FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTHOLEME LEONARDO.
As the deep river swift and silent flows,
Towards the ocean, I am borne adown
The quiet tide of time. Nought now remains
Of the past years; and for the years to come,
Their dark and undiscoverable deeds
Elude the mortal eye. Beholding thus
How daily life wanes on, so may I learn,
Not with an unprovided mind, to meet
That hour, when Death shall gather up the old
And wither'd plant, whose season is gone by.
The spring flowers fade, th' autumnal fruits decay,
And gray old Winter, with his clouds and storms,
Comes on; the leaves, whose calm cool murmuring
Made pleasant music to our green-wood walks,
Now rustle dry beneath our sinking feet.
So all things rise and perish; we the while
Do, with a dull and profitless eye, behold
All this, and think not of our latter end.
My friend! we will not let that soil, which oft
Impregnate with the rains and dews of heaven,
Is barren still and stubborn to the plough,
*They form part of an Epistle written in his latter years.
Emblem our thankless hearts; nor of our God
Forgetful, be as is the worthless vine,
That in due season brings not forth its fruits.
Think'st thou, that God created man alone
To wander o'er the world and ocean waste,
Or for the blasting thunderbolt of war?
Was this his being's end? Oh! how he errs,
Who of his godlike nature and his God
Thus poorly, basely, blasphemously deems!
For higher actions, and for loftier ends,
Our better part, the deathless and divine,
Was formed. The fire that animates my breast
May not be quench'd, and when that breast is cold,
The unextinguishable fire shall burn
With brighter splendor: till that hour arrive,
Obedient to my better part, my friend,
Be it my lot to live, and thro' the world,
Careless of human praise, pass quietly.
The Eastern despot, he whose silver towers
Shot back a rival radiance to the sun,
He was too poor for Sin's extravagance;
But Virtue, like the air and light of Heaven,
To all accessible, at every heart,
Intreats admittance. Wretched fool is he
Who, through the perils of the earth and waves,
Toils on for wealth! A little peaceful home
Bounds all my wants and wishes, add to this
My book and friend, and this is happiness.
You own I'm complacent, but tell me I'm cold,
Then must I my youth's early sorrows unfold,
Must waken remembrance to joys that are fled,
Now hope is extinguish'd, and passion is dead.
I have lost in life's morn all that life could endear,
And if I am chearful, I smile through a tear.
My parents, though humble, were happy and good,
We could boast of our honour, if not of our blood:
My lover, ah! how the sad tale shall I tell,
For his country he fought, for his country he fell:
He was brave, he was true, to my soul he was dear,
His fame claims a smile, but it shines through a tear.
In vain would I picture my agoniz'd heart,
My parents' soft soothings no balm could impart :
They sunk o'er the child whom they could not relieve,
And the cold hand of Death left me only to grieve:
Thus fated to suffer, that moment draws near,
When you'll neither distinguish a smile nor a tear.
TO THE MEMORY OF LORD KEPPEL.
THOUGH Fortune bends to Life's unvarying doom,
And Nature stops her blessings at the tomb;
Though Wisdom's triumph and the boast of Birth
Must, undistinguish'd, mix with meanest Earth;
The lasting Moral faithful Fame supplies,
And Memory lends the mark that Death denies.
Yet the grav'd Pile in vain shall breathe, the Verse
In vain present to Time the blazon'd hearse,
Where Heaven's invalued bounties we debase,
The last in merit, though the first in place;
But thee, who oft in Virtue's dear defence
Bared thy bold breast, and urged thy manly sense,
Or, when thy country claim'd a soldier's care,
Borne on the wings of Glory to the war,
Or in fair Friendship's pledge, and proud array,
Oppos'd to guilty Faction's secret sway,
While every private wrong too soon forgiven,
Breath'd the meek spirit of forbearing heaven;
Thee-mild yet firm, thee-placable yet brave,
The Muse shall tell, and disappoint the grave,
And History guard thy deeds from envying Age
To moralize at once and grace her page.
Beautifully drawn by the Rev. William Bree, of Coleshill, in Warwickshire, and in the Possession of the Rev. Henry White, Cathedral Close, Lichfield.
AFTER a lonely course through yon deep woods,
And the green quietness of distant vales,
Now, gentle river, to the haunts of men
The rude stone arches stretching o'er thy flood
Note thine approach; and as with silent lapse
Thou stealest under them, the staid old cow
And lumpish horse above, are driven afield
By time-worn herdsman. Then, in swifter course,
Thy lately tranquil streams, jocund, and loud,
Rush down the Wier. Again, soon calm'd, they flow,
And the young day shines on their glassy train.
So dost thou wander by the pleasant base
Of a clean village, climbing up the steep
And shrubby knoll; while bosom'd in thick trees,
The church the hill top crowns. The day is young;
Clos'd yonder cottage door; the din and talk
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