In Praise of Laura's Eyes: The Difficulty of His Theme

Since human life is frail,And genius trembles at the lofty theme,I little confidence in either place;But let my tender wailThere, where it ought, deserved attention claim,That wail which e'en in silence we may trace.O beauteous eyes, where Love doth nestling stay!To you I turn my insufficient lay,Unapt to flow; but passion's goad I feel:And he of you who singsSuch courteous habit by the strain is taught,That, borne on amorous wings,He soars above the reach of vulgar thought:Exalted thus, I venture to revealWhat long my cautious heart has labour'd to conceal.

Yes, well do I perceiveTo you how wrongful is my scanty praise;Yet the strong impulse cannot be withstood,That urges, since I view'dWhat fancy to the sight before ne'er gave,What ne'er before graced mine, or higher lays.Bright authors of my sadly-pleasing state,That you alone conceive me well I know,When to your fierce beams I become as snow!Your elegant disdainHaply then kindles at my worthless strain.Did not this dread createSome mitigation of my bosom's heat,Death would be bliss: for greater joy 'twould giveWith them to suffer death, without them than to live.

If not consumed quite,I the weak object of a flame so strong:'Tis not that safety springs from native might,But that some fear restrains,Which chills the current circling through my veins;Strengthening this heart, that it may suffer long.O hills, O vales, O forests, floods, and fields,Ye who have witness'd how my sad life flows,Oft have ye heard me call on death for aid.Ah, state surcharged with woes!To stay destroys, and flight no succour yields.But had not higher dreadWithheld, some sudden effort I had madeTo end my sorrows and protracted pains,Of which the beauteous cause insensible remains.

Why lead me, grief, astrayFrom my first theme to chant a different lay?Let me proceed where pleasure may invite.'Tis not of you I 'plain,O eyes, beyond compare serenely bright;Nor yet of him who binds me in his chain.Ye clearly can behold the hues that LoveScatters ofttime on my dejected face;And fancy may his inward workings traceThere where, whole nights and days,He rules with power derived from your bright rays:What rapture would ye prove,If you, dear lights, upon yourselves could gaze!But, frequent as you bend your beams on me,What influence you possess you in another see.

Oh! if to you were knownThat beauty which I sing, immense, divine.As unto him on whom its glories shine!The heart had then o'erflownWith joy unbounded, such as is deniedUnto that nature which its acts doth guide.How happy is the soul for you that sighs,Celestial lights! which lend a charm to life,And make me bless what else I should not prize!Ah! why, so seldom whyAfford what ne'er can cause satiety?More often to your sightWhy not bring Love, who holds me constant strife?And why so soon of joys despoil me quite,Which ever and anon my tranced soul delight?

Yes, 'debted to your grace,Frequent I feel throughout my inmost soulUnwonted floods of sweetest rapture roll;Relieving so the mind,That all oppressive thoughts are left behind,And of a thousand only one has place;For which alone this life is dear to me.Oh! might the blessing of duration prove,Not equall'd then could my condition be!But this would, haply, moveIn others envy, in myself vain pride.That pain should be alliedTo pleasure is, alas! decreed above;Then, stifling all the ardour of desire,Homeward I turn my thoughts, and in myself retire.

So sweetly shines reveal'dThe amorous thought within your soul which dwells,That other joys it from my heart expels:Hence I aspire to frameLays whereon Hope may build a deathless name,When in the tomb my dust shall lie conceal'd.At your approach anguish and sorrow fly;These, as your beams retire, again draw nigh;Yet outward acts their influence ne'er betray,For doting memoryDwells on the past, and chases them away.Whatever, then, of worthMy genius ripens owes to you its birth.To you all honour and all praise is due--Myself a barren soil, and cultured but by you.

Thy strains, O song! appease me not, but fire,Chanting a theme that wings my wild desire:Trust me, thou shalt ere long a sister-song acquire.