Sonnet XXV

PETRARCH to VAUCLUSE.

Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain!

Where morn, and eve, my soul's fair Idol stray'd,

While all your winds, that murmur'd thro' the glade,

Stole her sweet breath; yet, yet your paths retain

Prints of her step, by fount, whose floods remain

In depth unfathom'd; 'mid the rocks, that shade,

With cavern'd arch, their sleep.—Ye streams, that play'd

Around her limbs in Summer's ardent reign,

The soft resplendence of those azure eyes

Ting'd ye with living light.—The envied claim

These blest distinctions give, my lyre, my sighs,

My songs record; and, from their Poet's flame,

Bid this wild Vale, its Rocks, and Streams arise,

Associates still of their bright Mistress' fame.