This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1803 edition. Excerpt: ... CANZONET. "Nad nos engane a riqueta, "Porqu," &c. Since in this dreary vale of tears No certainty but death appears, Why should we waste our vernal years In hoarding useless treasure? No--let the young and ardent mind Become the friend of human kind, And in the generous service find A source of purer pleasure ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1803 edition. Excerpt: ... CANZONET. "Nad nos engane a riqueta, "Porqu," &c. Since in this dreary vale of tears No certainty but death appears, Why should we waste our vernal years In hoarding useless treasure? No--let the young and ardent mind Become the friend of human kind, And in the generous service find A source of purer pleasure! Better to live despis'd and poor, Than Guilt's eternal stings endure; The future smile of God shall cure The wound of earthly woes. Vain world! did we but rightly feel What ills thy treacherous charms conceal, How would we long from thee to steal To Death--and sweet repose! "0 eulto divinal se celebrava "No templo donde," &c. Sweetly was heard the anthem's choral strain, And myriads bow'd before the sainted shrine, In solemn reverence to their Sire divine, Who gave the Lamb, for guilty mortals slain: When, in the midst of God's eternal fane, (Ah little weening of his fell design!) Love bore the heart (which since hath ne'er been mine) To one, who seem'd of heav'n's elected train! For sanctity of place or time were vain, 'Gainst that blind archer's soul-consuming pow'r, Which scorns, and soars all circumstance above. Oh, Lady! since I've worn thy gentle chain, How oft have I deplor'd each wasted hour, When I was free--and had not learu'd to love! While on the margin of his native shores, In death's cold hour the silver cygnet lies, Soft melodies of woe, and tuneful sighs, And lamentations wild, he plaintive pours, Still charm'd of life--and whilst he yet deplores The drear, dark night that seals his closing eyes, In murmur'd grief for lost existence--dies! So, Lady, (thou, whom still my soul adores), While scarcely ling'ring in a world of pain, My wearied spirit treads the verge of death--O Lady, then thy Poet's parting breath Shall faintly...
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