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SONNETS.

II.

FAIR Lady! whose harmonious name the Rhine, Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear, Base were indeed the wretch, who could forbear To love a spirit elegant as thine,

That manifests a sweetness all divine,

Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare, And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, Temp'ring thy virtues to a softer shine. When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gay,

Such strains, as might the senseless forest move, Ah then-turn each his eyes, and ears, away, Who feels himself unworthy of thy love! Grace can alone preserve him, ere the dart, Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart.

III.

As on a hill-top rude, when closing day
Imbrowns the scene, some past'ral maiden fair
Waters a lovely foreign plant with care,
Borne from its native genial airs away,
That scarcely can its tender bud display,

So, on my tongue these accents, new, and rare,
Are flow'rs exotic, which Love waters there,
While thus, O sweetly scornful! I essay
Thy praise, in verse to British ears unknown,

And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain; So Love has will'd, and oftimes Love has shown That what he wills, he never wills in vain. Oh that this hard and steril breast might be, To Him, who plants from Heav'n, a soil as free!

CANZONE.

THEY mock my toil-the nymphs and am'rous swains

And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry,
Love-songs in language, that thou little know'st?
How dar'st thou risk to sing these foreign strains?
Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd,
And that thy fairest flow'rs, here fade and die?
Then with pretence of admiration high-
Thee other shores expect, and other tides,
Rivers, on whose grassy sides

Her deathless laurel leaf, with which to bind
Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides;

Why then this burthen, better far declin'd?

Speak Muse! for me.-The fair one said, who

guides

My willing heart, and all my fancy's flights,

"This is the language, in which love delights."

IV.

TO CHARLES DEODATI.

CHARLES-and I say it wond'ring-thou must know

That I, who once assum'd a scornful air,
And scoff'd at love, am fallen in his snare,
(Full many an upright man has fallen so)
Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow

Of golden locks, or damask cheek; more rare
The heart-felt beauties of my foreign fair;
A mien majestic, with dark brows, that show
The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind;
Words exquisite, of idioms more than one,

And song, whose fascinating pow'r might bind,
And from her sphere draw down the lab'ring Moon,
With such fire-darting eyes, that should I fill
My ears with wax, she would enchant me still.

V.

LADY! it cannot be, but that thine eyes
Must be my sun, such radiance they display,
And strike me ev'n as Phoebus him, whose way
Through torrid Lybia's sandy desert lies.
Meantime, on that side steamy vapours rise
Where most I suffer. Of what kind are they,
New as to me they are, I cannot say,
But deem them, in the lover's language-sighs.
Some, though with pain, my bosom close conceals,
Which, if in part escaping thence, they tend
To soften thine, thy coldness soon congeals.
While others to my tearful eyes ascend,

Whence my sad nights in show'rs are ever drown'd,
Till my Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound,

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