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Like eastern kings, a lazy state they kecp,
And, close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.

From these, perhaps, (ere nature bade her die,
Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.
As into air the purer spirits flow,
And sep’rate from their kindred dregs below;
So flew the soul to its congenial place,
Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.

But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood! See on these ruby lips the trembling breath, These cheeks, now fading at the blast of death : Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if Eternal Justice rule the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates. There passengers shall stand, and, pointing, say, (While the long fun’rals blacken all the way,) Lo! these were they whose fouls the furies steeld, And curs’d with hearts unknowing how to yield. Thus unlamented pass the proud away, The

gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! So perilh all, whose breast ne'er learnt to glow For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

What can atone, O ever-injur'd shade! Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid ? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas’d thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier. By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos’d, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos’d; By foreign hands thy humble

grave adorn’d, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd. What though no friends in fable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances and the public show; What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face: What though no sacred earth allow thee room, Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;

Yet shall thy grave with rising flow’rs be dress’d,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breaft:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels, with their silver wings, o'ershade
The ground now sacred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot ;
A heap of duft alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the prais’d ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.. E’en he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays ; Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart; Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er, The muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

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And aid my languid lays:
Let me not link in floth supine,
While all creation at thy shrine

Its annual tribute pays.
Escap'd from winter's freezing pow'r,
Each blossom greets thee, and each flow'r;

And, foremost of the train,
By nature (artless handmaid !) dress’d,
The snow-drop comes in lily'd vest,

Prophetic of thy reign.
The lark now strains ber tuneful throat,
While ev'ry loud and sprightly note

Calls Echo from her cell.

Beware! ye maids, that listen round,
A beauteous nymph became a found,

The nymph who lov’d too well.
The bright-hair'd lun, with warmth benign,
Bids tree, and shrub, and swelling vine

Their infant buds display:
Again the streams refreth the plains,
Which winter bound in icy chains,

And, sparkling, bless his ray.
Life-giving zephyr breathes around;
And instant glows th' enamellid ground

With nature's vary'd hues :
Not so returns our youth decay'd;
Alas! nor air, nor sun, nor shade

The spring of life renews..
The sun's too quick-revolving beam
Apace dissolves the human dream,

And brings th' appointed hour:
Too late we catch his parting ray,
And mourn the idly wasted day,

No longer in our pow'r. Then happieft he, whose lengthen'd fight Pursues by virtue's constant light,

A hope beyond the skies: Where frowning winter ne’er shall come, But rosy spring for ever bloom,

And suns eternal rise.




From the German of BÜRGER.

ESIDE the parson's bow'r of yew

Why strays a troubled spright,
That peaks and pines, and dimly fines

Through curtains of the night? Why steals along the pond of toads

A gliding fire so blue, That lights

a spot where grows no grass, Where falls no rain nor dew ? The parfon's daughter once was good,

And gentle as the dove, And young

and fair and many came To win the damsel's love. High o'er the hamlet, from the hill,

Beyond the winding stream,
The windows of a stately house

In sheen of ev’ning gleam.
There dwelt in riot, rout, and roar,

A lord fo frank and free ;
That oft, with inward joy of heart,

The maid beheld his glee.
Whether he met the dawning day,

In hunting trim so fine,
Or tapers, sparkling from his hall,

Beshone the midnight wine.

In cap

He sent the maid his picture, girt

With diamond, pearl, and gold ; And filken paper, sweet with musk,

This gentle message told: Let go thy sweethearts, one and all; Shalt thou be basely wood, That worthy art to gain the heart,

Of youths of noble blood ? The tale I would to thee bewray,

In secret must be said,
At midnight hour I'll seek thy bow'r;

Fair lass be not afraid.
And when the am'rous nightingale

Sings sweetly to his mate,
I'll pipe my quail-call from the field:
Be kind, nor make me wait.”

and mantle clad he came, At night, with lonely tread; Unseen, and silent as a mist,

And hush'd the dogs with bread.
And when the am'rous nightingale

Sung sweetly to his mate,
She heard his quail-call in the field,

And, ah! ne'er made him wait.
The words he whisper'd were so soft,

They won her ear and heart : How soon will she, who loves, believe !

How deep a lover's art ! No lure, no soothing guise, he spar'd,

To banish virtuous shame; He call'd on holy God above,

As witness to his flame. He clasp'd her to his breast, and swore

To be for ever true : “ O yield thee to my wishful arms,

Thy choice thou shalt not rue.”
And while she strove he drew her on,

And led her to the bow'r
So ftill, so dim—and round about

Sweet smelt the beans in flow'r.

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