Death has the bright sun quench'd which wont to burn;
 Her pure and constant eyes his dark realms hold:
 She now is dust, who dealt me heat and cold;
 To common trees my chosen laurels turn;
 Hence I at once my bliss and bane discern.
 None now there is my feelings who can mould
 From fire to frost, from timorous to bold,
 In grief to languish or with hope to yearn.
 Out of his tyrant hands who harms and heals,
 Erewhile who made in it such havoc sore,
 My heart the bitter-sweet of freedom feels.
 And to the Lord whom, thankful, I adore,
 The heavens who ruleth merely with his brow,
 I turn life-weary, if not satiate, now.
Macgregor.

SONNET LXXXV.

Tennemi Amor anni ventuno ardendo.

HE CONFESSES AND REGRETS HIS SINS, AND PRAYS GOD TO SAVE HIM FROM ETERNAL DEATH.

Love held me one and twenty years enchain'd,
 His flame was joy—for hope was in my grief!
 For ten more years I wept without relief,
 When Laura with my heart, to heaven attain'd.
 Now weary grown, my life I had arraign'd
 That in its error, check'd (to my belief)
 Blest virtue's seeds—now, in my yellow leaf,
 I grieve the misspent years, existence stain'd.
 Alas! it might have sought a brighter goal,
 In flying troublous thoughts, and winning peace;
 O Father! I repentant seek thy throne:
 Thou, in this temple hast enshrined my soul,
 Oh, bless me yet, and grant its safe release!
 Unjustified—my sin I humbly own.
Wollaston.

SONNET LXXXVI.

I' vo piangendo i miei passati tempi.

HE HUMBLY CONFESSES THE ERRORS OF HIS PAST LIFE, AND PRAYS FOR DIVINE GRACE.

Weeping, I still revolve the seasons flown
 In vain idolatry of mortal things;
 Not soaring heavenward; though my soul had wings
 Which might, perchance, a glorious flight have shown.
 O Thou, discerner of the guilt I own,
 Giver of life immortal, King of Kings,
 Heal Thou the wounded heart which conscience stings:
 It looks for refuge only to thy throne.
 Thus, although life was warfare and unrest,
 Be death the haven of peace; and if my day
 Was vain—yet make the parting moment blest!
 Through this brief remnant of my earthly way,
 And in death's billows, be thy hand confess'd;
 Full well Thou know'st, this hope is all my stay!
Sheppard.
Still do I mourn the years for aye gone by,
 Which on a mortal love I lavishèd,
 Nor e'er to soar my pinions balancèd,
 Though wing'd perchance no humble height to fly.
 Thou, Dread Invisible, who from on high
 Look'st down upon this suffering erring head,
 Oh, be thy succour to my frailty sped,
 And with thy grace my indigence supply!
 My life in storms and warfare doom'd to spend,
 Harbour'd in peace that life may I resign:
 It's course though idle, pious be its end!
 Oh, for the few brief days, which yet are mine,
 And for their close, thy guiding hand extend!
 Thou know'st on Thee alone my heart's firm hopes recline.
Wrangham.

SONNET LXXXVII.

Dolci durezze e placide repulse.

HE OWES HIS OWN SALVATION TO THE VIRTUOUS CONDUCT OF LAURA.

O sweet severity, repulses mild,
 With chasten'd love, and tender pity fraught;
 Graceful rebukes, that to mad passion taught
 Becoming mastery o'er its wishes wild;
 Speech dignified, in which, united, smiled
 All courtesy, with purity of thought;
 Virtue and beauty, that uprooted aught
 Of baser temper had my heart defiled:
 Eyes, in whose glance man is beatified—
 Awful, in pride of virtue, to restrain
 Aspiring hopes that justly are denied,
 Then prompt the drooping spirit to sustain!
 These, beautiful in every change, supplied
 Health to my soul, that else were sought in vain.
Dacre.

SONNET LXXXVIII.

Spirto felice, che sì dolcemente.

BEHOLDING IN FANCY THE SHADE OF LAURA, HE TELLS HER THE LOSS THAT THE WORLD SUSTAINED IN HER DEPARTURE.

