Repose of all the peopled earth;

To thee, in Lethe's shades, gave birth
The Night, and taught thee how to bless
Mortals with long forgetfulness.

Thy wings of shadowy gloom diffuse
On all around their balmy dews,
And fan to peace and bland repose
The haggard family of woes.
Calm on old Ocean's placid breast,
Thou soothest the finny train to rest;
And deep amidst the forest glade
Still'st the wild tenants of the shade;
All nature feels thy fostering care,

All own thy bounteous gifts-all but my drooping

fair!

ROSCOE.

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF PANANTI.

Is beauty to thine outward form denied?
Let virtue's graceful veil its absence hide :
As Cæsar wreathed the laurel round his brow,
And hid the baldness of his head below.

G. M.

CANZONETS,

BY VALLONI, FROM THE SICILIAN DIALECT.

SWEET is the peach's purple bloom,
And grateful its ambrosial rind,
And sweet as is the rare perfume
The rich delicious fruit we find;

But in the midst a stone there lies,
And bitter will the kernel prove;
My coldness thus my heart belies,
And throbs with all the pangs of love.

I DREAMT, my fair, that thou and I
Were dead, and doom'd to lasting pain;
I for my love, that soar'd so high,

Thou punish'd for thy cold disdain.
But when thou met'st me all in woe,
It changed to joy thy hapless lot;
And when that lovely face I saw,
The pains of hell were all forgot.

ROSCOE.

SONG.

FROM THE SPANISH.

FAIR eyes! be not so proudly gay
In these your golden years:
The smile that gilds the cheek to-day,
To-morrow turns to tears.

My love, thou knowest not, thou art
So used to victories,

How heavy on a lover's heart

His love's unkindness lies.

Soon will thy coldness waste away
My few remaining years,

And thou, when I have pass'd away,
Mayst yet lament in tears.

Thou art so strong in loveliness,

So bright with beauty's arms,
Thy haughty coldness is not less
Than thy resplendent charms.

Yet think, ere death at rest shall lay
My sorrows and my fears,
That thou, when I am gone for aye,
Mayst yet lament in tears.

Thy mirthful mood shall change when thou
Shalt with sad eye discover
The death, alas! not distant now

Of thy too faithful lover.

Then shall the cold disdain give way,
That in thine eyes appears;

Fair eyes! although in smiles ye slay,
Ye shall repent in tears.

More deep, more bitter grows my care,
As grows thy cruelty;

My sighs are scatter'd on the air,
My hopes decay and die.

And can thy cheek be calmly gay

While mine such sadness wears? And canst thou bid me die to day,

To wail that death with tears?

ANONYMOUS.

ODE.

FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS DE LEON.

WHILE on bright Tago's banks reclined, And all to love's soft joys resign'd, Rodrigo panted on fair Caba's breast, Sudden, a seer of future woes,

The river's awful god arose,

And thus with boding groans the fearless chief address'd

'In vain, while horrors round thee rise,
Thy arms enfold their ravish'd prize,
The prize so fatal to thy princely line :
Soon shall the Moor, so fate has said,
Avenge the violated maid,

And wrest Iberia's throne from Odin's race divine.
In vain, with Gothic pride elate,
To suit thy shadowy dream of state,
Corduba rears her gilded roof on high:
No child of thine in years to come
Shall revel in the gorgeous dome:

Its alter'd echoes now to barbarous tongues reply.

'On Calpe's rocks with threatening hand
I see the injured father stand,

All torn his beard, and rent his hoary hair:
See, now he points to Libya's coast,
Now hails aloud the turban'd host,

And waves his purple flag of vengeance in the air.

* Don Rodrigo, the last of the Gothic kings of Spain, having offered violence to Caba, the daughter of Count Julian, that nobleman brought over the Saracens from Africa, who defeated Rodrigo in battle, and made themselves masters of his king.

dom.

VOL. VI.

TT

'With oars, that sparkle to the sun, Swift o'er the level waves they run,

Their broad sails whiten on the crowded main ;
And now their clashing arms I hear,
The trumpet's clang invades my ear,
Loud neigh the fiery steeds, and paw the rattling

'With Ceuta's race, renown'd in fight,
Fierce Barca's swarthy sons unite;
Tunis her mooned ensigns wide displays;
With flaming scimitar and shield'
Morocco's squadrons shake the field,

[plain.

On Alla's name they call, and shout the prophet's praise.

'O'er her rich meads with lifted lance Fair Betis sees their ranks advance,

Proud Seville hears, Granada shakes with dread, And Douro listens to the roar,

Ill fated Minho foams with gore, [dead. And distant Ebro groans with mountains of the

'To arms, great chief, to arms with speed! Let the sword rage, the battle bleed! [far? Kenn'st thou not yet the' approaching storm from Bid, bid thy knights their falchions wave, Nor thou be slow the day to save,

But like a comet blaze in the dark van of war!
'Yet ah! in vain: nor spear nor spell
The ruthless Saracen can quell,

That crush'd stern Afric with his iron yoke :
He, safely sheath'd in ribs of mail,
Defies thy sharpest arrowy hail,

Laughs at the javelin's hiss, and mocks the sabre's stroke.