“Quest’ ombra che giammai non vide il sole.”

This green recess, where through the bowery gloom
Ne’er, e’en at noontide hours, the sunbeam play’d,
Where violet-beds in soft luxuriance bloom
Midst the cool freshness of the myrtle shade;
Where through the grass a sparkling fountain steals,
Whose murmuring wave, transparent as it flows,
No more its bed of yellow sand conceals
Than the pure crystal hides the glowing rose;
This bower of peace, thou soother of our care,
God of soft slumbers and of visions fair!
A lowly shepherd consecrates to thee!
Then breathe around some spell of deep repose,
And charm his eyes in balmy dew to close,
Those eyes, fatigued with grief, from tear-drops never free.

PETRARCH.

“Chi vuol veder quantunque può natura.”

Thou that wouldst mark, in form of human birth,
All heaven and nature’s perfect skill combined,
Come gaze on her, the day-star of the earth,
Dazzling, not me alone, but all mankind:
And haste! for Death, who spares the guilty long,
First calls the brightest and the best away;
And to her home, amidst the cherub throng,
The angelic mortal flies, and will not stay!
Haste! and each outward charm, each mental grace,
In one consummate form thine eye shall trace,
Model of loveliness, for earth too fair!
Then thou shalt own how faint my votive lays,
My spirit dazzled by perfection’s blaze:
But if thou still delay, for long regret prepare.

“Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.”

If to the sighing breeze of summer hours
Bend the green leaves; if mourns a plaintive bird;
Or from some fount’s cool margin, fringed with flowers,
The soothing murmur of the wave is heard;
Her whom the heavens reveal, the earth denies,
I see and hear: though dwelling far above,
Her spirit, still responsive to my sighs,
Visits the lone retreat of pensive love.
“Why thus in grief consume each fruitless day,”
(Her gentle accents thus benignly say,)
“While from thine eyes the tear unceasing flows?
Weep not for me, who, hastening on my flight,
Died, to be deathless; and on heavenly light
Whose eyes but open’d, when they seem’d to close!”

VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO.

“O Muerte! que sueles ser.”

Thou, the stem monarch of dismay,
Whom nature trembles to survey,
O Death! to me, the child of grief,
Thy welcome power would bring relief,
Changing to peaceful slumber many a care.
And though thy stroke may thrill with pain
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein;
The pangs that bid existence close,
Ah! sure are far less keen than those
Which cloud its lingering moments with despair.

FRANCESCO LORENZINI.

“O Zefiretto, che movendo vai.”

Sylph of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light
Wave gently round the tree I planted here,
Sacred to her whose soul hath wing’d its flight
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere;
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale!
To fan its leaves in summer’s noontide hour;
Be it thy care that wintry tempests fail
To rend its honours from the sylvan bower.
Then shall it spread, and rear th’ aspiring form.
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm,
Graced with her name, a consecrated tree!
So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind,
Ne’er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind,
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free!

GESNER.

MORNING SONG.

“Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn.”

Hail! morning sun, thus early bright;
Welcome, sweet dawn! thou younger day!
Through the dark woods that fringe the height,
Beams forth, e’en now, thy ray.
Bright on the dew it sparkles clear,
Bright on the water’s glittering fall,
And life, and joy, and health appear,
Sweet Morning! at thy call.
Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring
From beds of fragrance, where they lay,
And roving wild on dewy wing,
Drive slumber far away.
Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat,
Now from each mind withdraw their spell;
While the young loves delighted meet,
On Rosa’s cheek to dwell.
Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower,
Its fragrant spirit make thine own;
Then wing thy way to Rosa’s bower,
Ere her light sleep is flown.
There, o’er her downy pillow fly,
Wake the sweet maid to life and day;
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh,
And o’er her bosom play;
And whisper, when her eyes unveil,
That I, since morning’s earliest call,
Have sigh’d her name to ev’ry gale
By the lone waterfall.

GERMAN SONG.

“Mädchen, lernet Amor kennen.”

Listen, fair maid! my song shall tell
How Love may still be known full well—
His looks the traitor prove.
Dost thou not see that absent smile,
That fiery glance replete with guile?
Oh! doubt not then—’tis Love.
When varying still the sly disguise,
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries,
Or with complaint would move;
To-day is bold, to-morrow shy,
Changing each hour, he knows not why.
Oh! doubt not then—’tis Love.
There’s magic in his every wile,
His lips, well practised to beguile,
Breathe roses when they move;
See! now with sudden rage he burns,
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns.
Oh! doubt not then—’tis Love.
He comes, without the bow and dart,
That spare not e’en the purest heart;
His looks the traitor prove;
That glance is fire, that mien is guile,
Deceit is lurking in that smile—
Oh! trust him not—’tis Love!

