To wander o'er the world and ocean waste,
Or for the blasting thunderbolt of war?
Was this his being's end? Oh! how he errs,
Who of his godlike nature and his God
Thus poorly, basely, blasphemously deems!
For higher actions, and for loftier ends,
Our better part, the deathless and divine,
Was formed. The fire that animates my breast
May not be quench'd, and when that breast is cold,
The unextinguishable fire shall burn

With brighter splendour: till that hour arrive,
Obedient to my better part, my friend,

Be it my lot to live, and through the world,
Careless of human praise, pass quietly.
The Eastern despot, he whose silver towers
Shot back a rival radiance to the sun,
He was too poor for Sin's extravagance;
But Virtue, like the air and light of Heaven,
To all accessible, at every heart

Entreats admittance. Wretched fool is he
Who, through the perils of the earth and waves,
Toils on for wealth! A little peaceful home
Bounds all my wants and wishes, add to this
My book and friend, and this is happiness.

T. Y.

CANZON.

FROM THE SPANISH OF CAMOENS.

O, WEEP not thus

we both shall know

Ere long a happier doom;

There is a place of rest below,

Where thou and I shall surely go,

And sweetly sleep, released from woe'

Within the tomb.

My cradle was the couch of Care,
And Sorrow rock'd me in it;
Fate seem'd her saddest robe to wear
On the first day that saw me there,
And darkly shadow'd with despair

My earliest minute.

E'en then the griefs I now possess,

As natal boons were given;
And the fair form of Happiness,
Which hover'd round, intent to bless,
Scared by the phantoms of distress,

Flew back to heaven!

For I was made in Joy's despite,
And meant for Misery's slave;

And all my hours of brief delight
Fled, like the speedy winds of night,
Which soon shall wheel their sullen flight
Across my grave!

LORD STRANGFORD.

ODE TO INES DE GUETE.

FROM THE SPANISH OF RIACHAELO *.
DEAREST, wouldst thou but believe
A heart that knows not to deceive,
Alas, nor longer free:

That faithful heart should truly tell
The secret charm, the tender spell,
That bound it first to thee!

The best account of Riachaelo and his far-famed mistress is to be found in the second edition of his works, printed at Madrid, in 4to. 1601, page 22-37.

'Tis not, that cradled in thine eyes The baby Love for ever lies

On couches dipp'd in dew.

"Tis not because those eyes have won Their temper'd light from April's sun, From heaven-their tints of blue!

'Tis not that o'er a bank of snow
Thy parted tresses lightly flow
In bands of braided gold;

Nor yet because the hand of Grace
Has form'd that dear enchanting face
In Beauty's happier mould.

No-dearest, no-but, from my soul,
It was a little smile that stole

The cherish'd sweets of rest.

And ever since, from morn till night,
That little smile still haunts my sight,
In dimples gaily dress'd.

E'en now, by Fancy's eyes, are seen
The polish'd rows that break between
Two lips that breathe of May.
E'en now-but oh-by Passion taught,
Young Fancy forms too bold a thought
For timid love to say.

Yet, dearest, wouldst thou but believe
A heart that knows not to deceive,

Alas, nor longer free;

"Twould tell thee thou couldst ne'er impart A smile of thine to cheer a heart

More truly bound to thee!

"Twould beg, with a beseeching sigh,
One glance from Pity's meaning eye
Its every pang to pay.

"Twould hint, perchance, at happier hours,
When Hope may strew her fairy flowers
O'er Life's bewildered way.

Yet-should my days in sorrow flow,
Nor Fortune's loitering hand bestow
A single boon to me,

The frowns of Care I'd bravely meet,
And never deem my woes complete
Till banish'd far from thee!

LORD STRANGFORD.

SONNET.

FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOMÉ LEONARDO.

PARENT of good! since all thy laws are just, Say, why permits thy judging providence Oppression's hand to bow meek innocence, And gives prevailing strength to fraud and lust? Who steels with stubborn force the arm unjust, That proudly wars against Omnipotence? Who bids thy faithful sons, that reverence Thine holy will, be humbled in the dust?

Amid the din of joy fair Virtue sighs, While the fierce conqueror binds his impious head With laurel, and the car of triumph rolls! [eyes Thus I;-when radiant 'fore my wondering A heavenly spirit stood, and smiling said'Blind moralist, is earth the sphere of souls?'

HON. W. HERBERT.

SONNETS FROM THE SPANISH.

THE sun has chased away the early shower,
And now upon the mountain's clearer height
Pours o'er the clouds, aslant, his glowing light.
The husbandman, loathing the idle hour,
Starts to his rest, and to his daily toil

Light-hearted man goes forth; and patient now As the slow ox drags on the heavy plough, With the young harvest fills the reeking soil. Domestic love his due return awaits, [cates; With the clean board bespread with country And clustering round his knee his children press; His days are pleasant, and his nights secure. Oh cities! haunts of power and wretchedness, Who would your busy vanities endure?

LUPERCIO.

T. Y.

ZEPHYR returns, and sheds with liberal hand Foliage and buds around and odorous flowers; Nurses the purple rose with dewy showers, Gilds the bright sky, and clothes the verdant land; The stream flows clear, by temperate breezes fann'd,

And sweetly sing the birds in shady bowers, Cheerless and mute while angry winter lours, Now blithely ringing with the feather'd band. Never, O ruthless Time, implored in vain, Beams forth thy spring to my unalter'd fate, Nor decks my wither'd hopes with bloom again! Some fondly dread the changes of thy state, Who hold the treasure which they strove to gain; I mourn thy steadfast unrelenting hate.

QUEVEDO,

HON. W. HERBERT.