 | The poetical works of Sir William Jones |  |
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LAURA,
AN ELEGY FROM PETRARCH.
In this fair season, when the whispering gales
Drop show'rs of fragrance o'er the bloomy vales,—
From bow'r to bow'r the vernal warblers play;
The skies are cloudless, and the meads are gay;
The nightingale in many a melting strain
Sings to the groves, ‘Here Mirth and Beauty reign.’
But me, for ever bath'd in gushing tears,
No mirth enlivens, and no beauty cheers:
The birds that warble, and the flowers that bloom,
Relieve no more this solitary gloom.
I see where late the verdant meadow smil'd,
A joyless desert, and a dreary wild:—
For those dear eyes, that pierc'd my heart before,
Are clos'd in death, and charm the world no more:
Lost are those tresses, that outshone the morn,
And pale those cheeks, that might the skies adorn.
Ah, death! thy hand has cropp'd the fairest flower,
That shed its smiling rays in beauty's bower;
Thy dart has lay'd on yonder sable bier
All my soul lov'd, and all the world held dear;
Celestial sweetness, love-inspiring youth,
Soft-ey'd benevolence, and white-rob'd truth.
Drop show'rs of fragrance o'er the bloomy vales,—
From bow'r to bow'r the vernal warblers play;
The skies are cloudless, and the meads are gay;
The nightingale in many a melting strain
Sings to the groves, ‘Here Mirth and Beauty reign.’
But me, for ever bath'd in gushing tears,
No mirth enlivens, and no beauty cheers:
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Relieve no more this solitary gloom.
I see where late the verdant meadow smil'd,
A joyless desert, and a dreary wild:—
For those dear eyes, that pierc'd my heart before,
Are clos'd in death, and charm the world no more:
Lost are those tresses, that outshone the morn,
And pale those cheeks, that might the skies adorn.
Ah, death! thy hand has cropp'd the fairest flower,
That shed its smiling rays in beauty's bower;
Thy dart has lay'd on yonder sable bier
All my soul lov'd, and all the world held dear;
Celestial sweetness, love-inspiring youth,
Soft-ey'd benevolence, and white-rob'd truth.
Hard fate of man, on whom the heaven's bestow
A drop of pleasure for a sea of woe!
Ah, life of care, in fears or hopes consum'd,
Vain hopes, that wither ere they well have bloom'd!
How oft, emerging from the shades of night,
Laughs the gay morn, and spreads a purple light:
But soon the gathering clouds o'ershade the skies,
Red lightnings play, and thundering storms arise!
How oft a day, that fair and mild appears,
Grows dark with fate, and mars the toil of years!
A drop of pleasure for a sea of woe!
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Vain hopes, that wither ere they well have bloom'd!
How oft, emerging from the shades of night,
Laughs the gay morn, and spreads a purple light:
But soon the gathering clouds o'ershade the skies,
Red lightnings play, and thundering storms arise!
How oft a day, that fair and mild appears,
Grows dark with fate, and mars the toil of years!
Not far remov'd, yet hid from distant eyes,
Low in her secret grot, a Naiad lies.
Steep arching rocks, with verdant moss o'ergrown,
Form her rude diadem, and native throne:
There, in a gloomy cave her waters sleep,
Clear as a brook, but as an ocean deep.
Yet, when the waking flowers of April blow,
And warmer sun-beams melt the gather'd snow;
Rich with the tribute of the vernal rains,
The nymph, exulting, bursts her silver chains;
Her living waves in sparkling columns rise,
And shine like rainbows to the sunny skies;
From cliff to cliff the falling waters roar;
Then die in murmurs, and are heard no more.
Hence, softly flowing in a dimpled stream,
The crystal Sorga spreads a lively gleam;—
From which a thousand rills in mazes glide,
And deck the banks with summer's gayest pride;
Brighten the verdure of the smiling plains;
And crown the labor of the joyful swains.
Low in her secret grot, a Naiad lies.
Steep arching rocks, with verdant moss o'ergrown,
Form her rude diadem, and native throne:
There, in a gloomy cave her waters sleep,
Clear as a brook, but as an ocean deep.
274
And warmer sun-beams melt the gather'd snow;
Rich with the tribute of the vernal rains,
The nymph, exulting, bursts her silver chains;
Her living waves in sparkling columns rise,
And shine like rainbows to the sunny skies;
From cliff to cliff the falling waters roar;
Then die in murmurs, and are heard no more.
