Myrtilla.Addressed to aLady, who lamented that she had never been in love."Al nuovo giorno,Pietosa man' mi sollevo."Metastatsio."Ah me! how sad," Myrtilla cried,"To waste alone my years!"While o'er a streamlet's flow'ry sideShe pensive hung, and watch'd the tideThat dimpled with her tears."The world, though oft to merit blind,Alas, I cannot blame;For they have oft the knee inclined.And pour'd the sigh--but, like the windOf winter, cold it came."Ah no! neglect I cannot rue."Then o'er the limpid streamShe cast her eyes of ether blue;Her wat'ry eyes look'd up to viewTheir lovelier parent's beam.And ever as the sad lamentWould thus her lips divide,Her lips, like sister roses bentBy passing gales, elastick sentTheir blushes from the tide.While mournful o'er her pictur'd faceDid then her glances steal,She seem'd she thought a marble Grace,T' enslave with love the human race,But ne'er that love to feel."Ah, what avail those eyes repleteWith charms without a name!Alas, no kindred rays they meet,To kindle by collision sweetOf mutual love the flame!"Oh, 'tis the worst of cruel things,This solitary state!Yon bird that trims his purple wings,As on the bending bow he swings.Prepares to join his mate."The little glow-worm sheds her light,Nor sheds her light in vain--That still her tiny lover's sightAmid the darkness of the nightMay trace her o'er the plain."All living nature seems to moveBy sympathy divine--The sea, the earth, the air above;As if one universal loveDid all their hearts entwine!"My heart alone of all my kindNo love can ever warm:That only can resemblance findWith waste Arabia, where the windNe'er breathes on human form;"A blank, embodied space, that knowsNo changes in its reign,Save when the fierce tornado throwsIts barren sands, like drifted snows,In ridges o'er the plain."Thus plain'd the maid; and now her eyesSlow-lifting from the tide,Their liquid orbs with sweet surpriseA youth beheld in extacies,Mute standing by her side."Forbear, oh, lovely maid, forbear,"The youth enamour'd cried,"Nor with Arabia's waste compareThe heart of one so young and fair,To every charm allied."Or, if Arabia--rather say,Where some delicious springRemurmurs to the leaves that playMid palm and date and flow'ret gay,On zephyr's frolick wing."And now, methinks, I cannot deemThe picture else but true;For I a wand'ring trav'ller seemO'er life's drear waste, without a gleamOf hope--if not inyou."Thus spake the youth; and then his tongueSuch converse sweet distill'd,It seem'd, as on his words she hung,As though a heavenly spirit sung,And all her soul he fill'd.He told her of his cruel fate,Condemn'd along to rove,From infancy to man's estate,Though courted by the fair and great,Yet never once to love.And then from many a poet's pageThe blest reverse he proved:How sweet to pass life's pilgrimage,From purple youth to sere old age,Aye loving and beloved!Here ceased the youth; but still his wordsDid o'er her fancy play;They seem'd the matin song of birds,Or like the distant low of herdsThat welcomes in the day.The sympathetick chord she feelsSoft thrilling in her soul;And, as the sweet vibration stealsThrough every vein, in tender pealsShe seems to hear it roll.Her alter'd heart, of late so drear,Then seem'd a faery land,Where nymphs and rosy loves appearOn margin green of fountain clear,And frolick hand in hand.But who shall paint her crimson blush,Nor think his hand of stone,As now the secret with a flushDid o'er her aching senses rush--Her heart was not her own!The happy Lindor, with a lookThat every hope confessed,Her glowing hand exulting took,And press'd it, as she fearful shook,In silence to his breast.Myrtilla felt the spreading flame,Yet knew not how to chide;So sweet it mantled o'er her frame,That, with a smile of pride and shame,She own'd herself his bride.No longer then, ye fair, complain,And call the fates unkind;The high, the low, the meek, the vain,Shall each a sympathetick swain,Anotherselfshall find.
"Al nuovo giorno,Pietosa man' mi sollevo."Metastatsio.
