MADRIGALE I.

Non al suo amante piu Diana piacque.

ANYTHING THAT REMINDS HIM OF LAURA RENEWS HIS TORMENTS.

      Not Dian to her lover was more dear,
    When fortune ’mid the waters cold and clear,
    Gave him her naked beauties all to see,
    Than seem’d the rustic ruddy nymph to me,
    Who, in yon flashing stream, the light veil laved,
    Whence Laura’s lovely tresses lately waved;
    I saw, and through me felt an amorous chill,
    Though summer burn, to tremble and to thrill.

    MACGREGOR.

CANZONE VI.

Spirto gentil che quelle membra reggi.

TO RIENZI, BESEECHING HIM TO RESTORE TO ROME HER ANCIENT LIBERTY.

      Spirit heroic! who with fire divine
    Kindlest those limbs, awhile which pilgrim hold
    On earth a Chieftain, gracious, wise, and bold;
    Since, rightly, now the rod of state is thine
    Rome and her wandering children to confine,
    And yet reclaim her to the old good way: 
    To thee I speak, for elsewhere not a ray
    Of virtue can I find, extinct below,
    Nor one who feels of evil deeds the shame. 
    Why Italy still waits, and what her aim
    I know not, callous to her proper woe,
    Indolent, aged, slow,
    Still will she sleep?  Is none to rouse her found? 
    Oh! that my wakening hands were through her tresses wound.

    So grievous is the spell, the trance so deep,
    Loud though we call, my hope is faint that e’er
    She yet will waken from her heavy sleep: 
    But not, methinks, without some better end
    Was this our Rome entrusted to thy care,
    Who surest may revive and best defend. 
    Fearlessly then upon that reverend head,
    ’Mid her dishevell’d locks, thy fingers spread,
    And lift at length the sluggard from the dust;
    I, day and night, who her prostration mourn,
    For this, in thee, have fix’d my certain trust,
    That, if her sons yet turn. 
    And their eyes ever to true honour raise. 
    The glory is reserved for thy illustrious days!

    Her ancient walls, which still with fear and love
    The world admires, whene’er it calls to mind
    The days of Eld, and turns to look behind;
    Her hoar and cavern’d monuments above
    The dust of men, whose fame, until the world
    In dissolution sink, can never fail;
    Her all, that in one ruin now lies hurl’d,
    Hopes to have heal’d by thee its every ail. 
    O faithful Brutus! noble Scipios dead! 
    To you what triumph, where ye now are blest,
    If of our worthy choice the fame have spread: 
    And how his laurell’d crest,
    Will old Fabricius rear, with joy elate,
    That his own Rome again shall beauteous be and great!