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14

ELEGIAC SONNETS.

SONNET XIV.

FROM PETRARCH.

LOOSE to the wind her golden tresses stream'd,
    Forming bright waves with amorous Zephyr's sighs;
    And tho' averted now, her charming eyes
Then with warm love, and melting pity beam'd,
Was I deceived?—Ah! surely, nymph divine!
    That fine suffusion on thy cheek was love;
    What wonder then those beauteous tints should move,
Should fire this heart, this tender heart of mine!
Thy soft melodious voice, thy air, thy shape,
    Were of a goddess——not a mortal maid;
    Yet tho' thy charms, thy heavenly charms should fade,
My heart, my tender heart could not escape;
    Nor cure for me in time or change be found:
    The shaft extracted does not cure the wound!