In the refplendent temple of his god,
Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine.

Antiftrophe.

Hafte, then, to the pleasant groves,
The Mufes' favourite haunt;
Resume thy station in Apollo's dome,
Dearer to him

Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnaffian hill!
Exulting go,

Since now a fplendid lot is also thine,
And thou art fought by my propitious friend;
For there thou shalt be read

With authors of exalted note,

The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome.

Epode.

Ye, then, my works, no longer vain,
And worthlefs deem'd by me!

Whate'er this fterile genius has produced,
Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent,
An unmolested happy home,

Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend,
Where never flippant tongue profane
Shall entrance find,

And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude
Shall babble far remote.

Perhaps fome future distant age,

Lefs tinged with prejudice, and better taught,

Then, malice filenced in the tomb,

Cooler heads and founder hearts,

Thanks to Roufe, if aught of praise

I merit, shall with candour weigh the claim.

TRANSLATIONS OF MILTON'S ITA

LIAN POEMS.

SONNET.

AIR Lady! whose harmonious name the
Rhine,

Through all his graffy vale, delights to
hear,

Base were indeed the wretch who could forbear To love a spirit elegant as thine,

That manifefts a sweetness all divine,

Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare, And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, Tempering thy virtues to a fofter shine. When gracefully thou fpeak'ft, or fingest gay, Such ftrains as might the fenfeless forest move, Ah then-turn each his eyes and ears away, Who feels himself unworthy of thy love! Grace can alone preserve him ere the dart Of fond defire yet reach his inmost heart.

SONNET.

S on a hill-top rude, when clofing day Imbrowns the scene, fome paftoral maiden fair

Waters a lovely foreign plant with care, Borne from its native genial airs away, That scarcely can its tender bud display,

So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare, Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there. While thus, O fweetly scornful! I effay

Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown, And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain; So Love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has shown That what he wills, he never wills in vain. Oh that this hard and sterile breast might be To Him, who plants from heaven, a soil as free!

CANZONE.

HEY mock my toil-the nymphs and

amorous fwains

And whence this fond attempt to write,

they cry,

Love-fongs in language that thou little know'st? How dareft thou risk to sing these foreign ftrains? Say truly, find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd, And that thy fairest flowers here fade and die? Then with pretence of admiration high—

Thee other shores expect, and other tides,
Rivers, on whose graffy fides

Her deathless laurel leaf, with which to bind
Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides;
Why then this burthen, better far declined?
Speak, Mufe! for me-the fair one faid, who
guides

My willing heart, and all my fancy's flights,
"This is the language in which Love delights."

SONNET, TO CHARLES DEODATI.

HARLES-and I fay it wondering-thou must know

That I, who once affumed a fcornful air And fcoff'd at Love, am fallen in his fnare. (Full many an upright man has fallen fo :) Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow Of golden locks, or damask cheek; more rare The heart-felt beauties of my foreign fair; A mien majestic, with dark brows that show The tranquil luftre of a lofty mind; Words exquifite, of idioms more than one, And fong, whofe fascinating power might bind, And from her sphere draw down the labouring Moon ;

With fuch fire-darting eyes that, should I fill My ears with wax, fhe would enchant me still.

SONNET.

ADY! it cannot be but that thine eyes
Must be my fun, fuch radiance they dif-

play,

And ftrike me e'en as Phoebus him whose way Through horrid Libya's fandy desert lies. Meantime, on that fide steamy vapours rife Where moft I fuffer. Of what kind are they, New as to me they are, I cannot say,

But deem them, in the lover's language-fighs.
Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals,
Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend
To foften thine, thy coldness foon congeals.
While others to my tearful eyes afcend,

Whence my fad nights in showers are ever drown'd,
Till my Aurora come, her brow with rofes bound.

SONNET.

NAMOUR'D, artless, young, on foreign ground,

Uncertain whither from myself to fly; To thee, dear Lady, with an humble figh Let me devote my heart, which I have found By certain proofs, not few, intrepid, found, Good, and addicted to conceptions high: When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky,