English

DESIGNED FOR LADY PLYMOUTH .

Bring, Flora, bring thy treasures here,
The pride of all the blooming year;
And let me thence a garland frame,
To crown this fair, this peerless dame!
 But, ah! since envious Winter lowers,
And Hewell meads resign their flowers,
Let Art and Friendship's joint essay
Diffuse their flow'rets in her way.
 Not Nature can, herself, prepare
A worthy wreath for Lesbia's hair,
Whose temper, like her forehead, smooth,
Whose thoughts and accents form'd to soothe,

SOMEWHAT TOO SOLICITOUS ABOUT HER MANNER OF EXPRESSION .

Survey, my Fair! that lucid stream,
Adown the smiling valley stray;
Would Art attempt, or Fancy dream,
To regulate its winding way?

So pleased I view thy shining hair
In loose dishevell'd ringlets flow;
Not all thy art, not all thy care,
Can there one single grace bestow.

Survey again that verdant hill,
With native plants enamell'd o'er;
Say, can the painter's utmost skill
Instruct one flower to please us more?

Sing to the Lord, who loud proclaims
His various and his saving names;
Oh! may they not be heard alone,
But by our sure experience known,

Through ev'ry age his gracious ear
Is open to his servants' pray'r;
Nor can one humble soul complain,
That he has sought his God in vain.

What unbelieving heart shall dare
In whispers to suggest a fear?
While still he owns his ancient name,
The same his power — his love the same.

To thee our souls in faith arise,
To thee we lift expecting eyes;

TO WILLIAM LYTTLETON, ESQ.

How blithely pass'd the summer's day!
How bright was every flower!
While friends arrived in circles gay,
To visit Damon's bower!

But now, with silent step I range
Along some lonely shore;
And Damon's bower, alas the change!
Is gay with friends no more.

Away to crowds and cities borne,
In quest of joy they steer,

The wind has borne them away, the light has drawn them,
New songs have gladdened their life in its dayspring
And I am left, a tender dove forgotten,
Beneath the Shechinah wing.

Alone, alone I am left. The Shechinah too
Her broken wing holds trembling o'er my head.
My heart discerns her heart; surely for me,
Her only son, is her dread.

From every corner she is driven forth,
Save one obscure and desolate recess —
The Beth Hamidrash — there in the shadows hid
I am with her in distress.

My son, where is thy soul?
" Wander on earth to seek it, angel of mine!
For there is a leafy village, walled by the woods,
With boundless azure firmament above,
And in the blue there rests its daughter fair —
A small white cloud and lone.
A child plays there alone on a summer morn,
Left to himself, a tender dreaming mite;
Angel, that child am I.

The world had wrapped itself away, so still,
And heavenwards the child's two eyes were drawn,
Forth went his soul, as a dove flies from its cote

When I am dead, mourn thus for me and say:
There lived a man, and see, he is no more;
Timeless to death he went,
And in the middle day
His song of life was rent;
Ah! pity, for he had yet one song more,
And now that song is lost, and lost for aye.
Ah! pity, for he had a harp—a soul
To live and speak; and as the singer spanned
The secrets of his heart therewith, the strings
Spoke 'neath his hand.
But of his secrets one was hid in heart,
His fingers skimmed about it and around,

He, that goeth forth with weeping,
Bearing still the precious seed,
Never tiring, never sleeping,
Soon shall see his toil succeed:
Show'rs of rain will fall from heaven,
Then the cheering sun will shine,
So shall plenteous fruit be given,
Through an influence all divine.

Sow thy seed, be never weary,
Let not fear thy mind employ;
Though the prospect be most dreary,
Thou may'st reap the fruits of joy:
Lo! the scene of verdure bright'ning,
See the rising grain appear;

The oak-trees whisper softly, and softly to me they say:
" Come, hide beneath our shadow, O Mortal, there decay!
This tomb, this heap of dust to thy pain and livelong grief —
Faithful to thee for ever — they will bring relief.
Die not so oft, for life with a thousand deaths is filled,
Die once, expire for ever, — rest peaceful and be stilled!
We'll dig thee softly over, smooth out the silent grave;
Thy half shall worms consume, but a half for sap we crave,
For by aid of all we thrive. Life endless shall be thine,

April's amazing meaning doubtless lies
In tall, hoarse boys and slips
Of slender girls with suddenly wider eyes
And parted lips;

For girls must wander pensive in the spring
When the green rain is over,
Doing some slow inconsequential thing,
Plucking clover;

And any boy alone upon a bench
When his work's done will sit
And stare at the black ground and break a branch
And whittle it

Slowly; and boys and girls, irresolute,
Will curse the dreamy weather