In the refplendent temple of his god, Antiftrophe. Hafte, then, to the pleasant groves, Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnaffian hill! Since now a fplendid lot is also thine, With authors of exalted note, The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome. Epode. Ye, then, my works, no longer vain, Whate'er this fterile genius has produced, Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend, And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude 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 Through all his graffy vale, delights to 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, Her deathless laurel leaf, with which to bind My willing heart, and all my fancy's flights, 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 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. Whence my fad nights in showers are ever drown'd, 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, |