"Al nuovo giorno,Pietosa man' mi sollevo."
Metastatsio.
"Ah me! how sad," Myrtilla cried,"To waste alone my years!"While o'er a streamlet's flow'ry sideShe pensive hung, and watch'd the tideThat dimpled with her tears.
"The world, though oft to merit blind,Alas, I cannot blame;For they have oft the knee inclined.And pour'd the sigh--but, like the windOf winter, cold it came.
"Ah no! neglect I cannot rue."Then o'er the limpid streamShe cast her eyes of ether blue;Her wat'ry eyes look'd up to viewTheir lovelier parent's beam.
And ever as the sad lamentWould thus her lips divide,Her lips, like sister roses bentBy passing gales, elastick sentTheir blushes from the tide.
While mournful o'er her pictur'd faceDid then her glances steal,She seem'd she thought a marble Grace,T' enslave with love the human race,But ne'er that love to feel.
"Ah, what avail those eyes repleteWith charms without a name!Alas, no kindred rays they meet,To kindle by collision sweetOf mutual love the flame!
"Oh, 'tis the worst of cruel things,This solitary state!Yon bird that trims his purple wings,As on the bending bow he swings.Prepares to join his mate.
"The little glow-worm sheds her light,Nor sheds her light in vain--That still her tiny lover's sightAmid the darkness of the nightMay trace her o'er the plain.
"All living nature seems to moveBy sympathy divine--The sea, the earth, the air above;As if one universal loveDid all their hearts entwine!
"My heart alone of all my kindNo love can ever warm:That only can resemblance findWith waste Arabia, where the windNe'er breathes on human form;
"A blank, embodied space, that knowsNo changes in its reign,Save when the fierce tornado throwsIts barren sands, like drifted snows,In ridges o'er the plain."
Thus plain'd the maid; and now her eyesSlow-lifting from the tide,Their liquid orbs with sweet surpriseA youth beheld in extacies,Mute standing by her side.
"Forbear, oh, lovely maid, forbear,"The youth enamour'd cried,"Nor with Arabia's waste compareThe heart of one so young and fair,To every charm allied.
"Or, if Arabia--rather say,Where some delicious springRemurmurs to the leaves that playMid palm and date and flow'ret gay,On zephyr's frolick wing.
"And now, methinks, I cannot deemThe picture else but true;For I a wand'ring trav'ller seemO'er life's drear waste, without a gleamOf hope--if not inyou."
Thus spake the youth; and then his tongueSuch converse sweet distill'd,It seem'd, as on his words she hung,As though a heavenly spirit sung,And all her soul he fill'd.
He told her of his cruel fate,Condemn'd along to rove,From infancy to man's estate,Though courted by the fair and great,Yet never once to love.
And then from many a poet's pageThe blest reverse he proved:How sweet to pass life's pilgrimage,From purple youth to sere old age,Aye loving and beloved!
Here ceased the youth; but still his wordsDid o'er her fancy play;They seem'd the matin song of birds,Or like the distant low of herdsThat welcomes in the day.
The sympathetick chord she feelsSoft thrilling in her soul;And, as the sweet vibration stealsThrough every vein, in tender pealsShe seems to hear it roll.
Her alter'd heart, of late so drear,Then seem'd a faery land,Where nymphs and rosy loves appearOn margin green of fountain clear,And frolick hand in hand.
But who shall paint her crimson blush,Nor think his hand of stone,As now the secret with a flushDid o'er her aching senses rush--Her heart was not her own!
The happy Lindor, with a lookThat every hope confessed,Her glowing hand exulting took,And press'd it, as she fearful shook,In silence to his breast.
Myrtilla felt the spreading flame,Yet knew not how to chide;So sweet it mantled o'er her frame,That, with a smile of pride and shame,She own'd herself his bride.
No longer then, ye fair, complain,And call the fates unkind;The high, the low, the meek, the vain,Shall each a sympathetick swain,Anotherselfshall find.