English

Where Fortune fauoreth not, what labor may preuaile?
Who frowning fate wil needs thrust down, what shal he win to waile?
With pacient mind to yeeld, is sure the soundest way,
And cast our cares and griefe on him, that fatall force doth sway.
For Death with equall pace, doth passe to Princes gate,
And there as at the Cottage poore, doth knock in one like state.
The tyme or maner how, the highst no more can tell,
Then poorest Peysant placed here, in base estate to dwell.
Sithe then such feeble stay, in mortall might we finde,

Who wisely skans, the weake and brittle stayes,
That Natures Imps, within thys vale possesse,
The dyuers haps, the straunge vncertayne wayes,
That headlong forth we runne beyonde all gesse,
Shall soone perceyue, that euery worldly ioye,
Short pleasures yeelds, imixte with long anoye.

Though whorde of heaped store, for more delight,
Our Cofers keepe, to please our greedie luste:
Yea, though our time we passe in ioyfull plight,
And in thys lyfe repose our chiefest trust,
Yet worldly pompe, when all is sayde and done,

Where none but Nature is the guyde, M INERVA hath no parte,
Then you her Nurcelings beare with him, it knows no aide of arte.
I wake my wyts to please my selfe, nought reaking praise or blame,
I force my pen to purge my brayne, though matter small I frame.
In which attempt, if lack of skill, haue led my Muse awry,
Let my well meaning minde the misse, in eche respect supply.
If patterns wrought by Arte, of curious workman here thou seeke,
Thy trauayle then thou shalt but lose, to looke and neuer leeke.

Oh, Blessed Saviour! since my will
Becomes the slave of Passion still,
Oh tear the bandage from my sight,
Which intercepts Thy glorious light!
Unfold thy bright eternal Day,
And snatch me, from myself away!

Since there's a Rest, when Life is trod,
Kept for Thy servants—oh! my God !
A Rest, from vile intruders free,
Where Harmony resides with Thee!—
Oh, may thy feeble Servant share,
And find an endless Harbour THERE .

I.

Give me the Harp — but every chord
That's mournful cast away;
My memory alone is stor'd
With sonnets light and gay;
Not such as Love incessant leaves
Within his spell-fraught bowers,
But such as sparkling Pleasure weaves
With Fancy's lightest flowers.
Then give the Harp — but pr'ythee take
The mournful chord away,
And notes of joy I'll swiftly wake,
And sonnets light and gay.

II.

If life's bright dawn was only made
To be obscur'd with tears,

In vain you talk of Mowbray 's mien,
Who moves in Dance the Cyprian queen;
Of Dunning 's charms, with pow'r to move
The frozen heart of age to love;
Of Williamsen 's enchanting air,
Majestic form, divinely fair!
Whose beauty sets the world on fire,
And virtue makes the flame expire,
Yet her sweet converse strikes you more,
Than all those charms mankind adore;
Of Fanny Hall , her sex's pride,
By merit made a blooming bride;
(So fond a sympathy of hearts
Their mutual happiness imparts;

I.

So pure, so fond, so tenderly,
Hath Love thy heart to me resign'd,
And taught those eyes to smile on me,
That late no resting place could find.
Say, did they ceaseless wander on
To watch if mine would also stray;
Did those cheeks each form smile upon,
To try if mine were false as they?

II.

No form could tempt my eye to rove,
Though lustrous it might beam on mine;

( " Puisqu'ici-bas tout âme. " )

Since everything below
Doth, in this mortal state,
Its tone, its fragrance, or its glow
Communicate;

Since all that lives and moves
Upon the earth, bestows
On what it seeks and what it loves
Its thorn or rose;

Since April to the trees
Gives a bewitching sound,
And sombre night to grief gives ease,
And peace profound;

I.

Forget Thee! — In my banquet halls,
Go ask my fellow men,
Or ask the tear that secret falls,
If I forget thee then,
The midnight hours, with songs and wine,
I ever shar'd with thee;
The midnight hours, they still are thine,
And fatal memory.

II.

Forget thee! — In the mirthful dance,
There steals some eye-beam's ray
Like thine — that makes me with its glance

Oh, gentle Memory! — Sorrow's fading Queen!
Whose solemn haunts still Fancy loves to trace;
Though deck'd in sables, soothing is thy mien,
And smiles adorn thee of peculiar grace!
Oh thou! who lov'st by moonlight's pensive beam
To wander by the murm'ring silver stream,
Catching some object in the misty glade!
Enchanting Mem'ry! tho' thy colours fade,
And Time may rob them of their fairest hue,
Still, by Reflection's gleam they're bright and new! —
The wounded spirit, like some shatter'd bark,