Must prove the dubious step, the still unknown,
    Yet ever beaten way. 
    And through this fatal vale
    Would you be wafted with some gentle gale? 
    Put off that eager strife and fierce disdain,
    Clouds that involve our life’s serene,
    And storms that ruffle all the scene;
    Your precious hours, misspent in others’ pain,
    On nobler deeds, worthy yourselves, bestow;
    Whether with hand or wit you raise
    Some monument of peaceful praise,
    Some happy labour of fair love: 
    ’Tis all of heaven that you can find below,
    And opens into all above.

    BASIL KENNET.

CANZONE XVII.

Di pensier in pensier, di monte in monte.

DISTANCE AND SOLITUDE.

      From hill to hill I roam, from thought to thought,
    With Love my guide; the beaten path I fly,
    For there in vain the tranquil life is sought: 
    If ’mid the waste well forth a lonely rill,
    Or deep embosom’d a low valley lie,
    In its calm shade my trembling heart’s still;
    And there, if Love so will,
    I smile, or weep, or fondly hope, or fear. 
    While on my varying brow, that speaks the soul,
    The wild emotions roll,
    Now dark, now bright, as shifting skies appear;
    That whosoe’er has proved the lover’s state
    Would say, He feels the flame, nor knows his future fate.

    On mountains high, in forests drear and wide,
    I find repose, and from the throng’d resort
    Of man turn fearfully my eyes aside;
    At each lone step thoughts ever new arise
    Of her I love, who oft with cruel sport
    Will mock the pangs I bear, the tears, the sighs;
    Yet e’en these ills I prize,
    Though bitter, sweet, nor would they were removed
    For my heart whispers me, Love yet has power
    To grant a happier hour: 
    Perchance, though self-despised, thou yet art loved: 
    E’en then my breast a passing sigh will heave,
    Ah! when, or how, may I a hope so wild believe?

    Where shadows of high rocking pines dark wave
    I stay my footsteps, and on some rude stone
    With thought intense her beauteous face engrave;
    Roused from the trance, my bosom bathed I find
    With tears, and cry, Ah! whither thus alone
    Hast thou far wander’d, and whom left behind? 
    But as with fixed mind
    On this fair image I impassion’d rest,
    And, viewing her, forget awhile my ills,
    Love my rapt fancy fills;
    In its own error sweet the soul is blest,
    While all around so bright the visions glide;
    Oh! might the cheat endure, I ask not aught beside.