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176
VALEDICTORY SONNET.
FROM PETRARCH.
“Voi ch'ascolate in rime sparse il suono,” &c.
Oh! ye who listen to my wood-notes wild,
And count in them the sighs that I have breath'd,
When I, in passion's wilds, sad garlands wreath'd;
Like my fierce master, Love—a very child!
With all the follies that my heart beguil'd,
Follies by Heaven in punishment bequeath'd,
If in your hearts love's arrows e'er were sheath'd,
You then may pity me, from joy exil'd:
For, on my cheek the blush of shame oft glows,
And sad reflection tells me, but too plain,
The vulgar herd still mock my passion's woes!
I reap my follies' meed, remorse and pain;
And feel too late the thorn hid in the rose,
Finding man's praise a dream as transient as 'tis vain!
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