ASON G,

By METASTASIO.

WIT

HOP E.

ITH languid heats while nature burns,
Full in the fun the peasant turns

The parch'd, unyielding foil;

Nor feels the fierce, oppreffive ray,
Nor heeds the long, laborious day,
So HOPE befriend his toil.

The Pris'ner in his dark, damp cell,
So fmiling HOPE there deign to dwell,
Forgets impending pain;

And ev'ry grief that stung his mind,

And ev'ry fear to her refign'd,

Sings to his founding chain.

SONETT O

Di FRANCESCO PETRARCA.

ONDE tolfe amor l' oro, e di qual vena,

Per far due treccie bionde? e 'n quali spine

Colfe le rofe? e 'n qual piaggia le brine

Tenere, è frefche; e diè lor polfo, e lena?

Onde le perle, in ch' ei frange, ed affrena
Dolci parole, onefte, é pellegrine?

Onde tante bellezze, e sì divine

Di quella fronte più che 'l ciel fereną?

Da quali angeli moffe, e di qual fpera

Quel celefte cantar, che mi disface

Sì, che m' avanza omai da disfar poco

Di qual fol nacque l' alma luce altera

Di que' begli occhi, ond' i' ho guerra, e pace,
Che mi cuocono 'l cor in ghiaccio, e 'n foco ?

CAN

A S O N NÉ T,

By FRANCIS PETRARCA.

AY, didft thou gild with ore of earthly mine

SAY,

Those fifter ringlets? or from mortal ftems.

Yon rofes cull? fay, whence thofe glifl'ring gems

Of earliest dew, instinct with Spir❜t divine?

Whence those rich pearls, whose beauteous orders rise,

And frame such speech as Seraph lips might grace?
Whence all those treasur'd wonders of her face,
Bright as the genial noon of fummer skies?

But hark! what angel breathes cœleftial airs?

[roll,

What heav'n-tun'd fpheres in founds harmonious

Till faint with rapt'rous anguish I expire?

Say, borrow'd from what Sun thofe fhafts the bears,
In eyes that harrass or affwage my foul,
Now chill'd with hope forlorn, now burning with

[defire?

CAN

CANTATA,

By METASTASIO.

I.

O the fide of yon green-mantled hill,

то

To the grove, or the daify-pied mead, To the banks of yon crystalline rill,

My fold's fleecy treasure I'll lead.

II.

Hand in hand with my Phyllis I'll tread
O'er the green-mantled hill and the grove,
And the rill, and the daify-pied mead

my love.

Shall be bleft with the fmile of

III.

Whenever cool zephyrs invite

My Fair-one and me to a cell,

In that happy feat of delight

Shall Joy, Love, and Innocence dwell.

A