Then forgetting the realms and the oceans between,
I have thought each companion was nigh,-
Their figures air-drawn in the moon's rays I've seen,
Their voices I've heard in the sky.

Yes, my

mother! your accents my ear loves to drink, And my cheek often glows with your kiss!

In such rapture dissolved, can I snatch time to think That I've bade a farewell to the bliss?

Now delighted, my soul, borne on memory's wings,
Hastes to roam where I wander'd a boy;

Away from each care it indignantly flings,
And basks in the rays of pure joy.

Thus an eagle, who sits where the hurricane roars,
Nobly bursts from the region of storms,

And spurns them away, as sublimely he soars
Where no cloud the sun's disk e'er deforms.

INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

COME, gentle sleep, and shed thy liquid balm,
On eyes that oft have painful vigils known;
Shield me from terror,-visionary harm,

And make me some few hours of grief disown.

Blest pow'r that gives the soul, though steeped in care,
A transient bliss-oblivion of its woes,

Fain would I have thee blunt my keen despair,
And grant soft mitigation to my throes.

Yet canst thou not retrieve the broken heart,
Too weak, alas! t'extract the hidden pain;
Tho' soft the balm thou gently dost impart,
More sweet to grief than Philomel's sad strain.

But ah! for sorrows such as wring my breast,
Death's night alone can yield a perfect rest!

ODE TO ENTHUSIASM.

I.

YES-it is thine—that magic lyre
Whose every chord a ray of fire

Can thrill the inmost soul;

The kindling votary drinks the sound-
A thousand visions wake around-
And see!—in madd'ning raptures drown'd—
His frenzied eye-balls roll!

But ah! what mortal hand shall dare

From yonder bough that shell to seize? Whose notes can give to storms the air,

Or lull entranc'd the list'ning breeze.Say-for thou canst-what mortal eye

Has favour'd seen its radiant frame? What hand has swell'd its notes on high? What voice inspired its song of flame?

II.

Yes, first on Scotia's barren, bleakest rocks,

Where the hoarse surge in foam incessant breaks, The night-winds rustling through his hoary locks,— Its song sublime the mighty Ossian wakes!His eyes which glow'd with warlike fire,

Or melted once with soft desire,

Are now deep set in gloom;
But like the solar ray confin'd,
The sparks concentre on his mind,
And bright his soul illume.
Bending o'er his harp he sits,
Lost in musing, pleasing fits.
Every varying theme he tries,
Each with melody replies;-

III.

Now on softest numbers dwelling,
Love alone his lays prolong,

And now to notes tumultuous swelling,

Hark! the battle bursts along! Lo-at his call-a thousand forms

Quick mount the midnight gale,

The hero comes on the wings of the storms,-
Now flits the lover pale,

The Ghosts are these of chiefs who fell
Where loud the battle's clangours swell.
Who dying scorn'd their foes;-
Of youths who loved with latest breath,
Of maidens-sunk in early death—

Too true the outline of their woes!

IV.

Dim through them gleams the moon-light ray,
As quitting each his clay-cold cell,
They listening hang around;
Entranced-as by a magic spell –

They eager drink each heav'nly sound,
And as their souls suck in the rapturous lay,-
In joys ecstatic drown'd,—their silent homage pay.
He sings how heroes' bosoms glow,

He sings how heaves the breast of snow;

Death no more can fears impart,
Warriors smiling meet the dart;
Lovers with new ardours burn,
Maidens feel the wish'd return;
Thus from death to pleasure straying,
Stern-terrific-gentle-bland,

Every passion fond obeying,

Owns the mighty master's hand.

ON DEATH.

مرگ اگر مردست گو که پیشم بیا تا در آغوشش بیگیرم تنگ تنگ او از من بیگیرد این دلق رنگ رنگ من از او ستانم عمر جاودان

TRANSLATION.

Should death intrepid meet me face to face,
Gladly I'd grasp him in a firm embrace;
This motley form, the garb of sin, resign,
And take th' immortal gift of life divine.

EPIGRAM OF BUCHANAN'S.

ILLA mihi semper præsenti dura Neæra, Me quoties absum semper abesse dolet; Non desiderio nostri, non mæret amore, Sed se non nostro posse dolore frui.

TRANSLATION.

Though at her feet my offer'd vows
With scorn Neæra hears,

No sooner do I quit her house
Than she dissolves in tears.

'Tis not through love Neæra grieves,
Though she with truth complain—
My absence her of joy bereaves-
The joy of giving pain.

ON THE CLOSE OF DAY.

SEE the bright orb of parting day—
Its last faint beam now quiv'ring glows,

And gently fading to decay,

Shews wearied nature hast'ning to repose.