With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor? Is a cart-load of turf at an old Woman's door? Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide! And his Grandson's as busy at work by his side.
Old Daniel begins, he stops short- and his eye, Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly. 'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own, But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.
He once had a heart which was moved by the wires
Of manifold pleasures and many desires:
And what if he cherished his purse? 'Twas no more
Than treading a path trod by thousands before,
'T was a path trod by thousands; but Daniel is one
Who went something farther than others have gone,
And now with old Daniel you see how it fares;
You see to what end he has brought his gray hairs.
The pair sally forth hand in hand: ere the sun
Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is begun:
And yet, into whatever sin they may fall,
This Child but half knows it, and that not at all.
They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread,
And each, in his turn, is both leader and led;
And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,
Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.
Neither checked by the rich nor the needy, they roam;
The gray-headed Sire has a daughter at home,
Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done;
And three, were it asked, would be rendered for one.
Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have eyed,
I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side:
Long yet may'st thou live! for a teacher we see
That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY
THE little hedgerow birds, That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression; every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought. He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten; one to whom Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. He is by nature led To peace so perfect, that the young behold With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.
EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC POEMS.
TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA.
PERHAPS Some needful service of the State
Drew TITUS from the depth of studious bowers,
And doomed him to contend in faithless courts,
Where gold determines between right and wrong.
Yet did at length his loyalty of heart,
And his pure native genius, lead him back
To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses,
Whom he had early loved. And not in vain
Such course he held! Bologna's learned schools
Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and hung
With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains.
There pleasure crowned his days; and all his thoughts
A roseate fragrance breathed.*- O human life,
That never art secure from dolorous change!
Behold a high injunction suddenly
To Arno's side conducts him, and he charmed
A Tuscan audience: but full soon was called
To the perpetual silence of the grave.
Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood
A Champion steadfast and invincible,
To quell the rage of literary War!
THOU who movest onward with a mind Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste! 'T will be no fruitless moment. I was born Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood. On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate To sacred studies; and the Roman Shepherd Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous Flock. Much did I watch, much laboured, nor had power To escape from many and strange indignities; Was smitten by the great ones of the World, But did not fall; for Virtue braves all shocks,
* Ivi vivea giocondo e i suoi pensieri
Erano tutti rose.
The Translator had not skill to come nearer to his original.
Upon herself resting immoveably.
Me did a kindlier fortune then invite
To serve the glorious Henry, King of France,
And in his hands I saw a high reward
Stretched out for my acceptance- but Death came.
Now, Reader, learn from this my fate - how false,
How treacherous to her promise, is the World,
And trust in God-to whose eternal doom
Must bend the sceptred Potentates of Earth.
THERE never breathed a man who, when his life Was closing, might not of that life relate The Warrior will report Toils long and hard. of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field, And blast of trumpets. He who hath been doomed To bow his forehead in the courts of kings, Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate, Envy and heart-inquietude, derived From intricate cabals of treacherous friends. I, who on Shipboard lived from earliest youth, Could represent the countenance horrible Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage Of Auster and Bootes. Forty years Over the well-steered Galleys did I rule: From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars, Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown; And the broad gulfs I traversed oft- and — oft : Of every cloud which in the Heavens might stir I knew the force; and hence the rough sea's pride
Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow. What noble pomp and frequent have not I On regal decks beheld! yet in the end I learnt that one poor moment can suffice To equalise the lofty and the low. We sail the sea of life. -a Calm One finds, And One a Tempest — and, the voyage o'er, Death is the quiet haven of us all. If more of my condition ye would know, Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang Of noble parents: sixty years and three Lived I then yielded to a slow disease
DESTINED to war from very infancy
Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took
In Malta the white symbol of the Cross.
Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun
Hazard or toil; among the Sands was seen
Of Libya, and not seldom, on the Banks
Of wide Hungarian Danube, 't was my lot
To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded.
So lived I, and repined not at such fate;
This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong,
That stripped of arms. I to my end am brought
On the soft down of my paternal home.
Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause
To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt
In thy appointed way, and bear in mind
How fleeting and how frail is human life!
This to the Dead by sacred right belongs;
All else is nothing- Did occasion suit
To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb
Would ill suffice: for Plato's lore sublime,
And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite,
Enriched and beautified his studious mind:
With Archimedes also he conversed
As with a chosen Friend, nor did he leave
Those laureat wreaths ungathered which the Nymphs
Twine on the top of Pindus. Finally,
Himself above each lower thought uplifting,
His ears he closed to listen to the Song
Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of old;
And fixed his Pindus upon Lebanon.