Blest spirit, that with beams so sweetly clear
 Those eyes didst bend on me, than stars more bright,
 And sighs didst breathe, and words which could delight
 Despair; and which in fancy still I hear;—
 I see thee now, radiant from thy pure sphere
 O'er the soft grass, and violet's purple light,
 Move, as an angel to my wondering sight;
 More present than earth gave thee to appear.
 Yet to the Cause Supreme thou art return'd:
 And left, here to dissolve, that beauteous veil
 In which indulgent Heaven invested thee.
 Th' impoverish'd world at thy departure mourn'd:
 For love departed, and the sun grew pale,
 And death then seem'd our sole felicity.
Capel Lofft.
O blessed Spirit! who those sun-like eyes
 So sweetly didst inform and brightly fill,
 Who the apt words didst frame and tender sighs
 Which in my fond heart have their echo still.
 Erewhile I saw thee, glowing with chaste flame,
 Thy feet 'mid violets and verdure set,
 Moving in angel not in mortal frame,
 Life-like and light, before me present yet!
 Her, when returning with thy God to dwell,
 Thou didst relinquish and that fair veil given
 For purpose high by fortune's grace to thee:
 Love at thy parting bade the world farewell;
 Courtesy died; the sun abandon'd heaven,
 And Death himself our best friend 'gan to be.
Macgregor.

SONNET LXXXIX.

Deh porgi mano all' affannato ingegno.

HE BEGS LOVE TO ASSIST HIM, THAT HE MAY WORTHILY CELEBRATE HER.

Ah, Love! some succour to my weak mind deign,
 Lend to my frail and weary style thine aid,
 To sing of her who is immortal made,
 A citizen of the celestial reign.
 And grant, Lord, that my verse the height may gain
 Of her great praises, else in vain essay'd,
 Whose peer in worth or beauty never stay'd
 In this our world, unworthy to retain.
 Love answers: "In myself and Heaven what lay,
 By conversation pure and counsel wise,
 All was in her whom death has snatch'd away.
 Since the first morn when Adam oped his eyes,
 Like form was ne'er—suffice it this to say,
 Write down with tears what scarce I tell for sighs."
Macgregor.

SONNET XC.

Vago augelletto che cantando vai.

THE PLAINTIVE SONG OF A BIRD RECALLS TO HIM HIS OWN KEENER SORROW.

Poor solitary bird, that pour'st thy lay;
 Or haply mournest the sweet season gone:
 As chilly night and winter hurry on,
 And day-light fades and summer flies away;
 If as the cares that swell thy little throat
 Thou knew'st alike the woes that wound my rest.
 Ah, thou wouldst house thee in this kindred breast,
 And mix with mine thy melancholy note.
 Yet little know I ours are kindred ills:
 She still may live the object of thy song:
 Not so for me stern death or Heaven wills!
 But the sad season, and less grateful hour,
 And of past joy and sorrow thoughts that throng
 Prompt my full heart this idle lay to pour.
Dacre.
Sweet bird, that singest on thy airy way,
 Or else bewailest pleasures that are past;
 What time the night draws nigh, and wintry blast;
 Leaving behind each merry month, and day;
 Oh, couldst thou, as thine own, my state survey,
 With the same gloom of misery o'ercast;
 Unto my bosom thou mightst surely haste
 And, by partaking, my sad griefs allay.
 Yet would thy share of woe not equal mine,
 Since the loved mate thou weep'st doth haply live,
 While death, and heaven, me of my fair deprive:
 But hours less gay, the season's drear decline;
 With thoughts on many a sad, and pleasant year,
 Tempt me to ask thy piteous presence here.
Nott.

CANZONE VIII.

Vergine bella che di sol vestita.

TO THE VIRGIN MARY.

