On his cheek life's sunset glow
Linger'd ere the spirit fled;
Some sad months have pass'd, and now
Ellen, Ellen, too, is dead!
Traveller! while their native bells,
And the tale each rustic tells,
Claim thine ear, bedew thine eye,
Think each sinking peal a sigh.
PLEDGE of sorrow, seal of pleasure,
Mingling all that's sweet and dear,
Pity's balm, and passion's treasure,
Gem of Feeling, artless tear.
Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Balm that soothes the wounded heart,
Beauty's shield, and Truth's profession,
Pledge of faith when lovers part.
Dew from heaven, affection's bliss,
Mortal joy to angels dear,
Sister of the virgin kiss,
Gem of feeling, artless tear!
THE PRAISES OF ITALY;
VIRGIL'S GEORGICS, BOOK II. VERSE 109.
A metrical Exercise on the compressive Energy of the English Language, being translated into Rhyme, line for line.
Nor every soil produces every tree.
With osiers, streams; with alders, fens agree;
In rocky mountains, steril ash delight,
In shores, the myrtle; hills expos'd to light,
The vine. The yew defies the boreal blight.
The limits of the cultur'd world, behold!
The eastern Arabs, the Geloni bold
Have different woods: the Indian realms, dispense
Dark ebony; Sabæa, frankincense.
Why speak of odorous shrubs, that load the breeze
With balm ?The acanthus berry; and the trees
Of Afric, bearing fleeces long and white;
Or Serians, cloth'd in fibrous foliage light;
Or what the groves of sea-beat India bear,-
Limit of earth! where, towering high in air,
None o'er the trees can urge the arrowy flight:
Tho' skill'd the nation in the distant fight.
The Median boughs, yield gums and bitter juice
From healthful fruits; and none of kindlier use,
When stepdames fierce the treacherous goblet fill,
Mingling dire herbs with words of deadlier skill,
From the dark veins can force the secret ill.
The trees themselves most like the laurel
In all are laurel, save that odours flow
Far-differing: not the winds that fiercest blow
E'er strip their leaves. With this the Medes assuage
Their mental woes, and soothe declining age.
But Media, rich in woods, or Ganges fair,
Or Hermus dark with gold, may not compare
With Italy; nor Ind, nor Bactrian land,
Nor rich Arabia's incense-teeming sand.
No bulls, fire-breathing, plough the happy field
That, sown with dragon-teeth may harvests yield
Of men, with thickening spears and horrent shield:
But fruitful vineyards pour the Massic juice.
Olives and joyful herds her plains produce.
The warrior courser ardent beats the sod:
The mightiest bulls, Clitumnus, in thy flood
Lav'd, and thy milk-white herds, lead the glad train
Of Roman triumphs to the sacred fane,
Perpetual spring and summer crown our year;
Flocks twice their young, trees twice their vintage bear.
No rabid tigers, no fierce lions rage;
No aconite deceives the exploring sage;
Nor scaly serpents, wreath'd in volumes, lay,
With poison swoln, athwart the traveller's way.
Add too, our cities fam'd, our towering halls,
Our towns innumerous, girt with rocky walls,
Beneath whose antique base, some torrent river falls.
Need I relate the High or Lower sea?
Our mighty lakes? thee Larius chief, and thee
Benacus, roaring with the ocean tide?
Our ports?-the Lucrine lake extended wide;
The sea indignant dashing where the wave
Of Julius hears afar the billows rave,
Aud Tuscan storms Avernus' forests lave?
Metallic veins, brassy and silver ore
And golden mines we boast: and precious more
Our hardy race, Sabellans, Marsians,
Volsci dart-arm'd, and sly Ligurians;
Our Decii, Marii, great Camillus' line,
Our warlike Scipios, Cæsar more divine!
Who victor now, on Asia's furthest shores,
Drives the weak Indian from the Roman towers.
Hail, fruitful parent! hail, Saturnia, great
In arts and men; thy glories I relate;
Dare to unclose the sacred streams of song,
And, thro' the Roman towns, Ascræan notes prolong.
IN IMITATION OF THE THIRTIETH EPIGRAM OF THE FIFTH BOOK OF MARTIAL.
HEN a pot of cold cream to Eliza you send, You with words to this purpose your present commend Whoe'er with this cream shall her countenance smear, All redness and roughness will strait disappear, And the skin to a wonder be charmingly clear; If pimples arise, this will take them away;
If the small-pox should mark you, those marks will decay;
If wrinkled through age, or bad dawbing the face is,
'Twill be smooth in a trice, as the best Venice glass is;
All this, and much more (could I spare time to write it,
Or my pen go as fast, as your lips would indite it)
You affirm of your cream: and I would not abuse it,
But pray tell me one thing-Do you yourself use it?
TELL me not of deeds of glory,
Ye who seek a laurell'd brow,
Ye who seek to live in story,
But as giving mankind woe.
Is the thundering cannon dealing
Death and ruin all around,
Music to a heart of feeling?
Or is joy in murder's sound?
See the storm of battle raving,
Mark each banner high and low,
Victory now her standard waving,
In proud triumph o'er the foe.
Hear the trump of joy and gladness,
Pealing through the vaulted air,
Mingling with the cries of sadness,
And the groans of deep despair.
See an aged mother bending
O'er her dear, her slaughter'd sonMark the bitter tear descendingHear her agonizing groan.
See a widow senseless falling
On her bleeding husband's breast; Hear her now, in horror, calling On the sword to give her rest.
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