Alas! will Time's rapacious hand, These golden days restore? Or will he suffer me to taste These golden days no more? Will he permit that here again, I turn my willing feet? That my glad eyes may here again, The look of kindness meet? That here I ever may behold, Felicity to dwell, And often have the painful task Of sighing out farewell? Ah, be it so! my fears I lose, By hope's sweet visions fed; And as I fly to seek repose, She flutters round my bed. NOV. 17, 1796. TO M.I. Thou, Margaret, lov'st the secret shade, The murmuring brook, or tow'ring tree; The village cot within the glade, And lonely walk have charms for thee. To thee more dear the jasmine bow'r, That shelt'ring, undisturb'd retreat, Than the high canopy of pow'r, Or Luxury's embroider'd seat. More sweet the early morning breeze, Whose odours fill the rural vale, The waving bosom of the seas, When ruffled by the rising gale. Than all which pride or pomp bestow, To grace the lofty Indian maid, Who prizes more the diamond's glow, Than all in humbler vest array'd. Sweet is the rural festive song, Which sounds so wildly o'er the plain, When thoughtless mirth the notes prolong, And heart-felt pleasure pours the strain. Sweet is the dance where light and gay, The village maiden trips along; Her simple robe in careless play, As her fleet step winds round the throng. Sweet is the labourer's blazing fire, When evening shades invite to rest; Though weary, home does joy inspire, And social love dilates his breast. His rural lass with glee prepares, The dainties fondness made her hoard; Her husband now the banquet shares, And children croud around the board. Ah! who could wish to view the air Of listless ease and languid wealth? Who with such pleasures could compare The joys of innocence and health? AUGUST 20, 1796. CANTATA. DEL METASTASIO. "D'atre nubi è il sol ravvolto, Luce infausta il Ciel colora. Pur chi sa? Quest' alma ancora La speranza non perdè. Non funesta ogni tempesta Co' naufragj all' onde il seno; Ogni tuono, ogni baleno Sempre un fulmine non è." TRANSLATION. Dark, mournful clouds hang o'er the sun, Lights gleam portentous in the air, And yet who knows? This troubled heart Still gives not up to blank despair. Not big with shipwrecks every storm, That sweeps the bosom of the main, Nor does the threatening, turbid sky, Always the thunder-bolt contain. LA FORTUNA. DELLO STESSO. A chi serena io miro, Chiaro è di notte il cielo: Torna per lui nel gelo La terra a germogliar. Ma se a taluno io giro Torbido il guardo, e fosco, Fronde gli niega il bosco, Onde non trova in mar. TRANSLATION. To him whom kindly I behold, The midnight sky is clear, And 'mid the wintry frost and cold, The blushing flowers appear. But to the wretch who meets my eye, When kindled by disdain, The very grove will leaves deny, And waveless be the main.