Thus to my prayer be given
The triumph of the day;
That I may taste of heaven,
While here on earth I stay.
To thee, O God, I haste,
With grace a sinner greet!
With joy my load I cast
At thine Almighty feet:
I mourn, by error taken,
By snares of sin betray'd:
Then save a child forsaken,
Relying on thine aid!

G. H. DRUMMOND.

SONG.

FROM THE SWEDISH.

Ir ne'er can be a joy of mine
To drown a useful day in wine;
But when the friendly circle meet,
The cheerful, social glass is sweet.
Five senses given for delight,
To equal toasts our minds invite;
And if we fairly drink them up,
Thirst will not need another cup.
My first must e'er devoted be
To her who is the world to me;
Whose tender love all care dispels,
All rapture in whose bosom dwells.
Ye generous friends! ye chosen few!
My next I consecrate to you;

From you the charms I've learn'd to prize
Of cheering, soothing sympathies.

This patriot vow will then demand
A bumper to my native land;

'May Union's wreath for ever twine
Around fair Freedom's holy shrine !'
Next greets my heart's applauding sense,
The man of pure beneficence;

Him, who can selfish pleasure scorn,
To aid the wretched and forlorn.

The honour of my liberal host
Must be my fifth concluding toast;
And whilst I such libation pour,
My spirits tell, I want no more.

G. H. DRUMMOND.

FINLAND SONG.

ADDRESSED BY A MOTHER TO HER CHILD.

SWEET bird of the meadow, oh, soft be thy rest! Thy mother will wake thee at morn from thy nest; She has made a soft nest, little red breast, for thee, Of the leaves of the birch and the moss of the tree. Then soothe thee, sweet bird of my bosom, once more!

'Tis Sleep, little infant, that stands at the door.'Where is the sweet babe? you may hear how he cries,

'Where is the sweet babe in his cradle that lies, In his cradle, soft swaddled in vestments of down? "Tis mine to watch o'er him till darkness be flown."

ANONYMOUS.

DEATH.

FROM THE RUSSIAN OF DERZHAVIN.

Ан, that funereal toll! loud tongue of Time! What woes are centred in that frightful sound! It calls, it calls me with a voice sublime

To the lone chambers of the burial ground. My life's first footsteps are midst yawning graves; A pale teeth-chattering spectre passes nigh, A scythe of lightning that pale spectre waves, Mows down man's days like grass, and hurries Nought his untired rapacity can cloy:

[by.

[food,

Monarchs and slaves are all the earthworm's And the wild raging elements destroy Even the recording tomb. Vicissitude Devours the pride of glory; as the sea Insatiate drinks the waters, even so days And years are lost in deep eternity;

Cities and empires Vandal death decays. We tremble on the borders of the abyss,

And giddy totter headlong from on high; For death with life our common portion is, And man is only born that he may die. Death knows no sympathy; he tramples on All tenderness-extinguishes the starsTears from the firmament the glowing sun, And blots out worlds in his gigantic wars. But mortal man forgets mortality!

His dreams crowd ages into life's short day; While, like a midnight robber stealing by,

Death plunders time by hour and hour away.

When least we fear, then is the traitor nigh; When most secure we seem, he loves to come: Less sure than he, the bolts of thunder fly,

Less sure than he, the lightning strikes the dome. He rules o'er all-and him must kings obey, Whose will no counsel knows and no control; The proud and gilded great ones are his prey, Who stand like pillars in a tyrant's hall.

BOWRING.

THE ASS AND THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE RUSSIAN OF KRILOW.

AN ass a nightingale espied,

6

And shouted out, Holla! holla! good friend!
Thou art a first rate singer, they pretend :-
Now let me hear thee, that I may decide;
I really wish to know-the world is partial ever-
If thou hast this great gift, and art indeed so clever.'

The nightingale began her heavenly lays;
Through all the regions of sweet music ranging,
Varying her song a thousand different ways;
Rising and falling, lingering, ever changing:
Full of wild rapture now-then sinking oft
To almost silence-melancholy, soft

As distant shepherd's pipe at evening's close :--
Strewing the wood with lovelier music;-there
All nature seems to listen and repose:
No zephyr dares disturb the tranquil air:
All other voices of the grove are still;

And the charm'd flocks lay down beside the rill.

The shepherd like a statue stands-afraid His breathing may disturb the melody, His finger pointing to the harmonious tree, Seems to say, 'Listen!' to his favourite maid. The singer ended:-and our critic bow'd His reverend head to earth, and said aloud:'Now that's so so; thou really hast some merit, Curtail thy song and critics then might hear it : Thy voice wants sharpness:-but if chanticleer Would give thee a few lessons, doubtless he Might raise thy voice and modulate thy ear; And thou, in spite of all thy faults, mayst be A very decent singer.'

The poor bird
In silent modesty the critic heard,

And wing'd her peaceful flight into the air,
O'er many and many a field and forest fair.

Many such critics you and I have seen:-
Heaven be our screen!

BOWRING.

THE VOW.

FROM THE RUSSIAN OF KOSTROV.

THE rose is my favourite flower:
On its tablets of crimson I swore,
That up to my last living hour

I never would think of thee more.

I scarcely the record had made,

Ere zephyr, in frolicsome play, On his light airy pinions convey'd Both tablet and promise away.

BOWRING.