(7) ASON G, By METASTASIO. WIT HOPE. ITH languid heats while nature burns, The parch'd, unyielding foil; Nor feels the fierce, oppreffive ray, The Pris'ner in his dark, damp cell, And ev'ry grief that stung his mind, And ev'ry fear to her refign'd, Sings to his founding chain. SONETTO Di FRANCESCO PETRARCA. O NDE tolfe amor l' oro, e di qual vena, Di quella fronte più che 'l ciel ferena? Da quali angeli moffe, e di qual fpera Quel celefte cantar, che mi disface Sì, che m' avanza omai da disfar poco ? Di qual fol nacque l' alma luce altera Di que' begli occhi, ond' i' ho guerra, e pace, CAN A SONNET, By FRANCIS PETRARCA, SAY, AY, didst thou gild with ore of earthly mine! Yon rofes cull? fay, whence thofe glift'ring gems Of earliest dew, instinct with Spir't divine? Whence those rich pearls, whofe beauteous orders rife, And frame fuch speech as Seraph lips might grace? But hark! what angel breathes cœleftial airs? [roll, What heav'n-tun'd fpheres in founds harmonious Till faint with rapt'rous anguish I expire? Say, borrow'd from what Sun those shafts she bears, [defire? CAN |