BOYD.

PART IV.

      So fickle fortune, in a luckless hour,
    Had close consigned me to a tyrant’s power,
    Who cut the nerves that, with elastic force,
    Had borne me on in Freedom’s generous course—­
    So I, in noble independence bred,
    Free as the roebuck in the sylvan glade,
    By passion lured, a voluntary slave—­
    My ready name to Cupid’s muster gave. 
    And yet I saw their grief and wild despair;
    I saw them blindly seek the fatal snare
    Through winding paths, and many an artful maze,
    Where Cupid’s viewless spell the band obeys. 
    Here, as I turn’d my anxious eyes around,
    If any shade I then could see renown’d
    In old or modern times; the bard I spied
    Whose unabated love pursued his bride
    Down to the coast of Hades; and above
    His life resign’d, the pledge of constant love,
    Calling her name in death.—­Alcaeus near,
    Who sung the joys of Love and toils severe,
    Was seen with Pindar and the Teian swain,
    A veteran gay among the youthful train
    Of Cupid’s host.—­The Mantuan next I found,
    Begirt with bards from age to age renown’d;
    Whether they chose in lofty themes to soar,
    Or sportive try the Muse’s lighter lore.—­
    There soft Tibullus walk’d with Sulmo’s bard;
    And there Propertius with Catullus shared
    The meed of lovesome lays:  the Grecian dame
    With sweeter numbers woke the amorous flame
    While thus I turn’d around my wondering eyes,
    I saw a noble train with new surprise,
    Who seem’d of Love in choral notes to sing,
    While all around them breathed Elysian spring.—­
    Here Alighieri, with his love I spied,
    Selvaggia, Guido, Cino, side by side—­
    Guido, who mourn’d the lot that fix’d his name
    The second of his age in lyric fame.—­
    Two other minstrels there I spied that bore
    His name, renown’d on Arno’s tuneful shore. 
    With them Sicilia’s bards, in elder days
    Match’d with the foremost in poetic praise,
    Though now they rank behind.—­Sennuccio nigh
    With gentle Franceschino met my eye.—­
    But soon another tribe, of manners strange
    And uncouth dialect, was seen to range
    Along the flowery paths, by Arnald led;
    In Cupid’s lore by all the Muses bred,
    And master of the theme.—­Marsilia’s coast
    And Narbonne still his polish’d numbers boast.—­
    The next I saw with lighter step advance;
    ’Twas he that caught a flame at every glance
    That met his eye, with him who shared his name. 
    Join’d with an Arnald of inferior fame.—­
    Next either Rambold in procession trod,
    No easy conquest to the winged god. 
    The pride of Montferrat (a peerless dame)
    In many a ditty sung, announced