Hence, softly flowing in a dimpled stream,
The crystal Sorga spreads a lively gleam;—
From which a thousand rills in mazes glide,
And deck the banks with summer's gayest pride;
Brighten the verdure of the smiling plains;
And crown the labor of the joyful swains.
First, on these banks, (ah, dream of short delight!)
The charms of Laura struck my dazzled sight;
Charms, that the bliss of Eden might restore,
That heaven might envy, and mankind adore.
I saw—and O! what heart could long rebel?
I saw, I lov'd, and bade the world farewel.
Where'er she mov'd, the meads were fresh and gay,
And every bower exhal'd the sweets of May;
Smooth flow'd the streams, and softly blew the gale;
The rising flowers impurpled every dale;
Calm was the Ocean, and the sky serene;
An universal smile o'erspread the shining scene:
But when in death's cold arms entranc'd she lay,
( Ah, ever dear, yet ever fatal day!)
O'er all the air a direful gloom was spread;
Pale were the meads, and all their blossoms dead;
The clouds of April shed a baleful dew;
All nature wore a veil of deadly hue.
The charms of Laura struck my dazzled sight;
Charms, that the bliss of Eden might restore,
That heaven might envy, and mankind adore.
I saw—and O! what heart could long rebel?
I saw, I lov'd, and bade the world farewel.
Where'er she mov'd, the meads were fresh and gay,
And every bower exhal'd the sweets of May;
Smooth flow'd the streams, and softly blew the gale;
The rising flowers impurpled every dale;
Calm was the Ocean, and the sky serene;
An universal smile o'erspread the shining scene:
But when in death's cold arms entranc'd she lay,
( Ah, ever dear, yet ever fatal day!)
275
Pale were the meads, and all their blossoms dead;
The clouds of April shed a baleful dew;
All nature wore a veil of deadly hue.
Go, plaintive breeze! to Laura's flowery bier,
Heave the warm sigh, and shed the tender tear.
There to the awful shade due homage pay,
And softly thus address the sacred clay:
‘Say, envied earth! that dost those charms infold,
‘Where are those cheeks, and where those locks of gold?
‘Where are those eyes, which oft the Muse has sung?
‘Where those sweet lips, and that enchanting tongue?
‘Ye radiant tresses! and thou nectar'd smile!
‘Ye looks that might the melting skies beguile!
‘You robb'd my soul of rest, my eyes of sleep;
‘You taught me how to love, and how to weep.’
No shrub o'erhangs the dew-bespangled vale,
No blossom trembles to the dying gale,
No floweret blushes in the morning rays,
No stream along the winding valley plays,
But knows what anguish thrills my tortur'd breast,
What pains consume me, and what cares infest.
At blush of dawn, and in the gloom of night,
Her pale-eyed phantom swims before my sight,
Sits on the border of each purling rill,
Crowns every bower, and glides o'er every hill.
Flows the loud rivulet down the mountain's brow?
Or pants the Zephyr on the waving bough?
Or sips the labouring bee her balmy dews,
And with soft strains her fragrant toil pursues?
Or warbles from yon silver-blossom'd thorn
The wakeful bird, that hails the rising morn?
—My Laura's voice, in many a soothing note,
Floats through the yielding air, or seems to float:
Heave the warm sigh, and shed the tender tear.
There to the awful shade due homage pay,
And softly thus address the sacred clay:
‘Say, envied earth! that dost those charms infold,
‘Where are those cheeks, and where those locks of gold?
‘Where are those eyes, which oft the Muse has sung?
‘Where those sweet lips, and that enchanting tongue?
‘Ye radiant tresses! and thou nectar'd smile!
‘Ye looks that might the melting skies beguile!
‘You robb'd my soul of rest, my eyes of sleep;
‘You taught me how to love, and how to weep.’
276
No blossom trembles to the dying gale,
No floweret blushes in the morning rays,
No stream along the winding valley plays,
But knows what anguish thrills my tortur'd breast,
What pains consume me, and what cares infest.
At blush of dawn, and in the gloom of night,
Her pale-eyed phantom swims before my sight,
Sits on the border of each purling rill,
Crowns every bower, and glides o'er every hill.
277
Or pants the Zephyr on the waving bough?
Or sips the labouring bee her balmy dews,
And with soft strains her fragrant toil pursues?
Or warbles from yon silver-blossom'd thorn
The wakeful bird, that hails the rising morn?
—My Laura's voice, in many a soothing note,
Floats through the yielding air, or seems to float:
‘Why fill thy sighs,’ she says, ‘this lonely bower?
