The winged lion's not so fierce in fight As Liberi's hand presents him to our sight; Nor would his pencil make him half so fierce, Or roar so loud, as Businello's verse; But your translation does all three excel, The fight, the piece, and lofty Businel. As their small galleys may not hold compare With our tall ships, whose sails employ more air; So does th'Italian to your genius vail, Moved with a fuller and a nobler gale. 10 Thus, while your Muse spreads the Venetian story, You make all Europe emulate her glory; You make them blush weak Venice should defend The cause of Heaven, while they for words contend; Shed Christian blood, and pop'lous cities raze, Because they're taught to use some different phrase. If, list'ning to your charms, we could our jars Compose, and on the Turk discharge these wars, Our British arms the sacred tomb might wrest 19 From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East; And then you might our own high deeds recite, And with great Tasso celebrate the fight. [1] 'Sir T. Higgons': a knight of some note, who translated the 'Venetian Triumph,' an Italian poem by Businello, addressed to Liberi, the painter. TO A LADY SINGING A SONG OF HIS COMPOSING. 1 Chloris! yourself you so excel, When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought, That, like a spirit, with this spell Of my own teaching, I am caught. 2 That eagle's fate[1] and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high. 3 Had Echo, with so sweet a grace, Narcissus' loud complaints return'd, Not for reflection of his face, But of his voice, the boy had burn'd. [1] 'Eagle's fate': Byron copies this thought in his verses on Kirke White TO THE MUTABLE FAIR. Here, Cælia! for thy sake I part With all that grew so near my heart; The passion that I had for thee, The faith, the love, the constancy! And, that I may successful prove, Transform myself to what you love. Fool that I was! so much to prize Those simple virtues you despise; Fool! that with such dull arrows strove, Or hoped to reach a flying dove; 10 For you, that are in motion still, Decline our force, and mock our skill; Who, like Don Quixote, do advance Against a windmill our vain lance. Now will I wander through the air, Mount, make a stoop at every fair; And, with a fancy unconfined (As lawless as the sea or wind), Pursue you wheresoe'er you fly, And with your various thoughts comply. 20