THE gale breathes soft, the moon's pale beam,
Light trembles on the murmuring stream;
And while her vigils Silence keeps,
From sorrow free, tired Labour sleeps:
Even the poor vagrant finds repose,
Nor thinks till morning-dawn of woes;
But I, alas! the sad night long
Awake the lute, and plaintive song.
No more I strive by hardy deed
To win immortal Glory's meed-
While others snatch the palm of praise
I waste in grief the lingering days;
With pallid cheek, and sunken eye,
From all that once was lovely fly;
Tell my deep anguish to the air,
And cherish in my breast despair.
But thou, for whom in life's fair bloom
I sink untimely to the tomb,
Thou sleep'st, my love, still be thy breast
With soft and balmy slumbers blest.
Sleep on my Clara; I must feel,
Awhile, those pains no art can heal;
But near their end in death I see,
Nor murmur, since I die for thee!
TRANSLATED BY EDMUND SWIFT, ESQ.
TELL me, little darling Dove,
Whence, and whither dost thou rove?-
Whither, sprent with sweet perfume,
Speedest thou thine hasty plume?-
Tell me whom thy wings obey-
Tell me, little Dove, I pray !-
To his dear, his favorite minion,
Teia's Bard directs my pinion ;-
To the Boy whose beauties fill us
All with love, the boy Bathyllus ;-
Venus, on a lucky time,
Sold me to him for a rhime,
And e'er since my duty bears
All the Poet's love-affairs :-
Wafted now on ready wing,
These his billet-doux I bring,
And he gives his word that He
Soon will set his servant free.-
Yet, though he had loos'd my chain,
Would I still his Slave remain ;-
Why should I desert my home,
O'er the fields, the hills to roam,
On the spreading bough to perch,
And for country victual search,
While, by kind Anacreon fed,
From his hand I peck the bread?—
While his favour bids me sip
From the cup that cheers his lip?—
When I drink, I'll dance and sing,
Shade him with my grateful wing,
And when feast and frolic tire,
Rest, reposing on his Lyre.
Now my story all you know ;-
Louder than the chattering crow
Thou hast made me stretch the Lay:-
Hence depart, oh Man, I pray!
THY joys, gay Spirit of the social plain,
And useful labors, renovate my strain;
Rising, it vibrates to thy oaten reed,
And sings the artless pleasures of the mead.
No frown the Muse from Truth and Nature fears,
Tho' pale Refinement sicken as she hears.
Now is it June's bright morn, and Beauty twines
The glowing wreaths that deck her thousand shrines.
On the Lark's wing sweet music hails the day,
And o'er the sun-beam pours her liquid lay;
While the blithe Spirit of the social plain,
Leads health, and love, and gladness in his train.
Crown'd with her pail, light rocking as she steps,
Along the fresh, moist path young Lucy trips;
The rustic vest is from her ancle drawn,
Yet catches many a dew-drop of the lawn.
Warm on her downy cheek health's deepest glow,
While from her eyes its lavish lustres flow,
And in her voice its wildly-warbled song
Floats, and returns, the echoing glades among.
Her nut-brown tresses wanton on the gale;
Her breath perfumes afresh the blossom'd vale.
Nine blooming Maidens meet her in the grove,
And ask, and tell the tender tale of love.
With their prone fork a mystic scroll they frame,
Tracing on sand the heart-recorded name.
O'er each bar'd shoulder hangs the idle rake,
And busy fancy paints the coming wake.
But from the lip the' unfinish'd periods break,
And Joy's warm blushes deeper tinge the cheek;
For see the' expected Youths, in vigor's pride,
Stoutly are striding down the mountain's side;
O'er the swift brook, at once, they lightly bound,
And gay good-morrows thro' the fields resound.
And now is Labor busy in the dale;
The cow stands duteous by the cleanly pail,
Where the rich milk descends in eddying tides,
Pure as the virgin hands thro' which it glides.
The Youths, with shortening arm, and bending head,
Sweep their bright scythes along the shiver'd mead.
Three blithesome Maids the grassy plunder shake;
Three draw, with gentle hand, the thrifty rake,
And three, mid carol sweet, and jocund tale,
Scatter the breathing verdure to the gale.
Where yonder cottages' ascending smoke,
In spiral columns, wreaths the sun-gilt oak,
The careful Parents of the Village dwell,
And mix the savory pottage in the cell.
Their little rosy girls, and boys, prepare
The steaming breakfast thro' the vale to bear.
See, with pleas'd looks, gay Ceres' happy Train
Watch their young Donors, loaded on the plain;
Inhale the grateful fumes, that round them rise,
Mark their slow, heedful step, and earnest eyes;
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