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« Fair child, whose face is like to mine,

Oh, come,” he said, “and fly with me;
Come forth to happiness divine,

For earth is all unworthy thee.
Here perfect bliss thou canst not know;

The soul amidst its pleasures sighs ;
All sounds of joy are full of wo;

Enjoyments are but miseries,
Fear stalks amidst the gorgeous shows;

And, though serene the day may rise,
It lasts not brilliant to its close,

And tempests sleep in calmest skies.
Alas! shall sorrow, doubts, and fears,

Deform a brow so pure as this?
And shall the bitterness of tears

Dim those blue eyes that speak of bliss?
No, no!-along the realms of space,

Far from all care let us begone;
Kind Providence shall give thee grace

For those few years thou might'st live on.
No mourning weeds, no sound of wail,

Thy chainless spirit shall annoy;
Thy kindred shall thy absence hail

Éven as thy coming gave them joy.
No cloud on any brow shall rest,

Nought speak of tombs or sadness there;
Of beings like thee, pure and blest,

The latest hour shall be most fair."
The angel shook his snowy wings,

And through the fields of ether sped,
Where heaven's eternal music rings-

Mother, alas! thy son is dead !
-JEAN REBOUL.

Athenxunto

THE STAR OF PEACE.

FAIR Astræa, quit thy sphere,

Thou, so longed for in our clime;
Come, and make thy sojourn here

For a time!
Civil flames have now too long

Stirring wrath and whetting swords;
Long hath famine gnawed our hoards;
Pestilence, and ruin's darts,
Long have lost us thy sweet arts.

Tempests do not ever roar

In the trembling pilot's ears ;
Rocks do not on every shore

Wake his fears.
Thunder, terrible and loud,
Comes not always from the cloud,
Nor the flashing, nor the flame ;
Ofttimes will the storm grow tame,
And the gloom will disappear,
And the clouded sky be clear.

Show to us thy lovely face,

At this season fresh and new,
Let
us, for sweet ruth, find grace

In thy view.
Let, beneath thy honoured hand,
Golden grain re-deck the land !
Come, more gracious than the star
Which directs the solar car,
When the god on the void air
Shakes abroad his golden hair!

When thy coming is at hand,

Let the heavens pour on the winds
Odours sweet and perfumes bland,

Of all kinds,
With honey and with manna showers;
So that this fair France of ours
May enjoy a beauteous spring,
To which time no end shall bring,
Nor the changes that have birth

On this fickle, shifting earth.
-De BELLEAU.

APRIL

APRIL, sweet month, the daintiest of all,

Fair thee befall !
April, fond hope of fruits that lie
In buds of swathing cotton wrapt,

There closely lapt,
Nursing their tender infancy.

“ Fair child, whose face is like to mine,

Oh, come,” he said, “ and fly with me;
Come forth to happiness divine,

For earth is all unworthy thee.

Here perfect bliss thou canst not know;

The soul amidst its pleasures sighs ;
All sounds of joy are full of wo;

Enjoyments are but miseries.
Fear stalks amidst the gorgeous shows;

And, though serene the day may rise,
It lasts not brilliant to its close,

And tempests sleep in calmest skies.
Alas! shall sorrow, doubts, and fears,

Deform a brow so pure as this?
And shall the bitterness of tears

Dim those blue eyes that speak of bliss ?
No, no!-along the realms of space,

Far from all care let us begone;
Kind Providence shall give thee grace

For those few years thou might'st live on.
No mourning weeds, no sound of wail,

Thy chainless spirit shall annoy;
Thy kindred shall thy absence hail

Éven as thy coming gave them joy.
No cloud on any brow shall rest,

Nought speak of tombs or sadness there;
Of beings like thee, pure and blest,

The latest hour shall be most fair."

The angel shook his snowy wings,

And through the fields of ether sped,
Where heaven's eternal music rings-

Mother, alas! thy son is dead!
JEAN REBOUL.

Athenaunt.

THE STAR OF PEACE.

FAIR Astræa, quit thy sphere,

Thou, so longed for in our clime;
Come, and make thy sojourn here

For a time!
Civil flames have now too long

Stirring wrath and whetting swords;
Long hath famine gnawed our boards;
Pestilence, and ruin's darts,
Long have lost us thy sweet arts.

Tempests do not ever roar

In the trembling pilot's ears ;
Rocks do not on every shore

Wake his fears.
Thunder, terrible and loud,
Comes not always from the cloud,
Nor the flashing, nor the flame;
Ofttimes will the storm grow tame,
And the gloom will disappear,
And the clouded sky be clear.

Show to us thy lovely face,

At this season fresh and new,
Let

us, for sweet ruth, find grace

In thy view.
Let, beneath thy honoured hand,
Golden grain re-deck the land !
Come, more gracious than the star
Which directs the solar car,
When the god on the void air
Shakes abroad his golden hair!

When thy coming is at hand,

Let the heavens pour on the winds
Odours sweet and perfumes bland,

Of all kinds,
With honey and with manna showers ;
So that this fair France of ours
May enjoy a beauteous spring,
To which time no end shall bring,
Nor the changes that have birth

On this fickle, shifting earth.
-DE BELLEAU.

APRIL

APRIL, sweet month, the daintiest of all.

Fair thee befall !
April, fond hope of fruits that lie
In buds of swathing cotton wrapt,

There closely lapt,
Nursing their tender infancy.

April, that dost thy yellow, green, and blue,

All round thee strew,
When, as thou goest, the grassy

floor Is with a million flowers depaint,

Whose colours quaint,
Have diapered the meadows o'er.

April, at whose glad coming zephyrs rise

With whispered sighs,
Then on their light wing brush away,
And hang amid the woodlands fresh

Their airy mesh,
To tangle Flora on her way.
April, it is thy hand that doth unlock,

From plain and rock,
Odours and hues, a balmy store,
That breathing lie on nature's breast,

So richly blest,
That earth or heaven can ask no more.

April, thy blooms, amid the tresses laid

Of my sweet maid,
Adown her neck and bosom flow;
And in a wild profusion there,

Her shining hair
With them hath blent a golden glow.

April, the dimpled smiles, the playful grace,

That in the face
Of Cytherea haunt, are thine;
And thine the breath, that from their skies

The deities
Inhale, an offering at thy shrine.

'Tis thou that dost with summons blithe and soft,

High up aloft,
From banishment these heralds bring,
These swallows, that along the air

Scud swift, and bear
Glad tidings of the merry spring.
April, the hawthorn and the eglantine,

Purple woodbine,
Streaked pink, and lily-cup, and rose,
And thyme, and marjoram, are spreading,

Where thou art treading,

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