But o'er the grassy meads the Muses rove,
Or by yon stream that through the valley strays;
While inspiration whispers through the grove,
And sportive fancy mid the foliage plays.
From the white village church, amid those trees,
Ne'er does the midnight clang of terror sound;
Nor o'er this Tempe does the balmy breeze
E'er waft heart-rending notes of discord round.
The fearful din of clashing weapons ne'er
The echo of that ivied cavern wakes; [care,
But while the herdsman's horn sounds free from
To the sweet shepherd's pipe the morning breaks.
In the soft meads the lowing herds repose,

The wild goats browze upon the steepy rocks; While from the mouldering tower, at evening's

close,

The screechowl hoots amid the falling blocks. The silver poplars in the Zephyrs play,

Their leaves presenting still a varying hue; The mill that stops yon streamlet's gentle way At pauses strikes, to measured time still true. On the tall trees the thrush her wild notes sings, While the meek grasshopper still chirps below; The mower's sithe through all the valley rings,

And the bees hum as laden home they go. Oh! bless'd the man, who from his heart can hail These tranquil scenes, here study nature's page; As Petrarch, in his rock-encompass'd vale,

And in Scillonte's shades the Grecian sage*.

Xenophon, who, banished from his native country, retired to Scillonte, in Peloponnesus, not far from Olympia, where he devoted his latter years to hunting and agriculture.

And ye, who've long repented that your choice Once led ye to pursue the worldling's course, Fly, fly the storm; obey mild Nature's voice,

And peaceful rest from the rude tempest's force. Here may the heart, too oft by man betray'd, Form round himself a world where guilt's unThe injured lover, the forsaken maid, [known;

Their soul's deep wrongs in silence may bemoan. And thou, mild seraph, who, through passing years, Hast watch'd my steps, thy guardian cares may Encircled round with golden hope appears [cease; The future now, as here I rest in peace. While here, as at the brink of heavenly joy, I fix my seat, abjuring worldly dreams; Resolved ambition's tune shall ne'er decoy My heart again, to taste her troubled streams. Love's wants are few, a garden, plough, and field, An arbour by his fair one's fingers dress'd, A straw-roof'd cot from curious eyes conceal'd, A spot where two united urns may rest. Far as a shepherd, in fair Enna's dale, The distant roaring of the billows hears, So distant now the sons of history's tale, In low and broken sounds, assails mine ears. Nor shall ambition's votaries e'er a note Of admiration from my bosom gain; Those who for liberty their lives devote,

Alone can from my hands a crown obtain. Too proud to serve, where rank or pay invites, No more a hireling to another's laws; Yet ne'er will I desert man's genuine rights, But gladly perish in fair Freedom's cause.

And when at last I rest from mortal strife,
O'er my cold clay let silver roses bloom;
And ah! may those who shared my love through
life

Shed drops of fond affection o'er my tomb.

ANNE PLUMPTRE.

TO A VIOLET.

FROM THE GERMAN OF WIESSE.

THOUGH from thy bank of velvet torn,
Hang not, fair flower, thy drooping crest;
On Delia's bosom shalt thou find

A softer sweeter bed of rest.

Though from mild zephyr's kiss no more
Ambrosial balms thou shalt inhale,
Her gentle breath, whene'er she sighs,
Shall fan thee with a purer gale.

But thou be grateful for that bliss
For which in vain a thousand burn,
And, as thou stealest sweets from her,
Give back thy choicest in return.

RUSSELL.

THE FISHERMAN.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

THE water rushed, the water swell'd,
A fisherman sat nigh;

Calm was his heart, and he beheld
His line with watchful eye :

While thus he sits with tranquil look,

In twain the water flows;

Then crown'd with reeds from out the brook,

A lovely woman rose.

To him she sung, to him she said,

6 Why tempt'st thou from the flood, By cruel arts of man betray'd,

Fair youth, my scaly brood?

Ah! knewest thou how we find it sweet
Beneath the waves to go,

Thyself would leave the hook's deceit,
And live with us below.

'Love not their splendour in the main
The sun and moon to lave?
Look not their beams as bright again,
Reflected on the wave?

'Tempts not this river's glassy blue,
So crystal, clear, and bright?
Tempts not thy shade, which bathes in dew,
And shares our cool delight?'-

The water rush'd, the water swell'd,
The fisherman sat nigh;

With wishful glance the flood beheld,
And long'd the wave to try.

To him she said, to him she sung,
The river's guileful queen:
Half in he fell, half in he sprung,

And never more was seen.

M. G. LEWIS.

STANZAS.

FROM THE GERMAN OF BRUNCKER.

I FOUND the warrior on the plain,

His eye was fix'd, his hand was chill,
Still bore his breast the life-blood's stain,
The blood was on his helmet still.
He died, as hearts like his should die,
In the hot clasp of victory!

The eye was fix'd, but in its gaze

Look'd the high soul; the crimson'd brow Was cold, but life's departing rays

Had lit it with a warrior's glow.

The soul that from that turf had flown
Would not have sought a prouder throne.

I saw the lover's living shade

Shivering in Summer's rosiest gale, The look of woe, the cheek decay'd,

The eye's dark brilliance sunk and pale:

Rather than drag that life of pain,
Give me the sword, the strife, the plain!

ANONYMOUS.

PRO PATRIA MORI.

FROM THE GERMAN OF BURGER.

FOR Virtue, freedom, human rights, to fall, Beseems the brave: it is a Saviour's death! Of heroes only the most pure of all

Thus with their heart's blood tinge the battleheath.