Gazes, in silent rapture. But cạn Art
With Nature vie, or so enchant the mind,
By Fashion's fopperies unsophisticate,
As her grand scenery? Come then with me,
And let us view her awful shrine, and pierce
Her dark recesses, the wild, wizard haunts
Of Inspiration then shalt thou behold,
And learn to prize that which is truly great;
Then shalt thou know and feel, how sweet it is
Te walk with Nature 'midst her boundless reign,
To muse, her lonely votary, and to live,
As though the world, its broad, and bending shores,
Its mountains, vallies, and resounding streams,
And all the pomp and pageantry of heaven,
Were made for thee alone, to soothe and charm
Thy pensive thought: nor selfish such delight
Nor the effect of narrow Ignorance:
For what can so expand the heart, and wake
Generous emotions, as the love of thee,
Benignant Nature? What can fill the soul,
Or elevate it with such transports high
Of pure enjoyment? Intellectual feast!
Banquet of mind! therefore will I not cease
To woo thee, Goddess! At thy hallowed shrine
Oft will I hang garlands of freshest flowers,
And 'midst the solemn sanctuary of woods,
'Midst rocks abrupt, and murmuring water-falls,
Rear thee an altar. Thither oft shall come
Some young enthusiast, by rapt Fancy led,
To meditate the Muse's lofty theme :
There shall he gaze upon thy mystic form,
Insatiate. Not alone thy features mild,
The soft blue sky, green mead, and silvery stream,
The zephyr's gentle sigh, the breath of flowers,
Their fragrance and their bloom; not these alone
Shall thrill his throbbing breast: he shall exult
To list the voice of storms, when the broad main
Is maddened into fury. The deep roar
Of warring winds and waves shall calm his soul;
Cradled in Nature's lap, her wildest scenes,
And most terrific shall have charms for him,
And like the infant who, with wistful gaze,
Beholds its mother, he shall smile, or weep,
With untaught passion, and mild sympathy.
WHY declare how much I love thee?
Words may feebly tell a part;
Let a stronger language move thee,
Every throb that heaves my heart.
Would'st thou hear a lover's story?
Listen to each whispering sigh;
Would'st thou know how I adore thee?
Mark the homage of mine eye.
Be these revealers of my passion,
Let them plead for love and me,
And tell, on every dear occasion,
All I think, and feel for thee.
Feigned love may soothe and flatter,
And betray with words of art:
Mine can boast a nobler nature,
It seeks to speak from heart to heart!
Edinburgh.
PART OF THE 7th ODE OF THE FIRST
BOOK OF HORACE TRANSLATED.
BY THE LATE REV. DR. RUSSEL.
As breezes from the southern main
Disperse the clouds and cleanse the air,
Nor always bring descending rain,
But sometimes settled calm and fair.
So, Plancus, with the grape's soft juice
Should you the toils of life dispel,
Whether the glitt'ring camp you chuse,
Or at your shady Tibur dwell,
When Teucer from his father fled,
His native land, and Gods forsook,
He crown'd with poplar wreaths his head,
And in his hand the goblet took.
And, "Come, said he, my noble friends,
Where Fortune leads, we'll boldly on';
Fortune, will make us full amends
For all that Telamon has done.
"'Tis Teucer leads, let none despair;
The destin'd spot before us lies,
Where great Apollo's priests declare,
Another Salamis shall rise.
"Then wisely snatch the precious now,
We've oft endur'd severer sorrow;
Let wine to day, unbend each brow,
And hie away
for sea to morrow.
YOUNG Henry sate in Julia's bower
And bent to Beauty's witching power;
A magic Talisman he brought,
Charm'd to enchain the roving thought;
And Julia fix'd her eye of jet
On Henry's mystic Amulet.
A dove which held a bleeding heart,
A rose-bud glow'd in mimic art,
“In that fair rose, thy emblem see!
"In that fond bird, Ů think of me!
"Should you my faithful love forget
"Look on this little Amulet."
The rose, all sad and drooping, now
Hangs withering on its parent bough;
The Dove has dropt the bleeding heart,
Regardless of the seeking smart.-
O that the Maiden could forget
Young Henry and his Amulet..
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.
Es, you may sigh, and pout, and fret!
Vain are your efforts to secure me;
For since, at last, I've broke the net,
There's nothing shall again allure me.
Not the dark lustre of those eyes,
At once so brilliant and so tender,
Though by each glance a lover dies,
Shall make my heart its peace surrender.
Nor care I for those coral lips,
Nor cheeks suffus'd with blushes roseal,
Though he who tastes them surely sips
Of more, far more, than sweets ambrosial,
So free am I, that even thy voice,
Whose tones might charm the angry ocean, And bid the soul of woe rejoice,
Wakes in my breast no wild emotion.
I'll not be shar❜d by any wile
That once before in bondage brought me, Ah! idle boast! that witching smile,
That witching smile again has caught me!
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