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SONETTO DI VITTORELLI.
Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanzi
una figlia appena maritata ; è diretto al genitore della sacra sposa.
Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte
Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,
L'una e l'altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo.
A le fumanti tede d'imeneo:
La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Irremeabil soglia, ove s' asconde,
La sua tenera udir voce pietosa.
Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa,
TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.
ON A NUN.
Sonnet composed in the name of a father whose daughter had recently
died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.
Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired,
Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires,
And gazing upon either, both required.
Becomes extinguish’d, soon—too soon–expires:
Eternal captive, to her God aspires.
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes,
May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more:
Rush,—the swoln flood of bitterness I pour,
Ou Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,
A loud lament along the sweeping sea! If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, What should thy sons do?—any thing but weep: And yet they only murmur in their sleep. In contrast with their fathers-as the slime, The dull green ooze of the receding deep, Is with the dashing of the spring-tide foam, That drives the sailor shipless to his home, Are they to those that were; and thus they creep, Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping streets. Oh! agony—that centuries should reap No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred
years Of wealth and glory turn’d to dust and tears; And every monument the stranger meets, Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ;
And even the Lion all subdued appears,
To him appears renewal of his breath,
There is no hope for nations !-Search the page
Of many thousand years—the daily scene, The flow and ebb of each recurring age,
The everlasting to be which hath been,
Hath taught us nought or little: still we lean