APPENDIX VII.

TRANSLATIONS

FROM PETRARCH,

BY

BARBARINA LADY DACRE.

TO A FRIEND.

The brook, soft rippling on its pebbled way,
With many a winding fondly lingers long
In valleys low, stealing wild weeds among,
And pendant boughs that o'er its surface play ;

Its humble pride still to reflect the gay

And varied flowers that round its mirror throng; So I, erewhile, lone warbled my rude song, Echoing Valclusa's sad melodious lay:

And as, lured forth along the unsheltered plain, The little stream at length, with bolder course, Bears tributary waters to the main ;

I, too, though late, to thee my offering bear, Advent'rous, won by Friendship's gentle force From covert shades, the broader light to dare.

CANZONE.

NELLA stagion che'l ciel rapido inchina Verso occidente, e che'l dì nostro vola A gente che di là forse l'aspetta ; Veggendosi in lontan paese sola La stanca vecchiarella pellegrina Raddoppia i passi, e più e più s'affretta ; E poi così soletta

Al fin di sua giornata

Talor è consolata

D'alcun breve riposo, ov' ella obblia
La noia e'l mal della passata via.

Ma lasso ogni dolor che'l dì m' adduce
Cresce, qualor s'invia

Per partirsi da noi l'eterna luce.

Come'l sol volge le 'nfiammate rote Per dar luogo alla notte, onde discende Dagli altissimi monti maggior l'ombra ; L'avaro zappador l'arme riprende, E con parole e con alpestri note Ogni gravezza del suo petto sgombra: E poi la mensa ingombra

Di povere vivande,

Simili a quelle ghiande

Le qua'fuggendo tutto'l mondo onora. Ma chi vuol si rallegri ad ora ad ora ; Ch'i'pur non ebbi ancor, non dirò lieta, Ma riposata un'ora,

Nè per volger di ciel nè di pianeta.

CANZONE.

In the still evening, when with rapid flight
Low in the western sky the sun descends
To give expectant nations life and light;
The aged pilgrim, in some clime unknown
Slow journeying, right onward fearful bends
With weary haste, a stranger and alone;
Yet, when his labour ends,

He solitary sleeps,

And in short slumber steeps

Each sense of sorrow hanging on the day,

And all the toil of the long-passed way:

But oh! each pang, that wakes with morn's first ray, More piercing wounds my breast

When Heaven's eternal light sinks crimson in the West.

His burning wheels when downward Phoebus bends
And leaves the world to night, its lengthened shade
Each towering mountain o'er the vale extends;
The thrifty peasant shoulders light his spade,
With sylvan carol gay and uncouth note
Bidding his cares upon the wild winds float,

Content in peace to share

His poor and humble fare,
As in that golden age

We honour still, yet leave its simple ways;
Whoe'er so list, let joy his hours engage:

No gladness e'er has cheered my gloomy days,

Nor moment of

repose,

However rolled the spheres, whatever planet rose.