TRANSLATION.

He who a tender long-lov'd Wife survives, Sees himself sunder'd from the only mind Whose hopes, and fears, and interests, were combin'd, And blended with his own.--No more she lives!

No more, alas! her death-numb'd ear receives His thoughts, that trace the Past, or anxious wind The Future's darkling maze!--His wish refin'd, The wish to please, exists no more, that gives The will its energy, the nerves their tone!-- He feels the texture of his quiet torn, And stopt the settled course that Action drew; Life stands suspended--motionless--till thrown By outward causes, into channels new;-- But, in the dread suspense, how sinks the Soul forlorn!

SONNET LXXIV.

[1]In sultry noon when youthful MILTON lay, Supinely stretch'd beneath the poplar shade, Lur'd by his Form, a fair Italian Maid Steals from her loitering chariot, to survey The slumbering charms, that all her soul betray.

Then, as coy fears th' admiring gaze upbraid, Starts;--and these lines, with hurried pen pourtray'd, Slides in his half-clos'd hand;--and speeds away.-- "Ye eyes, ye human stars!--if, thus conceal'd By Sleep's soft veil, ye agitate my heart, Ah! what had been its conflict if reveal'd Your rays had shone!"--Bright Nymph, thy strains impart Hopes, that impel the graceful Bard to rove, Seeking thro' Tuscan Vales his visionary Love.

1: This romantic circ.u.mstance of our great Poet's juvenility was inserted, as a well known fact, in one of the General Evening Posts in the Spring 1789, and it was there supposed to have formed the first impulse of his Italian journey.

SONNET LXXV.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

He found her not;--yet much the POET found, To swell Imagination's golden store, On Arno's bank, and on that bloomy sh.o.r.e, Warbling Parthenope; in the wide bound, Where Rome's forlorn Campania stretches round Her ruin'd towers and temples;--cla.s.sic lore Breathing sublimer spirit from the power Of local consciousness.--Thrice happy wound, Given by his sleeping graces, as the Fair "Hung over them enamour'd," the desire Thy fond result inspir'd, that wing'd him there, Where breath'd each Roman and each Tuscan Lyre, Might haply fan the emulative flame, That rose o'er DANTE's song, and rival'd MARO's fame.

SONNET LXXVI.

THE CRITICS OF DOCTOR JOHNSON'S SCHOOL[1].

Lo! modern Critics emulously dare Ape the great Despot; throw in pompous tone And ma.s.sy words their true _no meaning_ down!

But while their envious eyes on Genius glare, While axioms false a.s.siduously they square In arrogant ant.i.thesis, a frown Lours on the brow of Justice, to disown The _kindred malice_ with its mimic air.

Spirit of Common Sense[2]! must we endure The incrustation hard without the _gem_?

Find in th' Anana's rind the wilding sour, The Oak's rough knots on every _Osier_'s stem?

The dark contortions of the Sybil bear, Whose inspirations never meet our ear?

1: In jargon, like the following, copied from a REVIEW, are the works of Genius perpetually criticized in our public Prints: "Pa.s.sion has not sufficient coolness to pause for metaphor, nor has metaphor ardor enough to keep pace with pa.s.sion."--Nothing can be less true.

Metaphoric strength of expression will burst even from vulgar and illiterate minds when they are agitated. It is a natural effort of roused sensibility in every gradation, from unlettered simplicity to the highest refinement. Pa.s.sion has no occasion to _pause_ for metaphors, they _rush_ upon the mind which it has heated. Similies, it is true, are not natural to strong emotion. _They_ are the result of spirits that are calm, and at leisure to _compare_.

2: This idea is from a speech of Mr. Burke's, recorded by Boswell.

SONNET LXXVII.

O! hast thou seen a vernal Morning bright Gem every bank and trembling leaf with dews, Tinging the green fields with her amber hues, Changing the leaden streams to lines of light?

Then seen dull Clouds, that shed untimely night, Roll envious on, and every ray suffuse, Till the chill'd Scenes their early beauty lose, And faint, and colourless, no more invite The glistening gaze of Joy?--'Twas emblem just Of my youth's sun, on which deep shadows fell, Spread from the PALL OF FRIENDS; and Grief's loud gust Resistless, oft wou'd wasted tears compel: Yet let me hope, that on my darken'd days Science, and pious Trust, may shed pervading rays.

SONNET LXXVIII.

Sophia tempts me to her social walls, That 'mid the vast Metropolis arise, Where Splendor dazzles, and each Pleasure vies In soft allurement; and each Science calls To philosophic Domes, harmonious Halls, And [1]storied Galleries. With duteous sighs, Filial and kind, and with averted eyes, I meet the gay temptation, as it falls From a seducing pen.--Here--here I stay, Fix'd by Affection's power; nor entertain One latent wish, that might persuade to stray From my ag'd Nurseling, in his life's dim wane; But, like the needle, by the magnet's sway, My constant, trembling residence maintain.

1: "And storied windows richly dight."--IL PENSEROSO.

SONNET LXXIX.

While unsuspecting trust in all that wears Virtue's bright semblance, stimulates my heart To find its dearest pleasures in the part Taken in other's joys; yielding to theirs Its own desires, each latent wish that bears The selfish stamp, O! let me shun the art Taught by smooth Flattery in her courtly mart, Where Simulation's studied smile ensnares!

Scorn that exterior varnish for the Mind, Which, while it polishes the _manners_, veils In showy clouds the _soul_.--E'en thus we find Gla.s.s, o'er whose surface clear the pencil steals, Grown less transparent, tho' with colours gay, Sheds but the darken'd and ambiguous ray.

SONNET Lx.x.x.

As lightens the brown Hill to vivid green When juvenescent April's showery Sun Looks on its side, with golden glance, at Noon; So on the gloom of Life's now faded scene Shines the dear image of those days serene, From Memory's consecrated treasures won; The days that rose, ere youth, and years were flown, Soft as the morn of May;--and well I ween If they had clouds, in Time's alembic clear They vanish'd all, and their gay vision glows In brightness un.o.bscur'd; and now they wear A more than pristine sunniness, which throws Those mild reflected lights that soften care, Loss of lov'd Friends, and all the train of Woes.

SONNET Lx.x.xI.

ON A LOCK OF MISS SARAH SEWARD'S HAIR WHO DIED IN HER TWENTIETH YEAR.

My Angel Sister, tho' thy lovely form Perish'd in Youth's gay morning, yet is mine This precious Ringlet!--still the soft hairs shine, Still glow the nut-brown tints, all bright and warm With sunny gleam!--Alas! each kindred charm Vanish'd long since; deep in the silent shrine Wither'd to shapeless Dust!--and of their grace Memory alone retains the faithful trace.-- Dear Lock, had thy sweet Owner liv'd, ere now Time on her brow had faded thee!--My care Screen'd from the sun and dew thy golden glow; And thus her early beauty dost thou wear, Thou _all_ of that fair Frame my love cou'd save From the resistless ravage of the GRAVE!

SONNET Lx.x.xII.

From a riv'd Tree, that stands beside the grave Of the Self-slaughter'd, to the misty Moon Calls the complaining Owl in Night's pale noon; And from a hut, far on the hill, to rave Is heard the angry Ban-Dog. With loud wave The rous'd and turbid River surges down, Swoln with the mountain-rains, and dimly shown Appals the Sense.--Yet see! from yonder cave, Her shelter in the recent, stormy showers, With anxious brow, a fond expecting Maid Steals towards the flood!--Alas!--for now appears Her Lover's vacant boat!--the broken oars Roll down the tide!--What images invade!