MEEK spirit, who so early didst depart,
Thou art at rest in heaven! I linger here,
And feed the lonely anguish of my heart,
Thinking of all that made existence dear,
All lost! If in the happy world above,
Remembrance of this mortal life endure,
Thou wilt not there forget the perfect love
Which still thou seest in me, O spirit pure!
And if the irremediable grief,
The woe which never hopes on earth relief,
May merit aught of thee, prefer thy prayer
To God, who took thee early to his rest,
That it may please him soon amid the bless'd
To summon me, dear maid, to meet thee there.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.
I WHISPER'D her my last adieu,
I gave a mournful kiss ;
Cold showers of sorrow bathed her eyes, And her poor heart was torn with sighs; Yet-strange to tell-'twas then I knew Most perfect bliss.
For Love, at other times suppress'd,
Was all betray'd at this-
I saw him weeping in her eyes,
I heard him breathe among her sighs, And every sob which shook her breast
Thrill'd mine with bliss.
The sight which keen affection clears,
How can it judge amiss?
To me it pictured hope, and taught
My spirit this consoling thought,
That Love's sun, though it rise in tears,
May set in bliss.
WHEN day has smiled a soft farewell,
And nightdrops bathe each shutting bell,
And shadows sail along the green,
And birds are still, and winds serene,
I wander silently.
And while my lone step prints the dew,
Dear are the dreams that bless my view!
To Memory's eye the maid appears,
For whom have sprung my sweetest tears,
So oft, so tenderly:
I see her, as with graceful care
She binds her braids of sunny hair;
I feel her harp's melodious thrill
Strike to my heart, and thence be still
Reechoed faithfully:
I meet her mild and quiet eye,
Drink the warm spirit of her sigh,
See young Love beating in her breast,
And wish to mine its pulses press'd,
God knows how fervently!
Such are my hours of dear delight,
And morn but makes me long for night,
And think how swift the minutes flew,
When last among the dropping dew
THOU hast an eye of tender blue,
And thou hast locks of Daphne's hue,
And cheeks that shame the morning's break,
And lips that might for redness make
Roses seem pale beside them;
But whether soft or sweet as they,
Lady, alas! I cannot say,
For I have never tried them.
Yet, thus created for delight,
Lady! thou art not lovely quite ;
For dost thou not this maxim know,
That Prudery is Beauty's foe,
A stain that mars a jewel!
And e'en that woman's angel face
Loses a portion of its grace,
If woman's heart be cruel!
Love is a sweet and blooming boy,
Yet glowing with the blush of joy,
And (still in youth's delicious prime)
Though aged as patriarchal Time,
The withering god despises :
Lady! wouldst thou for ever be
As fair and young and fresh as he--
Do all that Love advises.
THOU pride of the forest! whose dark branches
[green, To the sigh of the south wind their tremulous And the tinge of whose buds is as rich and as red
As the mellowing blushes of maiden eighteen!
O'er thee may the tempest in gentleness blow, And the lightnings of summer pass harmlessly by ; For ever thy buds keep their mellowing glow,
Thy branches still wave to the southernly sigh. Because in thy shade, as I lately reclined,
The sweetest of visions arose to my view; "Twas the swoon of the soul-'twas the transport of mind
'Twas the happiest minute that ever I knew. For this shalt thou still be my favourite tree,In the heart of the poet thou never canst fade ; It shall often be warm'd by remembering thee, And the dream which I dreamt in thy tremulous shade.
FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF DE MATOS.
HIGH in the front of conquering hosts to ride
Be yours, ye sons of fortune, sons of fame!
Be yours the triumph of a deathless name,
While spoils of vanquish'd nations swell your pride!
Lift to the breeze your banners streaming wide,
While captive nations bend the knee below!
Let the fair galley's lofty gilded prow
Shine o'er the dancing billows of the tide!
With vaunted chiefs of Greece and mighty Rome
Be yours beneath the sacred shade to march,
Where palm and laurel form the victor's arch,
While lofty minstrels chant the nations' doom!
But leave to me the conquest of my fair,
With her soft azure eyes and auburn hair.
THE LAY OF THE LITTLE BIRD.
FROM A FRENCH FABLIAU.
IN days of yore, at least a century since,
There lived a carle as wealthy as a prince:
His name I wot not; but his wide domain
Was rich with stream and forest, mead and plain;
To crown the whole, one manor he possess'd,
In choice delight so passing all the rest,
No castle, burgh, or city might compare
With the quaint beauties of that mansion rare.
The sooth to say, I fear my words may seem
Like some strange fabling or fantastic dream,
If, unadvised, the portraiture I trace,
And each brave pleasure of that peerless place;
Foreknow ye then, by necromantic might
Was raised this paradise of all delight;
A good knight own'd it first; he, bow'd with age,
Died, and his son possess'd the heritage:
But the lewd stripling, all to riot bent
(His chattels quickly wasted and forespent),
Was driven to see this patrimony sold
To the base carle of whom I lately told.
Ye wot right well there only needs be sought One spendthrift heir to bring great wealth to
A lofty tower and strong, the building stood
Midst a vast plain surrounded by a flood;
And hence one pebble-paved channel stray'd,
That compass'd in a clustering orchard's shade:
"Twas a choice charming plat; abundant round
Flowers, roses, odorous spices clothed the ground;
Unnumber'd kinds, and all profusely shower'd
Such aromatic balsam as they flower'd,
|