Thus doth fullness overcome death; and the ashes there cover'dSeem, in that silent domain, still to be gladdend with life.
Thus may the minstrel's sarcophagus be hereafter surroundedWith such a scroll, which himself richly with life has adorn'd.
CLASP'D in my arms for ever eagerly hold I my mistress,Ever my panting heart throbs wildly against her dear breast, And on her knees forever is leaning my head, while I'm gazingNow on her sweet-smiling mouth, now on her bright sparkling eyes.
"Oh thou effeminate!" spake one, "and thus, then, thy days thouart spending?"Ah, they in sorrow are spent.List while I tell thee my tale:
Yes! I have left my only joy in life far behind me,Twenty long days hath my car borne me away from her sight.
Vettrini defy me, while crafty chamberlains flatter,And the sly Valet de place thinks but of lies and deceit.
If I attempt to escape, the Postmaster fastens upon me,Postboys the upper hand get, custom-house duties enrage.
"Truly, I can't understand thee! thou talkest enigmas! thou seemestWrapp'd in a blissful repose, glad as Rinaldo of yore:
Ah, I myself understand full well; 'tis my body that travels,And 'tis my spirit that rests still in my mistress's arms.
I WOULD liken this gondola unto the soft-rocking cradle,And the chest on its deck seems a vast coffin to be.
Yes! 'tween the cradle and coffin, we totter and waver for everOn the mighty canal, careless our lifetime is spent.
WHY are the people thus busily moving? For food they are seeking,Children they fain would beget, feeding them well as they can.
Traveller, mark this well, and when thou art home, do thou likewise!
More can no mortal effect, work with what ardour he will.
I WOULD compare to the land this anvil, its lord to the hammer,And to the people the plate, which in the middle is bent.
Sad is the poor tin-plate's lot, when the blows are but given at random:
Ne'er will the kettle be made, while they uncertainly fall.
WHAT is the life of a man? Yet thousands are ever accustom'd Freely to talk about man,--what he has done, too, and how.
Even less is a poem; yet thousands read and enjoy it, Thousands abuse it.--My friend, live and continue to rhyme!
MERRY'S the trade of a poet; but somewhat a dear one, I fear meFor, as my book grows apace, all of my sequins I lose.
Is' thou'rt in earnest, no longer delay, but render me happy;Art thou in jest? Ah, sweet love! time for all jesting is past.
ART thou, then, vex'd at my silence? What shall I speak of? Thou markestNeither my sorrowful sigh, nor my soft eloquent look.
Only one goddess is able the seal of my lips to unloosen,--When by Aurora I'm found, slumbering calm on thy breast.
Ah, then my hymn in the ears of the earliest gods shall be chaunted,As the Memnonian form breath'd forth sweet secrets in song.
IN the twilight of morning to climb to the top of the mountain,--Thee to salute, kindly star, earliest herald of day,--And to await, with impatience, the gaze of the ruler of heaven,--Youthful delight, oh oft lur'st thou me out in the night!
Oh ye heralds of day, ye heavenly eyes of my mistress,Now ye appear, and the sun evermore riseth too soon.
THOU art amazed, and dost point to the ocean.It seems to be burning, Flame-crested billows in play dart round our night-moving bark.
Me it astonisheth not,--of the ocean was born Aphrodite,--Did not a flame, too, proceed from her for us, in her son?
GLEAMING the ocean appear'd, the beauteous billows were smiling,While a fresh, favouring wind, filling the sails, drove us on.
Free was my bosom from yearning; yet soon my languishing glancesTurn'd themselves backward in haste, seeking the snow-cover'd hills.
Treasures unnumber'd are southwards lying.Yet one to the northwardsDraws me resistlessly back, like the strong magnet in force.
SPACIOUS and fair is the world; yet oh! how I thank the kind heavensThat I a garden possess, small though it be, yet mine own.
One which enticeth me homewards; why should a gardener wander?
Honour and pleasure he finds, when to his garden he looks.
AH, my maiden is going! she mounts the vessel! My monarch,AEolus! potentate dread! keep ev'ry storm far away!
"Oh, thou fool!" cried the god:"ne'er fear the blustering tempest;When Love flutters his wings, then mayst thou dread the soft breeze."
ELEGIES.
PART I.
ROMAN ELEGIES.
[The Roman Elegies were written in the same year as the Venetian Epigrams--viz.1790.]
SPEAK, ye stones, I entreat! Oh speak, ye palaces lofty!
Utter a word, oh ye streets! Wilt thou not, Genius, awake?
All that thy sacred walls, eternal Rome, hold within themTeemeth with life; but to me, all is still silent and dead.
Oh, who will whisper unto me,--when shall I see at the casementThat one beauteous form, which, while it scorcheth, revives?
Can I as yet not discern the road, on which I for everTo her and from her shall go, heeding not time as it flies?
Still do I mark the churches, palaces, ruins, and columns,As a wise traveller should, would he his journey improve.
Soon all this will be past; and then will there be but one temple,Amor's temple alone, where the Initiate may go.
Thou art indeed a world, oh Rome; and yet, were Love absent,Then would the world be no world, then would e'en Rome be no Rome.
Do not repent, mine own love, that thou so soon didst surrenderTrust me, I deem thee not bold! reverence only I feel.
Manifold workings the darts of Amor possess; some but scratching,Yet with insidious effect, poison the bosom for years.
Others mightily feather'd, with fresh and newly-born sharpnessPierce to the innermost bone, kindle the blood into flame.
In the heroical times, when loved each god and each goddess,Longing attended on sight; then with fruition was bless'd.
Think'st thou the goddess had long been thinking of love and its pleasuresWhen she, in Ida's retreats, own'd to Anchises her flame?
Had but Luna delayd to kiss the beautiful sleeper,Oh, by Aurora, ere long, he had in envy been rous'd!
Hero Leander espied at the noisy feast, and the loverHotly and nimbly, ere long, plunged in the night-cover'd flood.
