe of thy virtues! arm thee with disdain! "And boast of hidden strength! mad and inflam'd, “I must enjoy—or kill thee:" (and he aim'd The murdering sword)-" But know that I can stain "With infamy the dead:-Hear!—and retain "Unrifled innocence, the more defam'd, "A theme of scorn! on evidence proclaim'd "That cannot err-for aptly I can feign
"The murder'd slave beside thee, link'd in folds "Adulterous"-Oh, dread alternative,
And subtle menace that with honour's pride
Thus tampering noblest minds in durance holds!
Ensnar'd-polluted—she disdains to live,
That rather unpolluted should have died.
XLIV. TO THE COMPLICATED ENTHUSIAST.
A SATIRICAL SONNET.
Hail, proud Enthusiast for the rights of men
Embattled, and rebellion's troops enroll'd,
American allegiance to withho'd!
Enthusiast for the licence of the pen,
Or of the tongue that rails, and rails again,
Till obloquy is dull, and passion cold!
Enthusiast for the Papal Sovereign's hold,
That chain'd the Lion sleeping in his den,
And spurr'd the Wolf-whose cry was Liberty,
And plunder his appeal!-Enthusiast keen
For bitter scorn, when "hurling from his throne"
Darius, great and good!-for Chivalry
Enthusiast and for Capet's amorous Queen!
For Pensions-and (above the rest) your own.
XLV. TO AN UNJUSTLY OFFENDED AND
CAPRICIOUS Favourite.
WERE I to-morrow, and perhaps to-day,
Or in the circle of a passing hour,
My leaves torn off, and pluck'd the vital flower,
To sink, bereft of thee;-before the ray
Of those enchanting smiles again should play
Upon the wreath it lov'd-or fury's power,
Impatient of controul, could, in the bower
Of sympathy new born, resign its prey,
Disarm'd of scorn, that, with averted eye,
Pierc'd in its flight, as from the Parthian bow; —
Say, could the tear of anguish be withheld
From insult on its throne-when, passing by, The dirge instructs the harp* its theme to know, And wakes the note again to Love impell'd.
XLVI. TO THE JUSTLY OFFENDED, THE INJURED, AND THE IMPlacable.
OFFENDED Spirit! pity, and forgive!
This bleeding heart is thy avenger too,
And self-accus'd-yet Hope's bright pinion flew
To Mercy's altar:-Let not anger live
In gentle minds!-The Angels can receive
Their Penitent in Heaven; the birth renew,
And wash the guilt away in holy dew,
Which they can weep.-Remission's thine to give,
Thine to withhold, from injuries to love,
That on the anguish of contrition's tear
Are melted into air: The penal doom
That's due to all, an olive-bearing dove
To them remits, who felt the mercy here
That gilds alone the shadows of their tomb.
* I gave her the harp.
+ Shakespeare.
XLVII. TO RICHARD HARDINGE *, Esa.
on his approaching Nuptials.
BROTHER and Friend! the pure, the artless joy
Accept, of him that loves thee, and receives
Thy myrtle for his own-upon its leaves
May Beauty's Queen her playful hand employ,
And smiling dress the wreath! nor blight annoy
Of rude mischance, nor serpent who deceives
In pleasure's form envenom'd, and bereaves
The heart of its repose!-May the wing'd Boy,
With azure plumes unruffled, gently fan
The altar's hallow'd flame!-and bliss refin'd,
In vary'd sweets of loveliness detain
The nuptial hour,-improving, if it can,
With fond endearments temper'd charms, that bind
The rebel passions in a silken chain!
XLVIII. THE EXTERMINATING ANGel.
From an Italian Sonnet of Carlo Innocenzo Fragoni.
FIRE as of lightning beam'd upon his crest,
Upon his form-upon his wings impress'd.
Flame was the sword that glitter'd in his hand,
Prepar'd and waiting for its dread command.
Aloft in air his radiant plumes were spread,
From his avenging eye the tear had fled,
His ample volume canopy'd the earth,
A desolating storm proclaim'd his birth,
And the keen flash that pierc'd a night of gloom
Wav'd in the air a signal of the doom.
In thunder cloath'd was Judgement's penal word:
Sweep to its ashes-not a voice be heard
* Now Sir Richard Hardinge, Bart.
"That moves to pity!-The distemper'd crew
"With sword and pestilence their flight pursue!
"Strike without mercy to the parting breath,
"And respite only with despair-the death!"
'Twas heard-and upon myriads of the vain
Destruction flew till havock lost the rein.
The sword could punish, but it could not spare,
And pride of guilt-was dust that fill'd the air.
XLIX. IMITATION FROM THE ITALIAN OF FRAGONI.
AN Alpine oak despis'd the raging storm,
And rear'd aloft its venerable form;
Stern as a rock it seem'd, whose forehead braves
The aweful stroke of Ocean's thund'ring waves.
Its time is come-the hand of age disarms,
And levels to the earth its giant arms;
Forth issue hordes of Peasants from their cave,
And revel on the desolating grave.
Their axe redoubles the Herculean blow,
And lays the dissipated branches low,
The headless trunk, their havock and their
Torn from the shaking root, is hewn away.
The forest mourns in echoes to the sound-
It is the knell of pride-in emblem found-
Earth laughs at these usurpers of the air—
Applauding crouds!-your demi-gods are there.-
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