SONG FROM AFAR. Translated from a German Poem, by Matthison. SMITH WHEN in the last faint light of ev'ning, A gentle sigh its bosom heaving, Whilst thou in oaken grove dost lie; It is the spirit of thy friend Which whispers,-"All thy cares shall end.” Paints fairy scenes before thine eyes; When, deep in fields of ancient story, Hear'st thou, when silver stars are shining, A sound as Eol's harp divine, Now the wild wind full chords combining,. Now softly murm'ring,-Ever thine! Then careless sleep, to guard thy peace My watchful spirit ne'er shall cease! MORAL STANZAS. TALBOT. WELCOME the real state of things, Where clouds, pil'd up by fancy's hand, Here the gay sunshine of content Hesperian trees amidst my grove Nor would I have the Phoenix build Henceforth no pleasure I desire Friendship I ask, without caprice, may Health that best its value prove, Thus would I pass my hours away, Extracting good from all; Till time shall from my sliding feet PEACE AND GLORY. Written at the commencement of the present War. MOORE. WHERE is now the smile that lighten'd Must the bay be pluck'd again? Passing hour of sunny weather, When the timid maid would listen Is the hour of dalliance over? Soothing light that long shall sparkle While around him myriads perish, TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. WHITE. SWEET scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wint'ry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, And, as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song, And sweet the strain shall be, and long, Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell Come, press my lips and lie with me, And we will sleep a pleasant sleep; And hark! the wind-god as he flies, Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, The cold turf altar of the dead; A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. STANZAS. MOORE, A beam of tranquility smil'd in the West, Its passions were sleeping,-were mute as the dead, And the spirit becalmed, but remember'd their power, As the billow the force of the gale that was fled! I thought of the days when to pleasure alone My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh; When the saddest emotion my bosom had known, Was pity for those who were wiser than I! I felt, how the pure intellectual fire In luxury loses its heavenly ray; How soon in the lavishing cup of desire, The pearl of the soul may be melted away! And I pray'd of that spirit who lighted the flame, That pleasure no more might its purity dim; And that sullied but little, or brightly the same, I might give back the gem I had borrow'd of him. The thought was extatic! I felt as if heaven Had already the wreath of eternity shown; As if, passion all chasten'd and error forgiven, My heart had begun to be purely its own. I look'd to the West, and the beautiful sky Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more: · “ Oh! thus," I exclaim'd, " can a heavenly eye Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before!" |