English

1

Come all ye true-born shanty-boys, wherever you may be,
Come sit ye on the deacon seat and listen unto me.
I'll sing the jam on Gerry's Rock and a hero you should know,
The bravest of all shanty-boys, the foreman, Young Munro.

2

'Twas on a Sunday morning, ere daylight did appear.
The logs were piling mountain-high: we could not keep them clear.
" Cheer up! Cheer up, my rivermen, relieve your hearts of woe!
We'll break the jam on Gerry's Rock! " cried our foreman, Young Munro.

3

Come, Holy Ghost — in love
Shed on us from above
Thine own bright ray!
Divinely good thou art;
Thy sacred gifts impart
To gladden each sad heart:
O, come to-day!

Come, tend'rest Friend, and best,
Our most delightful guest,
With soothing power;
Rest, which the weary know,
Shade, 'mid the noontide glow,
Peace, when deep griefs o'erflow —
Cheer us, this hour!

Come, Light serene, and still
Our inmost bosoms fill;
Dwell in each breast:
We know no dawn but thine;

We sigh because you passed away so young,
Forsaking us, who wander still below,
When life was like a lute with strings unstrung,
A-thrill with music Earth may never know.

But we, not you, deserve the piteous plaint,
The sob, the sigh, the wringing of the hands,
Soul freed at last from every mortal taint,
Among the lilies of enchanted lands!

For us, the slowly creeping steps of age,
For you, the halcyon heart forever young;
For us, the garment soiled, the blotted page,
For you, the glory of the songs unsung.

Translated from the Latin of Strada.

The Sun was, now, declining to the Sea,
And, from his Orb, diffus'd a milder Ray,
When, near to Tyber , in a shady Wood ,
With well-tun'd Lute , a skilful Minstrell stood;
Both Wood , and Lute their proper Aids did lend,
To cool the Season , and his Cares unbend.

This, at a Distance, Phiolomela heard,
And, jealous, from the neighbouring I hicks repair'd.
The sweet Inhabitants of lonely Glades!

Forever perished seems the age of gold,
With all the May-morn glory of the past;
Where now the songs the minstrels sang of old,
A-thrill with fervor like a trumpet blast?

Ah, in those days Life sipped of morning dew
Fresh from the bosom of a springtime bud;
Youth's pink-white feet on skylark pinions flew,
All April's ardor tingling through his blood.

Now is the sordid age of greed and gain:
Now bloated Mammon rules the market-place:
The Poet, like the Painter, strives in vain, —

I.

Cease, cease, ye Libertines , my Feet ,
 And give your Ramblings o'er;
Advance, your welcome Chains to meet,
 And Fortune's LOT adore.

II.

That Span of Life which now remains,
 T UNSTALL , what is't to thee?
Since all the World is bound in Chains ,
 Why should thy Legs go Free?

III.

What Mortal does not Kings bemoan?
 Alas! they all are Slaves,
Chain'd to the Burthen of a Crown ,
 And clogg'd with fawning Knaves.

IV.

The pale white skies hang in an ashen haze,
The far-off hills are veiled in faded blue;
Dust-clouds obscure the rambling country ways,
Half hiding teams and wagons straggling through.

Hour after hour the heat grows more intense;
An angry wasp drums on the window pane;
A panting peacock on the old rail fence
Peeps at the skies as though he prayed for rain.

An old ox dozes in a weary dream;
Long lines of sheep in patient silence pass;
Two horses tread a muddy half-dried stream,

Here every honey-hearted sweet
In fruits of gold and red
The heavy-laden tropic trees
With rich profusion shed.
Here buff and scarlet blossoms hang
From vines of glossy green,
And humming birds, with ruby throats,
Like floating flames are seen.

Here pink and purple passion-flowers
Hang scarfs of airy silk,
And claret-clouded orchids bloom
By orchids white as milk.
Here red and yellow mangoes cling,
Here citrons bend the twigs,
Here green and golden melons trail,
Here swing delicious figs.

See! I survive because I bowed my head,
Hearing the Snow's first footfall in the air;
I felt his cold kiss on my cheek with dread,
And to my sister said, Beware!
And stooped beneath my bank and let him pass.
Next morn the brook was glass:
My simple sister, in her pride,
Disdained to bow her head, so drooped and died.

Last gentian of the withering year!
Left for Augusta's hand,
Thou shalt not linger shivering here
By the bleak north wind fanned,
Until thy blue eye turn to gray,

By Way of Comfort , From C.W. to W.T.

I.

You fair ones all at Liberty
We Captive Lovers greet,
Nor slight our Tears and Sighs, 'cause we
Can't lay 'em at your Feet:
The Fault's not ours, and you may guess
We can desire no greater Bliss,
With a fa, la , &c.

II.

What! tho' pack'd up in Prisons base,
With Bolts and Bars restrain'd,
Think not our Bodies love you less,