Poem by Joanna Baillie

Stanzas, Suggested by a Canzone of Petrarch

Amor se vuvi ch'i torni al giogo antico.
--P.2. C.2.

AWAY, proud boy, away! thou canst not harm;
Seize not thy unstrung bow, nor aim thv dart,
Void is thy quiver, nerveless is thine arm,
Vanish'd thy cruel empire o'er my heart:
No more a mighty god
Art thou, whose sov'reign nod
To worlds can woes and terrors wild impart;
No more I bend and weep before thy throne,
And sigh my soul away, unheeded and alone.
Hence, tyrant urchin, hence! and humbly lay
At the cold foot of death thy broken bow;
Death's iron hand has borne thy torch away,
Death! mightier Death! proud victor, binds thee low.
A feeble child thou art,
And aim'st a pointless dart.
Arm'd by despair, my bosom dares the blow!--
Thy baby archery I laugh to scorn--
Away! and leave me here, my liberty to mourn.

Or, if once more thou wouldst me of thy train,
Seek thou my treasure in the earth laid low;
And if it be that thy unbounded reign
O'er Heaven extends, and o'er th' abyss below,
Burst thou the sacred tomb,
That clasp'd in early bloom
The form to which alone my soul could bow!
Wrest thou from death the prize he bore away,
And in her charms resume thy universal sway.
Hang on that brow the same sad pensive weight,
Then wake the smile that might awake the dead,
Bright as the glittering beam of orient light
Breaks o'er a weeping sky when storms are fled!
And breathe those sounds again,
Thrilling thro' every vein,
Sounds that to thoughts of Heaven the fancy led,
While the rapt soul hung fondly on each note,
Which on the ear, when past, long sweetly seem'd to float.
And those luxuriant locks with art controll'd,
In glossy braids around her temples bind,
Now in an envious net of twisted gold
Be all their waving glories close confin'd;

Now loose from every band,
With sly and sportive hand
Toss them in ringlets on the wanton wind,
Then bind me, gazing, to thy car again,
And I will kiss my bonds, and hug once more my chain. 

1. The Maid of Llanwellyn
2. Female Picture of a Country Life
3. Lines to a Parrot
4. On Reading Walter Scot’s
5. Hooly and Fairly

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