CHAULIEU.

“Grotte, d’où sort ce clair ruisseau.”

Thou grot, whence flows this limpid spring,
Its margin fringed with moss and flowers,
Still bid its voice of murmurs bring
Peace to my musing hours.
Sweet Fontenay! where first for me
The dayspring of existence rose,
Soon shall my dust return to thee,
And midst my sires repose.
Muses! that watch’d my childhood’s morn,
Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye—
Fair trees! that here beheld me born,
Soon shall ye see me die.

GARCILASO DE VEGA.

“Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera.”

Enjoy the sweets of life’s luxuriant May
Ere envious Age is hastening on his way
With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow;
The rose will fade when storms assail the year,
And Time, who changeth not his swift career,
Constant in this, will change all else below!

LORENZO DE MEDICI.

VIOLETS.

“Non di verdi giardin ornati e colti.”

We come not, fair one! to thy hand of snow
From the soft scenes by Culture’s hand array’d;
Not rear’d in bowers where gales of fragrance blow,
But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade!
There once, as Venus wander’d, lost in woe,
To seek Adonis through th’ entangled wood,
Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk’d below
With print relentless drew celestial blood!
Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught,
Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught,
Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes;
We were not foster’d in our shadowy vales
By guided rivulets or summer gales—
Our dew and air have been Love’s balmy tears and sighs!

PINDEMONTE.

ON THE HEBE OF CANOVA.

“Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi?”

Whither, celestial maid, so fast away?
What lures thee from the banquet of the skies?
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day
For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs?
O thou, Canova! soaring high above
Italian art—with Grecian magic vying!
We knew thy marble glow’d with life and love,
But who had seen thee image footsteps flying?
Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing
With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying
In many a line of undulating grace;
While Nature, ne’er her mighty laws suspending,
Stands, before marble thus with motion blending,
One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace.

[A volume of translations published in 1818, might have been called by anticipation, “Lays of many Lands.” At the time now alluded to, her inspirations were chiefly derived from classical subjects. The “graceful superstitions” of Greece, and the sublime patriotism of Rome, held an influence over her thoughts which is evinced by many of the works of this period—such as “The Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,” “Modern Greece,” and several of the poems which formed the volume entitled “Tales and Historic Scenes.”

“Apart from all intercourse,” says Delta, “with literary society, and acquainted only by name and occasional correspondence with any of the distinguished authors of whom England has to boast, Mrs Hemans, during the progress of her poetical career, had to contend with more and greater obstacles than usually stand in the path of female authorship. To her praise be it spoken, therefore, that it was to her own merit alone, wholly independent of adventitious circumstances, that she was indebted for the extensive share of popularity which her compositions ultimately obtained. From this studious seclusion were given forth the two poems which first permanently elevated her among the writers of her age,—the ‘Restoration of the Works of Art to Italy,’ and ‘Modern Greece.’ In these the maturity of her intellect appears; and she makes us feel, that she has marked out a path for herself through the regions of song. The versification is high-toned and musical, in accordance with the sentiment and subject; and in every page we have evidence, not only of taste and genius, but of careful elaboration and research. These efforts were favourably noticed by Lord Byron; and attracted the admiration of Shelley. Bishop Heber and other judicious and intelligent counsellors cheered her on by their approbation: the reputation which, through years of silent study and exertion, she had, no doubt, sometimes with brightened and sometimes with doubtful hopes, looked forward to as a sufficient great reward, was at length unequivocally and unreluctantly accorded her by the world; and, probably, this was the happiest period of her life. The Translations from Camoens; the prize poem of Wallace, as also that of Dartmoor, the Tales and Historic Scenes, and the Sceptic, may all be referred to this epoch of her literary career.”—Biographical Sketch, prefixed, to Poetical Remains, 1836.

In reference to the same period of Mrs Hemans’ career, the late acute and accomplished Miss Jewsbury (afterwards Mrs Fletcher) has the following judicious observations:—

“At this stage of transition, her poetry was correct, classical, and highly polished; but it wanted warmth: it partook more of the nature of statuary than of painting. She fettered her mind with facts and authorities, and drew upon her memory when she might have relied upon her imagination. She was diffident of herself, and, to quote her own admission, ‘loved to repose under the shadow of mighty names.’”—Athenæum, Feb. 1831.]