A blessed Man! who of protracted days
Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep;
But truly did He live his life. - Urbino,
Take pride in him! - O passenger, farewell!
Nor without heavy grief of heart did He
On whom the duty fell (for at that time
The Father sojourned in a distant Land)
Deposit in the hollow of this Tomb
A Brother's Child, most tenderly beloved!
FRANCESCO was the name the Youth had borne,
POZZOBONNELLI his illustrious House;
And, when beneath this stone the Corse was laid,
The
eyes of all Savona streamed with tears.
Alas! the twentieth April of his life
Had scarcely flowered: and at this early time,
By genuine virtue he inspired a hope
That greatly cheered his Country: to his Kin
He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts
His Friends had in their fondness entertained,*
He suffered not to languish or decay.
Now is there not good reason to break forth
Into a passionate lament? —O Soul!
Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world,
Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air;
And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,
An everlasting spring! in memory
Of that delightful fragrance which was once
From thy mild manners, quietly exhaled.
PAUSE, courteous Spirit! - Balbi supplicates That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer A prayer to the Redeemer of the world.
In justice to the Author, I subjoin the original :e degli amici
Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri.
WEEP not, beloved friends! nor let the air
For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life
Have I been taken; this is genuine life
And this alone - the life which now I live
In peace eternal; where desire and joy
Together move in fellowship without end.—
Francesco Ceni willed that, after death
His tombstone thus should speak for him. And surely
Small cause there is for that fond wish of ours
Long to continue in this world; a world
That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a hope
To good, whereof itself is destitute.
TRUE is it that Ambrosio Salinero
With an untoward fate was long involved
In odious litigation; and full long,
Fate harder still! had he to endure assaults
Of racking malady. And true it is
That not the less a frank courageous heart
And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain;
And he was strong to follow in the steps
Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path
Leads to the dear Parnassian forest's shade,
That might from him be hidden; not a track
Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he
Had traced its windings. This Savona knows,
Yet no sepulchral honours to her son
She paid, for in our age the heart is ruled
Only by gold. And now a simple stone
Inscribed with this memorial here is raised
By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera.
Think not, O passenger! who read'st the lines
That an exceeding love hath dazzled me;
No- he was one whose memory ought to spread
Where'er Permessus bears an honoured name,
And live as long as its pure stream shall flow.
This Tablet, hallowed by her name One heart-relieving tear may claim; But if the pensive gloom
Of fond regret be still thy choice, Exalt thy spirit, hear the voice Of Jesus from her tomb!
"I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE."
O FLOWER of all that springs from gentle blood,
And all that generous nurture breeds to make
Youth amiable; O friend so true of soul
To fair Aglaia; by what envy moved,
Lelius! has death cut short thy brilliant day
In its sweet opening? and what dire mishap
Has from Savona torn her best delight?
For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to mourn;
And, should the outpourings of her eyes suffice not
For her heart's grief, she will entreat Sebeto
Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto
Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to death,
In the chaste arms of thy beloved Love!
What profit riches? what does youth avail?
Dust are our hopes; - I, weeping bitterly,
Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray
That every gentle Spirit hither led
May read them not without some bitter tears.
Six months to six years added he remained
Upon this sinful earth, by sin unstained:
O blessed Lord! whose mercy then removed
A child whom every eye that looked on loved
Support us, teach us calmly to resign
What we possessed, and now is wholly thine!
IN THE CHAPEL-YARD OF LANGDALE, WESTMORELAND.
By playful smiles, (alas! too oft
A sad heart's sunshine) by a soft
And gentle nature, and a free
Yet modest hand of charity,
Through life was OWEN LLOYD endeared
To young and old; and how revered
Had been that pious spirit, a tide
Of humble mourners testified,
When, after pains dispensed to prove
The measure of God's chastening love,
Here, brought from far his corse found rest,-
Fulfilment of his own request; ·
Urged less for this Yew's shade, though he
Planted with such fond hope the tree;
Less for the love of stream and rock,
Dear as they were, than that his flock
When they no more their pastor's voice
Could hear to guide them in their choice
Through good and evil, help might have
Admonished, from his silent grave,
Of righteousness, of sins forgiven,
For peace on earth and bliss in heaven.
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