And strive my mournful lyre to sweep.
Save it, my only source of bliss,

I roam the world companionless;
The minstrel's fire, his dreams divine,
His heritage of woe are mine.
Stranger! for years my care hath been,
The heart from love's despair to win;
My harp on Hellas' shore I've strung,
Afar in Palestine have sung;

And where the Hakim's art hath failed,
My melody hath oft prevailed;

Me far on land and sea they've sought, Many the mighty cures I've wrought, And timid love to wedlock brought.

XIII.

I HAVE been to Ausonia's shore,
To heal the lovely EMILIE ;

To Sicily am crossing o'er,

To see the Lady ROSALIE.

And when I dissipate her fears,
Relieve her heart, and dry her tears,
By speaking many a cheering word

Of love, and the young noble lord,

I shall return to Italy

To soothe the mournful EMILIE."

XIV.

"I'D fain, sweet minstrel, thou would'st call,

And sweep thy lyre in UGo's hall;

There dwells a lady young and fair,

Who'll give thy song attentive ear."

XV.

"THY will, young lord, shall be obeyed,"

The aged harper calmly said;

And as the vessel cleaved her way,

TO LEON many a tender lay

He sang, of each wild storied clime,

And chivalry of olden time;

The beauty of fair ROSALIE,

And her high state beyond the sea.

XVI.

ARRIVED at last, the happy crew

Salute the land that glads their view:

When safely anchored in the bay,

With trembling footsteps from the shore,

The hoary minstrel leads the way,

Unto the lady's castle door;

There tunes his harp, and to its sound
Comes ROSALIE with blithesome bound,

Hope smiling in her soft blue eye,
Her mein all joy-all ecstasy;

By blushes deep her thoughts confest,
While ushering in her bard and guest.

XVII.

THE bounties spread before them here,
The flowing bowl, and welcome cheer,
The banquets rich, and festivals

That nightly fill the sumptuous halls,
In honor of the noble guest,

Who like a monarch is caressed;

The minstrel's arts, and subtle wiles,
The witchery of the lady's smiles,
The magic of her lofty grace,

Her fatal charms I need not trace:

But all the fickleness of Love,

How very faithless he can prove

To those he makes his warmest vows,
To what false shrines man often bows,
And what the youthful lord befel
For wedding the "Sicilian belle,"
The sequel of this tale will tell.

CANTO II.

THE BANK OF THE TIBER.

-Ah, tu non sai,

Qual guerra di pensieri

Agita l'alma mia.

METASTASIO.

I.

THE waves are smooth, the wind is calm,

Onward the golden stream1 is gliding,

Amid the myrtle and the palm2

And ilices3 its margin hiding;

Now sweeps it o'er the jutting shoals
In murmurs, like despairing souls;

Now deeply, softly flows along,

Like ancient minstrel's warbling song;
Then slowly, darkly, thoughtfully,

Loses itself in the mighty sea.

The sky is clear, the stars are bright,

The moon reposes on her light;

On many a budding, fairy blossom,

Are glittering evening's dewy tears,

Like sparkling gems on Beauty's bosom,

When she in festal garb appears.

The summer flowers, in freshest bloom,
Like modest virgins smiling there,

Are breathing all around perfume
Upon the mute enamored air;

The citron-trees along the strand,
With golden fruitage brightly teem;

The lilies in the water stand,

Watching their shadows in the stream,

And ring the while their tiny bells,

As round their feet the billow swells.

II.

AND, there beneath a cypress tree,

The beautiful young FLORENCE stands,