Sonnet VIII

SONNET VIII.
 
A piè de' colli ove la bella vesta.
 
HE FEIGNS AN ADDRESS FROM SOME BIRDS WHICH HE HAD PRESENTED.
 
 
Beneath the verdant hills—where the fair vestOf earthly mould first took the Lady dear,Who him that sends us, feather'd captives, hereAwakens often from his tearful rest—Lived we in freedom and in quiet, blestWith everything which life below might cheer,No foe suspecting, harass'd by no fearThat aught our wanderings ever could molest;But snatch'd from that serener life, and thrownTo the low wretched state we here endure,One comfort, short of death, survives alone:Vengeance upon our captor full and sure!Who, slave himself at others' power, remainsPent in worse prison, bound by sterner chains.
 
Macgregor. 
 
Beneath those very hills, where beauty threwHer mantle first o'er that earth-moulded fair,Who oft from sleep, while shedding many a tear,Awakens him that sends us unto you,Our lives in peacefulness and freedom flew,E'en as all creatures wish who hold life dear;[Pg 8]Nor deem'd we aught could in its course come near,Whence to our wanderings danger might accrue.But from the wretched state to which we're brought,Leaving another with sereneness fraught,Nay, e'en from death, one comfort we obtain;That vengeance follows him who sent us here;Another's utmost thraldom doomed to bear,Bound he now lies with a still stronger chain.
 
Nott.

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