TO
DELLA
CRUSCA
.
OH
stay
,
oh
stay
!
thy
rash
speed
check
,
Not
yet
ascend
the
flying
deck
;
Nor
Europe's
Hemisphere
forsake
,
Nor
from
THY
NATION's
pleasures
take
A
bliss
so
exquisite
and
chaste
—
A
feast
so
dear
to
polish'd
taste
,
As
that
thy
Lyre
correctly
flings
,
As
that
they
feel
when
DELLA
CRUSCA
sings
.
Alas
!
thou'rt
gone
,
and
to
my
straining
eye
Thy
Bark
seems
buoyant
on
the
distant
sky
;
—
See
!
in
the
clouds
its
mast
it
proudly
laves
,
Scorning
the
aid
of
Ocean's
humble
waves
:
Well
may
it
soar
and
bear
aloft
the
prize
Whose
verse
immortal
links
him
to
the
skies
;
Well
may
it
scorn
rough
Neptune's
rocky
way
,
Which
bears
the
Genius
of
the
GOD
OF
DAY
!
And
now
,
MATILDA
,
bind
thy
lyre
With
cypress
wreathes
!
the
lambent
fire
Thou
kindled'st
at
his
fervid
rays
Can
gleam
no
more
;
—
thy
future
days
Lost
to
the
Muses
and
to
Taste
,
Each
torpid
hour
will
joyless
waste
.
In
vain
each
morning
now
will
glow
—
In
vain
soft
MAIA's
music
flow
,
And
to
my
pillow
force
its
way
,
And
on
my
wak'ning
senses
play
.
Her
notes
my
wak'ning
senses
fill
,
And
conscious
slumbers
own
the
trill
;
But
when
at
length
Remembrance
bids
The
filmy
slumber
quit
my
lids
,
Saying
"
THE
WORLD
its
Wit
hath
brought
,
"
Its
various
point
,
its
well-turn'd
thought
,
"
But
DELLA
CRUSCA
lends
no
ray
"
—
Oh
what
is
Morning
—
what
is
May
?
Yet
hold
!
some
solace
yet
remains
,
And
pensive
joys
await
my
pains
.
I
too
must
leave
this
laurel'd
coast
Which
all
,
that
ROME
adorn'd
,
can
boast
;
But
not
like
thee
,
for
GRECIAN
shores
;
—
Ah
no
!
my
humbler
prow
explores
The
Sea
unsung
,
which
lies
between
Dover's
proud
cliffs
,
and
France
serene
.
Thou'lt
skim
th'
Egean's
brilliant
tide
,
I
,
o'er
the
British
channel
glide
This
passage
when
given
in
the
WORLD
was
by
mistake
alter'd
,
and
some
of
its
lines
left
out
;
—
it
is
here
printed
from
the
original
copy
.
;
Thou
,
all
enthusiast
!
fondly
trace
The
Isle
where
PHAON's
beauteous
face
Gave
birth
to
SAPPHO's
glorious
art
—
Illum'd
her
name
,
but
tore
her
heart
:
Thy
SAPPHO
seek
the
shores
vicine
,
Where
England's
lovely
great-soul'd
QUEEN
Sublimely
knelt
,
and
snatch'd
from
blushing
Fate
The
Godlike
victims
of
her
Edward's
hate
.
Thou
,
at
AONIA's
sacred
feet
Wilt
duly
pour
libations
meet
;
I
,
roam
o'er
GALLIA's
sportive
plains
Where
thoughtless
Pleasure
ever
reigns
.
But
'tis
not
sportive
GALLIA's
plains
,
Tho'
Pleasure
there
for
ever
reigns
,
Which
promises
the
boasted
bliss
—
No
,
BARD
BELOV'D
!
the
hope
is
this
,
That
there
thy
footsteps
I
may
tread
,
Press
the
same
turf
where
sunk
thy
head
;
Sip
the
quick
stream
thy
thirst
hath
slaked
,
And
greet
the
Dawn
where
thou
hast
waked
—
Fancying
her
waves
of
mazy
gold
Ne'er
with
such
rich
refulgence
roll'd
;
And
when
her
tints
of
various
dye
Burst
from
the
pallid
sickly
sky
,
There
rush
in
violet
,
there
in
green
,
Here
in
soft
red
imbue
the
scene
;
Then
lose
themselves
by
growing
bright
,
'Till
swallow'd
up
in
one
vast
flood
of
light
—
Thus
shall
I
say
,
HE
saw
her
rays
,
Thus
was
HE
rous'd
t'adore
and
praise
!
Oh
SYMPATHY
,
of
birth
divine
,
Descend
,
and
round
my
heart-strings
twine
!
Touch
the
fine
nerve
whene'er
I
breathe
Where
DELLA
CRUSCA
dropt
his
wreath
!
Lead
me
the
sacred
way
of
ROME
,
Lead
me
to
kneel
at
Virgil's
tomb
,
Where
he
th'enduring
marble
round
With
fresh-wove
laurels
graceful
bound
.
Then
guide
where
still
with
sweeter
note
,
Than
flow'd
from
Petrarch's
tuneful
throat
,
On
Laura's
grave
he
pour'd
the
lay
Amidst
the
sighs
of
sinking
day
:
Then
point
where
on
the
sod
his
tear
Fell
from
its
chrystal
source
so
clear
,
That
there
my
mingling
tear
may
sink
,
And
the
same
dust
its
moisture
drink
!
Thus
dying
Swans
are
said
to
sing
,
And
their
last
breath
in
numbers
fling
.
O'er
the
dear
liquid
shining
plains
,
Which
nurs'd
their
joys
,
and
nurs'd
their
pains
.
Like
them
my
Muse
pines
fast
away
,
And
this
her
last
,
her
closing
day
.
When
one
blest
word
her
lips
hath
seal'd
,
In
lasting
silence
she'll
be
veil'd
.
Expiring
,
still
her
note's
the
same
,
She
murmurs
DELLA
CRUSCA's
name
!
—
The
SACRED
WORD
!
ye
heard
it
spoke
;
—
Her
Book
is
clos'd
—
her
Lyre
is
broke
!
ANNA
MATILDA
.