Beautiful Virgin! clothed with the sun,
 Crown'd with the stars, who so the Eternal Sun
 Well pleasedst that in thine his light he hid;
 Love pricks me on to utter speech of thee,
 And—feeble to commence without thy aid—
 Of Him who on thy bosom rests in love.
 Her I invoke who gracious still replies
 To all who ask in faith,
 Virgin! if ever yet
 The misery of man and mortal things
 To mercy moved thee, to my prayer incline;
 Help me in this my strife,
 Though I am but of dust, and thou heaven's radiant Queen!
Wise Virgin! of that lovely number one
 Of Virgins blest and wise,
 Even the first and with the brightest lamp:
 O solid buckler of afflicted hearts!
 'Neath which against the blows of Fate and Death,
 Not mere deliverance but great victory is;
 Relief from the blind ardour which consumes
 Vain mortals here below!
 Virgin! those lustrous eyes,
 Which tearfully beheld the cruel prints
 In the fair limbs of thy beloved Son,
 Ah! turn on my sad doubt,
 Who friendless, helpless thus, for counsel come to thee!
O Virgin! pure and perfect in each part,
 Maiden or Mother, from thy honour'd birth,
 This life to lighten and the next adorn;
 O bright and lofty gate of open'd heaven!
 By thee, thy Son and His, the Almighty Sire,
 In our worst need to save us came below:
 And, from amid all other earthly seats,
 Thou only wert elect,
 Virgin supremely blest!
 The tears of Eve who turnedst into joy;
 Make me, thou canst, yet worthy of his grace,
 O happy without end,
 Who art in highest heaven a saint immortal shrined.
O holy Virgin! full of every good,
 Who, in humility most deep and true,
 To heaven art mounted, thence my prayers to hear,
 That fountain thou of pity didst produce,
 That sun of justice light, which calms and clears
 Our age, else clogg'd with errors dark and foul.
 Three sweet and precious names in thee combine,
 Of mother, daughter, wife,
 Virgin! with glory crown'd,
 Queen of that King who has unloosed our bonds,
 And free and happy made the world again,
 By whose most sacred wounds,
 I pray my heart to fix where true joys only are!
Virgin! of all unparallel'd, alone,
 Who with thy beauties hast enamour'd Heaven,
 Whose like has never been, nor e'er shall be;
 For holy thoughts with chaste and pious acts
 To the true God a sacred living shrine
 In thy fecund virginity have made:
 By thee, dear Mary, yet my life may be
 Happy, if to thy prayers,
 O Virgin meek and mild!
 Where sin abounded grace shall more abound!
 With bended knee and broken heart I pray
 That thou my guide wouldst be,
 And to such prosperous end direct my faltering way.
Bright Virgin! and immutable as bright,
 O'er life's tempestuous ocean the sure star
 Each trusting mariner that truly guides,
 Look down, and see amid this dreadful storm
 How I am tost at random and alone,
 And how already my last shriek is near,
 Yet still in thee, sinful although and vile,
 My soul keeps all her trust;
 Virgin! I thee implore
 Let not thy foe have triumph in my fall;
 Remember that our sin made God himself,
 To free us from its chain,
 Within thy virgin womb our image on Him take!
Virgin! what tears already have I shed,
 Cherish'd what dreams and breathed what prayers in vain
 But for my own worse penance and sure loss;
 Since first on Arno's shore I saw the light
 Till now, whate'er I sought, wherever turn'd,
 My life has pass'd in torment and in tears,
 For mortal loveliness in air, act, speech,
 Has seized and soil'd my soul:
 O Virgin! pure and good,
 Delay not till I reach my life's last year;
 Swifter than shaft and shuttle are, my days
 'Mid misery and sin
 Have vanish'd all, and now Death only is behind!
Virgin! She now is dust, who, living, held
 My heart in grief, and plunged it since in gloom;
 She knew not of my many ills this one,
 And had she known, what since befell me still
 Had been the same, for every other wish
 Was death to me and ill renown for her;
 But, Queen of Heaven, our Goddess—if to thee
 Such homage be not sin—
 Virgin! of matchless mind,
 Thou knowest now the whole; and that, which else
 No other can, is nought to thy great power:
 Deign then my grief to end,
 Thus honour shall be thine, and safe my peace at last!
Virgin! in whom I fix my every hope,
 Who canst and will'st assist me in great need,
 Forsake me not in this my worst extreme,
 Regard not me but Him who made me thus;
 Let his high image stamp'd on my poor worth
 Towards one so low and lost thy pity move:
 Medusa spells have made me as a rock
 Distilling a vain flood;
 Virgin! my harass'd heart
 With pure and pious tears do thou fulfil,
 That its last sigh at least may be devout,
 And free from earthly taint,
 As was my earliest vow ere madness fill'd my veins!
Virgin! benevolent, and foe of pride,
 Ah! let the love of our one Author win,
 Some mercy for a contrite humble heart:
 For, if her poor frail mortal dust I loved
 With loyalty so wonderful and long,
 Much more my faith and gratitude for thee.
 From this my present sad and sunken state
 If by thy help I rise,
 Virgin! to thy dear name
 I consecrate and cleanse my thoughts, speech, pen,
 My mind, and heart with all its tears and sighs;
 Point then that better path,
 And with complacence view my changed desires at last.
The day must come, nor distant far its date,
 Time flies so swift and sure,
 O peerless and alone!
 When death my heart, now conscience struck, shall seize:
 Commend me, Virgin! then to thy dear Son,
 True God and Very Man,
 That my last sigh in peace may, in his arms, be breathed!
Macgregor.
PETRARCH'S HOUSE AT ARQUA.
PETRARCH'S HOUSE AT ARQUA.

