TO A FRIEND, WHEREIN THE POET IS TORN BETWEEN ROME AND LAURA

The sacred aspect of your native shore
Prompts many a groan for my ungodly past,
Crying: " Arise, thou wretch! Leave off at last! "
And pointing the heaven road where I should soar.
But soon another thought is conqueror,
Questioning me: " Why runnest thou so fast?
If memory serves, but little time thou hast
For seeing her whom thou must still adore. "
I, who this second reason understand,
Freeze in my soul, as one who suddenly hears
Tidings which pierce him like a thousand spears:
Returns the first thought, with the second banned,
Nor know I which may yet persuade my ears
So well solicited on either hand.