E’en as some babe unties
    Its tongue in stammering guise,
    Who cannot speak, yet will not silence keep: 
    So fond words I essay;
    And listen’d be the lay
    By my fair foe, ere in the tomb I sleep! 
    But if, of beauty vain,
    She treats me with disdain;
    Do thou, O verdant shore, attend my sighs: 
    Let them so freely flow,
    That all the world may know,
    My sorrow thou at least didst not despise!

    And well art thou aware,
    That never foot so fair
    The soil e’er press’d as that which trod thee late;
    My sunk soul and worn heart
    Now seek thee, to impart
    The secret griefs that on my passion wait. 
    If on thy margent green,
    Or ’midst thy flowers, were seen
    Some traces of her footsteps lingering there. 
    My wearied life ’twould cheer,
    Bitter’d with many a tear: 
    Ah! now what means are left to soothe my care?

    Where’er I bend mine eye,
    What sweet serenity
    I feel, to think here Laura shone of yore. 
    Each plant and scented bloom
    I gather, seems to come
    From where she wander’d on the custom’d shore: 
    Ofttimes in this retreat
    A fresh and fragrant seat
    She found; at least so fancy’s vision shows: 
    And never let truth seek
    Th’ illusion dear to break—­
    O spirit blest, from whom such magic flows!

    To thee, my simple song,
    No polish doth belong;
    Thyself art conscious of thy little worth! 
    Solicit not renown
    Throughout the busy town,
    But dwell within the shade that gave thee birth.

    NOTT.

CANZONE XIV.

Chiare, fresche e dolci acque.

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF VAUOLUSE—­CONTEMPLATIONS OF DEATH.

      Ye limpid brooks, by whose clear streams
    My goddess laid her tender limbs! 
    Ye gentle boughs, whose friendly shade
    Gave shelter to the lovely maid! 
    Ye herbs and flowers, so sweetly press’d
    By her soft rising snowy breast! 
    Ye Zephyrs mild, that breathed around
    The place where Love my heart did wound! 
    Now at my summons all appear,
    And to my dying words give ear.

    If then my destiny requires,
    And Heaven with my fate conspires,
    That Love these eyes should weeping close,
    Here let me find a soft repose. 
    So Death will less my soul affright,
    And, free from dread, my weary spright
    Naked alone will dare t’ essay
    The still unknown, though beaten way;
    Pleased that her mortal part will have
    So safe a port, so sweet a grave.