ELENTLESS power, whose iron grasp extends
o'er every tie that gives creation charms;
from fond affection's bleeding bosom rends
each social comfort circled in her arms.
Detested fiend, to pour woe's bitter draught
o'er drooping youth and sinking age, is thine:
blast the fine form with feeling beauty fraught,
and bear e'en lisping babes to sorrow's shrine.
For not alone is thy dread arm confest
where legal murders stain the smoking ground:
thy baneful poignard strikes the distant breast
and from afar inflicts the secret wound:
chases fair pleasure from the paths of life,
to haunt its ways with misery, pain and strife.
WEET poet of the woods, a long adieu!
farewell soft minstrel of the early year!
Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew
and pour thy music on the night's dull ear.
Whether on spring thy wandering flights await
or whether silent in our groves you dwell,
the pensive Muse shall own you for her mate
and still protect the song she loves so well.
With cautious step the lovelorn youth shall glide
thro' the lone glade that shades thy mossy nest,
and shepherd-girls from eyes profane shall hide
the gentle bird who sings of pity best;
for still thy voice shall soft affections move
and still be dear to sorrow and to love,
UEEN of the silver bow, by thy pale beam,
alone and pensive, I delight to stray
and watch thy shadow trembling in the stream
or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way:
and while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
and oft I think, fair planet of the night,
that in thy orb the wretched may have rest,
the sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
released by death, to thy benignant sphere;
and the sad children of despair and woe
forget in thee their cup of sorrow here.
O that I soon may reach thy world serene,
poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene!
N thy grey bark, in witness of my flame,
graced with the lovely letters of her name,
henceforth be sacred to my love and me!
Tho' the tall elm, the oak and darker pine,
with broader arms, may noon's fierce ardours break,
to shelter me and her I love be thine;
and thine to see her smile and hear her speak.
No bird ill-omen'd round thy graceful head
shall clamour harsh or wave his heavy wing,
but fern and flowers arise beneath thy shade
where the wild bees their lullabies shall sing.
And in thy boughs the murmuring ring-dove rest;
and there the nightingale shall build her nest.
C. SMITH from Metastasio
UST Guardian of man's social bliss, for thee
the paths of danger gladly would I tread:
for thee contented join the glorious dead
who nobly scorned a life that was not free.
But worse than death it pains my soul to see
the Lord of ruin, by wild Uproar led,
Hell's first-born, Anarchy exalt his head
and seize thy throne and bid us bow the knee!
What though his iron sceptre, blood-imbrued,
crush half the nations with resistless might;
never shall this firm spirit be subdued:
in chains, in exile, still the chanted rite,
O Liberty, to thee shall be renewed:
O still be sea-girt Albion thy delight!
POETRY OF THE ANTI-JACOBIN
THE HOSPICE OF SAINT BERNARD
HERE these rude rocks on Bernard's summit nod,
once heavenwards sprung the throne of Pennine Jove, an ancient shrine of hospitable Love,
now burns the altar to the Christian's God.
Here peaceful piety, age on age, has trod
the waste; still keeps her vigils, takes her rest;
still as of yore salutes the coming guest
and cheers the weary as they onward rove,
healing each wayworn limb; or oft will start,
catching the storm-lost wanderer's sinking cry,
speed the rich cordial to his ebbing heart,
chafe his stiff limbs and bid him not to die.
So tasked to smoothe stern winter's drifting wing
and garb the eternal snows in more eternal spring.
OW fearful 'tis to walk the sounding shore,
when lours the sky and winds are piping loud and round the beach the tearful maidens crowd scared at the swelling surge and thunder's roar! High o'er the cliff the screaming sea-mews soar, lost is the adventurous bark in stormy clouds, the shrill blast whistles through the fluttering shrouds, and lo! the gallant crew, that erst before
secure rode tilting o'er the placid wave,
scarce know to stem the black and boisterous main; and view with eyes aghast their watery grave. So fares it with the breast of him, the swain, who quits Content for mad Ambition's lore, short are his days and distant far the shore.
TATELY yon vessel sails adown the tide
the sailors' busy cries from side to side
pealing among the echoing rocks resound;
a patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band,
joyful they enter on their ocean way,
with shouts exulting leave their native land,
and know no care beyond the present day.
But is there no poor mourner left behind,
who sorrows for a child or husband there?
who at the howling of the midnight wind
will wake and tremble in her boding prayer?
So may her voice be heard and Heaven be kind!
go, gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair!
EE, whilst thou weep'st, fair Cloe, see
world in sympathy with thee:
the cheerful birds no longer sing;
each droops his head and hangs his wing:
the clouds have bent their bosom lower,
and shed their sorrows in a shower:
the brooks beyond their limits flow;
and louder murmurs speak their woe:
the nymphs and swains adopt thy cares;
they heave thy sighs, and weep thy tears.
Fantastic nymph! that grief should move
thy heart obdurate against Love:
strange tears! whose power can soften all
but that dear breast on which they fall.
ΞΕΙΝΟΣ ̓Αταρνείτης τις ἀνήρετο Πιττακὸν οὕτως τὸν Μιτυληναῖον, παῖδα τὸν Ὑρραδέω,
“Αττα γέρον, δοιός με καλεῖ γάμος· ἡ μία μὲν δὴ νύμφη καὶ πλούτῳ καὶ γενέη κατ' ἐμέ·
ἡ δ' ἑτέρη προβέβηκε. τί λώϊον ; εἰ δ ̓ ἄγε, σύν μοι βούλευσον, ποτέρην εἰς ὑμέναιον ἄγω.
εἶπεν· ὁ δὲ σκίπωνα, γεροντικὸν ὅπλον, ἀειράς
“ ἠνίδε, κεῖνοι σοὶ πᾶν ἐρέουσιν ἔπος.
(οἱ δ ̓ ἄρ ̓ ὑπὸ πληγῇσι θοὰς βέμβικας ἔχοντες
ἔστρεφον εὐρείῃ παῖδες ἐνὶ τριόδῳ,)
• κείνων ἔρχει φησί ' μετ ̓ ἴχνια. χὼ μὲν ἐπέστη
πλησίον· οἱ δ ̓ ἔλεγον “τὴν κατὰ σαυτὸν ἔλα ̓.
ταῦτ ̓ αΐων ὁ ξεῖνος ἐφείσατο μείζονος οἴκου
δράξασθαι παίδων κληδόνι συνθέμενος.
τὴν δ ̓ ὀλίγην ὡς κεῖνος ἐς οἶκον ἀπήγετο νύμφην οὕτω καὶ σύ γ ̓ ἴων τὴν κατὰ σαυτὸν ἔλα.
MALL are my treasures, my domain is small;
but quietude makes that blameless little, great:
my tranquil mind no tremors agitate—
heedless if men my days should slothful call.
Go seek the camp-ascend some curule throne-
all the vain joys that sway the bosom taste!
mean though I am, by no distinctions graced,
still, while I live, I call the hours mine own.
J. DUNLOP
HOU little star, that in the purple clouds
hang'st like a dew-drop in a violet-bed;
as thro' my tears my soul looks up to thee,
loathing the heavy chains that bind it here,
there comes a fearful thought that misery
perhaps is found even in thy distant sphere.
Art thou a world of sorrow and of sin,
the heritage of death disease decay;
a wilderness like that we wander in,
where all things fairest soonest pass away? and are there graves in thee, thou radiant world, round which life's sweetest buds fall withered, where hope's bright wings in the dark earth lie furled and living hearts are mouldering with the dead?
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