TO SARA.

THE stream with languid murmur creeps
In Lumin's flowery vale;
Beneath the dew the lily weeps,

Slow waving to the gale.

"Cease, restless gale," it seems to say, "Nor wake me with thy sighing: The honours of my vernal day On rapid wings are flying.

"To-morrow shall the traveller come,
That erst beheld me blooming,
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,
Thus, lovely maiden, thou shalt seek
The youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze will roll

The voice of feeble power,

And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul,

In slumber's nightly hour.

1794.

TO JOSEPH COTTLE.

UNBOASTFUL Bard! whose verse concise, yet clear,
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,

May your fame fadeless live, as never-sere
The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence
Embowers me from noon's sultry influence!
For, like that nameless rivulet stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing quiet dear,

Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd ;-the charm'd eye
Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky.

Circling the base of the poetic mount,

A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow
Its coal-black waters from oblivion's fount:
The vapour-poison'd birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet
Beneath the mountain's lofty-frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,

A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlabouring feet.

Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast, That, like some giant king, o'er-glooms the hill; Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast Makes solemn music! but th' unceasing rill To the soft wren or lark's descending trill, Murmurs sweet undersong mid jasmine bowers. In this same pleasant meadow, at your will, I ween, you wander'd-there collecting flowers Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers!

There for the monarch-murder'd soldier's tomb You wove th' unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues; And to that holier chaplet added bloom, Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews. But lo! your Henderson awakes the MuseHis spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height ! You left the plain, and soar'd mid richer views. So Nature mourn'd, when sank the first day's light, With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!

Still soar, my friend! those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing fancy's beam!
Virtue and truth shall love your gentler song;
But poesy demands th' impassion'd theme.
Wak'd by heaven's silent dews at eve's mild gleam,
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around!
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream,

Or autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest-honour'd
ground!
1795.

CASIMIR.

If we except Lucretius and Statius, I know no Latin poet, ancient or modern, who has equalled Casimir in boldness of conception, opulence of fancy, or beauty of versification. The Odes of this illustrious Jesuit were translated into English about 150 years ago, by a G. Hils, I think.* I never saw the translation. A few of the Odes have been translated in a very animated manner by Watts. I have sub

The Odes of Casimire translated by G. H. [G. Hils.] London, 1646. 12mo. Ed.

joined the third Ode of the second Book, which, with the exception of the first line, is an effusion of exquisite elegance. In the imitation attempted, I am sensible that I have destroyed the effect of suddenness, by translating into two stanzas what is one in the original. 1796.

AD LYRAM.

SONORA buxi filia sutilis,
Pendebis alta, barbite, populo,
Dum ridet aer, et supinas
Solicitat levis aura frondes.

Te sibilantis lenior halitus
Perflabit Euri: me juvet interim
Collum reclinasse, et virenti
Sic temere jacuisse ripa.

Eheu! serenum quæ nebulæ tegunt
Repente cælum! quis sonus imbrium!
Surgamus-heu semper fugaci
Gaudia præteritura passu!

IMITATION.

THE solemn-breathing air is ended-
Cease, O Lyre! thy kindred lay!
From the poplar branch suspended,
Glitter to the eye of day!

Had Casimir any better authority for this quantity than Tertullian's line,

Immemor ille Dei temere committere tale-?

In the classic poets the last syllable is, I believe, uniformly cut off.

Ed.

On thy wires, hov'ring, dying,
Softly sighs the summer wind:
I will slumber, careless lying,
By yon waterfall reclin❜d.

In the forest hollow-roaring,

Hark! I hear a deep'ning sound—
Clouds rise thick with heavy low'ring!
See! th' horizon blackens round!

Parent of the soothing measure,
Let me seize thy wetted string!
Swiftly flies the flatterer, pleasure,
Headlong, ever on the wing!

DARWINIANA.

THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.

(COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN ABSENCE.)

DIM Hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar,
O rise, and yoke the turtles to thy car!

Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove,
And give me to the bosom of my love!
My gentle love! caressing and carest,
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest;
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes,
Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs;
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,
Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek.