English

Fearless and firm, in anguish some have stood,
Whilst savage Cruelty has drank their blood!—
See the pale Stoic, to fulfil his part,
Must harden ev'ry nerve within his heart:
In walls of adamant, uprear'd by Pride,
Unmov'd he views a suff'ring world beside;
Whilst the fierce Indian, calm in stern repose,
Mocks at his mis'ry, and defies his foes!—
Not so—R ELIGION !—arm'd with Hope secure,
She bears distress, as angels might endure!
Meek, yet undaunted—with celestial mien,
She walks majestic thro' Affliction's scene.

Say! shou'd we mourn thee! oh exalted saint?
Tho' gen'rous friendship pours its mild complaint,
Tho' Gratitude, with soft assiduous care,
Seeks for thy grave, and strews its roses there;
Say, should we mourn thee? by Almighty Power
Releas'd, in mercy, from the suff'ring hour!
Ah no! thy Christian virtues shall impart
A balm most lement, while they wound the heart;
Thy Piety sincere—thy Friendship true,
Thy Charity, retir'd from public view!
Thy gen'rous kindness! eager to select
The worthy object of the world's neglect,

Medea now dishonour'd and forlorn,
Her breast by grief and indignation torn,
Exclaims, Where's now the faith he swore so strong?
Invokes each god, the witness of her wrong.
Her wasted strength no due repast repairs,
No peaceful slumber frees her mind from cares,
In bitter tears consuming all the time,
She broods incessant o'er her husband's crime;
Extended upon earth's cold bed she lies,
Nor raises from the ground her weeping eyes,
Of grief insatiate, and deaf to joy,
In vain her friends each soothing art employ:

Flower-shedding Spring, with a good servant's haste,
Is hurrying about, to make the many ways
That Summer will pass through, now wild and waste,
Pleasant as high-roads on blythe holidays;
The Bees, impatient of their honey toil,
Hover and hum about the unbudded flowers;
(O right-industrious they who whilst they moil
Rejoice, which Idlesse does not in his weedy bower!)
Millions of golden flowers yellow the hills,
That look and shine like gathered heaps of gold;
And birds, and buds, and leaves — river and rills —

IMITATED .

Rob'd like Diana, ready for the chase,
Her mind as spotless, and as fair her face,
Young Sylvia stray'd beneath the dowy dawn,
To course th' imperial stag o'er Windsor lawn:
There Cupid view'd her speeding o'er the plain,
The first and fairest of the rural train,
And, by a small mistake, the pow'r of Love
Thought her the virgin-goddess of the grove.
Soon aw'd with innocence, t' evade her sight
He fled, and dropp'd his quiver in the flight:

A.D. 1500.

Come, eveninge gale! the crimsonne rose
Is droopinge for thy sighe of dewe,
The hyacinthe wooes thy kisse to close
In slumberre sweete its eye of blue.

Shine, eveninge starre! the valley-streame
Hath loste the tinges of the sunne,
And lingers for thy pearlie beame,
To telle its bosome daye is done.

Rise, eveninge moone! thy holie raye

( " Gastibelza, l'homme a la carabine. " )

Gastibelza, the man with the carabine,
Sung in this wise:
" Hath one of you here known Dona Sabine
With the gentle eyes?
Ay, dance and sing! For the night draws nigh
O'er hill and lea.
— The wind that wails o'er yon mountain high
Will madden me.

" Hath one of you here known Dona Sabine,
To me so dear?
Her mother, the old, old Maugrabine,

I.

Tell ever-fleeting wanderer, tell,
Ah! how shall I define thee?
Of every novel whim the prey,
What magic can confine thee?

II.

Vainly thy airy flight I'd check,
Thou fluttering, wavering thing,
Bound all thy fond romantic views,
And clip thy sportive wing!

III.

Vainly to thee does reason preach,
Or caution on thee lours;
You smile away their frowns, and list

E'l cantar che nell animo si senti. —

As oft beneath the foliage gay,
I see thee perch'd on trembling spray,
Chants thou to departing day,
or sing'st to me?
If so, I'll tune a grateful lay,
sweet bird, to thee!

Thou last sweet songster of the grove,
Whose notes of melody can move
The soul to softest melancholy,
Banishing all earth-born folly,
Sweetly sad thy song I find,
Harmonizing still my mind;
When the shades of evening hour,

I swear it by Parnassus mount,
By Hippocranes' imposing fount;
By waters of Acidalus,
By sacred streams of Illysus;
By Helicon, — Castalian rill,
By Aganippe, — Pindus' hill;
Apollo's laurel, and his lyre,
Melpom'ne's tears, — Thalia's fire!
By wise Minerva's sagest owl,
By Royal Juno's sacred fowl;
By Cupid's bow, — and brother Loves,
By Venus' cestus, — and her doves;
By cup of Ganymede and Hebe,
By brightest beam of silver Phoebe;
By Ida's love-inspiring air,
Nay, by thy ingrate self I swear;