And fancy's train, that shuns the daylight glare, To wake when midnight shrouds the heavens in gloom; Within my bosom throng to seek a home; Anonymous Translation. IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE, 1753-1928. EVENING. FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS. Silent and cool, now freshening breezes blow Translation of VISCOUNT STRangford. LUIS DE CAMOENS, 1524–1579. SPRING EVENING. FROM THE GERMAN Bright with the golden shine of heaven, plays And the spring-landscape's trembling likeness sways Fair is the rocky fount, the blossomed hedge, Fair is the star of eve, that on the edge Fair is the meadow's green-the valley's copse- The alder-brook-the reed-encircled pond, O'er-snowed with blossom-showers. This manifold world of Love is held in one By Love's eternal band; The glow-worm and the fire-sea of the sun Thou beckonest, Almighty! from the tree Thou beckonest, and in immensity Is quenched a solar ball! Anonymous Translation. FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON, 1761-1831. SONG. The splendor falls on castle walls, Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Oh hark! oh hear! now thin and clear, The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing: Blow; let us hear the purple glens replying, O Love, they die on yon rich sky, They faint on hill, on field, on river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer dying, dying, dying. ALFRED TENNYSON. SONG. Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet embroider'd vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; That likest thy Narcissus are? Hid them in some flow'ry cave, Tell me but where, Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere! And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies. JOHN MILTON, 1608-1674. LIFE. Like to the falling of a star, HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester, 1591-1669. ON HOPE. Reflected on the lake, I love To see the stars of evening glow, Thus heavenly Hope is all serene; But earthly Hope, how bright soe'er, ВІЗНОР НЕВЕК. SONNET. Beauty still walketh on the earth and air, The roses of the spring are ever fair, 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair, And the deep sea still foams its music old. So, if we are at all divinely souled, This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. 'Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us bending, Within old starry-gated Poesy, To meet a soul set to no worldly tune, Like thine, sweet friend! oh, dearer this to me the moon, Than are the dewy trees, the sun, ALEXANDER SMITHL TWILIGHT. There is an evening twilight of the heart We gaze upon them as they melt away, But Hope is 'round us with her angel lay, Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour; Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power. In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, And manhood felt her sway too- on the eye, Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh, And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, "Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green. But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now; That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart; FITZ-GREENE HALLECR |