Sestina VIII.

L ver l' aurora, che s dolce l' aura.     SHE IS MOVED NEITHER BY HIS VERSES NOR HIS TEARS.         When music warbles from each thorn,     And Zephyr's dewy wings     Sweep the young flowers; what time the morn     Her crimson radiance flings:     Then, as the smiling year renews,     I feel renew'd Love's tender pain;     Renew'd is Laura's cold disdain;     And I for comfort court the weeping muse.     Oh! could my sighs in accents flow     So musically lorn,     That thou might'st catch my am'rous woe,     And cease, proud Maid! thy scorn:     Yet, ere within thy icy breast     The smallest spark of passion's found,     Winter's cold temples shall be bound     With all the blooms that paint spring's glowing vest.     The drops that bathe the grief-dew'd eye,     The love-impassion'd strain     To move thy flinty bosom try     Full oft;--but, ah! in vain     Would tears, and melting song avail;     As vainly might the silken breeze,     That bends the flowers, that fans the trees,     Some rugged rock's tremendous brow assail.     Both gods and men alike are sway'd     By Love, as poets tell;--     And I, when flowers in every shade     Their bursting gems reveal,     First felt his all-subduing power:     While Laura knows not yet the smart;     Nor heeds the tortures of my heart,     My prayers, my plaints, and sorrow's pearly shower!     Thy wrongs, my soul! with patience bear,     While life shall warm this clay;     And soothing sounds to Laura's ear     My numbers shall convey;     Numbers with forceful magic charm     All nature o'er the frost-bound earth,     Wake summer's fragrant buds to birth,     And the fierce serpent of its rage disarm.     The blossom'd shrubs in smiles are drest,     Now laughs his purple plain;     And shall the nymph a foe profest     To tenderness remain?     But oh! what solace shall I find,     If fortune dooms me yet to bear     The frowns of my relentless Fair,     Save with soft moan to vex the pitying wind?     In baffling nets the light-wing'd gale     I'd fetter as it blows,     The vernal rose that scents the vale     I'd cull on wintery snows;     Still I'd ne'er hope that mind to move     Which dares defy the wiles of verse, and Love.     ANON. 1777.