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For they are guiding stars, benignly given
To tempt my footsteps to the upward way;
And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight,
I live and love in God's peculiar light.

Translation of J. E. Taylor.

MYRRHA'S EYES.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF ANGELO POLIZIANO.

H

E who knows not what thing is Paradise,

Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.

From Myrrha's eyes there fleeth, girt with fire,
An angel of our Lord, a laughing boy,
Who lights in frozen hearts a flaming pyre,

And with such sweetness doth the soul destroy
That while it dies, it murmurs forth its joy:

Oh blessed am I to dwell in Paradise.

He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.

From Myrrha's eyes a virtue still doth move,

So swift and with so fierce and strong a flight, That it is like the lightning of high Jove,

Riving of iron and adamant the might; Nathless the wound doth carry such delight That he who suffers dwells in Paradise.

He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.

From Myrrha's eyes a lovely messenger
Of joy so grave, so virtuous, doth flee,

That all proud souls are bound to bend to her.
So sweet her countenance, it turns the key
Of hard hearts locked in cold security:
Forth flies the prisoned soul to Paradise.

He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.

In Myrrha's eyes Beauty doth make her throne,
And sweetly smile and sweetly speak her mind.
Such grace in her fair eyes a man hath known

As in the whole wide world he scarce may find;
Yet if she slay him with a glance too kind,
He lives again beneath her gazing eyes.

He who knows not what thing is Paradise,
Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes.

Translation of John Addington Symonds.

B

TUSCAN LOVE-SONGS.

EAUTY was born with you, fair maid;

The sun and moon inclined to you;

On you the snow her whiteness laid,
The rose her rich and radiant hue:

Saint Magdalen her hair unbound,
And Cupid taught you how to wound-
How to wound hearts Dan Cupid taught:
Your beauty drives me love-distraught.

beauty, born in winter's night,

Born in the month of spotless snow:

Your face is like a rose so bright;

Your mother may be proud of you!
She may be proud, lady of love,
Such sunlight shines her house above:
She may be proud, lady of heaven,
Such sunlight to her home is given.

NAY, marvel not you are so fair;

For you beside the sea were born;
The sea-waves keep you bright and fair,
Like roses on their leafy thorn.
If roses grow on the rose-bush,

Your roses through midwinter blush ;

If roses bloom on the rose-bed,

Your face can show both white and red.

Translation of John Addington Symonds.

MY WAND'RING THOUGHTS AWAKE TO LOVE

ANEW.

FROM THE ROMANIC OF LE CHATELAIN DE COUCY.

M

("Songs of the Trouvères.")

Y wand'ring thoughts awake to love anew,

And bid me rise to sing the fairest fair
That e'er before the world of beauty knew,
That e'er kind Nature made her darling care;
And when, entranced, on all her charms I muse,
All themes but that alone my lays refuse-
Each wish my soul can form is hers alone,
My heart, my joys, my feelings all her own!

Since first my trembling heart became a prey,
I have no power to turn me back again ;
At once I yield me to that passion's sway,
Nor idly seek its impulse to restrain.
If she, who is all sweetness, truth, and joy,
Were cold or fickle, were she proud or coy,
I might my tender hopes at once resign,
But not, thank Heaven! so sad a lot is mine!

If aught I blame, 'tis my hard fate alone,

Not those soft eyes, those gentle looks of thine, On which I gazed till all my peace was gone!

Not at their dear perfection I repine.

I can not blame that form, all winning grace,
That fairy hand, that lip, that lovely face;
All I can beg is that she love me more,
That I may live still longer to adore!

Yes, all I ask of thee, O lady dear,

Is but what purest love may hope to find; And if thine eyes, whose crystal light so clear

Reflect thy thoughts, be not to me unkind. Well may'st thou see, by every mournful lay, By all I ever look, or sigh, or say,

That I am thine, devoted to thy will,

And, 'midst my sadness, fondly thank thee still.

I thank thee, even for these secret sighs,

For all the mournful thoughts that on thee dwell; For, as thou bad'st them in my bosom rise,

Thou canst revive their sweetest hopes as well. The blissful remedy for all my woe,

In those dear eyes, that gentle voice, I know;
Should Fate forbid my soul to love thee more,
My life, alas! would with my grief be o'er.

To thee my heart, my wishes I resign,
I am thine own-O lady dear, be mine!

Translation by Louisa S. Costello.

SHE'S FAIRER THAN MY DREAMS.

FROM THE ROMANIC OF ELIAS CAIREL.

("Songs of the Troubadours.")

HE'S fairer than my dreams could frame,

SHE'S

A vision of all charms combined;

And love can teach no word, no name,
To tell the sweetness of her mind.
Blest were my eyes that looked so long,
And found existence in their gaze;
Blest was my harp that waked the song
Which proudly sought to hymn her praise.

Yet, all perfection as she is,

I dare not make my secret known,
Lest, while I would increase my bliss,
I lose the little still my own.

For should she all my weakness know,

Perchance her eyes, now calm and sweet,

With anger or disdain might glow,

Or dread my ardent glance to meet.

Perchance no more her gentle words

Would charm and soothe me as of yore;

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