Sonnet. From the Italian of Mozarello
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MOZARELLO.
Ye gales that gently fan the smiling sky,
And stealing from the flowers their fragrant dews,
With wiles of wanton blandishment, diffuse
The gather'd shower of odours as ye fly!
Ye verdant vales and streams that murmur by;
Fit haunts, which amorous sorrow well might chuse;
Who bad your conscious echoes to my Muse,
Each whisper'd hope, each flatter'd fear reply!
Those conscious echoes I no more to tales
Of woe shall wake; since o'er my manlier mind
Firm Reason holds again her calm controul:
Yet though no more, to lonely grief resign'd,
I wander here to weep, not less my soul
This cool, this murmur loves, these verdant vales!
Ye gales that gently fan the smiling sky,
And stealing from the flowers their fragrant dews,
With wiles of wanton blandishment, diffuse
The gather'd shower of odours as ye fly!
Ye verdant vales and streams that murmur by;
Fit haunts, which amorous sorrow well might chuse;
Who bad your conscious echoes to my Muse,
Each whisper'd hope, each flatter'd fear reply!
Those conscious echoes I no more to tales
Of woe shall wake; since o'er my manlier mind
Firm Reason holds again her calm controul:
Yet though no more, to lonely grief resign'd,
I wander here to weep, not less my soul
This cool, this murmur loves, these verdant vales!
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