English

What colors! what sweet fragrance ye are throwing,
What beauties scattering on that lovely shore;
Flowrets! so blue, so meek, so lowly growing —
Ye fair forget-me-nots — thus sprinkled o'er.
O! I have seen in other distant lands,
The self-same glances of your azure eyes —
Then still the tumult of my stormy sighs,
And strengthen all my heart with firmer bands.
Would that it were my lot, ye starry flowers!
To mingle with your buds, the banks along
Of Rakosh, and the silver current strong

'Twixt Vice and Virtue here the doubtfu Strife
Concludes: Here ends the Comedy of Life.
Th' Award uncertain, the Disposer just,
Presume I dare not; why should I distrust?

Blow Boreas, Foe to human kind!
Blow, blustering, freezing, piercing Wind!
Blow, that thy Force I may rehearse;
While all my Thoughts congeal to Verse!

Blow, and the strongest Proofs dispense
To ev'ry doubtful Reader's Sense!
But chiefly chill the Critic's Nose,
Who dares the Truths I sing oppose!

Where'er old hoary Winter's fear'd,
There thou with trembling Art rever'd:
In thee the dreaded Pow'r remains
By which the snowy Monarch reigns.

From Paphos I'm flown, by my Mother's command,
To raise new Recruits for the Goddess 's Band.
 To Venus 's Standard the Sex I invite;
Our Pay's ready Mony; our Service Delight.
 Come, all ye gay Nymphs , who are blooming, and fair,
Leave your Blushes behind, to her Colours repair!
All you, who love Pleasure , and ha'nt wherewithal
To flirt at the Play , or to frisk at the Ball ;
All you, who by Parents , beyond the twelfth Year,
Are kept in Submission, vile Bondage, and Fear;
All you, who no Offers of Marriage have found,

Even as the changeful moon across the sky
Moves on inconstant — now in brightness shining —
Now clouded — now towards the hills declining —
Now lifts its face, and now its horn on high:
So falsely midst the gods — so treach'rously
Doth love deceive, and laugh at mortal men —
Now opens Eden to our ravish'd eye,
Then flings us back to wretchedness again.
As he whom sunlight guides upon his way,
But little heeds the moon's inferior ray,
So do I turn me from love's feeble name;

See! for dark mists the mountain-tops are shading,
And town and village welcome wanderers home;
Where play'd the zephyr air — the north winds roam;
Where songs of joy were heard, is peace pervading —
Still is the stream — the storks are now parading
Our borders, — with the sun prepar'd to go:
The flowers that on the Danube's borders grow
Are borne away — the yellow vine leaf fading.
But sight and scene shall not be clouded long —
Earth shall throw off its mourning robes again,
And May shall come with extacy and song;

See the bills once more grac'd with an Abington's name:
Is she led into public by Interest or Fame?
Their dictates this offspring of Nature has scorn'd,
For her cot is by Taste and Contentment adorn'd;
They have breathed soft Tranquillity's charms o'er her mind,
And the mask of Thalia she long has resign'd.
Then what has induced her again to engage
In theatre toils, and appear on the stage?
Meek Charity came, and the nymph thus addrest:
— Oh! wouldst thou by widows and orphans be blest,
Behold with compassion this sorrowing train:

Now, welcome swallow! welcome! take thy rest —
The spring is melting every icy stream —
Build 'neath my roof thine unmolested nest;
Here be thy quiet home of peace — nor deem
The bard intrusive, if he bid thee tell
Of distant lands and distant beauties — say
If from yon plains, where all the graces dwell,
She gave thee no sweet message on thy way.
" Thither I flew, for I had often heard
Of charms that dazzled every flitting bird —
Thither I flew, to gaze upon the maid:
But I was so bewilder'd, when I saw,

I think of thee when night's dark shadows fly,
And morning's ray spreads slowly o'er the hills;
When girt with stars and clouds, the morn on high
Smiles on the birchen grove and gilds the rills.
I hear thee in the gentle music, made
By streams that rush to other streams — by flowers
That whisper to the winds, or catch the showers —
Or green leaves rustling in the vernal glade.
Thee do I see — thee would I recognize —
A pilgrim hasting to a holy shrine;
When mists that seem all-sacred wrap the skies,

Dear relic of the past! so sweetly fair,
O would that Pope, or of the Iliad, he
Could sing the tresses of thy golden hair,
In music, blessed maiden! worthy thee.
Had I the fleece of Argos — did I bear
A sultan's sceptre — dwell in palaces —
Rule half the world — thou, thou far more than these —
Thou, hundred times saluted prize, wert dear.
Thou, while it vibrates — thou my heart's own key!
Thou, who art beauty — who art all to me:
Thou — not disdainful — like a worldly maiden,
Say, when the wild wind with my dust is laden,