When least we fear, then is the traitor nigh; When most secure we seem, he loves to come: Less sure than he, the bolts of thunder fly,
Less sure than he, the lightning strikes the dome. He rules o'er all-and him must kings obey,
Whose will no counsel knows and no control; The proud and gilded great ones are his prey, Who stand like pillars in a tyrant's hall.
THE ASS AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
FROM THE RUSSIAN OF KRILOW.
An ass a nightingale espied,
And shouted out, Holla! holla! good friend! Thou art a first rate singer, they pretend
Now let me hear thee, that I may decide;
I really wish to know the world is partial ever—
If thou hast this great gift, and art indeed so clever.'
The nightingale began her heavenly lays;
Through all the regions of sweet music ranging,
Varying her song a thousand different ways;
Rising and falling, lingering, ever changing :
Full of wild rapture now-then sinking oft
To almost silence-melancholy, soft
As distant shepherd's pipe at evening's close :-
Strewing the wood with lovelier music;-there
All nature seems to listen and repose:
No zephyr dares disturb the tranquil air:-
All other voices of the grove are still;
And the charm'd flocks lay down beside the rill.
The shepherd like a statue stands-afraid
His breathing may disturb the melody,
His finger pointing to the harmonious tree,
Seems to say, 'Listen!' to his favourite maid.
The singer ended:-and our critic bow'd
His reverend head to earth, and said aloud:—
'Now that's so so; thou really hast some merit,
Curtail thy song and critics then might hear it:
Thy voice wants sharpness:-but if chanticleer
Would give thee a few lessons, doubtless he
Might raise thy voice and modulate thy ear;
And thou, in spite of all thy faults, mayst be
A very decent singer.'-
The poor bird
In silent modesty the critic heard,
And wing'd her peaceful flight into the air,
O'er many and many a field and forest fair.
Many such critics you and I have seen:-
Heaven be our screen!
FROM THE RUSSIAN OF KOSTROV.
THE rose is my favourite flower:
On its tablets of crimson I swore,
That up to my last living hour
I never would think of thee more.
I scarcely the record had made,
Ere zephyr, in frolicsome play,
On his light airy pinions convey'd
Both tablet and promise away.
FROM THE RUSSIAN OF DAVIDOV.
WHILE honouring the grape's ruby nectar,
All sportingly, laughingly gay;
We determined-I, Silvia, and Hector-
To drive old dame Wisdom away.
'O my children, take care,' said the beldame, 'Attend to these counsels of mine:
Get not tipsy! for danger is seldom
Remote from the goblet of wine.'
With thee in his company no man
Can err,' said our wag with a wink;
'But come, thou goodnatured old woman,
There's a drop in the goblet-and drink!'
She frown'd-but her scruples soon twisting,
Consented and smilingly said:
'So polite-there's indeed no resisting,
For Wisdom was never ill bred.'
She drank, but continued her teaching,
'Let the wise from indulgence refrain;'
And never gave over her preaching,
But to say, Fill the goblet again.'
And she drank, and she totter'd, but still she Was talking and shaking her head:
Mutter'd' temperance'-' prudence'-until she Was carried by Folly to bed.
A fragment.
FROM THE WELSH.
OWEN's praise demands my song,
Owen swift, and Owen strong;
Fairest flower of Roderic's stem,
Gwyneth's shield and Britain's gem,
He nor heaps his brooded stores,
Nor on all profusely pours;
Lord of every regal art,
Liberal hand, and open heart.
Big with hosts of mighty name,
Squadrons three against him came;
This the force of Eirin hiding,
Side by side as proudly riding,
On her shadow long and gay
Lochlin + ploughs the watery way;
There the Norman sails afar
Catch the winds and join the war:
Black and huge along they sweep,
Burdens of the angry deep.
Dauntless on his native sands
The dragon son of Mona stands +;
In glittering arms and glory dress'd,
High he rears his ruby crest.
There the thundering strokes begin,
There the press, and there the din;
Talymalfra's rocky shore
Echoing to the battle's roar.
The red dragon, the device of Cadwallader, was borne on their banners by his descendants.
Check'd by the torrent tide of blood,
Backward Menaï rolls his flood;
While, heap'd his master's feet around,
Prostrate warriors gnaw the ground.
Where his glowing eyeballs turn,
Thousand banners round him burn:
Where he points his purple spear,
Hasty, hasty Rout is there;
Marking with indignant eye,
Fear to stop, and shame to fly.
There Confusion, Terror's child,
Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild,
Agony, that pants for breath,
Despair and honourable death.
FROM THE WELSH.
FILL the horn of glossy blue,
Ocean's bright cerulean hue;
Briskly quaff the flavorous mead,
'Tis a day to joy decreed.
High the fame of Tudor's birth,
Valour his, and conscious worth.
Have you seen the virgin snow
That tops old Aran's peering brow;
Or lucid web, by insect spun,
Purpureal gleam in summer sun?
With such, yet far diviner light,
Malvina hits the dazzled sight;
Such the reward, can Tudor's breast
Dare to court ignoble rest?
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