That every fairest form eludes his grasp
That every Julia is an empty wind!

Poor soul! thou hast no interval of peace;
For at the noon of night, when wearied age,
And love-sick youth, lay in the lap of sleep
Their languid head, thou stalk'st alone, and pour'st
Thy mournful accents to the list'ning winds !
Or should thy restless brain, with ranting tird,
Be lulld one moment to forgetfulness,
The next is harass'd with tormenting dreams,
So black, so frantic, and so deadly wild,
They mock imagination to conceive !

Come, come, Eliza, let us quit this dark,
This melancholy scene : let us retire :
To our own peaceful hermitage, my love,
And to the God of reason pour our praise.

SONG OF THE STARS TO THE EARTH.

FROM THE GERMAN OF STOLBERG.

SWEET be thy slumbers, Sister dear,

Upon thy odour-scented bed ;
Repose in peace until thou hear

The voice of Morning widely spread. :

Then may'st thou wake all fresh and gay,

Adorn'd with tints of rosy light;
And, 'mid thy rest, may no rude sway

Of sudden storms thy beauty blight.

May no wild winds with furious wing

To rend thy lovely locks conspire;
Nor high the waves of Ocean fling,

With discord hoarse to glut their ire,

And drown the gentle, soothing sound

That rises from the heaving main ; And may no thunders burst around,

From Etna's womb, to blast the plain :

And may the winged lightnings sleep

Upon the high Alps' darksome breast; While now through air reigns silence deep,

O Sister dear, to aid thy rest.

No clouds now intervene to hide

From us thy beauty, planet fair; No vapours dim are seen to glide

Athwart the tranquil void of air.

Now do the mild Moon's lovely beams

Upon thine orb delight to play ; And swift shall fly the hours, till gleams

Of new-born light restore the day.

O may thy children all partake

The slumbers of this silent hour! While those who may their couch forsake,

Toss’d by relentless sorrow's power,

The moon shall sooth ;-her mild regard

Hath often solac'd the distress'd; For when the storm of grief blows hard,

Her gentle influence calms the breast.

Those now who sail the faithless sea,

In silver leading-strings we'll guide Through the dark night, from danger free

Of rapid whirlpool's giddy tide.

Nor quicksands, shoal, nor hidden rock,

Shall wound the swiftly-gliding keel ;

While we keep watch, no sudden shock

From wind or wave the bark shall feel.

Then sweetly slumber, Sister dear,

Upon thy odour-scented bed;
Calm be thy sleep, till thou shalt hear

The voice of Morning widely spread.

THE DAWN.

MISS OWENSON.

THERE is a soft and fragrant hour-
Sweet, fresh, reviving is its power ;

'Tis when a ray Steals from the veil of parting night, And by its mild prelusive light

Foretells the day.

'Tis when some ling'ring stars scarce shed
O'er the mist-clad mountain's head

Their fairy beam;
Then one by one retiring, shroud,
Dim glitt'ring through a fleecy cloud,

Their last faint beam,

'Tis when (just waked from transient death By some fresh zephyr's balmy, breath),

The unfolding rose
Sheds on the air its rich perfume,
While every bud with deeper bloom

And beauty glows. 'Tis when fond Nature, (genial power !) Weeps o'er each drooping night-closed flower,

While softly fly

Those doubtful mists, that leave to view
Each glowing scene of various hue

That charms the eye.

'Tis when the sea-girt turret's brow Receives the east's first kindling glow,

And the dark wave, Swelling to meet the orient gleam, Reflects the warmly-strengthening beam

It seems to lave.

'Tis when the restless child of sorrow, Watching the wish’d-for rising morrow,

His couch forėgoes, And seeks 'midst scenes so sweet, so mild, To sooth those pangs so keen, so wild,

Of hopeless woes.

Nor day, nor night, this hour can claim,
Nor moonlight ray, nor noontide beam,

Does it betray;
But fresh, reviving, dewy, sweet,
It hastes the glowing hours to meet

Of rising day.

ODE TO MORNING.

PENNINGTON.

Hail, roseate morn! returning light!
To thee, the sable Queen of night

Reluctant yields her sway;
And as she quits the dappled skies,
On glories greater glories rise,

To greet the dawning day.

O’er tufted meads gay Flora trips ;
Arabia's spices scent her lips,

Her bead with rose-buds crown'd;
Mild Zephyr hastes to snatch a kiss,
And, fluttering with the transient bliss,

Wafts fragrance all around.

The dew-drops, daughters of the morn,
With spangles every bush adorn,

And all the broider'd vales :
Their voice to thee the linnets raise,
The lark, soft-trilling in thy praise,

Aurora, rising, hails !

While Nature, now in lively vest
Of glossy green, has gaily drest

Each tributary plain;
While blooming flowers, and blossom'd trees,
Soft waying with the vernal breeze,

Exult beneath thy reign ;

Shall I, with drowsy poppies crown'd,
By sleep in silken fetters bound,

The downy god obèy ?
Ah, no! through yon embowering grove,
Or winding valley, let me rove,

And own thy cheerful sway!
For short-liv'd are thy pleasing powers ;
Pass but a few uncertain hours,

And we no more shall trace Thy dimpled cheek, and brow serene ; Or clouds may gloom the smiling scene,

And frowns deform thy face.