« AnteriorContinuar »
Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove > 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began;
He thought as a sage, tho' he felt as a man.
And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; O sooth him whose pleasures like thine pass away : Full quickly they pass-but they never return." "Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays : But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blazė. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again :
I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save: But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn! O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave!"
"'Twas thus by the glare of false science betray'd,
Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free."
"And darkness and doubt are now flying away;
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See truth, love, and mercy, in trimph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blend
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."
The beggar's petition.
PITY the sorrows of á poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door;
These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak,
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Oh! take me to your hospitable dome;
Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine ?.
A little farm was my paternal lot ;
Then like the lark, I sprightly hail'd the morn ::
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage,
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door:
Unhappy close of life.
How shocking must thy summons be, O Death!. To him that is at ease in his possessions! Who counting on long years of pleasure here, Is quite unfurnish'd for the world to come! In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement; Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help; But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks On all she's leaving, now no longer hers!" A little longer, yet a little longer, O might she stay to wash away her stains, And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight! Her very eyes weep blood; and ev'ry groan She heaves is big with horror. But the foe, Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose, Pursues her close, thro' ev'ry lane of life; Nor misses once the track; but presses on, Till, forc'd at last to the tremendous verge, At once she sinks to everlasting ruin.
Elegy to pity.
HAIL, lovely pow'r! whose bosom heaves the sigh, When fancy paints the scene of deep distress; Whose tears spontaneous crystallize the eye, When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bless.
Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey
From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare ;. Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray, Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear.
Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play;
Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies; No blood-stain'd traces mark thy blameless way :: Beneath thy feet no hapless insect dies.
Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me,. To spring the partridge from the guileful foe; From secret snares the struggling bird to free;
And stop the hand uprais'd to give the blow.
And when the air with heat meridian glows,
And nature droops beneath the conq'ring gleam, Let us, slow wand'ring where the current flows, Save sinking flies that float along the stream.
Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care,
Teach me to sooth the helpless orphan's grief;