English

I would follow the sun when the north winds arise,
And Autumn has taken its blue from the skies;
I would go, with the birds and the flowers in their train,
Like a sylph, o'er the wide-rolling waves of the main,
And seek on a warmer and lovelier shore
A home, till the dark storms of winter are o'er.

'Tis pleasant to stray in a tropical grove,
Where flowers, fruits, and foliage are blended above,
Where the sky, as it opens so vividly through,
Is pure as a spirit in mantle of blue,

To you, my lord, a gold goblet of vintage wine,
And a carved lute of tortoiseshell in a jade casket
Feather-edged curtains of seven-colored hibiscus,
And a silken quilt embroidered with nine-flowered vines
Rosy cheeks will fade as the years roll on,
The chill moon circles round as the seasons pass.
If my lord would banish sorrow and brood no more,
Let him listen to my songs of the weary road,
Sung to the beat of the drum
You have seen the Cypress Beam and the Brazen Bird?
Where now is the pure music of those ancient flutes?

Well may you stand upon an hill on high,
In whom habituall goodnes we espie:
Lively you that expresse; who Clym so well,
Lustring forth graces, which in you excell.
In honour many stand, which not well gained,
Admits not long by them to be retained;
Many examples of it we might finde

Chronicles ancient bring unto our minde,
Eternizing, that honour is a blot,
Cursed to such men as deserve it not.
In you nathles, who honour well did clym ,
Lively pourtraying grace to after time,

Eagle of the far Northwest!
Thou, who bear'st the thunderer's bow,
Thou, who com'st with lightning crest,
And with eye of swarthy glow;
Thou, who lashest with thy wing,
Wild in rage, the foaming deep,
Till the warring billows spring,
And the upturned waters leap;
Thou, who send'st thy scream of wrath,
Like a nation's dying cry,
Sweeping on thy surging path,
Like the roar of tempest, by;
When thy scream is wild in ire,
When thy wing is swift as death,
At my bidding, quench thy fire!

These weeping skies, these weeping skies,
They weep so much, that I weep too;
And every thing, like Mary's eyes,
Around, above, below, looks blue .
Such days as these will never do,
My Muse can never soar again;
Her wings are wetted through and through,
She tries to fly, but all in vain.

Love brought a wreath, a laurel wreath,
And it was steeped in fog, not dew;
The little urchin drooped beneath,
And gladly down his burden threw.
" The Sylphs have sent a wreath to you. "

Well, view you all the world and finde it Clay ,
Injoyed honours you see fleet away;
Losse is all riches, in your wise account,
Likewise there's nothing here doth losse surmount;
In earth finde what you will that had may be,
Alas, alas, 'tis brittle Clay you see;
Many great Monarchs, who have born great sway,

Cloathed now are with ignorance in Clay .
Ev'n this your honour seeing, doth provide
Climing on high, a surer State to bide;
In vertue so you fix so firme a stay,
Lasting estate you have will not away,

Two flowers were budding on one stem,
Imbued with fragrance, fresh with dew,
And bent with many a trickling gem,
That trembled as the west wind blew;
And softly shone their crimson through
That veil of crystal purity,
And as the thrush around them flew,
He clearer piped his melody.

Two fledglings, in a ring-dove's nest,
With tender bill, and feeble wing,
Sat brooding on their downy breast,

In the morning I set out from the sun-lit shore,
When the sun was setting I rested by the shadowy peaks.
Leaving my boat I gazed at the far-off banks,
Halting my staff, I leant against a flourishing pine
The narrow path is dark and secluded,
Yet the ring-like island is bright as jade.
Below I see the tops of towering trees,
Above I hear the meeting of wild torrents
Over the rocks in its path the water divides and flows on,
In the depth of the forest the paths are free from footprints.

Hail to the land of the free and the bold,
Where honor and justice have planted their throne,
Where the hearts of the meanest can never be sold,
But order and liberty reign there alone!
Hail to the souls that can never be slaves,
Who boast of the rights they have won by the sword,
Who fight for their forefathers' altars and graves,
And soar as the eagle who rescued them soared!

Hail to the land we have cherished so long, —
The soil where the bright tree of liberty grows!
May its root deeper sink, and its branches be strong,

At dawn with staff in hand I climbed the crags,
At dusk I made my camp among the mountains
Only a few peaks rise as high as this house,
Facing the crags, it overlooks winding streams.
In front of its gates a vast forest stretches,
While boulders are heaped round its very steps.
Hemmed in by mountains, there seems no way out,
The track gets lost among the thick bamboos
My visitors can never find their way,
And when they leave, forget the path they took.
The raging torrents rush on through the dusk,