THE BROOK

FROM THE SPANISH.

LAUGH of the mountain !-lyre of bird and

tree!

Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn!
The soul of April, unto whom are born
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
Although, where'er thy devious current strays,
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
Than golden sands, that charm each shep
herd's gaze.

How without guile thy bosom, all transparent
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye

Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles

count!

How, without malice murmuring, glides thy

current!

O sweet simplicity of days gone by!

Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in

limpid iouus:

THE CELESTIAL PILOT

FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO. II.

AND now, behold! as at the approach of

morning,

Through the gross vapors, Mars grows fiery

red

Down in the west upon the ocean floor,

Appeared to me,-would I again could see it!-
A light along the sea, so swiftly coming,
Its motion by no flight of wing is equaled,

And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little Mine eyes, that I might question my con ductor,

Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.