PETRARCH'S TRIUMPHS.

THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE.

PART I.

Nel tempo che rinova i miei sospiri.

It was the time when I do sadly pay
 My sighs, in tribute to that sweet-sour day,
 Which first gave being to my tedious woes;
 The sun now o'er the Bull's horns proudly goes,
 And Phaëton had renew'd his wonted race;
 When Love, the season, and my own ill case,
 Drew me that solitary place to find,
 In which I oft unload my chargèd mind:
 There, tired with raving thoughts and helpless moan,
 Sleep seal'd my eyes up, and, my senses gone,
 My waking fancy spied a shining light,
 In which appear'd long pain, and short delight.
 A mighty General I then did see,
 Like one, who, for some glorious victory,
 Should to the Capitol in triumph go:
 I (who had not been used to such a show
 In this soft age, where we no valour have,
 But pride) admired his habit, strange and brave,
 And having raised mine eyes, which wearied were,
 To understand this sight was all my care.
 Four snowy steeds a fiery chariot drew;
 There sat the cruel boy; a threatening yew
 His right hand bore, his quiver arrows held,
 Against whose force no helm or shield prevail'd.
 Two party-colour'd wings his shoulders ware;
 All naked else; and round about his chair
 Were thousand mortals: some in battle ta'en,
 Many were hurt with darts, and many slain.
 Glad to learn news, I rose, and forward press'd
 So far, that I was one amongst the rest;
 As if I had been kill'd with loving pain
 Before my time; and looking through the train
 Of this tear-thirsty king, I would have spied
 Some of my old acquaintance, but descried
 No face I knew: if any such there were,
 They were transform'd with prison, death, and care.
 At last one ghost, less sad than th' others, came,
 Who, near approaching, call'd me by my name,
 And said: "This comes of Love." "What may you be,"
 I answer'd, wondering much, "that thus know me?
 For I remember not t' have seen your face."
 He thus replied: "It is the dusky place
 That dulls thy sight, and this hard yoke I bear:
 Else I a Tuscan am; thy friend, and dear
 To thy remembrance." His wonted phrase
 And voice did then discover what he was.
 So we retired aside, and left the throng,
 When thus he spake: "I have expected long
 To see you here with us; your face did seem
 To threaten you no less. I do esteem
 Your prophesies; but I have seen what care
 Attends a lover's life; and must beware."
 "Yet have I oft been beaten in the field,
 And sometimes hurt," said I, "but scorn'd to yield."
 He smiled and said: "Alas! thou dost not see,
 My son, how great a flame's prepared for thee."
 I knew not then what by his words he meant:
 But since I find it by the dire event;
 And in my memory 'tis fix'd so fast,
 That marble gravings cannot firmer last.
 Meanwhile my forward youth did thus inquire:
 "What may these people be? I much desire
 To know their names; pray, give me leave to ask."
 "I think ere long 'twill be a needless task,"
 Replied my friend; "thou shalt be of the train,
 And know them all; this captivating chain
 Thy neck must bear, (though thou dost little fear,)
 And sooner change thy comely form and hair,
 Than be unfetter'd from the cruel tie,
 Howe'er thou struggle for thy liberty;
 Yet to fulfil thy wish, I will relate
 What I have learn'd. The first that keeps such state,
 By whom our lives and freedoms we forego,
 The world hath call'd him Love; and he (you know,
 But shall know better when he comes to be
 A lord to you, as now he is to me)
 Is in his childhood mild, fierce in his age;
