May angels guard thee with distinguish'd care
And every blessing be my Cynthia's share.
Through flowery paths may she securely tread,
By Fortune follow'd, and by Virtue led:
While health and ease in every look express
The glow of beauty, and the calm of peace.
Let one bright sun-shine form life's vernal day,
And clear and smiling be its evening ray.
Late may she feel the softest pangs of death,
As roses droop beneath a Zephyr's breath;
Thus gently fading, peaceful rest in earth
"Till the glad spring of Nature's second birth,.
Then quit the transient winter of the tomb
To rise, and flourish in immortal bloom.
HAIL, deadly Autumn, and thy fading leaf,
I love thee drear and gloomy as thou art;
Not joyful Spring, like thee, can soften grief,
Nor gaudy Summer soothe the aching heart,
But in thy cheerless solitary bower,
Beneath the varied shade, I love to lie,
When dusky Evening's melancholy hour,
With boding clouds, obscures the low'ring sky,
And tuneless birds and fading flowers appear,
In grief to hang their heads, and mourn the parting year.
"Tis not the gloomy sky, the parting year;
"Tis not the Winter's dreary reign I mourn,
But absent friends-and one than life more dear,
And joys departed never to return!
O gentle Hope, that 'mid Siberia's snows,
Can cheer the wretched exile's lingering year,
And where the sun on cursed Oppression glows,
Can check the sigh, and wipe the falling tear,
Thy gentle care-thy succour I implore,
O raise thy heavenly voice, and bid me weep no more.
Thou hear'st my prayer-I feel thy holy flame-
And future joys in bright succession rise,
And mutual love and friendship-sacred name!
And home and all the blessings that I prize.
Thou, Memory, lendst thy aid, and to my view
Each friend I love, and every scene most dear,
In forms more bright than ever painter drew,
Fresh from thy pencil's magic tint appear.
Roll on, ye lingering hours, that lie between,
"Till Truth shall realize, and Virtue bless the scene.
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS DE
TO INÉS DE GUETE.
DEAREST, would'st thou but believe
A heart that knows not to deceive,
Alas, nor longer free:
That faithful heart should truly tell
The secret charm, the tender spell,
That bound it first to thee!
"Tis not, that cradled in thine eyes The baby Love, for ever lies
On couches dipt in dew. "Tis not because those eyes have won Their temper'd light from April's sun, From Heav'n-their tints of blue!
"Tis not that o'er a bank of snow Thy parted tresses lightly flow
In bands of braided gold;
Nor yet because the hand of Grace
Has form'd that dear enchanting face
In Beauty's happier mould.
No-dearest, no-but, from my soul,
It was a little smile that stole
The cherish'd sweets of rest.
And, ever since, from morn till night,
That little smile still haunts my sight
In dimples gaily drest.
E'en now, by Fancy's eyes are seen
The polish'd rows that break between
Two lips that breathe of May.
E'en now-but oh-by Passion taught,
Young Fancy forms too bold a thought
For timid love to say.
Yet, dearest, would'st thou but believe
A heart that knows not to deceive,
Alas, nor longer free;
"Twould tell thee thou could'st ne'er impart A smile of thine to cheer a heart
More truly bound to thee!
"Twould beg, with a beseeching sigh,' One glance from Pity's meaning eye Its every pang to pay.
"Twould hint, perchance, at happier hours, When Hope may strew her fairy flowers O'er Life's bewildered way.
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