But thou didst smile perhaps, thou thing besotted, Because, with some, death is a sleep, a word? Hast thou then ever heard Of one that slept and rotted? Rare is the sleeping face That wakes not as it was. Thou should'st have earned high heaven, And then thou might'st have given Glad looks below, and seen Thy buried bones serene Allor sì che 'l morir non saria amaro, Che morte a' giusti è sonno, e non è morte, Vedesti mai per sorte Putir chi dorme? raro, Raro chi non s' allevi Dai sonni anche non brevi. Tu saresti ora in alto Sopra il stellato smalto, E di là ne la fossa Vedresti le tue ossa As odorous and as fair, As evening lilies are; And in the day of the great trump of doom, Happy thy soul had been to join them at the tomb. Ode, go thou down and enter The horrors of the centre: Then fly amain, with news of terrible fate To those who think they may repent them late. E candide e odorose, Come i gigli e le rose: E nel dì poi de l'angelica tromba, Volentier verria l' alma a la tua tomba. Canzon, vanne là dentro In quell' orrido centro; Fuggi poi presto, e dille, che non spera T THE LOVER'S PRISON. FROM ARIOSTO. O LUCKY prison, blithe captivity, Where neither out of rage, nor out of spite, But bound by love, and charity's sweet might, She has me fast,—my lovely enemy ! Others, at turning of their prison key, Sadden; I triumph; since I have in sight Avventuroso carcere soave, Dove nè per furor, nè per dispetto, Ma per amor, e per pietà distretto, La bella e dolce mia nemica m' ave! Gli altri prigion, al volger de la chiave, Not death, but life; not suffering, but delight; But gatherings to the heart, but wilful blisses, But words that in such moments are no crimes, But laughs, and tricks, and winning ways; but kisses, Delicious kisses, put deliciously, A thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand times; And yet how few will all those thousands be! E non martir, vita e non morte aspetto; Nè giudice sever, nè legge grave; Ma benigne accoglienze, ma complessi Da ogni freno, ma risi, vezzi, giuochi, Ben mille e mille, e mille e mille volte; ODE TO THE GOLDEN AGE. SUNG BY A CHORUS OF SHEPHERDS IN TASSO'S AMYNTAS. O LOVELY age of gold! Not that the rivers rolled With milk, or that the woods wept honey-dew; Not that the ready ground Produced without a wound, Or the mild serpent had no tooth that slew; O bella età de l'oro, Non già perche di latte Sen corse il fiume, o stillò mele il bosco : Non perchè i frutti loro Dier da l' aratro intatte Le terre, e i serpi errar senz' ira o tosco: |