 'Tis best believed of those that feel his rage.
 The truth of this thou in thyself shalt find,
 I warn thee now, pray keep it in thy mind.
 Of idle looseness he is oft the child;
 With pleasant fancies nourish'd, and is styled
 Or made a god by vain and foolish men:
 And for a recompense, some meet their bane;
 Others, a harder slavery must endure
 Than many thousand chains and bolts procure.
 That other gallant lord is conqueror
 Of conquering Rome, led captive by the fair
 Egyptian queen, with her persuasive art,
 Who in his honours claims the greatest part;
 For binding the world's victor with her charms,
 His trophies are all hers by right of arms.
 The next is his adoptive son, whose love
 May seem more just, but doth no better prove;
 For though he did his lovèd Livia wed,
 She was seducèd from her husband's bed.
 Nero is third, disdainful, wicked, fierce,
 And yet a woman found a way to pierce
 His angry soul. Behold, Marcus, the grave
 Wise emperor, is fair Faustina's slave.
 These two are tyrants: Dionysius,
 And Alexander, both suspicious,
 And yet both loved: the last a just reward
 Found of his causeless fear. I know y' have heard
 Of him, who for Creüsa on the rock
 Antandrus mourn'd so long; whose warlike stroke
 At once revenged his friend and won his love:
 And of the youth whom Phædra could not move
 T' abuse his father's bed; he left the place,
 And by his virtue lost his life (for base
 Unworthy loves to rage do quickly change).
 It kill'd her too; perhaps in just revenge
 Of wrong'd Theseus, slain Hippolytus,
 And poor forsaken Ariadne: thus
 It often proves that they who falsely blame
 Another, in one breath themselves condemn:
 And who have guilty been of treachery,
 Need not complain, if they deceivèd be.
 Behold the brave hero a captive made
 With all his fame, and twixt these sisters led:
 Who, as he joy'd the death of th' one to see,
 His death did ease the other's misery.
 The next that followeth, though the world admire
 His strength, Love bound him. Th' other full of ire
 Is great Achilles, he whose pitied fate
 Was caused by Love. Demophoon did not hate
 Impatient Phyllis, yet procured her death.
 This Jason is, he whom Medea hath
 Obliged by mischief; she to her father proved
 False, to her brother cruel; t' him she loved
 Grew furious, by her merit over-prized.
 Hypsipyle comes next, mournful, despised,
 Wounded to see a stranger's love prevail
 More than her own, a Greek. Here is the frail
 Fair Helena, with her the shepherd boy,
 Whose gazing looks hurt Greece, and ruin'd Troy.
 'Mongst other weeping souls, you hear the moan
 Œnone makes, her Paris being gone;
 And Menelaus, for the woe he had
 To lose his wife. Hermione is sad,
 And calls her dear Orestes to her aid.
 And Laodamia, that hapless maid,
 Bewails Protesilaus. Argia proved
 To Polynice more faithful than the loved
 (But false and covetous) Amphiaraus' wife.
 The groans and sighs of those who lose their life
 By this kind lord, in unrelenting flames
 You hear: I cannot tell you half their names.
 For they appear not only men that love,
 The gods themselves do fill this myrtle grove:
 You see fair Venus caught by Vulcan's art
 With angry Mars; Proserpina apart
 From Pluto, jealous Juno, yellow-hair'd
 Apollo, who the young god's courage dared:
 And of his trophies proud, laugh'd at the bow
 Which in Thessalia gave him such a blow.
 What shall I say?—here, in a word, are all
 The gods that Varro mentions, great and small;
 Each with innumerable bonds detain'd,
 And Jupiter before the chariot chain'd."
Anna Hume.

