Then forgetting the realms and the oceans between, Yes, my mother! your accents my ear loves to drink, And my cheek often glows with your kiss! In such rapture dissolved, can I snatch time to think That I've bade a farewell to the bliss? Now delighted, my soul, borne on memory's wings, Away from each care it indignantly flings, Thus an eagle, who sits where the hurricane roars, And spurns them away, as sublimely he soars INVOCATION TO SLEEP. COME, gentle sleep, and shed thy liquid balm, And make me some few hours of grief disown. Blest pow'r that gives the soul, though steeped in care, Fain would I have thee blunt my keen despair, Yet canst thou not retrieve the broken heart, But ah! for sorrows such as wring my breast, ODE TO ENTHUSIASM. I. YES-it is thine—that magic lyre Can thrill the inmost soul; The kindling votary drinks the sound- But ah! what mortal hand shall dare From yonder bough that shell to seize? Whose notes can give to storms the air, Or lull entranc'd the list'ning breeze.Say-for thou canst-what mortal eye Has favour'd seen its radiant frame? What hand has swell'd its notes on high? What voice inspired its song of flame? II. Yes, first on Scotia's barren, bleakest rocks, Where the hoarse surge in foam incessant breaks, The night-winds rustling through his hoary locks,— Its song sublime the mighty Ossian wakes!His eyes which glow'd with warlike fire, Or melted once with soft desire, Are now deep set in gloom; III. Now on softest numbers dwelling, And now to notes tumultuous swelling, Hark! the battle bursts along! Lo-at his call-a thousand forms Quick mount the midnight gale, The hero comes on the wings of the storms,- The Ghosts are these of chiefs who fell Too true the outline of their woes! IV. Dim through them gleams the moon-light ray, They eager drink each heav'nly sound, He sings how heaves the breast of snow; Death no more can fears impart, Every passion fond obeying, Owns the mighty master's hand. ON DEATH. مرگ اگر مردست گو که پیشم بیا تا در آغوشش بیگیرم تنگ تنگ او از من بیگیرد این دلق رنگ رنگ من از او ستانم عمر جاودان TRANSLATION. Should death intrepid meet me face to face, EPIGRAM OF BUCHANAN'S. ILLA mihi semper præsenti dura Neæra, Me quoties absum semper abesse dolet; Non desiderio nostri, non mæret amore, Sed se non nostro posse dolore frui. TRANSLATION. Though at her feet my offer'd vows No sooner do I quit her house 'Tis not through love Neæra grieves, ON THE CLOSE OF DAY. SEE the bright orb of parting day— And gently fading to decay, Shews wearied nature hast'ning to repose. |