IV. YES, lov'd retreat, those wonted gales I know, V. TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS ENTERTAINMENTS. BLESS'd child of Genius, whose fantastic sprite 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. VI. TO BOCCACCIO.* NoT for thy gothic trumpet's martial rage, 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. Boccaceio wrote the Theseida, an Epic poem in Ottava Rima, 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, which Dryden has imitated under the names of Theodore and Honoria, Sigismonda and Guiscardo. VII. SICK with the pangs that prompt the lover's moan, Oft rav'd aloud, and taught wild woods to groan; If she, if haply she, who caus'd my smart, VIII. TO VALCLUSA. 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. IX. No more, fond father of a much-lov'd child, Dread the rude storms, that wait his riper years; Tells thee, that if kind Heaven prolong his day To mourn thy ashes, when thy life is done, Thy fame shall live unconscious of decay, And all thy virtues flourish in thy son. X. COULD then the babes from yon unshelter'd cot Too thoughtless youth! what though thy happier lot What though their Maker doom'd them, thus forlorn, Their evening cheerful, tho' their day distress'd, XI. Too long, alas! through life's tempestuous tide, Heedless of Heaven, my giddy course I steer'd, 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 fear'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 unexplor'd, Religion's golden sun its evening-beam extends. XII. DEAR 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: Nay! God forbid my woes should e'er be thine! |