« ПредишнаНапред »
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its manfion call the Aeeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent dust,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death ?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes hes ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck's,
Implores the passing tribute of a figh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th’unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply :
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralift to die.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind ?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
2 Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who mindful of th’unhonour'd Dead
Doft in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate,
2 Ch'i veggio nel pensier, dolce mio fuoco,
Fredda una lingua, & due begli occhi chiusi
Petrarcb. Son. 169.