SONG FROM AFAR.

Translated from a German Poem, by Matthison.

SMITH

WHEN in the last faint light of ev'ning,
A smiling form glides softly by,

A gentle sigh its bosom heaving,

Whilst thou in oaken grove dost lie; It is the spirit of thy friend

Which whispers,-"All thy cares shall end.”
When in the mild moon's peaceful twilight
Foreboding thoughts and dreams arise,
And the solemn hour of midnight

Paints fairy scenes before thine eyes;
The poplars give a rustling sound,-
It is my spirit hovers round.

When, deep in fields of ancient story,
Thou hang'st enraptur'd o'er the page
That gives and takes the mead of glory,
Feel'st thou a breath that fans thy rage?
And does the trembling torch burn pale ?-
My spirit drinks with thine the tale..

Hear'st thou, when silver stars are shining, A sound as Eol's harp divine,

Now the wild wind full chords combining,. Now softly murm'ring,-Ever thine! Then careless sleep, to guard thy peace My watchful spirit ne'er shall cease!

MORAL STANZAS.

TALBOT.

WELCOME the real state of things,
Ideal world adieu,

Where clouds, pil'd up by fancy's hand,
Hang low'ring o'er each view.

Here the gay sunshine of content
Shall gild each humble scene;
And life steal on, with gentle pace,
Beneath a sky serene.

Hesperian trees amidst my grove
I ask not to behold;
Since ev'n from Ovid's song I know,
That dragons guard the gold.

Nor would I have the Phoenix build
In my poor elms his nest;
For where shall odorous gums be found
To treat the beauteous guest.

Henceforth no pleasure I desire
In any wild extreme;
Such as should lull the captiv'd mind,
In a bewitching dream.

Friendship I ask, without caprice,
When faults are over-seen;
Errors on both sides mix'd with truth,
And kind good-will between,

may

Health that best its value prove,
By slight returns of pain;
Amusements to enliven life,
Crosses to prove it vain.

Thus would I

pass my

hours away,

Extracting good from all;

Till time shall from my sliding feet
Push this uncertain ball.

PEACE AND GLORY.

Written at the commencement of the present War.

MOORE.

WHERE is now the smile that lighten'd
Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope that brighten'd
Honor's eye and pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath we braided
For our weary warrior-men?
Is the faithless olive faded,

Must the bay be pluck'd again?

Passing hour of sunny weather,
Lovely, in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,
Wander'd through the blessed isle;
And the eyes of Peace would glisten,
Dewy as a morning sun,

When the timid maid would listen
To the deeds her chief had done.

Is the hour of dalliance over?
Must the maiden's trembling feet
Bear her from her warlike lover,
To the desart's still retreat?
Fare you well! with sighs we banish
Nymph so fair, and guest so bright;
Yet the smile, with which you vanish,
Leaves behind a soothing light!

Soothing light that long shall sparkle
O'er your warrior's sanguine way,
Through the field where horrors darkle,
Shedding hope's consoling ray!
Long the smile his heart will cherish,
To its absent idol true,

While around him myriads perish,
Glory still will sigh for you!

TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.

WHITE.

SWEET scented flower! who art wont to bloom

On January's front severe,

And o'er the wint'ry desert drear

To waft thy waste perfume!

Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now,
And I will bind thee round my brow;

And, as I twine the mournful wreath,

I'll weave a melancholy song,

And sweet the strain shall be, and long,
The melody of death.

Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell
With the pale corse in lonely tomb,
And throw across the desert gloom
A sweet decaying smell.

Come, press my lips and lie with me,
Beneath the lowly alder tree;

And we will sleep a pleasant sleep;
And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude,
So peaceful and so deep.

And hark! the wind-god as he flies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music dies.

Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,

The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yon lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,

A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.

STANZAS.

MOORE,

A beam of tranquility smil'd in the West,
The storms of the morning pursued us no more;
And the wave, while it welcom'd the moment of rest,
Still heav'd, as remembering ills that were o'er!
Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,

Its passions were sleeping,-were mute as the dead, And the spirit becalmed, but remember'd their power,

As the billow the force of the gale that was fled! I thought of the days when to pleasure alone

My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh; When the saddest emotion my bosom had known, Was pity for those who were wiser than I!

I felt, how the pure intellectual fire

In luxury loses its heavenly ray;

How soon in the lavishing cup of desire,

The pearl of the soul may be melted away! And I pray'd of that spirit who lighted the flame, That pleasure no more might its purity dim; And that sullied but little, or brightly the same, I might give back the gem I had borrow'd of him. The thought was extatic! I felt as if heaven

Had already the wreath of eternity shown; As if, passion all chasten'd and error forgiven, My heart had begun to be purely its own.

I look'd to the West, and the beautiful sky

Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more: · “ Oh! thus," I exclaim'd, " can a heavenly eye Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before!"