'Tis true, that sorrows wild and keen despair Cling to the sigh, and feed the jealous tear; When Memory's officious notes declare The Saint that rose, and left her votaries here. When Love renews the charm that smiles no more, But if, upon her image more intent, I trace its glittering skirts with brighter view; There in the desert, and the caves of Night, The passenger, who notes my wither'd form, Starts at the hideous ruins that appear; Explores the wreck that brav'd the pelting storm, And consecrates the Pilgrim's welcome tear. Nor tongue of others nor of mine can tell The weight of sorrow 'tis my doom to bear; My lips are such as claim the passing bell; Yet pious Hope can trust-an Angel's care. Go, melancholy song, and greet the fair, For whom thy Sisters had the note of Joy; EPISODE IN DANTE. Two fleeting shadows cleft the dusky air, Once an impassion'd youth-and melting fair; Their glowing fancy had surviv'd the tomb, Recall'd their bliss-and cheer'd its penal doom; Nor guilty Fear-nor self-accusing Shame, Had yet extinguish'd their unhallow'd flame. Together bound-as when the murdering steel Pierc'd with avenging Honour's last appeal. I saw the tears diffuse their streams in vain, I heard the anguish of Despair complain; With horror struck I fell upon the earth, And rent my heart for Love's ill-fated birth; Immers'd in hopeless Terror's whelming tide, With prayer I thus implor'd my sacred Guide: "Let me address the Pair-whose lighter form Precedes the raging blast, and flaming storm; I'd speak to them with Pity's gentle breath, And, sympathizing, hear the tale of Death." "To them your sorrows," he reply'd, "are dueThe wind relents-adjure them to renew The dear, though sad impressions! to relate I wav'd my hand, and said: "Afflicted Pair! They saw, they heard, and, like a pair of Doves, Felt a new life in Pity's magic tone, And lost the heart that made their grief its own. Their glittering forms reveal'd-they answer'd thus: "Hail, gentle Spirit, that can visit us In these benighted regions, who have stain'd sinn'd? or how? Be thy unsully'd prayer to Him address'd! One day-of Lancelot the Loves we read, 'The Loves enjoy'd-the bower, and the bed; Alas! too often, in the amorous tale, Our eyes had met—I blush'd—and then grew pale. But, when to that sweet point the Readers came, Where Love's impassion'd theme inspir'd its flame, The book was dropp'd-the leaves were clos'd, and then My heart's preferr'd amid the Sons of Men, A NUPTIAL AIR. FROM METASTASIO. SHE, on that cloud, in Beauty's light, She came at Hymen's call-to shed The Loves equipp'd, her train attend; They seem with rival skill to show, The Sister-Graces, not unseen, THE WILLOW; FROM METASTASIO. THOUGH depriv'd of sense the Willow, Yet she's grateful to the River, And repays him on his pillow For the life his currents give her. Dress'd by him with flowing leaves, From the Sun-beams to defend him. SONNET. FROM THE ITALIAN. UNDER precipice of shade Crept a pure and silver brook, There on moss impearl'd with dew, All I ask'd the Sylvan Power There, unsully'd by a tear, Bright as Morning's purple ray, On a bed of Roses lay She-that slept-and could not hear. |