Metastasio

In tears, the heart oppress’d with griefGives language to its woes;In tears, its fulness finds relief,When rapture’s tide o’erflows!Who, then, unclouded bliss would seekOn this terrestrial sphere;When e’en Delight can only speak,Like Sorrow--in a tear?

He shall not dread Misfortune’s angry mien,Nor feebly sink beneath her tempest rude,Whose soul hath learn’d, through many a trying scene,To smile at fate, and suffer unsubdued.

In the rough school of billows, clouds, and storms,Nursed and matured, the pilot learns his art:Thus Fate’s dread ire, by many a conflict, formsThe lofty spirit and enduring heart!

The torrent wave, that breaks with forceImpetuous down the Alpine height,Complains and struggles in its course,But sparkles, as the diamond bright.

The stream in shadowy valley deepMay slumber in its narrow bed;But silent, in unbroken sleep,Its lustre and its life are fled.

Sweet rose! whose tender foliage to expandHer fostering dews the Morning lightly shed,Whilst gales of balmy breath thy blossoms fann’d,And o’er thy leaves the soft suffusion spread:That hand, whose care withdrew thee from the ground,To brighter worlds thy favour’d charms hath borne;Thy fairest buds, with grace perennial crown’d,There breathe and bloom, released from every thorn.Thus, far removed, and now transplanted flower!Exposed no more to blast or tempest rude,Shelter’d with tenderest care from frost or shower,And each rough season’s chill vicissitude,Now may thy form in bowers of peace assumeImmortal fragrance, and unwithering bloom.

Fortune! why thus, where’er my footsteps tread,Obstruct each path with rocks and thorns like these?Think’st thou that I thy threatening mien shall dread,Or toil and pant thy waving locks to seize?Reserve the frown severe, the menace rude,For vassal-spirits that confess thy sway!My constant soul should triumph unsubdued,Were the wide universe destruction’s prey.Am I to conflicts new, in toils untried?No! I have long thine utmost power defied,And drawn fresh energies from every fight.Thus from rude strokes of hammers and the wheel,With each successive shock the temper’d steelMore keenly piercing proves, more dazzling bright.

Wouldst thou to Love of danger speak?--Veil’d are his eyes, to perils blind!Wouldst thou from Love a reason seek?--He is a child of wayward mind!

But with a doubt, a jealous fear,Inspire him once--the task is o’er;His mind is keen, his sight is clear,No more an infant, blind no more.

Unbending midst the wintry skies,Rears the firm oak his vigorous form,And stem in rugged strength, defiesThe rushing of the storm.

Then sever’d from his native shore,O’er ocean-worlds the sail to bear,Still with those winds he braved before,He proudly struggles there.

Oh! those alone whose sever’d heartsHave mourn’d through lingering years in vain,Can tell what bliss fond Love imparts,When Fate unites them once again.Sweet is the sigh, and blest the tear,Whose language hails that moment bright,When past afflictions but endearThe presence of delight!

Ah! cease--those fruitless tears restrain!I go misfortune to defy,To smile at fate with proud disdain,To triumph--not to die!

I with fresh laurels go to crownMy closing days at last,Securing all the bright renownAcquired in dangers past.