‘Why down thy bosom flows this endless shower?
‘Complain no more: but hope ere long to meet
‘Thy much-lov'd Laura in a happier seat.
‘Here, fairer scenes detain my parted shade;
‘Suns that ne'er set, and flowers that never fade:
‘Through crystal skies I wing my joyous flight,
‘And revel in eternal blaze of light;
‘See all thy wanderings in that vale of tears,
‘And smile at all thy hopes, at all thy fears:
‘Death wak'd my soul, that slept in life before,
‘And op'd these brighten'd eyes, to sleep no more.’
‘Why down thy bosom flows this endless shower?
‘Complain no more: but hope ere long to meet
‘Thy much-lov'd Laura in a happier seat.
278
‘Suns that ne'er set, and flowers that never fade:
‘Through crystal skies I wing my joyous flight,
‘And revel in eternal blaze of light;
‘See all thy wanderings in that vale of tears,
‘And smile at all thy hopes, at all thy fears:
‘Death wak'd my soul, that slept in life before,
‘And op'd these brighten'd eyes, to sleep no more.’
She ends: the Fates, that will no more reveal,
Fix on her closing lips their sacred seal.
‘Return, sweet shade!’ I wake, and fondly say,
‘O, cheer my gloom with one far-beaming ray!
‘Return: thy charms my sorrow will dispel,
‘And snatch my spirit from her mortal cell;
‘Then, mix'd with thine, exulting she shall fly,
‘And bound enraptur'd through her native sky.’
She comes no more: my pangs more fierce return;
Tears gush in streams, and sighs my bosom burn.
Ye banks, that oft my weary limbs have borne,
Ye murmuring brooks, that learnt of me to mourn;
Ye birds, that tune with me your plaintive lay;
Ye groves, where Love once taught my steps to stray;
You, ever sweet and ever fair, renew
Your strains melodious, and your blooming hue:
But not in my sad heart can bliss remain,
My heart, the haunt of never-ceasing pain!
Fix on her closing lips their sacred seal.
‘Return, sweet shade!’ I wake, and fondly say,
‘O, cheer my gloom with one far-beaming ray!
‘Return: thy charms my sorrow will dispel,
‘And snatch my spirit from her mortal cell;
‘Then, mix'd with thine, exulting she shall fly,
‘And bound enraptur'd through her native sky.’
She comes no more: my pangs more fierce return;
Tears gush in streams, and sighs my bosom burn.
Ye banks, that oft my weary limbs have borne,
Ye murmuring brooks, that learnt of me to mourn;
279
Ye groves, where Love once taught my steps to stray;
You, ever sweet and ever fair, renew
Your strains melodious, and your blooming hue:
But not in my sad heart can bliss remain,
My heart, the haunt of never-ceasing pain!
Henceforth,—to sing in smoothly-warbled lays
The smiles of youth, and beauty's heavenly rays;
To see the morn her early charms unfold,
Her cheeks of roses, and her curls of gold;
Led by the sacred Muse, at noon to rove
O'er tufted mountain, vale, or shady grove;
To watch the stars, that gild the lucid pole,
And view yon orbs in mazy order roll;
To hear the tender nightingale complain,
And warble to the woods her amorous strain:—
No more shall these my pensive soul delight,
But each gay vision melts in endless night.
The smiles of youth, and beauty's heavenly rays;
To see the morn her early charms unfold,
Her cheeks of roses, and her curls of gold;
Led by the sacred Muse, at noon to rove
O'er tufted mountain, vale, or shady grove;
280
And view yon orbs in mazy order roll;
To hear the tender nightingale complain,
And warble to the woods her amorous strain:—
No more shall these my pensive soul delight,
But each gay vision melts in endless night.
Nymphs! who in glimmering glades by moonlight dance,
And ye, who through the liquid crystal glance,
Who oft have heard my sadly-pleasing moan;
Behold me now a lifeless marble grown.
Ah! lead me to the tomb where Laura lies;
Clouds! fold me round; and, gather'd darkness! rise!
Bear me, ye gales! in death's soft slumber lay'd;
And, ye bright realms, receive my fleeting shade.
And ye, who through the liquid crystal glance,
Who oft have heard my sadly-pleasing moan;
Behold me now a lifeless marble grown.
Ah! lead me to the tomb where Laura lies;
Clouds! fold me round; and, gather'd darkness! rise!
Bear me, ye gales! in death's soft slumber lay'd;
And, ye bright realms, receive my fleeting shade.
| The poetical works of Sir William Jones | |