TRANSLATIONS FROM CAMOENS, AND OTHER POETS.

“Siamo nati veramente in un secolo in cui gl’ingegni e gli studj degli uomini sono rivolti all’ utilità. L’Agricoltura, le Arti, il Commercio acquistano tutto dì novi lumi dalle ricerche de’ Saggi; e il voler farsi un nome tentando di dilettare, quand’ altri v’aspira con più giustizia giovando, sembra impresa dura e difficile.”—Savioli.

SONNET 70.

“Na metade do ceo subido ardia.”

High in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam,
The sun had reach’d the zenith of his reign,
And for the living fount, the gelid stream,
Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain:
Midst the dark foliage of the forest shade,
The birds had shelter’d from the scorching ray;
Hush’d were their melodies—and grove and glade
Resounded but the shrill cicada’s lay:
When, through the grassy vale, a love-lorn swain,
To seek the maid who but despised his pain,
Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved:
“Why pine for her,” the slighted wanderer cried,
“By whom thou art not loved?” and thus replied
An echo’s murmuring voice—“Thou art not loved!”

SONNET 282.

FROM PSALM CXXXVII.

“Na ribeira de Euprates assentado.”

Wrapt in sad musings, by Euphrates’ stream
I sat, retracing days for ever flown,
While rose thine image on the exile’s dream,
O much-loved Salem! and thy glories gone:
When they who caused the ceaseless tears I shed,
Thus to their captive spoke—“Why sleep thy lays?
Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendour fled,
And all thy triumphs in departed days!
Know’st thou not Harmony’s resistless charm
Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm?
Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye.”
With sighs I answer’d,—“When the cup of woe
Is fill’d, till misery’s bitter draught o’erflow,
The mourner’s cure is not to sing—but die.”