 | Poems by Hartley Coleridge |  |
FROM PETRARCH.
Se lamentar augelli, o verdi fronde.
The birds piped mournfully; the dark green leaves
Moved, sweetly trembling, to the summer breeze,—
And deep and low, the lucid rill, that weaves
Its murmuring mazes in the flowery leas,
Warbled along its old monotonies:—
Such blended sounds my reckless ear received,
And hearing, heard not,—while my spirit grieved,
Loving its grief, and feeding its disease.
A mournful strain I conn'd—when she for whom
I vext my soul, because she was conceal'd,
Shone forth on high, to wondering sense reveal'd:—
“Why ever thus,” said she, “thy days consume?
Dying, I live,—and when I closed my eyes
They open'd to the light of Paradise.”
| Poems by Hartley Coleridge | |