Nor has death refus'd to steep,
In the balm of peace thy breast;
O! unbroken be thy sleep,
And soft be thy bed of rest!
Oh! how pleasing is repose
To the heart that ceaseless mourns!
Anna, too, her eyes will close,
For her brain, it burns-it burns!"
Sad she spoke, and sad she prest
His cold turf, by sorrow driven;
The chilling night-dews bath'd her breast,
And the mourner woke in Heaven.
FROM THE SPANISH OF BOSCAN.
SINCE still my passion-pleading strains
Have fail'd her heart to move,
Show, Mirror! to that lovely maid,
The charms that make me love,
Reflect on her the thrilling beam
Of magic from her eye,
So, like Narcissus, she shall gaze,
And, self-enamour'd, die.
FROM THE MESSIAH OF KLOPSTOK.
[The Exordium of the Third Book.]
"Sey mir gegrüsst! ich sehe dich wieder! die
"du mich gebaherst," &c. &c.
ONCE more I hail thee, once behold thee more,
Earth! soil maternal: thee, whose womb of yore,
Bore me; and soon beneath whose gelid breast
These limbs shall sink in soft and sacred rest.
Yet may I first complete this work begun,
And sing the covenant of the ETERNAL SON!
O, then, these lips his heavenly love that told,
These eyes that oft in streams of rapture roll'd,
Shall close in darkness !-O'er my mouldering clay
A few fond friends their duteous rites shall pay ;
And with the palm, the laurel's deathless leaf,
Deck my light turf, and prove their pious grief!—
There shall I sleep-till o'er this mortal dust-
Springs, long announc'd, the morning of the just;
Then, fresh embodied in a purer mould,
Triumphant rise, and brighter scenes behold.
Thou! Muse of Sion! who with potent spell,
Thro' hell hast led me, and return'd from hell,
Still shuddering at the voyage-thou, whose eyes
Oft pierce the thoughts in God himself that rise,
And, thro' the frowns that veil his awful face,
Read the fair lines of love and heavenly grace;
Shine on this soul, that trembles at the sight
Of her own toils, with pure, celestial light!
Raise her low powers, that yet with loftier wing,
The best of men, the SAVIOUR GOD she sing.
Simile.-Satan approaching Judas Iscariot when asleep.
"Also naht sich die pest in mitternächtlicher stunde," &c. &c.
So, towards the wearied city, as it sleeps,
In dead of night the pest malignant creeps.
Death marks the vapour with triumphant wings,
And o'er its walls the floating mischief flings.
Heedless the crowd still slumbers: still the sage
O'er the pale lamp pursues his favourite page;
And converse, still, and themes of import high,
Friendship, the soul, and worlds man yet must try,
Chear'd with the temperate glass that flows between,
Detain the circle o'er th' unbrageous green.
Ah! short-liv'd joys! already with the day,
Spreads the dread reign of death and dire dismay,
Of sighs, and sufferings. Wild, with wringing hands,
The bride, now widowed, o'er the bridegroom stands:
Robb'd of her babes, the childless mothers' moan,
Curses alike their birth-day, and her own:
And the dull sexton, faint, with swimming brain,
Drops down the grave where others should have lain,
High from the storm th' avengeful angel, now,
Descends abrupt with deep revolving brow:
Broad round he looks, and nought, where'er he turns,
But silence, death, and deserts drear discerns;
Pensive he pauses, mid the tombs that rise,
And o'er the wreck, the righteous judgment sighs,
THE busy scenes of day are now withdrawn,
And evening darkens all the lawn.
Soft thoughts and solemn musings blest
That touch the Muse-enraptur'd bosom best,
When dusky evening spreads
Her mantle o'er the vales and mountains heads,
O! come, ye well repay
The parting of the busy day.
The nightingale that from the sun retires,
Whose song and fancy in its flight
Is marr'd by day's too curious light,
The evening hour admires:
Took with the tuneful mood
Then most with warblings wild she charms the wood,
WITH lovely pearl the western sky
Is glowing far and wide,
And yon light golden clouds that fly
So slowly side by side;
The deepening tints, the arch of light,
E'en I with rapture see;
And sigh, and bless the charming sight
That lures my love from me.
O hill that shads't the valley here,
Thou bear'st on thy green brow,
The only wealth to Mary dear,
And all she'll ever know.
Full in the crimson light I see,
Above thy summit rise
My Edward's form; he looks to me
A statue in the skies.
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