THE ISLE OF FOUNTS.

An Indian Tradition.

SON of the Stranger! would'st thou take
O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining Lake,
Along whose banks the west winds play ;
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
Oh seek thou not the Fountain Isle!

Lull but the mighty Serpent-King,

Midst the great rocks, his old domain; Ward but the Congar's deadly spring

-Thy step that Lake's green shore may gain;

And the bright Isle, when all is past,

Shall vainly meet thy eye at last!

Yes! there, with all its rainbow streams,
Clear, as within thine arrow's flight,
The Isle of Founts, the isle of dreams,
Floats on the wave in golden light;

And lovely will the shadows be
Of groves whose fruit is not for thee!

And breathings from their sunny flowers,
Which are not of the things that die,
And singing voices from their bowers,
Shall greet thee in the purple sky;
Soft voices, e'en like those that dwell
Far in the green reed's hollow cell.

Oh, hast thou heard the sounds that rise
From the deep chambers of the earth?
The wild and wondrous melodies,

To which the ancient rocks give birth?
Like that sweet song of hidden caves,
Shall swell those Isle- notes o'er the waves.

The emerald waves! they take their hue
And image from that summer-shore ;
But wouldst thou launch thy light canoe,
And wouldst thou ply thy rapid oar,
Before thee, hadst thou morning's speed,
The sun-bright land should still recede!

Yet on the breeze thou still shalt hear

The music of its flowering shades,

And ever shall the sound be near,

Of founts that ripple through its glades;
The sound and sight, and flashing ray,
Of joyous waters in their play.

But woe to him who sees them burst

With their bright spray-showers to the Lake!

Earth has no spring to quench the thirst
That semblance in his soul shall wake,
For ever pouring through his dreams,
The gush of those untasted streams !

Bright, bright in many a rocky urn,
The waters of our deserts lie,
Yet at their source his lips shall burn,
Parch'd with the fever's agony!

From the blue mountains to the main,

Our thousand floods may roll in vain.

E'en thus our hunters came of yore

Back from their vain and weary quest.
Had they not seen th'untrodden shore,-

And could they midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt amongst us as the dead!

They lay beside our glancing rills,
With visions in their darken'd eye;
Their joy was not amidst the hills,

Where elk and deer before us fly;
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the wind were flung.

They bent no more the forest bow,

They arm'd not with the warrior band,
The moons waned o'er them dim and slow-
They left us for the Spirits' land!
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.

Son of the Stranger! if at eve
Silence be midst us in thy place,

Yet go not where the mighty leave
The strength of battle and of chase!
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile,
Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!

F. H.
New Monthly Magazine.

ANACREON.

THE reader will exercise his own judgment in determining the relative merits of the following translations, of one of Anacreon's Odes. For our parts, we think the best of them, compared to Moore's, is like Cooper's translation of the Iliad compared to Pope's.-ED.

I subjoin different translations of an ode of Anacreon, because I consider it one of the few genuine relics of this poet, and a chef-d'œuvre in the art of contrast. These verses would suggest to any painter the picture of an old man seated upon the turf, amidst myrtles and roses, rising under the weight of years by his buoyant gaiety, forgetting past sorrows, and dreamof pleasures to come. The contrasts in this single personage are further heightened by the figure of love, who, with the levity and curiosity of youth, hastens forward to pour out wine for the old man, and listens to his song. But to pourtray the still greater contrast which is produced by the solemnity of the old man's song, is beyond the painter's art. For, instead of the praises of pleasure, his theme is the shortness of life, and the long and inevitable sleep of death; whence he deduces the conclusive argument, that we must hasten to enjoy the present hour.-It appears to me that translators have not sufficiently availed themselves of these sudden transitions. The ancients were rather intemperate in their use of them; the moderns are too cautious in avoiding them.

COWLEY'S TRANSLATION.
Underneath the myrtle shade,
On flowery beds supinely laid,
Odorous oils my head overflowing,
And around it roses growing;

What shall I do, but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state,
Love himself shall on me wait.

Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up!
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health and gay desires:
The wheel of life no less doth stay,
On a smooth than rugged way;
Since it equally doth flee,

Let the motion pleasant be!

MOORE'S TRANSLATION.

Strew me a breathing bed of leaves,
Where Lotus with the myrtle weaves,
And while in Luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this delicious hour of joy,
Young Love shall be my goblet-boy;
Folding his little golden vest,

With cinctures round his snowy breast,

Himself shall hover by my side

And minister the racy tide!

Swift as the wheels that rundling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal :
A scanty dust to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.
Why do we shed the roses bloom,
Upon the cold, insensate tomb?