E winds which sweep the grove's green tops,
And kiss the mountains hoar,
Oh softly stir the ocean-waves
That sleep along the shore;
For
my love sails the fairest ship
That wantons on the sea;
Oh bend his mast with pleasant gales,
And waft him hame to me.
Oh leave nae mair the bonnie glen,
Clear stream, and hawthorn grove,
Where first we walked in gloaming gray,
And sighed and looked of love.
For faithless is the ocean-wave,
And faithless is the wind;
Then leave nae mair my heart to break
'Mang Scotland's hills behind.
OR me no roseate garlands twine,
But wear them, dearest, in my stead
Time hath a whiter hand than thine,
And lays it on my head.
Enough to know thy place on earth
Is there where roses latest die;
To know, the steps of youth and mirth
Are thine, that pass me by.
OU beat your pate, and fancy wit will come:
Knock as you will, there's nobody at home.
ENTI qvi nemorum culmina verritis
Canentiqve iugo figitis oscula,
Undis parcite longum
Per litus recubantibus.
Sponsus noster enim dirigit huc ratem,
Qva non ulla fretis pulchrior insilit
Afris: O bonus adflans
Deducat Zephyrus domum.
Tu vallem patriam, tu vitreum cole
Fontem et dulce nemus, sero ubi vespere
Suspiravimus una et
Vultu praestitimus fidem :
Saxis neve tuo sub borealibus
Me desiderio neglige inemori,
Fallacisqve Favoni
Fallacisqve maris sciens.
ARCE mihi, virgo, roseas properare corollas,
Munera qvae fronti sint magis apta tuae.
Aetatemne vides caput hoc contingere? Palma
Vel tua prae tali candida palma minus.
Sat mihi, terrarum qvacumqve habitaveris ora,
Parcat hiems serae serior ipsa rosae ;
Cumqve iocus praeter me fugerit atqve iuventas,
Agnoscam gressus, sat mihi, signa tui.
VI cerebrum pulsas, venturaqve grandia credis
Consilia, a tandem desine: nemo domi est.
LADY, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree.
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnished holly's all too bright,
The may-flower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine;
But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress-tree.
Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due;
The myrtle-bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give ;
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree.
Let merry England proudly rear
Her blended roses, bought so dear;
Let Albyn bind her bonnet blue
With heath and harebell dipped in dew;
On favoured Erin's crest be seen
The flower she loves of emerald green:
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress-tree.
Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair;
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves
With bloody hand the victor weaves,
Let the loud trump his triumph tell;
But when you hear the passing bell,
Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress-tree.
Iubet Cupressus funebres.
UT nullum, Lalage, necte mihi, precor,
Aut sertum foliis necte cupressinis.
Resplendent nimio lilia lumine,
Et pictis nimium frondibus arbuti ;
Calthis mixta rosae suave rubentia
Nostro serta caput laetius ambiant;
At nullum, Lalage, necte mihi, precor,
Aut sertum foliis necte cupressinis.
Vernanti decoret tempora pampino
Subridens facili laetitia Iocus;
Fortem pro patria saepiat aesculus ;
Aptum consiliis taxus amet senem ;
Spem reddit miseris myrtus amantibus,
Sed myrtum, Lalage, tu mihi denegas :
Ergo mitte leves nectere flosculos,
Et frondes potius texe cupressinas.
Tollat laeta rosas Anglia compares,
Qvae multo rapuit sangvine praemia,
Innectatqve apici Scotia caerulo
Stillantes hilari rore thymi comas;
Flos cristam nitidae cingat Hiberniae
Qvi vernat trifida fronde smaragdinus:
At nullum, Lalage, necte mihi, precor,
Aut sertum foliis necte cupressinis.
Inter clara lyrae carmina virgines
Musaeis hederam crinibus implicent:
Et laurus, capiti promeritum decus,
Victor sangvinea dum properat manu,
Aeris concelebret clangor adoream :
Tu, cum funereo tibia praecinet
Cantu, tum, Lalage, necte mihi, precor,
Tum sertum foliis necte cupressinis.
Yes, twine for me the cypress-bough,
But, O Matilda, twine not now:
Stay till a few brief months are past,
And I have looked and loved my
last.
When villagers my shroud bestrew
With pansies, rosemary and rue,
Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,
And weave it of the cypress-tree.
The Fond Lover.
HY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail ?
Prithee, why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Prithee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Prithee, why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame; this will not move,
This cannot take her:
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her.
The devil take her!
Pictorum Certamen ambiguum.
Rennt den Urbiner den ersten der Maler; allein Leonardo Ist zu vollendet, um blos irgend der zweite zu seyn.
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