This patriot vow will then demand < May Union's wreath for ever twine Him, who can selfish pleasure scorn, The honour of my liberal host G. H. DRUMMOND. FINLAND SONG. ADDRESSED BY A MOTHER TO HER CHILD. SWEET bird of the meadow, oh, soft be thy rest! Thy mother will wake thee at morn from thy nest; She has made a soft nest, little red breast, for thee, Of the leaves of the birch and the moss of the tree. Then soothe thee, sweet bird of my bosom, once more ! "Tis Sleep, little infant, that stands at the door.— 'Where is the sweet babe?' you may hear how he cries, 'Where is the sweet babe in his cradle that lies, In his cradle, soft swaddled in vestments of down? 'Tis mine to watch o'er him till darkness be flown.' ANONYMOUS. DEATH. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF DERZHAVIN. Aн, that funereal toll! loud tongue of Time! What woes are centred in that frightful sound! It calls, it calls me with a voice sublime To the lone chambers of the burial ground. My life's first footsteps are midst yawning graves; A pale teeth-chattering spectre passes nigh, A scythe of lightning that pale spectre waves, Mows down man's days like grass, and hurries Nought his untired rapacity can cloy: [by. Monarchs and slaves are all the earthworm's And the wild raging elements destroy [food, Cities and empires Vandal death decays. We tremble on the borders of the abyss, And giddy totter headlong from on high; For death with life our common portion is, And man is only born that he may die. Death knows no sympathy; he tramples on All tenderness-extinguishes the starsTears from the firmament the glowing sun, And blots out worlds in his gigantic wars. But mortal man forgets mortality! His dreams crowd ages into life's short day;' While, like a midnight robber stealing by, Death plunders time by hour and hour away. When least we fear, then is the traitor nigh; When most secure we seem, he loves to come: Less sure than he, the bolts of thunder fly, Less sure than he, the lightning strikes the dome. He rules o'er all-and him must kings obey, Whose will no counsel knows and no control; The proud and gilded great ones are his prey, Who stand like pillars in a tyrant's hall. BOWRING. THE ASS AND THE NIGHTINGALE. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF KRILOW. AN ass a nightingale espied, 6 And shouted out, Holla! holla! good friend! As distant shepherd's pipe at evening's close :— No zephyr dares disturb the tranquil air:- And the charm'd flocks lay down beside the rill. The shepherd like a statue stands-afraid The poor bird Many such critics you and I have seen:- BOWRING. THE VOW. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF KOSTROV. THE rose is my favourite flower: I never would think of thee more. I scarcely the record had made, Ere zephyr, in frolicsome play, BOWRING. SONG. FROM THE RUSSIAN OF DAVIDOV. WHILE honouring the grape's ruby nectar, 'O my children, take care,' said the beldame, 'With thee in his company no man Can err,' said our wag with a wink; "But come, thou goodnatured old woman, There's a drop in the goblet-and drink!' She frown'd-but her scruples soon twisting, Consented and smilingly said: 'So polite-there's indeed no resisting, She drank, but continued her teaching, 6 But to say, Fill the goblet again.' And she drank, and she totter'd, but still she Was talking and shaking her head: Mutter'd' temperance'-' prudence'-until she Was carried by Folly to bed. BOWRING. |