Slike strani
PDF
ePub

Like eaftern kings, a lazy ftate they keep,
And, clofe confin'd to their own palace, fleep.

From thefe, perhaps, (ere nature bade her die,)
Fate fnatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer fpirits flow,

And sep❜rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the foul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, falfe guardian of a charge too good,
Thou mean deferter of thy brother's blood!
See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,
These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death:
Cold is that breaft which warm'd the world before,
And thofe love-darting eyes must roll no more.
Thus, if Eternal Juftice rule the ball,

Thus fhall your wives, and thus your children fall:
On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,
And frequent hear fes fhall befiege your gates.
There paffengers fhall ftand, and, pointing, fay,
(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way,)
Lo! these were they whofe fouls the furies fteel'd,
And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.
Thus unlamented pass the proud away,
The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!
So perish all, whose breast ne'er learnt to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

What can atone, O ever-injur'd shade!
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier.
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd;
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By ftrangers honour'd, and by ftrangers mourn'd.
What though no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances and the public fhow;
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polifh'd marble emulate thy face:

What though no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;

Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be drefs'd, And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft: There fhall the morn her earliest tears beftow, There the firft rofes of the year fhall blow; While angels, with their filver wings, o'erfhade The ground now facred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful refts, without a ftone, a name, What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot; A heap of duft alone remains of thee, 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud fhall be!

Poets themselves muft fall like those they fung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.. E'en he, whose foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall fhortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his clofing eyes thy form fhall part, And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

ODE TO SPRING.

H Thy bleft return, O! let me fing;
AIL, genial goddefs! blooming Spring!

And aid my languid lays :

Let me not fink in floth fupine,

While all creation at thy shrine
Its annual tribute pays.

Efcap'd from winter's freezing pow'r,
Each bloffom greets thee, and each flow'r;
And, foremost of the train,

By nature (artlefs handmaid!) drefs'd,
The fnow-drop comes in lily'd veft,
Prophetic of thy reign.

,,,

The lark now ftrains her tuneful throat,
While ev'ry loud and sprightly note
Calls Echo from her cell.

Beware! ye maids, that liften round,
A beauteous nymph became a found,
The nymph who lov'd too well.

The bright-hair'd fun, with warmth benign,
Bids tree, and fhrub, and fwelling vine
Their infant buds difplay:
Again the ftreams refreth the

plains,

Which winter bound in icy chains,
And, fparkling, blefs his ray.
Life-giving zephyr breathes around;
And inftant glows th' enamell'd ground
With nature's vary'd hues :
Not fo returns our youth decay'd;
Alas! nor air, nor fun, nor fhade
The fpring of life renews....
The fun's too quick-revolving beam
Apace diffolves the human dream,
And brings th' appointed hour:
Too late we catch his parting ray,
And mourn the idly wafted day,
No longer in our pow'r.

Then happieft he, whofe lengthen'd fight
Purfues by virtue's conftant light,
A hope beyond the skies:

Where frowning winter ne'er fhall come,
But rofy fpring for ever bloom,

And funs eternal rife.

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

THE LASS OF FAIR WONE.

From the German of BÜRGER.

BESIDE the paron's bou Ipright,

Why ftrays a troubled spright,
That peaks and pines, and dimly fhines
Through curtains of the night?

Why fteals along the pond of toads
A gliding fire fo blue,

That lights a spot where grows no grafs,
Where falls no rain nor dew?

The parfon's daughter once was good,
And gentle as the dove,

And young and fair-and many came
To win the damfel's love.

High o'er the hamlet, from the hill,
Beyond the winding ftream,
The windows of a stately house
In fheen of ev'ning gleam.

There dwelt in riot, rout, and roar,
A lord fo frank and free;
That oft, with inward joy of heart,
The maid beheld his glee.

Whether he met the dawning day,
In hunting trim so fine,

Or tapers, fparkling from his hall,
Befhone the midnight wine.

He fent the maid his picture, girt
With diamond, pearl, and gold;
And filken paper, sweet with musk,
This gentle meffage told:

"Let go thy fweethearts, one and all;
Shalt thou be bafely woo'd,
That worthy art to gain the heart,
Of youths of noble blood?

The tale I would to thee bewray,
In fecret must be said,

At midnight hour I'll seek thy bow'r;
Fair lafs be not afraid.

And when the amʼrous nightingale
Sings fweetly to his mate,

I'll pipe my quail-call from the field:
Be kind, nor make me wait."

In

cap and mantle clad he came, At night, with lonely tread; Unfeen, and filent as a mift,

And hufh'd the dogs with bread.

And when the am'rous nightingale
Sung fweetly to his mate,
She heard his quail-call in the field,
And, ah! ne'er made him wait.

The words he whisper'd were fo foft,
They won her ear and heart:

How foon will fhe, who loves, believe!
How deep a lover's art!

No lure, no foothing guife, he fpar'd,

To banish virtuous fhame; He call'd on holy God above, As witness to his flame.

He clafp'd her to his breaft, and fwore

To be for ever true:

"O yield thee to my wifhful arms,
Thy choice thou shalt not rue."

And while fhe ftrove he drew her on,
And led her to the bow'r

So ftill, fo dim--and round about
Sweet fmelt the beans in flow'r.

« PrejšnjaNaprej »