VERSI SPAGNUOLI DI PIETRO BEMBO.
O Muerte! que sueles ser.
THOU, the stern monarch of dismay,
Whom nature trembles to survey,
Oh Death! to me, the child of grief,
Thy welcome power would bring relief,
Changing to peaceful slumber many a care.
And though thy stroke may thrill with pain
Each throbbing pulse, each quivering vein;
The pangs that bid existence close,
Ah! sure are far less keen than those,
Which cloud its lingering moments with despair.
O Zefiretto, che movendo vai.
SYLPH of the breeze! whose dewy pinions light
Wave gently round the tree I planted here,
Sacred to her, whose soul hath winged its flight
To the pure ether of her lofty sphere;
Be it thy care, soft spirit of the gale!
To fan its leaves in summer's noontide hour;
Be it thy care, that wintry tempests fail
To rend its honors from the sylvan bower.
Then shall it spread, and rear th' aspiring form,
Pride of the wood, secure from every storm,
Graced with her name, a consecrated tree!
So may thy lord, the monarch of the wind,
Ne'er with rude chains thy tender pinions bind,
But grant thee still to rove, a wanderer wild and free!
Willkommen, fruhe morgensonn.
HAIL! morning sun, thus early bright; Welcome, sweet dawn! thou younger day! Through the dark woods that fringe the height Beams forth, e'en now, thy ray.
Bright on the dew, it sparkles clear,
Bright on the water's glittering fall,
And life, and joy, and health appear,
Sweet morning! at thy call.
Now thy fresh breezes lightly spring
From beds of fragrance, where they lay,
And roving wild on dewy wing,
Drive slumber far away.
Fantastic dreams, in swift retreat,
Now from each mind withdraw their spell,
While the young loves delighted meet,
On Rosa's cheek to dwell.
Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower,
Its fragrant spirit make thine own;
Then wing thy way to Rosa's bower,
Ere her light sleep is flown.
There, o'er her downy pillow, fly,
Wake the sweet maid to life and day;
Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh,
And o'er her bosom play;
And whisper, when her eyes unveil,
That I, since morning's earliest call,
Have sighed her name to every gale,
By the lone waterfall.
Madchen, lernet Amor kennen.
LISTEN, fair maid, my song shall tell
How Love may still be known full well,
His looks the traitor prove:
Dost thou not see that absent smile,
That fiery glance replete with guile?
Oh! doubt not then-'t is Love.
When varying still the sly disguise,
Child of caprice, he laughs and cries,
Or with complaint would move;
To day is bold, to-morrow shy,
Changing each hour, he knows not why,
Oh! doubt not then-'t is Love.
There 's magic in his every wile,
His lips, well practised to beguile,
Breathe roses when they move;
See, now with sudden rage he burns,
Disdains, implores, commands, by turns;
Oh! doubt not then-'t is Love.
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