ELEGIES AND EPIGRAMS
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��Quid mirum, Leonora, tibi si gloria major ? Nam tua prsesentem vox sonat ipsa
Deum. Aut Deus, aut vacui certe mens tertia cseli,
Per tua secret6 guttura serpit agens; Serpit agens, facilisque docet mortalia
corda
Sensim immortal! assuescere posse sono. Qu6d, si cuncta quideui Deus est, per cunc-
taque fusus, In te una loquitur, caetera mutus babet.
AD EAXDEM
ALTERA Torquatum cepit Leonora poetam,
Cujus ab insano cessit amore furens. Ah miser ille tuo quanto felicius aevo
Perditus, et propter te, Leonora, foret ! Et te Pieria sensisset voce canentem
Aurea maternse fila movere lyrse ! Quamvis Dircaeo torsisset lumina Pentheo
Ssevior, aut totus desipuisset iners, Tu tamen errantes caeca vertigine sensus
Voce eadem poteras composuisse tua; 10 Et poteras, aegro spirans sub corde quie- tem,
Flexanimo cantu restituisse sibi.
AD EANDEM CREDULA quid liquidam Sirena, Neapoli,
jactas, Claraque Parthenopes fana Acheloia-
dos,
Littoreamque tua defunctam Naiada rip Corpore Chalcidico sacra dedisse rogo ? Ilia quidem vivitque, et amceua Tibridis
unda
Mutavit rauci murmura Pausilipi. Illic, Romulidum studiis ornata secundis, Atque homines cantu detinet atque Decs.
��the ethereal hierarchies. What wonder, Leonora, if a greater glory be yours ? Either God himself, or surely at least some third Mind intermediate in Heaven, thrills mysteriously through your throat; thrills, suavely accustoming mortal hearts by ten- der degrees to immortal sounds. Yea, if all things be God, and He be transfused through all, yet in you alone He speaks, the rest He possesses in silence.
To THE SAME
ANOTHER Leonora captivated Torquato, the poet, who went mad for love of her. Ah, how much happier had he been to lose himself in wretchedness in this your day, and on your dear account, hearing you sing with Pierian voice, and touch the golden strings of Mnemosyne's lyre ! Though he rolled his eyes more fiercely than Pentheus, and raved to swooning, you could have soothed his blind and reeling senses with your voice ; and breathing quiet into his sick breast, restored him to himself with your soul-moving song.
To THE SAME
WHY, O credulous Naples, do you boast of the renowned fanes of the Siren Parthen- ope, daughter of Archelaiis; why do you boast of having given funeral to the shore- nymph when she was found dead on your coasts ? Behold, she lives ; she has but changed the murmurs of hoarse Posilippo for the pleasant wave of Tiber. There, adorned by the love and favor of the Ro- mans, she holds both men and gods with her singing.
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