TRANSLATION OF A SONNET FROM THE FRENCH OF SCARRON. VAST monuments! that human pride hath raised, 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; Not e'en your marble could Time's force withstand! Why weep I then-that more than two years worn, TO THE MEMORY OF AN INFANT. REFRESHED with dew, the morning rose With innocence and beauty blest 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. 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, When ev'ry thought is wrung with deep distress. Why wilt thou then with keenest feelings play? But thou, sad power, dost soon destroy the calm. How oft a heavy cloud with gloom o'erspread, Thus clothed in doubts-Suspense, with horror's dread, Much rather let the direst truth be known, The long-tried heart can bear Fate's darkest frown, 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: Draw his snowy, powder'd tresses, Let his charcoal'd eyebrows swell Let his eyes for real pass- 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: Now the face's features told, Made of Indian muslin fair, You, who know each fashion well, H I the price you ask will give— View this case-for gold I've none— Take it and dress'd up, 'twill show When to London you repair, TRANSLATION OF GRAY'S ODE WRITTEN AT THE GRAND CHARTREUSE, "OH TU, SEVERI RELIGIO LOCI," &c. OH! thou, the genius of this awful place! The pathless rocks, the dreary, savage steeps, 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.) |