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Yes, lov'd retreat, those wonted gales I know,

That shed soft fragrance o'er my drooping frame, Sweet, as of old, when first the youthful flame

Was kindled in my veins; and now below I see thy various length of landscape glow

With all its custom'd blooms, its groves the same, Its verdant lawns, and towers of antique fame,

And streams that gently murmur as they flow; Now too the sounds, that us'd my soul to cheer,

Thy mingled melodies of hill and plain,

Melt in faint murmurs no my ravish'd ear:
But say, will they too bless my eyes again,

My friends of yore? if they no more appear,
Fair as thou art, thy other charms are vain.




Bless'd child of Genius, whose fantastic sprite

Rides on the vollied lightning's flash, or roves Through flowery valleys, and Elysian groves,

Or, borne on venturous pinions, takes its flight To those dread realms, where hid from mortal sight

Fierce Genii roam, or where in bright alcoves Mild Fairies reign, and woo their secret loves ; Whate'er thy theme, whether the magic might

Of the stern Kings, that dwell mid ocean's roar,

Or Sindbad's perils, or the cruel wiles

Of Afric's curs'd enchanter charm us more,
Or aught more wondrous still our ear beguiles,

Well pleas'd we listen to thy fabling lore,
And Truth itself with less attraction smiles.



Not for thy gothic trumpet's martial rage,

Not for thy Latian bays, nor that 'twas thine
The Tuscan's rugged period to refine,

Nor yet, Boccaccio, that thy faithful page
Reflects the genuine manners of thy age,
Nor that, enliven'd at thy sprightlier style,

Pale Sorrow's victims smooth the brow, and smile;

For nought of worth like this, immortal Sage, Haste I to twine this garland round thy tomb;

But that I oft have shar'd Nastagio's fears

At his dread vision, oft have wept the dome Of fair Ghismonda, sunk in early years,

I crown thee with this chaplet's simple bloom, The Bard sublime of terror and of tears.

• Boccaccio wrote the Theseida, an Epic poem in Ottava Ri. ma, and several Latin works ; but owes his reputation chiefly to the Decamerone, the style of which is still considered as the standard of perfection in the Italian language. Among the many humorous and licentious tales, which form this work, are some of a more serious character. Such are the two here mentioned, wbich Dryden has imitated under the names of Theodore and Honoria, Sigismonda and Guiscardo.

Srck with the pangs that prompt the lover's moan,

Long tender Tasso pin’d, but pin'd in vain :
Despair at length and frenzy fir'd his brain;

In silence oft he sat, and wept alone,
Oft rav'd aloud, and taught wild woods to groan;

Oft too in songs, if songs might ease his pain,
He pour'd his soul, changing the trumpet's strain

For rural reeds, and the lute's amorous tone :
I, who like him whole years with tortur'd heart

Have woo'd, and vainly woo'd, as fair a dame,

Feel through my boiling veins like madness dart ; So could I learn, like him, the lay to frame,

If she, if haply she, who caus'd my smart,
Might deign to listen, and relieve my pain !



What though, Valclusa, the fond Bard be fled,

That woo'd his fair in thy sequester'd bowers, Long lov'd her living, long bemoan'd her dead,

And hung her visionary shrine with flowers ! What though no more he teach thy shades to mourn

The hapless chances that to love belong, As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn,

He charm’d wild Echo with his plaintive song! Yet still, enamour'd of the tender tale,

Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom, Yet still soft music breathes in every gale,

Still undecay'd the fairy-garlands bloom, Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale, Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb.


No more, fond father of a much-lov'd child,

Let thy sad hcart, big with paternal fears,
Dread the rude storms, that wait his riper years;

A friend, who knows him generous, brave, and By pride unspoil'd, by flattery unbeguild, (mild,

True to his promise, faithful to his trust,
Blind to his own, to others' merit just,

Nor stain'd with folly, nor with vice defild,
And zealous still in honour's arduous way

To emulate the race his sire has run,

Tells thee, that if kind Heaven prolong his day To mourn thy ashes, when thy life is verne,

Thy fame shall live unconscious of decay,
And all thy virtues Aourish in thy son.

Cooln then the babes from yon unshelter'd cot

Implore thy passing charity in vain ;
Too thoughtless youth! what though thy bappier lot

Insult their life of poverty and pain! What though their Maker doom'd them, thus forlorn,

To brook the mockery of the taunting throng, Beneath the oppressor's iron scourge to mourn,

To mourn but not to murmur at his wrong! Yet when their last late evening shall decline,

'Their evening cheerful, tho' their day distress'd, A hope perbaps more heavenly-bright than thine,

A grace by thee unsought, and unpossess’d, A faith more fix'd, a rapture more divine,

Shall gild their passage to eternal rest.


Too long, alas ! through life's tempestuous tide,

Heedless of Heaven, my giddy course I steerd, Link'd with the scoffing crew, nor aught rever'd

Great Nature's God: such erring dreams belied My fancy, swoln with unsubstantial pride :

While, uglier far than have been feign'd or ar'd,

Ten thousand phantoms to my sight appear'd, And drew me darkling far from truth aside.

But vigorous now, with eagle-ken restor'd,
By nobler means aiming at nobler ends,

To the mild bosom of its saving Lord,
Elate with ardent hope, my soul ascends,

While o'er the dreadful gulf, yet unexplorid, Religion's golden sun its evening-beam extends.

Dean babe, whose meaning by fond looks express’d,

Thy only little eloquence, might move
The sternest soul to tenderness and love,

While thus, nor taught by age to fawn, nor dress'd In treachery's mask, nor falsehood's glistering vest,

Thou sweetly smilest, at the pleasing sight,

Wretch as I am, unwonted to delight. A transient gleam of gladness cheers my breast : Yet soon again bursts forth the' unbidden tear,

And inly bleeds my heart, while I divine

What chilling blasts may nip thy riper year, What blackening storms may cloud thy life's decline;

What for myself I feel, for thee I fear :
Nay! God forbid my woes should e'er be thine!

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