Scherzo.

    The damsel from the field returns,
    The sun is sinking in the west;
    Her bundle on her head she sets,
    And in her hand she bears
    A bunch of roses and of violets.
    To-morrow is a holiday,
    And she, as usual, must them wear
    Upon her bodice, in her hair.
    The old crone sits among her mates,
    Upon the stairs, and spins;
    And, looking at the fading light,
    Of good old-fashioned times she prates,
    When she, too, dressed for holidays,
    And with light heart, and limb as light,
    Would dance at night
    With the companions of her merry days.
    The twilight shades around us close,
    The sky to deepest blue is turned;
    From hills and roofs the shadows fall,
    And the new moon her face of silver shows...

    Thou from the top of yonder antique tower,
    O lonely sparrow, wandering, hast gone,
    Thy song repeating till the day is done,
    And through this valley strays the harmony.
    How Spring rejoices in the fields around,
    And fills the air with light,
    So that the heart is melted at the sight!
    Hark to the bleating flocks, the lowing herds!
    In sweet content, the other birds
    Through the free sky in emulous circles wheel,
    In pure enjoyment of their happy time:
    Thou, pensive, gazest on the scene apart,
    Nor wilt thou join them in the merry round;
    Shy playmate, thou for mirth hast little heart;
    And with thy plaintive music, dost consume
    Both of the year, and of thy life, the bloom.

    Alas, how much my ways

Anzi tre di creata era alma in parte.

THE HISTORY OF HIS LOVE; AND PRAYER FOR HELP.


    Life's three first stages train'd my soul in part
To place its care on objects high and new,
And to disparage what men often prize,
But, left alone, and of her fatal course
As yet uncertain, frolicsome, and free,
She enter'd at spring-time a lovely wood.

A tender flower there was, born in that wood
The day before, whose root was in a part
High and impervious e'en to spirit free;
For many snares were there of forms so new,
And such desire impell'd my sanguine course,
That to lose freedom were to gain a prize.

Dear, sweet, yet perilous and painful prize!
Which quickly drew me to that verdant wood,
Doom'd to mislead me midway in life's cour...

An aged satyr sought
Around my Muse to pass,
Attempting to pay court,
And eyed her fondly through his glass.

By Phoebus' golden torch,
By Luna's pallid light,
Around her temple's porch
Crept the unhappy sharp-eared wight;

And warbled many a lay,
Her beauty's praise to sing,
And fiercely scraped away
On his discordant fiddle-string.

With tears, too, swelled his eyes,
As large as nuts, or larger;
He gasped forth heavy sighs,
Like music from Silenus' charger.

The Muse sat still, and played
Within her grotto fair,
And peevishly surveyed
Signor Adonis Goatsfoot there.

"Who ever would kiss thee,
Thou ugly, dirty dunce?
Wouldst thou a gallant be,
As Midas was Apollo once?

"Speak out, old horn...

Se 'l pensier che mi strugge.

HE SEEKS IN VAIN TO MITIGATE HIS WOE.


    Oh! that my cheeks were taught
By the fond, wasting thought
To wear such hues as could its influence speak;
Then the dear, scornful fair
Might all my ardour share;
And where Love slumbers now he might awake!
Less oft the hill and mead
My wearied feet should tread;
Less oft, perhaps, these eyes with tears should stream;
If she, who cold as snow,
With equal fire would glow--
She who dissolves me, and converts to flame.

Since Love exerts his sway,
And bears my sense away,
I chant uncouth and inharmonious songs:
Nor leaves, nor blossoms show,
Nor rind, upon the bough,
What is the nature that thereto belongs.
Love, and those beauteous eyes,

What wonder this? we ask the lympid well,
O earth! of thee and from thy solemn womb
What yieldest thou? is there life in the abyss
Doth a new race beneath the lava dwell?
Returns the past, awakening from the tomb?
Rome Greece! Oh, come! Behold behold! for this!
Our living world the old Pompeii sees;
And built anew the town of Dorian Hercules!
House upon house its silent halls once more
Opes the broad portico! Oh, haste and fill
Again those halls with life! Oh, pour along
Through the seven-vista'd theatre the throng!
Where are ye, mimes? Come forth, the steel prepare
For crowned Atrides, or Orestes haunt,
Ye choral Furies, with your dismal chant!
The arch of triumph! whither leads it? still
Behold the forum! on the curule chair
Where the majestic image? Li...