Graced with her name, a consecrated tree!
So may thy Lord, thy monarch of the wind,
Ne'er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind,
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free !
"Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn."
HAIL! morning sun, thus early bright;
Welcome, sweet dawn! thou younger day!
Through the dark woods that fringe the height,
Beams forth, e'en now, thy ray.
Bright on the dew, it sparkles clear,
Bright on the water's glittering fall,
And life, and joy, and health appear,
Sweet morning! at thy call.
Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring
From beds of fragrance, where they lay,
And roving wild on dewy wing,
Drive slumber far away.
Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat,
Now from each mind withdraw their spell,
While the young loves delighted meet,
On Rosa's cheek to dwell.
Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower,
Its fragrant spirit make thine own;
Then wing thy way to Rosa's bower,
Ere her light sleep is flown.
There, o'er her downy pillow fly,
Wake the sweet maid to life and day;
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh,
And o'er her bosom play;
And whisper, when her eyes unveil,
That I, since morning's earliest call,
Have sigh'd her name to ev'ry gale,
By the lone waterfall.
"Madchen, lernet Amor kennen."
LISTEN, fair maid, my song shall tell
How Love may still be known full well,
His looks the traitor prove.
Dost thou not see that absent smile,
That fiery glance replete with guile?
Oh! doubt not then-'tis Love..
When varying still the sly disguise,
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries,
Or with complaint would move;
To-day is bold, to-morrow shy,
Changing each hour, he knows not why,
Oh! doubt not then-'tis Love.
There's magic in his every wile,
His lips, well practised to beguile,
Breathe roses when they move; See, now with sudden rage he burns, Disdains, implores, commands, by turns;
Oh! doubt not then-'tis Love.
He comes, without the bow and dart,
That spares not e'en the purest heart;
His looks the traitor prove;
That glance is fire, that mien is guile,
Deceit is lurking in that smile,
Oh! trust him not-'tis love!
"Grotte, d'ou sort ce clair ruisseau."
THOU grot, whence flows this limpid spring, Its margin fringed with moss and flowers, Still bid its voice of murmurs bring
Peace to my musing hours.
Sweet Fontenay! where first for me
The dayspring of existence rose,
Soon shall my dust return to thee,
And 'midst my sires repose.
Muses, that watch'd my childhood's morn,
'Midst these wild haunts, with guardian eye,
Fair trees, that here beheld me born,
Soon shall ye see me die.
GARCILASO DE VEGA. LORENZO DE' MEDICI. 255
"Coyed de vuestra alegre primavera."
ENJOY the sweets of life's luxuriant May,
Ere envious Age is hastening on his way
With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow:
The rose will fade when storms assail the year,
And Time, who changeth not his swift career,
Constant in this, will change all else below!
"Non di verdi giardin ornati e colti."
WE come not, fair one, to thy hand of snow,
From the soft scenes by Culture's hand array'd;
Not rear'd in bowers where gales of fragrance blow,
But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade!
There once, as Venus wander'd, lost in woe,
To seek Adonis through th' entangled wood,
Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk'd below,
With print relentless drew celestial blood!
Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught,
Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught,
Imbibing thence our bright purpureal dyes;
We were not foster'd in our shadowy vales,
By guided rivulets, or summer gales-
Our dew and air have been, Love's balmy tears and
"Dove per te, celeste ancilla, or vassi?"
WHITHER, celestial maid, so fast away?
What lures thee from the banquet of the skies?
How canst thou leave thy native realms of day,
For this low sphere, this vale of clouds and sighs?
O thou, Canova! soaring high above
Italian art-with Grecian magic vying!
We knew thy marble glow'd with life and love,
But who had seen thee image footsteps flying?
Here to each eye the wind seems gently playing With the light vest, its wavy folds arraying
In many a line of undulating grace; While Nature, ne'er her mighty laws suspending, Stands, before marble thus with motion blending, One moment lost in thought, its hidden cause to trace.
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