With tyrant wolves, brute beasts we should become. 
    The sage, once stoned for sin, you canonise. 
When rennet melts, much milk makes haste to bind. 
    The more you blow the flames, the more they rise,
    Bloom into stars, and find in heaven their home.

LIII.

TO GOD ON PRAYER.

Tu che Forza ed Amor.

O Thou, who, mingling Force and Love, dost draw
    And guide the complex of all entities,
    Framed for that purpose; whence our reason sees
    In supreme Fate the synthesis of Law;
Though prayers transgress which find defect or flaw
    In things foredoomed by Thy divine decrees,
    Yet wilt Thou modify, by slow degrees
    Or swift, good times or bad Thy mind foresaw: 
I therefore pray—­I who through years have been
    The scorn of fools, the butt of impious men,
    Suffering new pains and torments day by day—­
Shorten this anguish, Lord, these griefs allay;
    For still Thou shalt not have changed counsel when
    I soar from hence to liberty foreseen.

LIV.

TO GOD FOR HELP.

Come vuoi, ch’ a buon porto.

How wilt Thou I should gain a harbour fair,
    If after proof among my friends I find
    That some are faithless, some devoid of mind,
    Some short of sense, though stout to do and dare? 
If some, though wise and loyal, like the hare
    Hide in a hole, or fly in terror blind,
    While nerve with wisdom and with faith combined
    Through malice and through penury despair? 
Reason, Thy honour, and my weal eschewed
    That false ally who said he came from Thee,
    With promise vain of power and liberty. 
I trust:—­I’ll do.  Change Thou the bad to good!—­
    But ere I raise me to that altitude,
    Needs must I merge in Thee as Thou in me.

LV.

To Annibale Caraccioli,

A WRITER OF ECLOGUES.

Non Licida, ne Driope.

Lycoris, Lycidas, and Dryope
    Cannot, dear Niblo, save thy name from death;
    Shadows that fleet, and flowers that yield their breath,
    Match not the Love that craves infinity. 
The beauty thou dost worship dwells in thee: 
    Within thy soul divine it harboureth: 
    This also bids my spirit soar, and saith
    Words that unsphere for me heaven’s harmony. 
Make then thine inborn lustre beam and shine
    With love of goodness; goodness cannot fail: 
    From God alone let praise immense be thine. 
My soul is tired of telling o’er the tale
    With men:  she calls on thine:  she bids thee go
    Into God’s school with tablets white as snow.

LVI.