1: This Sonnet is not a Translation or Paraphrase, but is written in the Character of Petrarch, and in imitation of his manner.
O partial MEMORY! Years, that fled too fast, From thee in more than pristine beauty rise, Forgotten all the transient tears and sighs Somewhat that dimm'd their brightness! Thou hast chas'd Each hovering mist from the soft Suns, that grac'd Our fresh, gay morn of Youth;--the Heart's high prize, Friendship,--and all that charm'd us in the eyes Of yet unutter'd Love.--So pleasures past, That in thy crystal prism thus glow sublime, Beam on the gloom'd and disappointed Mind When Youth and Health, in the chill'd grasp of Time, Shudder and fade;--and cypress buds we find Ordain'd Life's blighted roses to supply, While but _reflected_ shine the golden lights of Joy.
See wither'd WINTER, bending low his head; His ragged locks stiff with the hoary dew; His eyes, like frozen lakes, of livid hue; His train, a sable cloud, with murky red Streak'd.--Ah! behold his nitrous breathings shed Petrific death!--Lean, wailful Birds pursue, On as he sweeps o'er the dun lonely moor, Amid the battling blast of all the Winds, That, while their sleet the climbing Sailor blinds, Lash the white surges to the sounding shore. So com'st thou, WINTER, finally to doom The sinking year; and with thy ice-dropt sprays, Cypress and yew, engarland her pale tomb, Her vanish'd hopes, and aye-departed days.
O, GENIUS! does thy Sun-resembling beam To the internal eyes of Man display In clearer prospect, the momentous way That leads to peace? Do they not rather seem Dazzled by lustres in continual stream, Till night they find in such _excessive_ day? Art thou not prone, with too intense a ray, To gild the hope improbable, the dream Of fancied good?--or bid the sigh upbraid Imaginary evils, and involve All real sorrow in a darker shade? To fond credulity, to rash resolve Dost thou not prompt, till reason's sacred aid And fair discretion in thy fires dissolve?
If GENIUS has its danger, grief and pain, That Common-Sense escapes, yet who wou'd change The Powers, thro' Nature, and thro' Art that range, To keep the bounded, tho' more safe domain Of _moderate_ Intellect, where all we gain Is cold approvance? where the sweet, the strange, Soft, and sublime, in vivid interchange, Nor glad the spirit, nor enrich the brain. Destructive shall we deem yon noon-tide blaze If transiently the eye, o'er-power'd, resign Distinct perception?--Shall we rather praise The Moon's wan light?--with owlish choice incline That Common-Sense her lunar lamp shou'd raise Than that the _solar_ fires of GENIUS shine?