The sun, whose cheering lustre warms
    The bosom of yon snow-clad hill,
    Seems a just emblem of the charms,
    Whose power controls my vanquish’d will;
    When near, they gild with joy this frozen heart,
    Where ceaseless winter reigns, whene’er those charms depart.

    Yon sun, too, paints the locks of gold,
    That play around her face so fair—­
    Her face which, oft as I behold,
    Prompts the soft sigh of amorous care! 
    While Laura smiles, all-conscious of that love
    Which from this faithful breast no time can e’er remove.

    If to the transient storm of night
    Succeeds a star-bespangled sky,
    And the clear rain-drops catch the light,
    Glittering on all the foliage nigh;
    Methinks her eyes I view, as on that day
    When through the envious veil they shot their magic ray.

    With brightness making heaven more bright,
    As then they did, I see them now;
    I see them, when the morning light
    Purples the misty mountain’s brow: 
    When day declines, and darkness spreads the pole;
    Methinks ’tis Laura flies, and sadness wraps my soul.

    In stately jars of burnish’d gold
    Should lilies spread their silvery pride,
    With fresh-blown roses that unfold
    Their leaves, in heaven’s own crimson dyed;
    Then Laura’s bloom I see, and sunny hair
    Flowing adown her neck than ivory whiter far.

    The flowerets brush’d by zephyr’s wing,
    Waving their heads in frolic play,
    Oft to my fond remembrance bring
    The happy spot, the happier day,
    In which, disporting with the gale, I view’d
    Those sweet unbraided locks, that all my heart subdued.

    Oh! could I count those orbs that shine
    Nightly o’er yon ethereal plain,
    Or in some scanty vase confine
    Each drop that ocean’s bounds contain,
    Then might I hope to fly from beauty’s rays,
    Laura o’er flaming worlds can spread bright beauty’s blaze.

    Should I all heaven, all earth explore,
    I still should lovely Laura find;
    Laura, whose beauties I adore,
    Is ever present to my mind: 
    She’s seen in all that strikes these partial eyes,
    And her dear name still dwells in all my tender sighs.

    But soft, my song,—­not thine the power
    To paint that never-dying flame,
    Which gilds through life the gloomy hour,
    Which nurtures this love-wasted frame;
    For since with Laura dwells my wander’d heart,
    Cheer’d by that fostering flame, I brave Death’s ebon dart.

    ANON 1777.

[Illustration:  GENOA.]

CANZONE XVI.

Italia mia, benche ’l parlar sia indarno.

TO THE PRINCES OF ITALY, EXHORTING THEM TO SET HER FREE.