To the Lyre of Eolus. Yet once more, airy spirits, and once more, Wake that high strain! those solemn notes inspire, Which kindling in my breast extatic fire, Wake joy, wake rapture, never felt before! Art, and her twanging strings and tink❜ling wire A stranger swain that woos thee, though he hear, Unmov'd, art's various sons in concert join, And quavering minstrels trill their notes so clear; He drinks, with raptur❜d and retentive ear, The muse's sacred harmony and thine. To the river Scar. Soft flowing Scar, what though along the vale, His dwelling, oft our Potter * loves to stray, In the smooth lapse of many a liquid lay, And future bards shall hail thy classic wave. * The translator of Æschylus. To the river Stour. Dear native stream; ah! dearer far to me Than Thames, though grandeur crown his margin gay; And not the Loire, all lovely though he be And passing fair, could woo my thoughts away, Forgetful of thy banks of green ;-nor she, The yellow Seine, whose peaceful waters play Through Gallia's plains, could lure my heart from thee, That faithful heart, which knows not how to stray ! Dear native stream, lov'd Stour! to thee were paid My earliest vows, and thou my last shalt have :And, as my earliest steps were wont to tread, So shall my last, thy banks, paternal wave! And you ye trembling willows, wont to shade My youthful pastimes;-ye shall shade my grave! From the Italian; on a magnificent ruin, of whose Onward he wings his flight with swifter speed. Heroic worth ;-to crown whose glorious deed? "Tell then, for thou perhaps canst tell !"-I cried; With harsh hoarse voice and stern the fiend replied“Whose once it was what heed I!—now 'tis mine!” From the Italian of Faustina Maratti, daughter of the celebrated painter; addressed to a lady of whom she was jealous.* Lady! who once the husband of my choice So well could'st please, that fondly still he tells Of all thy charms, and still with rapture dwells I know, and then I knew ;-but tell me, fair, From the Spanish of Cervantes. From this dire plain, 'which tow'rs and bastions strew, In rude and shapeless ruin scatter'd wide'; From hence in better mansions to reside," The spirits of ten thousand soldiers flew. * See also page 386. But never from its bare and parched breast, To heaven's bright mansions purer spirits rose, Nor braver forms its barren deserts prest. Written in a volume in which were collected most of the little histories that are put into the hands of children. If e'er these warblings wild, these rude essays, With gentle charity, her fair compeer, Adorn'd her plain told tales and artless lays. On the death of Miss E. Airson. What joy, her hospitable father's guest, And ah! what anguish seiz'd my aching breast tongue. Oh, if forgetful proves this aching heart, Ne'er may the nine my languid lays inspire! And may these hands forget their dearest art, To touch the trembling string, and wake the lyre! If e'er I blot her memory from my mind, May all my songs severest censures prove; And fate relentless scatter to the wind My hopes of fame, of fortune, and of love! No, gentle songstress! still the morn shall see And watchful eve, the tears I shed for thee. Fairly blows the western gale, Rear the mast, and spread the sail; Haste, ye valiant sons of Thor, Hasten, hasten to the war! To Albion's isle, my compeers brave, Steer we our course, and plough the wave: Our passage o'er the smiling main, Advent'rous to the shores of Kent, Fairly blows the western gale! |