XXXII. FROM PETRARCA. "Solo e pensoso i piu deserti campi." LONELY and pensive o'er the lonely strand, And how I inly waste like smouldering brand. Which girds the small field on the mountain side XXXIII. THE vale of Tempe had in vain been fair, If heaven-born phantasy no more required, The mounting soul must heavenward prune her wings. XXXIV. TO A LOFTY BEAUTY, FROM HER POOR KINSMAN. FAIR maid, had I not heard thy baby cries, Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride- Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee. |