Ah, life of care, in fears or hopes confum'd,

Vain hopes, that wither ere they well have bloom'd!
How oft, emerging from the shades of night,

Laughs the gay morn, and spreads a purple light,

But foon the gath'ring clouds o'ershade the skies,
Red lightnings play, and thund'ring storms arise!
How oft a day, that fair and mild appears,

Grows dark with fate, and mars the toil of years!

*Not far remov'd, yet hid from diftant eyes, Low in her fecret grot a Naiad lies.

IMITATIONS.

Ver. 33. See a defcription of this celebrated fountain in a poem of Madame Defhoulieres.

Entre de hauts rochers, dont l' afpect eft terrible,

Des pres toujours fleuris, des arbres toujours verds,

Une fource orgueilleuse et pure,

Dont l'eau fur cent rochers divers
D'une mouffe verte couverts,

S'epanche, bouillonne, et murmure;

Des agneaux bondiffans fnr la tendre verdure,
Et de leurs conducteurs les ruftiques concerts &c.

Steep

Steep arching rocks, with verdant mofs o'ergrown,

Form her rude diadem, and native throne:

There in a gloomy cave her waters sleep,

Clear as a brook, but as an ocean deep.
But when the waking flow'rs of April blow,
And warmer funbeams melt the gather'd snow,
Rich with the tribute of the vernal rains

The nymph exulting bursts her filver chains :
Her living waves in sparkling columns rise,

And shine like rainbows to the funny skies.
From cliff to cliff the falling waters roar,
Then die in murmurs, and are heard no more.
Hence, foftly flowing in a dimpled stream,

The crystal Sorga spreads a lively gleam,
From which a thousand rills in mazes glide,
And deck the banks with summer's gayeft pride;

Brighten the verdure of the fmiling plains,

And crown the labour of the joyful fwains.

First on those banks (ah, dream of fhort delight!)

The charms of Laura ftruck my dazzled fight,

Charms, that the bliss of Eden might restore,
That heav'n might envy, and mankind adore.

I faw --- and O!. what heart could long rebel?
I faw, I lov'd, and bade the world farewel.

Where'er she mov'd, the meads were fresh and gay,
And ev'ry bow'r exhal'd the sweets of May;
Smooth flow'd the streams, and foftly blew the gale;
And rifing flow'rs impurpled every dale;

Calm was the ocean, and the sky ferene

;

An universal smile o'erfpread the shining scene:

But when in death's cold arms entranc'd fhe lay,

(*Ah, ever dear, yet ever fatal day!)

O'er all the air a direful gloom was spread;

Pale were the meads, and all their bloffoms dead;

The clouds of April fhed a baleful dew,

All nature wore a veil of deadly hue.

*Laura was first feen by Petrarch on the fixth of April in the year 1327, and the died on the fame day in 1348.

Gc

1

Go, plaintive breeze, to Laura's flow'ry bier, Heave the warm figh, and shed the tender tear. There to the awful fhade due homage pay,

And softly thus address the sacred clay :

* 66 Say, envied earth, that doft those charms infold, “Where are those cheeks, and where those locks of gold? "Where are those eyes, which oft the Muse has sung? "Where thofe fweet lips, and that enchanting tongue ? "Ye radiant treffes, and thou, nectar'd fmile, "Ye looks that might the melting skies beguile,

IMITATIONS.

* Ver. 75. Sonnet. 260.

Quanta invidia ti porto, avara terra,

Ch' abbracci quella, cui veder m' e tolto.

And Sonnet. 259.

Ov'e la fronte, che con picciol cenno

Volgea 'l mio core in quefta parte, e'n quella?

Ov' e 'l bel ciglio, e l'una e l'altra ftella,

Ch' al corfo del mio viver lume denno? &c.

"You

"You rob'd my foul of reft, my eyes of fleep,

"You taught me how to love, and how to weep."

* No shrub o'erhangs the dew-befpangled vale, No bloffom' trembles to the dying gale,

No flow'ret blufhes in the morning rays,

No ftream along the winding valley plays,

But knows what anguish thrills my tortur'd breast,
What pains confume me, and what cares infest.

IMITATIONS.

Ver. 83. Sonnet. 248.

Non e fterpe, ne faffo in quefti monti,

Non ramo o fronda verde in queste piagge;

Non fior' in quefte valli, o foglia d'erba ;

Stilla d'acque non ven di queste fonti,

Ne fiere an quefti bofchi fi felvagge,

Che non fappian quant' e mia pena acerba.

* At