Thomas Russell (Томас Рассел)

To Valclusa

WHAT though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled,
That wooed his fair in thy sequestered bowers,
Long loved her living, long bemoaned her dead,
And hung her visionary shrine with flowers!
What though no more he teach thy shades to mourn
The hapless chances that to love belong,
As erst, when drooping o’er her turf forlorn,
He charmed wild Echo with his plaintive song.
Yet still, enamored of the tender tale,
Pale Passion haunts thy grove’s romantic gloom,
Yet still soft music breathes in every gale,
Still undecayed the fairy garlands bloom,
Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale,
Still Petrarch’s Genius weeps o’er Laura’s tomb.

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