THEY tell me, in the sparkling bowl
There is a balm for every care;
They tell me, there, the tortured soul
May find a refuge from despair.
Then gaily pass the goblet round,
And freely let the nectar flow!
If joy is in the goblet found,
Oh! who would nurse the thorn of woe?
I feel, I feel, the glowing tide!
'Tis circling round my frozen heart, Thro' ev'ry vein I feel it glide
New warmth, new vigour, to impart.
Come bring the wreath of rosy twine,
The harp so long forsaken bring,
And while my bosom glows with wine,
My lip again of joy shall sing.
Ah! sweet, but long forgotten strain,
And harp that's lain neglected by,
Since pleasure's cup was fill'd with pain,
And hope's fair flower was doom'd to die.
Yet look not back, change, change the theme,
And talk of joys for ever bright;
Think of the past as of a dream,
That vanish'd at the morning's light.
Sweet the buds our brows are shading,
Bright the goblet sparkling high,
The rose of pleasure knows no fading,
The goblet's ruby cannot die.
Of joy, of joy alone, I'll sing!
Sorrows past rememb'ring never;
While, my harp, thy silver string
Pleasure's song is warbling ever.
FROM THE FRENCH OF MONTREUIL.
WHY ask so oft, with fond alarms,
If constant I'll remain?
And o'er my heart how long thy charms
Will hold their wonted reign?
No more these questions let me hear,
Since I can not reply ;-
I do not know, my Sylvia dear,
The day when I shall die.
Written in the Middle of a Night in February 1807, during the whole of which Night blew a tremendous Hurricane.
WRAPT in the dusky gloom of night
Triumphant rides upon the blast
The Genius of the Storm;
Trembles the wretch with wild affright,
Within whose breast with guilt aghast
Conflicting horrors swarm!
Ill fated they, from Albion torn,
Who bound to some far distant shore
Are lash'd by ocean's wave;
I hear methinks the shriek forlorn
Of him who, while mad billows roar,
Sinks to his wat❜ry grave!
Father of heaven! whose outstretch'd arm
And might even thundering storms obey,
These ancient walls + defend;
While whirlwinds make with dire alarm
On prouder domes their boisterous way,
O'er these thy power extend!
*Shakspeare, King Lear.
+ Within which the author was living.
ON THE DEATH OF THE EMPRESS CATHARINE II. OF RUSSIA.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
HARK to that pæan song, whose choral lay
Sounds the glad march of FREEDOM's smiling train;
With what sweet cadence does it die away,
And now, how wild and warlike ring!
List, Russia, to its notes so sweet
Winding amid each green retreat,
That now, in more than mortal strain,
From Tenglio's chill and storm-rock'd clime afar,
From the bleak regions of the polar star,
To where Circassia's beauties lave
Amid the Caspian's mimic wave,
From Warsaw's ruin'd towers and gory plain,
To Oonolasca's ever cheerless reign,
O'er many a frowning cliff and hill sublime,
Through many a cold inhospitable clime,
Symphonious float on echo's viewless wing.
I know her mien; I know her zoneless breast;
The wreathed tresses of her golden hair,
I know her rainbow-tinted gay cymar,
Her blooming crown and azure vest;
I know the laurel-wreath that binds her brow,
Shadowing with mellow tints her beamy face:
How rich the lustre of its glow!
Lur'd from the mountain's snow-clad breast,
The eagle seeks Wolkansky's jocund shade,
And hails thy blest return, angelic maid,
And claps his sable wings, and plumes his ruffled crest;
The rose that droop'd beneath ambition's ray,
Rears her pale bloom, and courts thy genial gale;
The woodbine wild, that shunn'd its garish day,
Opes at thy blythe approach, and scents its native vale:
All nature seems thy influence mild to share,
And Virtue leaves her haunts, and quaffs thy balmy
Fall'n is ambition; and her tottering fanes
Gleam in the sunshine of departing day;
And flattery's voice, and flattery's soothing strains,
Float on the night's dull ear, and melt away.
Soon as her drear approach was known,
Swart Satan left his ebon throne;
And, as in all her vices drest,
Her pale and haggard form he prest,
In parent's pride elate,
A few faint rays of unknown joy
Came flashing from his piercing eye,
And, for awhile, eclipsed its beams of deadly hate.
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