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TRANSLATION OF A SONNET FROM THE FRENCH

OF SCARRON.

Vast monuments ! that human pride hath raised,

Ye tombs and pyramids, of structure vain ! Where high-triumphant toil we view amazed,

And see o’er Nature Art assume the reign !

Ye ancient temples, now in ruins laid,

Where Roman skill her utmost pow'rs bestowed; Chief, Coloseum-once, which crowds displayed,

That o'er the dying gladiator glowed.

All, all have felt the hand of ruthless Time;

Thrown from your height, ye bite the yellow sand; In vain ye lifted once your heads sublime,

Not e'en your marble could Time's force withstand !

Why weep

I then—that more than two years worn, My old black coat should be at elbows torn!

TO THE MEMORY OF AN INFANT.

REFRESHED with dew, the morning rose

Peers from it's bed at break of day; Beset with pearls its beams disclose,

In beauteous folds, mild Spring's array.

With innocence and beauty blest

Thus bloom'd Eliza's darling boy; In smiles array'd, the lovely guest

Diffused around a tender joy.

Fled are those halcyon days before

The blast, that rends the vernal glades; The roseate hue of health no more, The garden's transient glory fades.

Corroding sorrows intervene,

Frail hope and evanescent fear; With partial views, distract the scene,

Till sad regret bedews the bier.

Sweet child of Spring ! thy blossoms shorn,

The muse laments thy early tomb. Eliza weeps

her infant torn From life, by fate's resistless doom.

Ardent the cherub wings his flight.

To heaven ;—from earthly sorrows free, He gains the blissful realms of light

To dwell in immortality.

TO SUSPENSE.

SUSPENSE ! Thou sad tormentor of the mind,

Oh ! do not thus upon my spirits press; Most painful bonds thine influence I find,

When ev'ry thought is wrung with deep distress.

Why wilt thou then with keenest feelings play?

Throw every wish and hope in wild alarm ? Fain would I fling each pallid fear away,

But thou, sad power, dost soon destroy the calm.

a

How oft a heavy cloud with gloom o'erspread,

Mars the fair prospect of a summer's day; Thus clothed in doubts—Suspense, with horror's dread,

Kills trembling Hope, and curses with delay !

Much rather let the direst truth be known,

The mind elastic, gains new force to ply;
The long-tried heart can bear Fate's darkest frown,

But dread Suspense makes every effort die.

IMITATION OF ANACREON.-ODE XXIX.

“And call’d the thing—a beau.”

MERRICK.

PAINTER, now thy power show,
Deck the canvass with the beau,-
Every gaudy tint prepare-
Mark the fashion-catch the air:

for real pass

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Draw his snowy, powder'd tresses,
Which the soft pomatum dresses ;
Dangling in black-riband tail,
Thick as those that comets trail ;
Or gently tuck his matted hair
'Neath a bag and solitaire.

Let his charcoald eyebrows swell
On a forehead varnished well.
Let his

eyes
One though form’d of painted glass.

Borrow next a bully's look, Though a deer his heart partook. This from real harm will save, That will make him cowards brave.

Next his cheeks with carmine spread,
Or the rouge's beauteous red.
With such art describe the flush,
Let them take it for a blush.

Ill description points the way
On his lips the salve to lay:
Through them let soft nonsense glide
Simp’ring screw'd from side to side;
Purse them till they seem to speak
In a shrill falsetto squeak.

Now the face's features told,
Draw his cravat's triple fold;
Made of Indian muslin fair,
Such as Munny Beegums wear.

Next to frill and shirt-pin haste,
And the finger's ring of paste.
But I'll not presume to tell
You, who know each fashion well,
How the Spanish pumps are made;
How the glitt'ring buckle laid.

H

I the price you ask will give-
'Tis so dull it seems to live.
View this case—for gold I've none-
'Tis an Indian stuff 'd baboon.
Take it—and dress’d up, 'twill show
How to model out a beau.
When to London you repair,
Look for Billy Fribble there.
If the travell’d ape you'd hit-
Billy Fribble ask to sit.

TRANSLATION OF GRAY'S ODE WRITTEN AT THE GRAND CHARTREUSE, "OH TU, SEVERI

RELIGIO LOCI," &c.

66

Oh ! thou, the genius of this awful place!

Whatever name delighteth most thine ear; (For sure yon flood—these woods--primeval race

Proclaim no common deity is here.

The pathless rocks, the dreary, savage steeps,

Wild roaring torrents—rushing down amain; The frowning graves where night eternal sleeps,

And cliffs abrupt-declare a Godhead's reign.

a

A God far greater these sublimely show

Than ever deck'd a temple's gorgeous shrine; Though Phidias there his utmost power bestow,

Though Citron beams with gold profusely shine.)

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