English

( " Non, l'avenir n'est a personne! " )

Sire, beware, the future's range
Is of God alone the power,
Naught below but augurs change,
E'en with ev'ry passing hour.
Future! mighty mystery!
All the earthly goods that be,
Fortune, glory, war's renown,
King or kaiser's sparkling crown,
Victory! with her burning wings,
Proud ambition's covetings, —
These may our grasp no more detain
Than the free bird who doth alight

Short is the fleeting hour when gay delight,
And heartfelt converse wings its rapid flight;
That hour which Hope has mark'd with pierce eye,
Ev'n in the darkness of a clouded sky:
But oh! while Mem'ry shall her pow'r retain,
Think not, O Clerimont, 'twas pass'd in vain.
Where'er I go, my pensive soul to cheer,
Thy voice, illusive, seems to charm my ear!
Those cordial words I hear, which soften'd Grief,
For on thy gentle accents hung Belief:
Thy pleasing form, endow'd with virtues rare,

The snow is on the hills, the hills so cold and high.
I saw a maiden of the hills, graceful and fair, pass by.

I saw a maiden of the hills, graceful and fair, pass by,
And I towards her went with great courtesy.

And I towards her went with great courtesy.
" Will you, " said I, " lady, of my company? "

" Will you, " said I, " lady, of my company? "
But " Sir Knight, pass on your way, " said she unto me.

The bride, who is she?
The Virgin holy,
Even Mary,
The Virgin Mother.
Now unto them
A Son is given
In Bethlehem,
A city small.

Now unto them
A Son is given
In Bethlehem,
A city small.
The bride, who is she?
The Virgin holy,
Even Mary,
The Virgin Mother.

On a humble house
Great light was shed,
The Angels sang,
And the Earth said:
The bride, who is she?
The Virgin holy,
Even Mary,
The Virgin Mother.

Jove from on high beheld the jarring world,
Shook the vast globe and round his thunder hurl'd;
" Mortals, " he cry'd, " attend a god's decree,
" Behold a youth commission'd you from me;
" Go, Day , " he said, " exert your utmost art,
" Improve the morals, and instruct the heart;
" Protect the Arts , and Sciences defend,
" And Navigation round the globe extend;
" Prove Nature's friend, and ev'ry vice suppress,
" But most your care — demands the British press;
" Freedom is held by Briton's sacred dear,

Live, beauteous Myrtle! ever priz'd by me;
The fairest flow'r shall never equal thee;
Thy verdant leaves from joyous L Y drew
A richer fragrance, and a softer hue:
May balmy gales thy drooping sweets expand,
And bless the gift of gentle C LARA 's hand.
By thee inspir'd, Remembrance shall impart
Her graceful smile and tenderness of heart:
On thee shall shine fair Fancy's golden ray,
And Truth shall guard thee on a wintry day.
Live, matchless Myrtle! lest on Bagshot's plain,
From scorching sun I kept thy sweets in vain;

Immortal, Shakespeare, would my Muse inspire
My feeble pen with a celestial fire,
Then would I lay it at thy heav'nly shrine,
For ev'ry charm of Poetry was thine;
Each passion form'd by thy prophetic skill,
Storm'd ev'ry heart, and conquer'd ev'ry will;
Ev'n Vice abash'd stood trembling at his feet,
When Shakespeare led sweet Virtue to her seat.
The fiend too conscious of her mighty foe,
Confounded sunk in the abyss below:
While the chaste goddess blushing at her fame,
In fate's fair page wrote down her Shakespeare's name:

Oh! the mystery
Of the Flannel Flower
You have given me!
Oh! the mystery!
From this happy hour
Two are one — and three!
Oh! the mystery
Of the Flannel Flower.

As t'other night a tar with gods was sat,
When Cook appear'd, the Briton's eyes were wet;
A landsman near him gave the tar a sneer:
" What! cry, Jack! damn me, come, no blubb'ring " here "
" Avast there, Tom, " the honest tar reply'd,
" Or smite my timbers else I'll thrash thy hide;
" See there, thou lubber, view yon gallant chief,
" With whom, God rest him! oft I've plough'd the " deep.
" Show me a foe, can make Jack Oakham fear. "
But here he sigh'd, and wip'd away a tear!

'Tis o'er, 'tis past, the melancholy bier
Has reach'd ere now the ne'er departing goal;
Intruding thoughts, reflection too severe,
Avaunt! nor raise new horrors in the soul.

Slow, very slow, the sad procession pass'd,
The tears of sorrow trembl'd in each eye;
Crowd press'd on crowd, in silence gaz'd their last,
Tear follow'd tear, and sigh re-echo'd sigh.

The ancient Abbey, clad in dread array,
Smil'd when the creeking hinges op'd the door;
The yawning vault receiv'd its darling prey,