Now, Melibus, graff thy grateful fruit; No longer shall I sing, and as I sup, See the bitter herbs around me crop ! you Tit. Yet here with me you well may rest this night; Soft fruits here are, and milks for your delight: For now the smokes from cottages ascend, And longer shades from mountain-tops extend. MAY 2, 1784. 0. Y FIRST when Love's generous hopes I knew, I little thought how much of rue Too quickly fled each dear delight, P. L. C. ELEGY BY J. J. ESCHENBURG, On the Death of his INFANT DAUGHTER. TRANSLATED FROM TUE GERMAN. BY THE LATE J. SIX, ESQ. Wide sweeps Soft sinkest thou to rest ; no groan, no smart; Soft lulling Angels waft thy latest breath, Thyself an Angel now, my soul's dear part, Sweet Babe, thus lying in the arms of Death! Not he, that grisly form, whose hand malign: with fatal scythe mankind away; That Genius rather, on whose lips, as thine, The smiling graces innocently play. Peace to thy slumbers, Babe! thy Father's tears, Thy Mother wailing wild her darling o'er, Thy Brother's longings, infant as his years, Shall wake thee to sweet sympathy no more. O ever fortunate ! whom heav'nly grace Recall’d so early from thy mortal clay ; O ever fortunate! not left to trace With painful error this life's thorny way; That from all slipp'ry paths, all hidden snares, Thine eye the outward fashion only saw! Sorrow from all, the bitterest sorrow, draw. • We ween'd it bliss, thee, tender plant, to rear, All those ideas now, on which we hung, Thy smiling countenance, thy sportive air, Thy foot's first effort, and thy lisping tongue, All wound our breast, like daggers planted there. "Twas sure a dream; yet, while before our sight, It charm'd our senses, to th' illusion blind ; But, dissipated now, and vanish'd quite, It leaves vain longings, and regrets behind. Yet no; still ever present, ever dear Must be the shadow of this fleeting dream! When to the first rude shock a calm succeeds, When the deep wound, which now so freshly bleeds, O then shall pleasing Melancholy shed No; like a misty morn, whose early gloom INSCRIPTION. 'Tis not, that, early summon'd from the earth (Sad vale of pain and sorrow) thou hast fled; -For sure to realms more suited to thy worth, Thou soar'st, dear Saint! by kindred seraphs led "Tis not for this my tears incessant flow, For this that ceaseless grief corrodes my mind, But 'tis, and oh! forgive the selfish woe! That I a lonely wretch am left behind. VOL. V. F S. W. I. STANZAS. NATURE thy soft voice gives peace to the ocean, May this feverish heart rest where wild weeds are yon waving, And the sleep of the dead, and their dwelling be mine. EDINBURGH, APRIL 16, 1805. ADELINE. |