From rock to rock, with giant-bound,
High on their iron poles they pass;
Mute, lest the air, convulsed by sound,
Rend from above a frozen mass.*
The goats wind slow their wonted way
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude!
Marked by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning-cloud,
Perched like an eagles nest on high.
* There are passes in the Alps, where the guides tell you to move on with speed, and say nothing, lest the agitation of the air should loosen the snow above. GRAY, sect. v. let. 4.
GREEK EPIGRAM.
WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she kneels
And the blue vails a thousand joys recall,
See, to the last, last verge her infant steals!
O fly-yet stir not, speak not, lest it fall.
Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare,
And the fond boy springs back to nestle there.
THE sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;
He climbs the mast to feast his eyes once more,
And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.
Ah! now each dear, domestic scene he knew,
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,
Charms with the magic of a moonlight view,
Its colors mellowed, not impaired, by time.
True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main;
This, the last wish with which its warmth could part, To meet the smile of her he loves again.
When moon first faintly draws her silver line,
Or eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave;
When sea and sky in midnight darkness join,
Still, still he views the parting look she gave.
Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole :
And, when the beating billows round him roar,
Whispers sweet hope to sooth his troubled soul.
Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
In many a plantain forest, waving wide;
Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant-palms o'er-arch the yellow tide.
But, lo, at last he comes with crowded sail!
Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!
And, hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!
In each he hears the welcome of a friend.
'Tis she, 'tis herself! she waves her hand! Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furled; Soon through the whitening surge he springs to land, And clasps the maid he singled from the world.
CAGED in old woods, whose reverend echoes wake
When the hern screams along the distant lake,
Her little heart oft flutters to be free,
Oft sighs to turn the unrelenting key.
In vain the nurse that rustic relic wears,
Nor moved by gold-nor to be moved by tears;
And terraced walls their black reflection throw
On the green-mantled moat that sleeps below.
ON A TEAR.
OH! that the chymist's magic art, Could crystallize this sacred treasure! Long should it glitter near my heart, A secret source of pensive pleasure.
The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from CHLOE's eye;
Then trembling, left its coral cell-
The spring of sensibility!
Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.
Benign restorer of the soul !
Who ever flyest to bring relief,
When first she feels the rude control
Of love or pity, joy or grief.
The sages and the poets theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charmest in fancy's idle dream,
In reasons philsophic page.
That very law* which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.
*The law of gravitation.
DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there,
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager;
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.
In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours
With my loved lute's romantic sound;
'Or crowns of living laurel weave,
For those that win the race at eve.
The shepherd's horn at break of day
The ballet danced in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay
Sung in the silent green-wood shade:
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.
On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers The maid thy earliest fondest wishes knew. Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers; Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.
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