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That every fairest form eludes his grasp
Poor soul! thou hast no interval of peace;
Come, come, Eliza, let us quit this dark,
SONG OF THE STARS TO THE EARTH.
FROM THE GERMAN OF STOLBERG.
SWEET be thy slumbers, Sister dear,
Upon thy odour-scented bed ;
The voice of Morning widely spread. :
Then may'st thou wake all fresh and gay,
Adorn'd with tints of rosy light;
Of sudden storms thy beauty blight.
May no wild winds with furious wing
To rend thy lovely locks conspire;
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;
The voice of Morning widely spread.
THERE is a soft and fragrant hour-
'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
Their fairy beam;
Their last faint beam,
'Tis when (just waked from transient death By some fresh zephyr's balmy, breath),
The unfolding rose
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
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,
Does it betray;
Of rising day.
ODE TO MORNING.
Hail, roseate morn! returning light!
Reluctant yields her sway;
To greet the dawning day.
O’er tufted meads gay Flora trips ;
Her bead with rose-buds crown'd;
Wafts fragrance all around.
The dew-drops, daughters of the morn,
And all the broider'd vales :
Aurora, rising, hails !
While Nature, now in lively vest
Each tributary plain;
Exult beneath thy reign ;
Shall I, with drowsy poppies crown'd,
The downy god obèy ?
And own thy cheerful sway!
And we no more shall trace Thy dimpled cheek, and brow serene ; Or clouds may gloom the smiling scene,
And frowns deform thy face.