Spring from within me these conflicting thoughts, To weary, wound myself, Each a sure sword against its master turn'd: Nor do I pray her to be therefore freed, For less direct to heaven all other paths, And to that glorious kingdom none can soar Certes in sounder bark.
Benignant stars their bright companionship Gave to the fortunate side When came that fair birth on our nether world, Its sole star since, who, as the laurel leaf, The worth of honour fresh and fragrant keeps, Where lightnings play not, nor ungrateful winds Ever o'ersway its head.
Well know I that the hope to paint in verse Her praises would but tire The worthiest hand that e'er put forth its pen: Who, in all Memory's richest cells, e'er saw Such angel virtue so rare beauty shrined, As in those eyes, twin symbols of all worth, Sweet keys of my gone heart?
Lady, wherever shines the sun, than you Love has no dearer pledge.
THOUGH DESPAIRING OF PITY, HE VOWS TO LOVE HER UNTO DEATH.
A youthful lady 'neath a laurel green Was seated, fairer, colder than the snow On which no sun has shone for many years: Her sweet speech, her bright face, and flowing hair So pleased, she yet is present to my eyes, And aye must be, whatever fate prevail.
These my fond thoughts of her shall fade and fail When foliage ceases on the laurel green; Nor calm can be my heart, nor check'd these eyes Until the fire shall freeze, or burns the snow: Easier upon my head to count each hair Than, ere that day shall dawn, the parting years.
But, since time flies, and roll the rapid years, And death may, in the midst, of life, assail, With full brown locks, or scant and silver hair, I still the shade of that sweet laurel green Follow, through fiercest sun and deepest snow, Till the last day shall close my weary eyes.
Oh! never sure were seen such brilliant eyes, In this our age or in the older years, Which mould and melt me, as the sun melts snow, Into a stream of tears adown the vale, Watering the hard roots of that laurel green, Whose boughs are diamonds and gold whose hair.
I fear that Time my mien may change and hair, Ere, with true pity touch'd, shall greet my eyes My idol imaged in that laurel green: For, unless memory err, through seven long years Till now, full many a shore has heard my wail, By night, at noon, in summer and in snow.