No More Learning

"I lost a damsel in that hour,
Of all the land the loveliest flower;
Doubloons a hundred I would pay,
And think her ransom cheap that day. "
Woe is me, Alhama!

21.

And as these things the old Moor said,
They severed from the trunk his head;
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed
'Twas carried, as the King decreed.
Woe is me, Alhama!

22.

And men and infants therein weep
Their loss, so heavy and so deep;
Granada's ladies, all she rears
Within her walls, burst into tears.
Woe is me, Alhama!

23.

And from the windows o'er the walls
The sable web of mourning falls;
The King weeps as a woman o'er
His loss, for it is much and sore.
Woe is me, Alhama!

[First published, _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. , 1818. ]




SONETTO DI VITTORELLI. [575]

PER MONACA.
Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era motta poco
innanzi una figlia appena maritata: e diretto al genitore della
sacra sposa.

Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte
Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,
Il ciel, die degne di piu nobil sorte
L' una e l' altra veggendo, ambe chiedeo.

La mia fu tolta da veloce morte
A le fumanti tede d' Imeneo:
La tua, Francesco, in suggellate porte
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.

Ma tu almeno potrai dalla gelosa
Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde,
La sua tenera udir voce pietosa.

Io verso un flume d' amarissim' onde,
Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa:
Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.

[_Opere Edite e Postume_ di J. Vittorelli, Bassano, 1841, p. 294. ]



TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.


ON A NUN.

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had
recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the
father of her who had lately taken the veil.

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired,
Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires,
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,
And gazing upon _either, both_ required.

Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired
Becomes extinguished,--soon--too soon expires;
But thine, within the closing grate retired,
Eternal captive, to her God aspires.

But _thou_ at least from out the jealous door,
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes,
May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more:

I to the marble, where _my_ daughter lies,
Rush,--the swoln flood of bitterness I pour,
And knock, and knock, and knock--but none replies.

[First published, _Childe Harold_, Canto IV. , 1818.