PART II.

Stanci già di mirar, non sazio ancora.

Wearied, not satisfied, with much delight,
 Now here, now there, I turn'd my greedy sight,
 And many things I view'd: to write were long,
 The time is short, great store of passions throng
 Within my breast; when lo, a lovely pair,
 Join'd hand in hand, who kindly talking were,
 Drew my attention that way: their attire
 And foreign language quicken'd my desire
 Of further knowledge, which I soon might gain.
 My kind interpreter did all explain.
 When both I knew, I boldly then drew near;
 He loved our country, though she made it fear.
 "O Masinissa! I adjure thee by
 Great Scipio, and her who from thine eye
 Drew manly tears," said I; "let it not be
 A trouble, what I must demand of thee."
 He look'd, and said: "I first desire to know
 Your name and quality; for well you show
 Y' have heard the combat in my wounded soul,
 When Love did Friendship, Friendship Love control."
 "I am not worth your knowledge, my poor flame
 Gives little light," said I: "your royal fame
 Sets hearts on fire, that never see your face:
 But, pray you, say; are you two led in peace
 By him?"—(I show'd their guide)—"Your history
 Deserves record: it seemeth strange to me,
 That faith and cruelty should come so near."
 He said: "Thine own expressions witness bear,
 Thou know'st enough, yet I will all relate
 To thee; 't will somewhat ease my heavy state.
 On that brave man my heart was fix'd so much,
 That Lælius' love to him could be but such;
 Where'er his colours marchèd, I was nigh,
 And Fortune did attend with victory:
 Yet still his merit call'd for more than she
 Could give, or any else deserve but he.
 When to the West the Roman eagles came
 Myself was also there, and caught a flame,
 A purer never burnt in lover's breast:
 But such a joy could not be long possess'd!
 Our nuptial knot, alas! he soon untied,
 Who had more power than all the world beside.
 He cared not for our sighs; and though 't be true
 That he divided us, his worth I knew:
 He must be blind that cannot see the sun,
 But by strict justice Love is quite undone:
 Counsel from such a friend gave such a stroke
 To love, it almost split, as on a rock:
 For as my father I his wrath did fear,
 And as a son he in my love was dear;
 Brothers in age we were, him I obey'd,
 But with a troubled soul and look dismay'd:
 Thus my dear half had an untimely death,
 She prized her freedom far above her breath;
 And I th' unhappy instrument was made;
 Such force th' intreaty and intreater had!
 I rather chose myself than him t' offend,
 And sent the poison brought her to her end:
 With what sad thoughts I know, and she'll confess
 And you, if you have sense of love, may guess;
 No heir she left me, but my tedious moan;
 And though in her my hopes and joys were gone,
 She was of lower value than my faith!
 But now farewell, and try if this troop hath
 Another wonder; for the time is less
 Than is the task." I pitied their distress,
 Whose short joy ended in so sharp a woe:
 My soft heart melted. As they onward go,
 "This youth for his part, I perhaps could love,"
 She said; "but nothing can my mind remove
 From hatred of the nation." He replied,
 "Good Sophonisba, you may leave this pride;
 Your city hath by us been three times beat,
 The last of which, you know, we laid it flat."
 "Pray use these words t' another, not to me,"
 Said she; "if Africk mournèd, Italy
 Needs not rejoice; search your records, and there
 See what you gainèd by the Punic war."
 He that was friend to both, without reply
 A little smiling, vanish'd from mine eye
 Amongst the crowd. As one in doubtful way
 At every step looks round, and fears to stray
 (Care stops his journey), so the varied store
 Of lovers stay'd me, to examine more,
 And try what kind of fire burnt every breast:
 When on my left hand strayèd from the rest
 Was one, whose look express'd a ready mind
 In seeking what he joy'd, yet shamed to find;
 He freely gave away his dearest wife
 (A new-found way to save a lover's life);
 She, though she joy'd, yet blushèd at the change.
