"TO THE FLOWER OF GNIDO.[20]
I.
Had I the sweet resounding lyre,
Whose voice could in a moment chain
The howling wind's ungoverned ire,
And movement of the raging main,
On savage hills the leopard rein,
The lion's fiery soul entrance,
And lead along with golden tones
The fascinated trees and stones
In voluntary dance;
II.
Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide,
It e'er should celebrate the scars,
Dust raised, blood shed, and laurels dyed
Beneath the gonfalon of Mars;
Or, borne sublime on festal cars,
The chiefs who to submission sank
The rebel German's soul of soul,
And forged the chains that now control
The frenzy of the Frank.
III.
No, no! its harmonies should ring,
In vaunt of glories all thine own,
A discord sometimes from the string
Struck forth to make thy harshness known.
The fingered chords should speak alone
Of Beauty's triumphs, Love's alarms,
And one who, made by thy disdain
Bale as a lily dipt in twain.
Bewails thy fatal charms.
IV.
Of that poor captive, too contemned,
I speak,—his doom you might deplore—
In Venus' galliot shell condemned
To strain for life the heavy oar.
Through thee, no longer as of yore,
He tames the unmanageable steed,
With curb of gold his pride restrains,
Or with pressed spurs and shaken reins
Torments him into speed.
V.