No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. "Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court."-OSSIAN. THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle; Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay : In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way. Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. No more doth old Robert, with heart-stringing On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; For the rights of a monarch their country defending, Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. That fame and that memory still will he cherish; He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown: Like you will he live, or like you will he perish: When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own. LINES WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts Mere phantoms of thine own creation: ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL АH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, To what unknown region borne, TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. AD LESBIAM. EQUAL to Jove that youth must be→ Greater than Jove he seems to meWho, free from Jealousy's alarms, Securely views thy matchless charms. That cheek, which ever dimpling glows, I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die: My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. HE who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. "Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. iv. CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? Alas! I wish but to o'ercome the pain, That I might live for love and you again : But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate; By death alone I can avoid your hate. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. YE Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Whom dearer than her eyes she loved: For he was gentle, and so true, Obedient to her call he flew, No fear, no wild alarm he knew, But lightly o'er her bosom moved: And softly fluttering here and there, He never sought to cleave the air, But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne From whence he never can return, His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save, For thou hast ta'en the bird away : From thee my Lesbia's eyes overflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay. IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire, Still would I steep my lips in bliss, TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. Would awe his fix'd, determined mind in vain. He would unmoved, unawed behold Again in crushing chaos roll'd, In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, Might light his glorious funeral pile. Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile. FROM ANACREON. I WISH to tune my quivering lyre To deeds of fame and notes of fire; To echo, from its rising swell, How heroes fought and nations fell, When Atreus' sons advanced to war, Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar; But still, to martial strains unknown, My lyre recurs to love alone: Fired with the hope of future fame, I seek some nobler hero's name : The dying chords are strung anew, To war, to war, my harp is due: With glowing strings, the epic strain To Jove's great son I raise again; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. All, all in vain; my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft desire. Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms! Adieu the clang of war's alarms! To other deeds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung; My harp shall all its powers reveal, To tell the tale my heart must feel: Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. FROM ANACREON. 'TWAS now the hour when Night had driven And knocks with all his little force. Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?" FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. How different now thy joyless fate, Since first Hesione thy bride, When placed aloft in godlike state, The blushing beauty by thy side, Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd. TO EMMA. SINCE now the hour is come at last, One pang, my girl, and all is over. Which bids us part to meet no more; Which tears me far from one so dear, Departing for a distant shore. Well! we have pass'd some happy hours, Forget to scare the hovering flies, It dared to give your slumbering eyes: See still the little painted bark, In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park, The elm I clamber'd for your sake. These times are past-our joys are gone, You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes I must retrace alone: Without thee, what will they avail? Who can conceive, who has not proved, The anguish of a last embrace, When, torn from all you fondly loved, You bid a long adieu to peace? This is the deepest of our woes, For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close, O God! the fondest, last adieu ! TO M. S. G. WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine, Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss. For that would banish its repose. I ne'er have told my love, yet thou Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume, Let it consume, thou shalt not know: With joy I court a certain doom, Rather than spread its guilty glow. I will not ease my tortured heart, Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair, TO CAROLINE. THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Which said far more than words can say? Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, When love and hope lay both o'erthrown; Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, The tears that from my eyelids flow'd Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, In sighs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain But that will make us weep the more. Again, thou best beloved, adieu! Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ; Nor let thy mind past joys reviewOur only hope is to forget! But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight: Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer, Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation; In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled? If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. STANZAS TO A LADY, WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS. THIS Votive pledge of fond esteem, With florid jargon, and with vain parade; TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. DORSET! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, Exploring every path of Ida's glade; The gift of riches, and the pride of power; When youthful parasites, who bend the knee On one by birth predestined to be great; For well I know that virtue lingers there. Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, But now new scenes invite me far away; Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild, Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child: Though every error stamps me for her own, And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour; To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, With long-drawn names that grace no page beside; Then share with titled crowds the common lot- |