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Poem	[Pg 210] SESTINA VIII. Là ver l' aurora, che sì dolce l' aura. SHE IS MOVED NEITHER BY HIS VERSES NOR HIS TEARS. When music warbles from each thorn,And Zephyr's dewy wingsSweep the young flowers; what time the mornHer crimson radiance flings:Then, as the smiling year renews,I feel renew'd Love's tender pain;Renew'd is Laura's cold disdain;And I for comfort court the weeping muse. Oh! could my sighs in accents flowSo musically lorn,That thou might'st catch my am'rous woe,And cease, proud Maid! thy scorn:Yet, ere within thy icy breastThe smallest spark of passion's found,Winter's cold temples shall be boundWith all the blooms that paint spring's glowing vest. The drops that bathe the grief-dew'd eye,The love-impassion'd strainTo move thy flinty bosom tryFull oft;—but, ah! in vainWould tears, and melting song avail;As vainly might the silken breeze,That bends the flowers, that fans the trees,Some rugged rock's tremendous brow assail. Both gods and men alike are sway'dBy Love, as poets tell;—And I, when flowers in every shadeTheir bursting gems reveal,First felt his all-subduing power:While Laura knows not yet the smart;Nor heeds the tortures of my heart,My prayers, my plaints, and sorrow's pearly shower! Thy wrongs, my soul! with patience bear,While life shall warm this clay;And soothing sounds to Laura's earMy numbers shall convey;[Pg 211]Numbers with forceful magic charmAll nature o'er the frost-bound earth,Wake summer's fragrant buds to birth,And the fierce serpent of its rage disarm. The blossom'd shrubs in smiles are drest,Now laughs his purple plain;And shall the nymph a foe profestTo tenderness remain?But oh! what solace shall I find,If fortune dooms me yet to bearThe frowns of my relentless Fair,Save with soft moan to vex the pitying wind?In baffling nets the light-wing'd galeI'd fetter as it blows,The vernal rose that scents the valeI'd cull on wintery snows;Still I'd ne'er hope that mind to moveWhich dares defy the wiles of verse, and Love. Anon. 1777.
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