Sonnet LXXXIII. On Catania And Syracuse Swallowed Up By Earthquake.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF FILACAJA.


Here, from laborious Art, proud TOWNS, ye rose!
    Here, in an instant, sunk! - nor ought remains
    Of all ye were! - on the wide, lonely plains
    Not e'en a stone, that might these words disclose,
"Here stood CATANIA;" - or whose surface shows
    That this was SYRACUSE: - but louring reigns
    A trackless DESOLATION. - Dim Domains!
    Pale, mournful Strand! how oft, with anxious throes,
Seek I sad relics, which no spot supplies! -
    A SILENCE - a fix'd HORROR sears my soul,
    Arrests my foot! - Dread DOOM of human crimes,
What art thou? - Ye o'erwhelmed Cities, rise!
    That your terrific skeletons may scowl
    Portentous warning to succeeding Times!

Anna Seward

Anna Seward was an English Romantic poet often called the 'Swan of Lichfield'. She was known for both her poetry and her extensive letter writing, which provided insight into 18th-century literary life. Seward was a steadfast critic of the neoclassicism that dominated much of the contemporary poetry scene, favoring a Romantic approach that sought to capture emotion and natural beauty. Her works often revolved around themes of love, loss, and nature. She was also a close friend of writers such as Erasmus Darwin and Samuel Johnson.

Anna Seward

Sonnet LXXXI. On A Lock Of Miss Sarah Seward's Hair Who Died In Her Twentieth Year.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet LXX. To A Young Lady In Affliction, Who Fancied She Should Never More Be Happy.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Odes From Horace. - To Lyce, On Her Refusing To Admit His Visits. Book The Third, Ode The Tenth.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

Sonnet IV. To Honora Sneyd[1], Whose Health Was Always Best In Winter.

Anna Seward, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet XC. Subject Continued.

My hour is not yet come! - these burning eyes
    Have not yet look'd their last! - else, 'mid the roar
    Of this wild STORM, what gloomy joy to pour
    My freed, exhaling Soul! - sublime to rise,
Rend the conflicting clouds, inflame the skies,
    And lash the torrents! - Bending to explore
    Our evening seat, my straining eye once more
    Roves the wide watry Waste; - but nought descries
Save the pale Flood, o'erwhelming as it strays.
    Yet Oh! lest my remorseless Fate decree
    That all I love, with life's extinguish'd rays
Sink from my soul, to soothe this agony,
    To balm that life, whose loss may forfeit thee,
    COME DEAR REMEMBRANCE OF DEPARTED DAYS!

Anna Seward

Sonnet LXXXII.

From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the grave
    Of the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty Moon
    Calls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon;
    And from a hut, far on the hill, to rave
Is heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud wave
    The rous'd and turbid River surges down,
    Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown
    Appals the Sense. - Yet see! from yonder cave,
Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers,
    With anxious brow, a fond expecting Maid
    Steals towards the flood! - Alas! - for now appears
Her Lover's vacant boat! - the broken oars
    Roll down the tide! - What images invade!
    Aghast she stands, the Statue of her fears!

Anna Seward

Sonnet XCV.

On the damp margin of the sea-beat shore
    Lonely at eve to wander; - or reclin'd
    Beneath a rock, what time the rising wind
    Mourns o'er the waters, and, with solemn roar,
Vast billows into caverns surging pour,
    And back recede alternate; while combin'd
    Loud shriek the sea-fowls, harbingers assign'd,
    Clamorous and fearful, of the stormy hour;
To listen with deep thought those awful sounds;
    Gaze on the boiling, the tumultuous waste,
    Or promontory rude, or craggy mounds
Staying the furious main, delight has cast
    O'er my rapt spirit, and my thrilling heart,
    Dear as the softer joys green vales impart.

Anna Seward

Sonnet CXCIV.

I' piansi, or canto; che 'l celeste lume.

AT HER RETURN, HIS SORROWS VANISH.


    I wept, but now I sing; its heavenly light
That living sun conceals not from my view,
But virtuous love therein revealeth true
His holy purposes and precious might;
Whence, as his wont, such flood of sorrow springs
To shorten of my life the friendless course,
Nor bridge, nor ford, nor oar, nor sails have force
To forward mine escape, nor even wings.
But so profound and of so full a vein
My suff'ring is, so far its shore appears,
Scarcely to reach it can e'en thought contrive:
Nor palm, nor laurel pity prompts to gain,
But tranquil olive, and the dark sky clears,
And checks my grief and wills me to survive.

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca

Sonnet LXXXVIII. The Prospect A Flooded Vale.

    The three following Sonnets are written in the character of Werter; the sentiments and images chiefly, but not intirely taken from one of his letters.

Up this bleak Hill, in wintry Night's dread hour,
    With mind congenial to the scene, I come!
    To see my Valley in the lunar gloom,
    To see it whelm'd. - Amid the cloudy lour
Gleams the cold Moon; - and shows the ruthless power
    Of yon swoln Floods, that white with turbid foam
    Roll o'er the fields; - and, billowy as they roam,
    Against the bushes beat! - A Vale no more,
A troubled Sea, toss'd by the furious Wind! -
    Alas! the wild and angry Waves efface
    Pathway, and hedge, and bank, and stile! - I find
But one wide waste of waters! - In controul
    Thus dire, to tides of Misery...

Anna Seward

To Laura In Death. Sonnet XXX.

Quand' io mi volgo indietro a mirar gli anni.

THE REMEMBRANCE OF THE PAST ENHANCES HIS MISERY.


    When I look back upon the many years
Which in their flight my best thoughts have entomb'd,
And spent the fire, that, spite her ice, consumed,
And finish'd the repose so full of tears,
Broken the faith which Love's young dream endears,
And the two parts of all my blessing doom'd,
This low in earth, while heaven has that resumed,
And lost the guerdon of my pains and fears,
I wake, and feel me to the bitter wind
So bare, I envy the worst lot I see;
Self-terror and heart-grief on me so wait.
O Death, O Fate, O Fortune, stars unkind!
O day for ever dark and drear to me!
How have ye sunk me in this abject state!

MACGREGOR.

Francesco Petrarca