Written by
Percy Bysshe Shelley |
FROM the forests and highlands
We come we come;
From the river-girt islands
Where loud waves are dumb
Listening to my sweet pipings. 5
The wind in the reeds and the rushes
The bees on the bells of thyme
The birds on the myrtle bushes
The cicale above in the lime
And the lizards below in the grass 10
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was
Listening to my sweet pipings.
Liquid Peneus was flowing
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow outgrowing 15
The light of the dying day
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns
And the Nymphs of the woods and waves
To the edge of the moist river-lawns 20
And the brink of the dewy caves
And all that did then attend and follow
Were silent with love as you now Apollo
With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars 25
I sang of the d?dal earth
And of heaven and the giant wars
And love and death and birth.
And then I changed my pipings¡ª
Singing how down the vale of M?nalus 30
I pursued a maiden and clasp'd a reed:
Gods and men we are all deluded thus!
It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed.
All wept¡ªas I think both ye now would
If envy or age had not frozen your blood¡ª 35
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
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Written by
John Milton |
III
Qual in colle aspro, al imbrunir di sera
L'avezza giovinetta pastorella
Va bagnando l'herbetta strana e bella
Che mal si spande a disusata spera
Fuor di sua natia alma primavera,
Cosi Amor meco insu la lingua snella
Desta il fior novo di strania favella,
Mentre io di te, vezzosamente altera,
Canto, dal mio buon popol non inteso
E'l bel Tamigi cangio col bel Arno
Amor lo volse, ed io a l'altrui peso
Seppi ch' Amor cosa mai volse indarno.
Deh! foss' il mio cuor lento e'l duro seno
A chi pianta dal ciel si buon terreno.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XV. Piovonmi amare lagrime dal viso. HIS STATE WHEN LAURA IS PRESENT, AND WHEN SHE DEPARTS. Down my cheeks bitter tears incessant rain,And my heart struggles with convulsive sighs,When, Laura, upon you I turn my eyes,For whom the world's allurements I disdain,But when I see that gentle smile again,That modest, sweet, and tender smile, arise,It pours on every sense a blest surprise;Lost in delight is all my torturing pain.Too soon this heavenly transport sinks and dies:When all thy soothing charms my fate removesAt thy departure from my ravish'd view.To that sole refuge its firm faith approvesMy spirit from my ravish'd bosom flies,And wing'd with fond remembrance follows you. Capel Lofft. Tears, bitter tears adown my pale cheek rain,Bursts from mine anguish'd breast a storm of sighs,Whene'er on you I turn my passionate eyes,For whom alone this bright world I disdain.[Pg 15]True! to my ardent wishes and old painThat mild sweet smile a peaceful balm supplies,Rescues me from the martyr fire that tries,Rapt and intent on you whilst I remain;Thus in your presence—but my spirits freezeWhen, ushering with fond acts a warm adieu,My fatal stars from life's quench'd heaven decay.My soul released at last with Love's apt keysBut issues from my heart to follow you,Nor tears itself without much thought away. Macgregor.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CV. Fiamma dal ciel su le tue treccie piova. HE INVEIGHS AGAINST THE COURT OF ROME. Vengeaunce must fall on thee, thow filthie whoreOf Babilon, thow breaker of Christ's fold,That from achorns, and from the water colde,Art riche become with making many poore.Thow treason's neste that in thie harte dost holdeOf cankard malice, and of myschief moreThan pen can wryte, or may with tongue be tolde,Slave to delights that chastitie hath solde;For wyne and ease which settith all thie storeUppon whoredome and none other lore,In thye pallais of strompetts yonge and oldeTheare walks Plentie, and Belzebub thye Lorde:[Pg 136]Guydes thee and them, and doth thye raigne upholde:It is but late, as wryting will recorde,That poore thow weart withouten lande or goolde;Yet now hathe golde and pryde, by one accorde,In wickednesse so spreadd thie lyf abrode,That it dothe stincke before the face of God. (?) Wyatt.[T] May fire from heaven rain down upon thy head,Thou most accurst; who simple fare casts by,Made rich and great by others' poverty;How dost thou glory in thy vile misdeed!Nest of all treachery, in which is bredWhate'er of sin now through the world doth fly;Of wine the slave, of sloth, of gluttony;With sensuality's excesses fed!Old men and harlots through thy chambers dance;Then in the midst see Belzebub advanceWith mirrors and provocatives obscene.Erewhile thou wert not shelter'd, nursed on down;But naked, barefoot on the straw wert thrown:Now rank to heaven ascends thy life unclean. Nott.