But oh, thou Love's and Nature's masterer, Too small a circle for thy mighty sphere ? To the renown'd and high ; Can live without thy grace, Go, let us love; since years No truce allow, and life soon disappears; But unto us the light Dies once for all, and sleep brings on eternal night. PETRARCH'S CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH IN THE BOWER OF LAURA. CLEAR, fresh, and dulcet streams, To me sole woman, haunted at noon-tide; (I sigh to think of it) Which lent a pillar to her lovely side; And turf, and flowers bright-eyed, O'er which her folded gown Flow'd like an angel's down; And you, O holy air and hush'd, Where first my heart at her sweet glances gush'd; Give ear, give ear with one consenting, To my last words, my last, and my lamenting. If 'tis my fate below, And heaven will have it so, That love must close these dying eyes in tears, In middle of your shade, While my soul naked mounts to its own spheres. The doubtful step of death; A stiller port after the stormy wind; Nor in more calm, abstracted bourne, [outworn. Slip from my travaill'd flesh, and from my bones Perhaps, some future hour, To her accustomed bower Might come the untamed, and yet the gentle she; And where she saw me first, Might turn with eyes athirst And kinder joy to look again for me; Then, Oh the charity! Seeing amidst the stones The earth that held my bones, A sigh for very love at last Might ask of heaven to pardon me the past: As with her gentle veil she wiped the tears away. How well I call to mind, When from those boughs the wind Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower; And there she sat, meek-eyed, In midst of all that pride, Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower. Some to her hair paid dower, And seem'd to dress the curls Some, snowing, on her drapery stopp'd, Some on the earth, some on the water dropp'd; While others, fluttering from above, [reigns Love." Seem'd wheeling round in pomp, and saying, "Here How often then I said, "Doubtless this creature came from paradise!" Her voice, and her sweet smile, And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes; So that, with long-drawn sighs, I said, as far from men, "How came I here, and when !" I had forgotten; and alas! Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was; Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere. A DEPRECATION OF THE NAME OF JOHN. FROM THE ITALIAN OF CASA. WERE I Some fifteen years younger or twenty, * 'Tis downright insult; a mere public scandal. Clergymen, lawyers, pedants,—not a soul, But his name 's John. You shall not see a face, Looking like what it is, a simpleton's Barber's, porkman's, or tooth-drawer's, but the fellow Seems by his look to be a John,-and is one! *Casa was himself in orders, and subsequently a bishop. I verily think, that the first man who cried And think what they 're about.-O you who love me, Don't call me John, for God's sake; or at least, You might as well call after one like a dog,- Think of the name of John upon a title-page! It damns the book at once; and reasonably: People no sooner see it, than they conclude They 've read the work before.-Oh I must say My father made a pretty business of it, Calling me John! me, 'faith-his eldest son! Heir to his-poverty! Why there's not a writ, But nine times out of ten, is serv'd on John, And what still more annoys me, not a bill: Your promiser to pay is always John. Some people fondly make the word a compound, It never does, humour it as you will. PASSAGES FROM REDI'S DITHYRAMBIC POEM OF BACCHUS IN TUSCANY. The Author has translated the whole of this popular piece of Italian pleasantry, which is a criticism on the wines of the poet's country; but even in the original it is perhaps too long, especially as a monologue; for Bacchus talks it all from beginning to end; and the local nature of the subjects and the allusions renders it, for the most part, of little interest to a foreign reader. He has persuaded himself, however, that a few passages will bring their recommendation with them, in the gaiety of their animal spirits. The reader will be good enough to bear in mind, that strange compound epithets and other audacities of style are among the privileges of Dithyrambic poetry. BACCHUS'S OPINION OF WINE, CHOCOLATE, TEA, BEER, AND OTHER INCOMPATIBLE BEVERAGES. GIVE me, give me Buriano, Trebbiano, Colombano, Give me bumpers, rich and clear! Swallowed thinking, And was the receipt for bliss. |