ANTISTROPHE.

Say, little book, what furtive hand
Thee from thy fellow books convey'd,
What time, at the repeated suit

Of my most learned friend,

I sent thee forth, an honour'd traveller,

From our great city to the source of Thames, Cærulean sire!

Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring, Of the Aonian choir,

Durable as yonder spheres,

And through the endless lapse of years
Secure to be admired?

STROPHE II.

Now what god, or demigod,
For Britain's ancient genius moved,
(If our afflicted land

Have expiated at length the guilty sloth
Of her degenerate sons)

Shall terminate our impious feuds,
And discipline with hallow'd voice recall?
Recall the muses too,

Driven from their ancient seats

In Albion, and well nigh from Albion's shore, And with keen Phœbean shafts

Piercing the unseemly birds,

Whose talons menace us,

Shall drive the harpy race from Helicon afar?

ANTISTROPHE,

But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd,
Whether by treachery lost,

Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault,
From all thy kindred books,

To some dark cell or cave forlorn,
Where thou endurest, perhaps,

The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand,
Be comforted—

For lo! again the splendid hope appears
That thou mayst yet escape

The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings
Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove!

STROPHE III.

Since Rouse desires thee, and complains
That, though by promise his,

Thou yet appear'st not in thy place
Among the literary noble stores

Given to his care,

But, absent, leavest his numbers incomplete.
He, therefore, guardian vigilant

Of that unperishing wealth,

Calls thee to the interior shrine, his charge,
Where he intends a richer treasure far
Than Iön kept (Iön, Erectheus’ son
Illustrious, of the fair Creusa born)
In the resplendent temple of his god,
Tripods of gold, and Delphic gifts divine.

ANTISTROPHE.

Haste, then, to the pleasant groves,
The muses' favourite haunt;
Resume thy station in Apollo's dome,
Dearer to him

Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill!
Exulting go,

Since now a splendid lot is also thine,
And thou art sought by my propitious friend;
For there thou shalt be read

With authors of exalted note,

The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome.

EPODE.

Ye, then, my works, no longer vain,
And worthless deem'd by me!

Whate'er this sterile genius has produced,
Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent,
An unmolested happy home,

Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend,
Where never flippant tongue profane
Shall entrance find,

And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude
Shall babble far remote.

Perhaps some future distant age,

Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught, Shall furnish minds of power

To judge more equally.

Then, malice silenced in the tomb,
Cooler heads and sounder hearts,

Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise

I merit, shall with candour weigh the claim.

TRANSLATIONS OF THE ITALIAN POEMS.

SONNET.

FAIR Lady! whose harmonious name the Rhine, Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear, Base were indeed the wretch who could forbear To love a spirit elegant as thine,

That manifests a sweetness all divine,

Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare, And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, Tempering thy virtues to a softer shine. When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gay,

Such strains as might the senseless forest move, Ah then-turn each his eyes and ears away, Who feels himself unworthy of thy love! Grace can alone preserve him ere the dart Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart.

SONNET.

As on a hill-top rude, when closing day Imbrowns the scene, some pastoral maiden fair Waters a lovely foreign plant with care,

Borne from its native genial airs away,

That scarcely can its tender bud display,

So, on my tongue these accents, new and rare, Are flowers exotic, which Love waters there. While thus, O sweetly scornful! I essay

Thy praise in verse to British ears unknown, And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain; So Love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has shown That what he wills, he never wills in vain. Oh that this hard and sterile breast might be To Him, who plants from Heaven, a soil as free!

CANZONE.

THEY mock my toil-the nymphs and amorous swains

And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry, Love-songs in language that thou little know'st? How darest thou risk to sing these foreign strains? Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd, And that thy fairest flowers here fade and die? Then with pretence of admiration high