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET CXXXVII. Più volte già dal bel sembiante umano. LOVE UNMANS HIS RESOLUTION. Oft as her angel face compassion wore,With tears whose eloquence scarce fails to move,With bland and courteous speech, I boldly stroveTo soothe my foe, and in meek guise implore:But soon her eyes inspire vain hopes no more;For all my fortune, all my fate in love,My life, my death, the good, the ills I prove,To her are trusted by one sovereign power.Hence 'tis, whene'er my lips would silence break,Scarce can I hear the accents which I vent,By passion render'd spiritless and weak.Ah! now I find that fondness to excessFetters the tongue, and overpowers intent:Faint is the flame that language can express! Nott. Oft have I meant my passion to declare,When fancy read compliance in her eyes;And oft with courteous speech, with love-lorn sighs,Have wish'd to soften my obdurate fair:But let that face one look of anger wear,The intention fades; for all that fate supplies,Or good, or ill, all, all that I can prize,My life, my death, Love trusts to her dear care.E'en I can scarcely hear my amorous moan,So much my voice by passion is confined;So faint, so timid are my accents grown![Pg 161]Ah! now the force of love I plainly see;What can the tongue, or what the impassion'd mind?He that could speak his love, ne'er loved like me.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET XXIII. Quand' io veggio dal ciel scender l' Aurora. MORN RENDERS HIS GRIEF MORE POIGNANT. When from the heavens I see Aurora beam,With rosy-tinctured cheek and golden hair,Love bids my face the hue of sadness wear:"There Laura dwells!" I with a sigh exclaim.Thou knowest well the hour that shall redeem,Happy Tithonus, thy much-valued fair;But not to her I love can I repair,Till death extinguishes this vital flame.Yet need'st thou not thy separation mourn;Certain at evening's close is the returnOf her, who doth not thy hoar locks despise;But my nights sad, my days are render'd drear,By her, who bore my thoughts to yonder skies,And only a remember'd name left here. Nott. When from the east appears the purple rayOf morn arising, and salutes the eyesThat wear the night in watching for the day,Thus speaks my heart: "In yonder opening skies,In yonder fields of bliss, my Laura lies!"Thou sun, that know'st to wheel thy burning car,Each eve, to the still surface of the deep,And there within thy Thetis' bosom sleep;Oh! could I thus my Laura's presence share,How would my patient heart its sorrows bear!Adored in life, and honour'd in the dust,She that in this fond breast for ever reignsHas pass'd the gulph of death!—To deck that bust,No trace of her but the sad name remains. Woodhouselee.
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Written by
Francesco Petrarch |
SONNET LXXVII. Da' più begli occhi e dal più chiaro viso. HIS ONLY COMFORT IS THE EXPECTATION OF MEETING HER AGAIN IN HEAVEN. The brightest eyes, the most resplendent faceThat ever shone; and the most radiant hair,[Pg 303]With which nor gold nor sunbeam could compare;The sweetest accent, and a smile all grace;Hands, arms, that would e'en motionless abaseThose who to Love the most rebellious were;Fine, nimble feet; a form that would appearLike that of her who first did Eden trace;These fann'd life's spark: now heaven, and all its choirOf angel hosts those kindred charms admire;While lone and darkling I on earth remain.Yet is not comfort fled; she, who can readEach secret of my soul, shall intercede;And I her sainted form behold again. Nott. Yes, from those finest eyes, that face most sweetThat ever shone, and from that loveliest hair,With which nor gold nor sunbeam may compare,That speech with love, that smile with grace replete,From those soft hands, those white arms which defeat.Themselves unmoved, the stoutest hearts that e'erTo Love were rebels; from those feet so fair,From her whole form, for Eden only meet,My spirit took its life—now these delightThe King of Heaven and his angelic train,While, blind and naked, I am left in night.One only balm expect I 'mid my pain—That she, mine every thought who now can see,May win this grace—that I with her may be. Macgregor.
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Written by
John Milton |
God in the *great *assembly stands *Bagnadath-el
Of Kings and lordly States,
Among the gods* on both his hands. *Bekerev.
He judges and debates.
How long will ye *pervert the right *Tishphetu
With *judgment false and wrong gnavel.
Favouring the wicked by your might,
Who thence grow bold and strong?
*Regard the *weak and fatherless *Shiphtu-dal.
*Dispatch the *poor mans cause,
And **raise the man in deep distress
By **just and equal Lawes. **Hatzdiku.
Defend the poor and desolate,
And rescue from the hands
Of wicked men the low estate
Of him that help demands.
They know not nor will understand,
In darkness they walk on,
The Earths foundations all are *mov'd *Jimmotu.
And *out of order gon.
I said that ye were Gods, yea all
The Sons of God most high
But ye shall die like men, and fall
As other Princes die.
Rise God, *judge thou the earth in might,
This wicked earth *redress, *Shiphta.
For thou art he who shalt by right
The Nations all possess.
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