English

Perplexed am I, no knowledge mine, of what I am, or what shall be,
From whence I came, and to what quarter I go.
No news has any one brought back of those departed,
However much I inquire of what their state may be.
To-day I see them stay the night in this Hamlet;
But ever, each in his turn, I count them as they quit it,
The world is like a bowl, I, like an Ant inside it:
Distraught I turn within it, and struggle with all my power.
When I consider this world, and the circumstances of mankind,

Sing on, till light and shadow meet,
Blithe spirit of the morning air;
I do not know thy name, nor care —
I only know thy song is sweet,
And that my heart beats thanks to thee.
Made pure by thy minstrelsy.

Sing on, till light and shadow meet,
Blithe spirit of the morning air;
I do not know thy name, nor care —
I only know thy song is sweet,
And that my heart beats thanks to thee,
Made pure by thy minstrelsy.

In the excellence of youth, what doubt is there?
The time of old age is full of defects.
In my heart fresh fresh wounds have I,
Well smeared in every wound is salt.
If joy come upon thee, be not rejoiced at it;
For close upon joy follows ever sorrow.
Make no complaints of other's wrongs or injuries,
For the greatest wronger of all is Destiny.
Not without design has trouble been created,
For trouble is the touchstone between the manly and the mean.
What of numerous luxuries, delights, and hardships?

I laid amid the hum of bumblebees,
And O, and O,
Above me, to and fro,
The clover-heads were tossing in the breeze!

And O, and O, from meadow, wood or height,
Afar or near,
Came sweet the whistle clear,
Athwart the sunny silence, Bob—Bob—White!

The heaven in the south arched low and blue,—
Too low and blue,
For clouds to wander thro',
And so they moored at rest as white ships do.

And O, and O, how cool their shadows lay
Upon the lea,
In dark embroidery!

To You, great Steward of the Public Trust,
True to your King, and to your Country just!
No venal Bard his joyful Tribute brings,
Nor Envy sure can censure what he sings;
Since each impartial Tongue your Praise declares,
The Muse but echoes, what the Poet hears.

S OME , by their Birth, to Senates their Claim,
Whose Folly shames the Seat, which honours them .
But You, whose Merits mov'd the People's Voice,
Unanimous, to make so wise a Choice,
With solid Sense, and prudent Conduct shew,

And thus she leaves me: steals away at dawn,
With needless schemes and childish artifice,
To meet her rather pinchbeck Romeo
“They loved as boy and girl, then wilful Fate
Severed in sport their adolescent years,
But now unites them, ne'er to part again”!
All most romantic; as romances go
In this good nineteenth century of ours,
A theme for Monsieur Guy de Maupassant
Or some such Frenchman of the fleshly school,
The scribes of glorified adulteries,—
But has its dull prosaic side as well.

1.

When D ELIA tunes her vocal Song,
And strikes the trembling Strings;
The list'ning Audience round her throng,
Admiring, while she sings.

II.

But , when we view the skilful Fair ,
We're struck with more Surprize;
Before, she only pleas'd our Ear,
But now, inchants our Eyes.

III.

B EAUTY and Harmony combin'd,
Like secret Charms betray;
Like Ghosts in magic Rings confin'd,
We cannot stir away.

IV.

So Birds, imprudent, fall to Ground,

When other birds despairing southward fly,
In early autumn-time away;
When all the green leaves of the forest die,
How merry still art thou, and gay.

O! golden-breasted bird of dawn,
Through all the bleak days singing on,
Till winter, wooed a captive by thy strain,
Breaks into smiles, and spring is come again.

When other birds despairing southward fly,
In early autumn-time away;
When all the green leaves of the forest die,
How merry still art thou, and gay.

O! golden-breasted bird of dawn,

In my cabin in the clearing,
I lie and hear the autumn shower falling slow;
Afar, almost out of hearing,
I lie and hear the wet wind thro' the forest go.

Sense of shelter steals o'er me;
Into the ev'ning dimness failing,
Into the night before me,
I lie and fancy I am sailing.

All night the wind will be blowing;
All night the rain will slowly pour;
But I shall sleep, never knowing
The storm raps ceaseless at my door.

In my cabin in the clearing,
I lie and hear the autumn shower falling slow;

What though grief or joy increase;
As they quicken, so they cease:
Their constitution can never be found —
Of many kinds are Fortune's changes.
Such as never entered the mind.
Many such events will happen to you.
In separation it is the thought of my mistress,
Which ever is around my heart.
Whatever passes from the view
At length will from the mind be rased:
He who praises now Khush-hal
Perchance in time will be like him.