No More Learning

The sun, whose cheering lustre warms
The bosom of yon snow-clad hill,
Seems a just emblem of the charms,
Whose power controls my vanquish'd will;
When near, they gild with joy this frozen heart,
Where ceaseless winter reigns, whene'er those charms depart.

Yon sun, too, paints the locks of gold,
That play around her face so fair--
Her face which, oft as I behold,
Prompts the soft sigh of amorous care!
While Laura smiles, all-conscious of that love
Which from this faithful breast no time can e'er remove.

If to the transient storm of night
Succeeds a star-bespangled sky,
And the clear rain-drops catch the light,
Glittering on all the foliage nigh;
Methinks her eyes I view, as on that day
When through the envious veil they shot their magic ray.

With brightness making heaven more bright,
As then they did, I see them now;
I see them, when the morning light
Purples the misty mountain's brow:
When day declines, and darkness spreads the pole;
Methinks 'tis Laura flies, and sadness wraps my soul.

In stately jars of burnish'd gold
Should lilies spread their silvery pride,
With fresh-blown roses that unfold
Their leaves, in heaven's own crimson dyed;
Then Laura's bloom I see, and sunny hair
Flowing adown her neck than ivory whiter far.

The flowerets brush'd by zephyr's wing,
Waving their heads in frolic play,
Oft to my fond remembrance bring
The happy spot, the happier day,
In which, disporting with the gale, I view'd
Those sweet unbraided locks, that all my heart subdued.

Oh! could I count those orbs that shine
Nightly o'er yon ethereal plain,
Or in some scanty vase confine
Each drop that ocean's bounds contain,
Then might I hope to fly from beauty's rays,
Laura o'er flaming worlds can spread bright beauty's blaze.

Should I all heaven, all earth explore,
I still should lovely Laura find;
Laura, whose beauties I adore,
Is ever present to my mind:
She's seen in all that strikes these partial eyes,
And her dear name still dwells in all my tender sighs.

But soft, my song,--not thine the power
To paint that never-dying flame,
Which gilds through life the gloomy hour,
Which nurtures this love-wasted frame;
For since with Laura dwells my wander'd heart,
Cheer'd by that fostering flame, I brave Death's ebon dart.

ANON 1777.


[Illustration: GENOA. ]




CANZONE XVI.

_Italia mia, benche 'l parlar sia indarno.
_

TO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREE.


O my own Italy! though words are vain
The mortal wounds to close,
Unnumber'd, that thy beauteous bosom stain,
Yet may it soothe my pain
To sigh forth Tyber's woes,
And Arno's wrongs, as on Po's sadden'd shore
Sorrowing I wander, and my numbers pour.
Ruler of heaven! By the all-pitying love
That could thy Godhead move
To dwell a lowly sojourner on earth,
Turn, Lord! on this thy chosen land thine eye:
See, God of Charity!
From what light cause this cruel war has birth;
And the hard hearts by savage discord steel'd,
Thou, Father! from on high,
Touch by my humble voice, that stubborn wrath may yield!

Ye, to whose sovereign hands the fates confide
Of this fair land the reins,--
(This land for which no pity wrings your breast)--
Why does the stranger's sword her plains invest?
That her green fields be dyed,
Hope ye, with blood from the Barbarians' veins?
Beguiled by error weak,
Ye see not, though to pierce so deep ye boast,
Who love, or faith, in venal bosoms seek:
When throng'd your standards most,
Ye are encompass'd most by hostile bands.
O hideous deluge gather'd in strange lands,
That rushing down amain
O'erwhelms our every native lovely plain!
Alas! if our own hands
Have thus our weal betray'd, who shall our cause sustain?

Well did kind Nature, guardian of our state,
Rear her rude Alpine heights,
A lofty rampart against German hate;
But blind ambition, seeking his own ill,
With ever restless will,
To the pure gales contagion foul invites:
Within the same strait fold
The gentle flocks and wolves relentless throng,
Where still meek innocence must suffer wrong:
And these,--oh, shame avow'd! --
Are of the lawless hordes no tie can hold:
Fame tells how Marius' sword
Erewhile their bosoms gored,--
Nor has Time's hand aught blurr'd the record proud!