To wander o'er the world and ocean waste, With brighter splendour: till that hour arrive, Be it my lot to live, and through the world, Entreats admittance. Wretched fool is he T. Y. CANZON. FROM THE SPANISH OF CAMOENS. O, WEEP not thus-we both shall know Ere long a happier doom; There is a place of rest below, Where thou and I shall surely go, And sweetly sleep, released from woe, Within the tomb. My cradle was the couch of Care, My earliest minute. E'en then the griefs I now possess, And the fair form of Happiness, Flew back to heaven! For I was made in Joy's despite, LORD STRANGFORD. ODE TO INES DE GUETE. FROM THE SPANISH OF RIACHAELO.*. That faithful heart should truly tell *The best account of Riachaelo and his far-famed mistress is to be found in the second edition of his works, printed at Madrid, in 4to. 1601, page 22-37. "Tis not, that cradled in thine eyes The baby Love for ever lies On couches dipp'd in dew. "Tis not because those eyes have won Their temper'd light from April's sun, From heaven-their tints of blue! 'Tis not that o'er a bank of snow No-dearest, no-but, from my soul, The cherish'd sweets of rest. And ever since, from morn till night, E'en now, by Fancy's eyes, are seen Yet, dearest, wouldst thou but believe "Twould tell thee thou couldst ne'er impart A smile of thine to cheer a heart More truly bound to thee! "Twould beg, with a beseeching sigh, One glance from Pity's meaning eye Its every pang to pay. "Twould hint, perchance, at happier hours, Yet-should my days in sorrow flow, The frowns of Care I'd bravely meet, LORD STRANGFORD. SONNET. FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOMÉ LEONARDO. PARENT of good! since all thy laws are just, Say, why permits thy judging providence Oppression's hand to bow meek innocence, And gives prevailing strength to fraud and lust? Who steels with stubborn force the arm unjust, That proudly wars against Omnipotence? Who bids thy faithful sons, that reverence Thine holy will, be humbled in the dust? Amid the din of joy fair Virtue sighs, While the fierce conqueror binds his impious head With laurel, and the car of triumph rolls! [eyes Thus I;-when radiant 'fore my wondering A heavenly spirit stood, and smiling said— 'Blind moralist, is earth the sphere of souls?' HON. W. HERBERT. SONNETS FROM THE SPANISH. THE sun has chased away the early shower, And now upon the mountain's clearer height Pours o'er the clouds, aslant, his glowing light. The husbandman, loathing the idle hour, Starts to his rest, and to his daily toil Light-hearted man goes forth; and patient now As the slow ox drags on the heavy plough, With the young harvest fills the reeking soil. Domestic love his due return awaits, [cates; With the clean board bespread with country And clustering round his knee his children press; His days are pleasant, and his nights secure. Oh cities! haunts of power and wretchedness, Who would your busy vanities endure? LUPERCIO. T. Y. ZEPHYR returns, and sheds with liberal hand Foliage and buds around and odorous flowers; Nurses the purple rose with dewy showers, Gilds the bright sky, and clothes the verdant land; The stream flows clear, by temperate breezes fann'd, And sweetly sing the birds in shady bowers, Cheerless and mute while angry winter lours, Now blithely ringing with the feather'd band. Never, O ruthless Time, implored in vain, Beams forth thy spring to my unalter'd fate, Nor decks my wither'd hopes with bloom again! Some fondly dread the changes of thy state, Who hold the treasure which they strove to gain; I mourn thy steadfast unrelenting hate. QUEVEDO. HON. W. HERBERT. |