FROM THE ITALIAN OF TASSO.

AHI 'CHE LE VILLE &c.

Ан me! vile Interest every bosom stains,
From mighty Monarchs down to simple Swains;
No more alas! to palaces confin'd,

But reigns unbounded in the Peasant's mind;
Be then this age pronounc'd the age of gold,
Since even Happiness for pelf is sold:
But thou, ignoble wretch, who first essay'd
To charm by sordid arts the venal maid;
Taught the young breast on hopes of gain to rove,
(Fair Faith neglected, and unspotted Love)
Eternal curses blast thy hated name,

Thou bane of life, of human kind the shame;
For thee no friend a monument shall rear;

For thee, ne'er heave the sigh, ne'er drop the tear;
To soothe thy ghost, ne'er shall the lyre be strung;
Ne'er shall thy name disgrace the Poet's song:
When to the turf where thy pale reliques lye,
Some neighbouring swain shall guide the wand'ring eye,
Inform the traveller what vile remains,

What hated dust, th' unhallow'd spot contains ;
No honours to thy memory shall he pay,
No peaceful requiem for the manes say.
Nipt by the blasts of pestilential air,
Ne'er shall the rural verdure flourish there,

But horrid winter stretch it's dread domain, And storms eternal desolate the plain.

'Twas Avarice first inverted Nature's plan, And chang'd the happiness design'd for man, Meanly corrupted Love's sublimer fires, And sully'd all the joys of soft desires : But mankind still with horror shall behold The maid who prostitutes her heart for gold.

SONG *.

IN the rough blast heaves the billow,
In the light air waves the willow;
Every thing of moving kind
Varies with the veering wind;
What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

Sombre tale and satire witty,
Sprightly glee and doleful ditty,
Measur'd sighs and roundelay,
Welcome all, but do not stay;
For what have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous Constancy?

* Sung in the comedy of Fashionable Friends.

LAURA PENITENT.

AGAIN the sun-shine gilds my day, Again my path is strew'd with flowers; Bright Hope for me points out the way, And Joy prepares his roseate bowers.

What tho' no parents my cold urn With tears of pity shall bedew,

Since holy hands my bones shall burn, And on my grave fresh flow'rets strew!

What though no marble shall relate The griefs that brought me to the tomb; For me shall guardian angels wait, And Paradise itself shall bloom!

How vain the joys which mortals prize,

No sooner known than past away!

Like colour'd clouds which paint the skies,

And glow awhile with transient day!

Titles and honours once were mine,
And blooming health and youthful grace:
Now on my cheek the roses pine,
Now grief has blanch'd my faded face.

Once did I shine among the great, And once was number'd with the gay; Now grandeur leaves me to my fate, Nor knows, nor pities, my decay.

No anxious eye on mine attends Each rising wish to watch with care; And whither now are fled those friends, Who sought me young, who lov'd me fair!

Thus blooms the lily priz'd by all, While summer suns as yet prevail; And there neglected does it fall Before the rude and chilling gale,

No more it claims the virgin's care, No more her fond protection proves, No more the shepherd may compare, This fallen flow'r with her he loves.

Then ruthless on its faded form,
The rains descend, the tempests blow:
None seek to save it from the storm;
None ask, what laid this flow'ret low?

That I so flourish'd, and so fell,
These tears, these sighs, these lines attest:
Thus much may pale repentance tell-
Hide, blushing virtue, hide the rest.

ODE TO JEHOVAH.

FROM THE HEBREW OF MOSES.

In high Jehovah's praise, my strain
Of triumph shall the Chorus lead,
Who plung'd beneath the rolling main,
The horseman with his vaunted steed.
Dread breaker of our servile chains!
By whom our arm in strength remains,
The scented algum forms thy car:

Our father's God, thy name we raise
Beyond the bounds of mortal praise,
The chieftain and the Lord of war.

Far, in the caverns of the deep,

Their chariots sunk to rise no more, And Pharaoh's mighty warriors sleep, Where the Red-sea's huge monsters roar. Plung'd like a rock amid the wave, Around their heads the billows lave, Down-down the yawning gulph they go: Dash'd by the high expanded hand To pieces, on the pointed sand, That lines the shelving rocks below.

What lambent lightenings round thee gleam,
Thy foes in blackening heaps to strew!
As o'er wide fields of stubble, stream
The flames, in undulations blue :