SONG.

FOUNDED ON AN ARABIAN ANECDOTE.

AWAY! though still thy sword is red
With life-blood from my sire,
No drop of thine may now be shed
To quench my bosom's fire;
Though on my heart 'twould fall more blest,
Than dews upon the desert's breast.

I've sought thee 'midst the sons of men,
Through the wide city's fanes ;
I've sought thee by the lion's den,

O'er pathless, boundless plains;

No step that mark'd the burning waste,
But mine its lonely course hath traced.

Thy name hath been a baleful spell,
O'er my dark spirit cast;

No thought may dream, no words may tell
What there unseen hath pass'd:
This wither'd cheek, this faded eye,
Are seals of thee-behold! and fly!

Hath not my cup for thee been pour'd
Beneath the palm-tree's shade ?
Hath not soft sleep thy frame restored
Within my dwelling laid?

What though unknown-yet who shall rest

Secure if not the Arab's guest?

Haste thee; and leave my threshold-floor,

Inviolate and pure!

Let not thy presence tempt me more,
-Man may not thus endure !

Away! I bear a fetter'd arm,

A heart that burns-but must not harm.

Begone! outstrip the swift gazelle !

The wind in speed subdue!

Fear cannot fly so swift, so well,

As vengeance shall pursue;

And hate, like love, in parting pain,
Smiles o'er one hope-we meet again!

To-morrow-and th' avenger's hand,
The warrior's dart is free!

E'en now, no spot in all thy land,
Save this, had shelter'd thee,

Let blood the monarch's hall profane,-
The Arab's tent must bear no stain!

Fly! may the desert's fiery blast
Avoid thy secret way!

And sternly, till thy steps be past,
Its whirlwinds sleep to-day!

I would not that thy doom should be
Assign'd by Heaven to aught but me.

ALP-HORN SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF TIECK.

WHAT dost thou here, brave Swiss? Forget'st thou thus thy native clime

The lovely land of thy bright spring-time?

The land of thy home, with its free delights,

And fresh green valleys and mountain heights?
Can the stranger's yield the bliss?

What welcome cheers thee now?

Dar'st thou lift thine eye to gaze around?

Where are the peaks, with their snow-wreaths crown'd?

Where is the song, on the wild winds borne,

Or the ringing peal of the joyous horn,

Or the peasant's fearless brow?

But thy spirit is far away!

Where a greeting waits thee in kindred eyes,

Where the white Alps look through the sunny skies,

With the low senn-cabins, and pastures free,

And the sparkling blue of the glacier-sea,

And the summits, clothed with day!

Back, noble child of Tell!

Back to the wild and the silent glen,

And the frugal board of peasant-men!

Dost thou seek the friend, the loved one, here ?

Away! not a true Swiss heart is near,

Against thine own to swell!

TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE.

TO VENUS.

BOOK 1st, ODE 30th.

"O Venus, Regina Cnidi Paphique," &c.

OH! leave thine own loved isle,

Bright Queen of Cyprus and the Paphian shores!
And here in Glycera's fair temple smile,
Where vows and incense lavishly she pours.

Waft here thy glowing son;

Bring Hermes; let the Nymphs thy path surround,
And youth unlovely till thy gifts be won,
And the light Graces with the zone unbound.

TO HIS ATTENDANT.

BOOK 1st, ODE 38th.

"Persicos odi, puer, apparatus," &c.

I HATE the Persian's costly pride-
The wreaths with bands of linden tied-
These, boy, delight me not;
Nor where the lingering roses bide,
Seek thou for me the spot.

For me be nought but myrtle twined-
The modest myrtle, sweet to bind
Alike thy brows and mine;
While thus I quaff the bowl, reclined
Beneath th' o'erarching vine.

TO DELIUS.

BOOK 2d, ODE 3d.

"Equam memento rebus in arduis,' &c.

FIRM be thy soul !-serene in power,
When adverse fortune clouds the sky;

Undazzled by the triumph's hour,
Since, Delius, thou must die!

Alike, if still to grief resign'd,
Or if, through festal days, 'tis thine
To quaff in grassy haunts reclined,
The old Falernian wine :

Haunts where the silvery poplar boughs
Love with the pine's to blend on high,
And some clear fountain brightly flows
In graceful windings by.

There be the rose with beauty fraught,
So soon to fade, so brilliant now,
There be the wine, the odors brought,
While time and fate allow!

For thou, resigning to thine heir

Thy halls, thy bowers, thy treasured store,
Must leave that home, those woodlands fair,
On yellow Tiber's shore.

What then avails it if thou trace
From Inachus thy glorious line?
Or, sprung from some ignoble race,
If not a roof be thine?

Since the dread lot for all must leap
Forth from the dark revolving urn,
And we must tempt the gloomy deep,
Whence exiles ne'er return.

TO THE FOUNTAIN OF BANDUSIA.

BOOK 3d, ODE 13th.

"Oh! Fons Bandusiæ, splendidior vitro," &c.

OH! worthy fragrant gifts of flowers and wine,
Bandusian fount, than christal far more bright!
To-morrow shall a sportive kid be thine,

Whose forehead swells with horns of infant might:
Ev'n now of love and war he dreams in vain,
Doom'd with his blood thy gelid wave to stain.

Let the red dog-star burn!--his scorching beam, Fierce in resplendence shall molest not thee! Still shelter'd from his rays, thy banks, fair stream, To the wild flock around thee wandering free,

And the tired oxen from the furrow'd field
The genial freshness of their breath shall yield.

And thou, Sright fount! ennobled and renown'd
Shalt by thy poet's votive song be made;
Thou and the oak with deathless verdure crown'd
Whose boughs, a pendant canopy, o'ershade
Those hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many a tale
Thy chiming waters pour upon the vale.

TO FAUNUS.

BOOK 3d, ODE 18th.

"Faune, Nympharum fugentium amator," &c.

FAUNUS, who lov'st the flying nymphs to chase
O let thy steps with genial influence tread
My sunny fields, and be thy fostering grace,
Soft on my nursling groves and borders, shed.

If at the mellow closing of the year
A tender kid in sacrifice be thine;
Nor fail the liberal bowls to Venus dear;
Nor clouds of incense to thine antique shrine.

Joyous each flock in meadow herbage plays,
When the December feast returns to thee;
Calmly the ox along the pasture strays,
With festal villages from toil set free.

Then from the wolf no more the lambs retreat,
Then shower the woods to thee their foliage round;
And the glad laborer triumphs that his feet

In triple dance have struck the hated ground.

THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH.

The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in the souther hemisphere. The following lines are supposed to be addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South America.]

IN the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread,

Where savannahs, in boundless magnificence, spread,
And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high,
The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.