SONNETTO PETRARCH.
O for that shell, whose melancholy sound,Heard in Valclusa by the lucid streamOf laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme,Fair Laura and her scorn, to all aroundHigh-built Avignon, on the rocky moundThat banks the impetuous Rhone, and like a steamFrom some rich incense rising, to the extremeOf desolate Hesperia did rebound,And gently waked the Muses:—so might I,Studious of song like thee, and ah! too likeIn sad complaint of ill-requited love,So might I, hopeless now, have power to strikeSuch notes, as lovers’ tears should sanctify,And cold Fidele’s melting sighs approve.
O for that shell, whose melancholy sound,Heard in Valclusa by the lucid streamOf laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme,Fair Laura and her scorn, to all aroundHigh-built Avignon, on the rocky moundThat banks the impetuous Rhone, and like a steamFrom some rich incense rising, to the extremeOf desolate Hesperia did rebound,And gently waked the Muses:—so might I,Studious of song like thee, and ah! too likeIn sad complaint of ill-requited love,So might I, hopeless now, have power to strikeSuch notes, as lovers’ tears should sanctify,And cold Fidele’s melting sighs approve.
O for that shell, whose melancholy sound,Heard in Valclusa by the lucid streamOf laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme,Fair Laura and her scorn, to all aroundHigh-built Avignon, on the rocky moundThat banks the impetuous Rhone, and like a steamFrom some rich incense rising, to the extremeOf desolate Hesperia did rebound,And gently waked the Muses:—so might I,Studious of song like thee, and ah! too likeIn sad complaint of ill-requited love,So might I, hopeless now, have power to strikeSuch notes, as lovers’ tears should sanctify,And cold Fidele’s melting sighs approve.
O for that shell, whose melancholy sound,
Heard in Valclusa by the lucid stream
Of laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme,
Fair Laura and her scorn, to all around
High-built Avignon, on the rocky mound
That banks the impetuous Rhone, and like a steam
From some rich incense rising, to the extreme
Of desolate Hesperia did rebound,
And gently waked the Muses:—so might I,
Studious of song like thee, and ah! too like
In sad complaint of ill-requited love,
So might I, hopeless now, have power to strike
Such notes, as lovers’ tears should sanctify,
And cold Fidele’s melting sighs approve.