His fertilizing dews, that swell

In manna on each spike and stem,

And, like a gem,

Red honey in the waxen cell.

Who will may praise him; but my voice shall be, Sweet month, for thee;

Thou that to her dost owe thy name,

Who saw the sea-wave's foamy tide

Swell and divide,

Whence forth to life and light she came.

ANONYMOUS.

THE MOUNTEBANK.

FROM THE FRENCH OF MESLIN ST. GELAIS.

AT market once a Mountebank aloud

Proclaim'd, he'd show the devil to the crowd: The wondrous news straight through the village

flew ;

Men, women, children, round the booth it drew: Not one there was, though old or lame were he, Who did not hurry the foul fiend to see.

Forth stalk'd the Mountebank with gravest look; An open purse, with downward mouth, he shook. 'Now stretch your eyes, my friends; look sharp;' he cried

And, tell me truly, see you aught inside?' 'There's nought!' they bawl'd, 'there's nothing in the bag.'

'I've kept my promise, then,' exclaim'd the wag: 'For 'tis the devil, you all must own this minute, One's purse to open, and find nothing in it.'

R. A. DAVENPORT.

ODE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF RONSARD.

WHY dost thou tremble, peasant, say,
Before the men who empires sway,
Who soon will, shadowy sprites, be led,
To swell the number of the dead?
Know'st thou not, that all must go
To the gloomy realms below;
And that an imperial ghost
Must no less the Stygian coast
Visit, than the humble shade

Of him who plies the woodman's trade?
Courage, tiller of the ground!

Those who hurl war's thunder round
Will not seek their last abode

In arms, as where the battle glow'd.
Naked, like thee, shall they depart;
Nor will the hauberk, sword, or dart
Avail them more, when life shall flee,
Than thy rough ploughshare shall to thee.
Not more just Rhadamanthus cares
For the mail the warrior wears,
Than for the staff with which the swain
Urges on his lowing train:

By him with equal eye are seen

Thy dusty raiment, rude and mean,
And purfled robes of Tyrian hue,
Enwrought with gems to charm the view,
Or all the costly vestments spread
Around the forms of monarchs dead!

R. A. DAVENPORT.

VOL. VI.

3 B

ODE ON THE RETURN OF SPRING.

FROM THE FRENCH OF RONSARD.

GOD shield ye, heralds of the spring,
Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing,
Houps, cuckoos, nightingales,
Turtles, and every wilder bird

That make your hundred chirpings heard
Through the green woods and dales.

God shield ye, Easter daisies all,
Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small;
And ye, whom erst the gore
Of Ajax and Narciss did print,
Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint,
I welcome ye once more.

God shield ye, bright embroider'd train
Of butterflies, that, on the plain,

Of each sweet herblet sip;

And ye, new swarms of bees, that go
Where the pink flowers and yellow grow,
To kiss them with your lip.

A hundred thousand times I call-
A hearty welcome on ye all:

This season how I love!

This merry din on every shore,

For winds and storms, whose sullen roar

Forbade my steps to rove.

ANONYMOUS.

ODE TO M. MENARD.

FROM THE FRENCH OF RACAN.

Now that Winter, with gloomy and rigorous sway, Hurls his tempests, his sleet, and his snow all the And keeps us besieged by the fire, [day, Let us drown in the glass all our cares as we ought, Nor give taxes and parties and statesmen a thought,

Nor who fights and who conquers inquire. I know, dear Menard, all the works that you write, Fruits immortal of many a slumberless night,

Will live till the world meets its doom:

But what will it boot you, dear friend, that your

name

Shall surely be read in the temple of Fame,

When you feed the worms of the tomb?

Quit, quit then a toil which in vain you bestow! Of our nectar delicious in torrents shall flow The ruby red sparkling stores.

More ruddy and bright will our nectar be found Than that which young Ganymede, passing around, In the cups of the deities pours.

"Tis wine that so swiftly speeds onward the years, That each scarce a day to our fancy appears: "Tis wine makes us youthful once more: "Tis wine that alone from the bosom bids fly The regret and remembrance of things now gone by, And the dread of the sorrows in store.

Let us drink, dear Menard, let us fill high our glasses;

For Time, stealing on, imperceptibly passes;

He leads to the close of our course, "Twere in vain to entreat for a moment of grace, The years will as little their footsteps retrace,

As rivers run back to their source.

The Spring, clothed with light and with verdure and bloom,

1

Shall quickly again chase the frost and the gloom;
The sea has its ebb and its rise;

But when that at length rosy youth quits the stage,
And his empire resigns to the sceptre of age,
For ever, for ever he flies!

The laws of stern Death seize resistless on all!
Alike on the sovereign's palace they fall,

And the reed-cover'd hut of the swain.

The Fates, when they please, destine man to the

grave,

And the thread of existence in monarch and slave By the same steel they sever in twain.

By their tyrannous power nought on earth is revered,

It strikes, and the things that eternal appear'd Like the visions of slumberers sink:

By that power, dear Menard, we too soon shall

be led,

In the regions of darkness and silence to tread, And the stream of oblivion to drink.

R. A. DAVENPORT.