For they are guiding stars, benignly given 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, And with such sweetness doth the soul destroy Oh blessed am I to dwell in Paradise. He who knows not what thing is Paradise, 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, From Myrrha's eyes a lovely messenger That all proud souls are bound to bend to her. He who knows not what thing is Paradise, In Myrrha's eyes Beauty doth make her throne, As in the whole wide world he scarce may find; He who knows not what thing is Paradise, 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, Saint Magdalen her hair unbound, 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! NAY, marvel not you are so fair; For you beside the sea were born; 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 Since first my trembling heart became a prey, 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, 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; To thee my heart, my wishes I resign, 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, Yet, all perfection as she is, I dare not make my secret known, 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; |