 As they recounted their affections strange,
 And for their Syria mourn'd; I took the way
 Of these three ghosts, who seem'd their course to stay
 And take another path: the first I held
 And bid him turn; he started, and beheld
 Me with a troubled look, hearing my tongue
 Was Roman, such a pause he made as sprung
 From some deep thought; then spake as if inspired,
 For to my wish, he told what I desired
 To know: "Seleucus is," said he, "my name,
 This is Antiochus my son, whose fame
 Hath reach'd your ear; he warrèd much with Rome,
 But reason oft by power is overcome.
 This woman, once my wife, doth now belong
 To him; I gave her, and it was no wrong
 In our religion; it stay'd his death,
 Threaten'd by Love; Stratonica she hath
 To name: so now we may enjoy one state,
 And our fast friendship shall outlast all date.
 She from her height was willing to descend;
 I quit my joy; he rather chose his end
 Than our offence; and in his prime had died,
 Had not the wise Physician been our guide;
 Silence in love o'ercame his vital part;
 His love was force, his silence virtuous art.
 A father's tender care made me agree
 To this strange change." This said, he turn'd from me,
 As changing his design, with such a pace,
 Ere I could take my leave, he had quit the place
 After the ghost was carried from mine eye,
 Amazedly I walk'd; nor could untie
 My mind from his sad story; till my friend
 Admonish'd me, and said, "You must not lend
 Attention thus to everything you meet;
 You know the number's great, and time is fleet."
 More naked prisoners this triumph had
 Than Xerxes soldiers in his army led:
 And stretchèd further than my sight could reach;
 Of several countries, and of differing speech.
 One of a thousand were not known to me,
 Yet might those few make a large history.
 Perseus was one; and well you know the way
 How he was catchèd by Andromeda:
 She was a lovely brownet, black her hair
 And eyes. Narcissus, too, the foolish fair,
 Who for his own love did himself destroy;
 He had so much, he nothing could enjoy.
 And she, who for his loss, deep sorrow's slave.
 Changed to a voice, dwells in a hollow cave.
 Iphis was there, who hasted his own fate,
 He loved another, but himself did hate;
 And many more condemn'd like woes to prove,
 Whose life was made a curse by hapless love.
 Some modern lovers in my mind remain,
 But those to reckon here were needless pain:
 The two, whose constant loves for ever last,
 On whom the winds wait while they build their nest;
 For halcyon days poor labouring sailors please.
 And in rough winter calm the boisterous seas.
 Far off the thoughtful Æsacus, in quest
 Of his Hesperia, finds a rocky rest,
 Then diveth in the floods, then mounts i' th' air;
 And she who stole old Nisus' purple hair
 His cruel daughter, I observed to fly:
 Swift Atalanta ran for victory,
 But three gold apples, and a lovely face,
 Slack'd her quick paces, till she lost the race;
 She brought Hippomanes along, and joy'd
 That he, as others, had not been destroyed,
 But of the victory could singly boast.
 I saw amidst the vain and fabulous host,
 Fair Galatea lean'd on Acis' breast;
 Rude Polyphemus' noise disturbs their rest.
 Glaucus alone swims through the dangerous seas,
 And missing her who should his fancy please,
 Curseth the cruel's Love transform'd her shape.
 Canens laments that Picus could not 'scape
 The dire enchantress; he in Italy
 Was once a king, now a pied bird; for she
 Who made him such, changed not his clothes nor name,
 His princely habit still appears the same.
 Egeria, while she wept, became a well:
 Scylla (a horrid rock by Circe's spell)
 Hath made infamous the Sicilian strand.
 Next, she who holdeth in her trembling hand
 A guilty knife, her right hand writ her name.
 Pygmalion next, with his live mistress came.
 Sweet Aganippe, and Castalia have
 A thousand more; all there sung by the brave
 And deathless poets, on their fair banks placed;
 Cydippe by an apple fool'd at last.
Anna Hume.

PART III

Era sì pieno il cor di maraviglie.