Lorenzo de’ Medici (1449–1492)

Translated by William Roscoe

NOT from the verdant garden’s cultured bound,

That breathes of Poestum’s aromatic gale,

We sprung; but nurslings of the lonely vale,

’Mid woods obscure, and native glooms were found:—

’Mid woods and glooms, whose tangled brakes around

Once Venus sorrowing traced, as all forlorn

She sought Adonis, when a lurking thorn

Deep on her foot impressed an impious wound.

Then prone to earth we bowed our pallid flowers,

And caught the drops divine; the purple dyes

Tinging the lustre of our native hue:

Nor summer gales, nor art-conducted showers

Have nursed our slender forms, but lovers’ sighs

Have been our gales, and lovers’ tears our dew.