While seamen shout, and Bacchants, joyous, throng,
And bees, their labour, ply, and birds, their song:
Shall I, no strain, to earth's glad chorus, bring?
Shame to the Son of Song, that hails not thee, O Spring!

INSCRIPTION,

FOR THE TOMB OF A LITTLE GIRL, EIGHT YEARS OLD.

" Οὐκ ἔθανες, Πρώτη, μετέβης δ ̓ ἐς ἀμείνονα χῶραν.”

No-I will not deem thee dead, my love, but parted far away, Through fairer scenes than earth can yield, for evermore to

stray;

To dwell where ceaseless pleasures reign, in undecaying rest, Amid the quiet shades of some far island of the blest.

And there, I ween, thy little feet, from every ill removed,
In frolic mirth now wander, as in infancy they loved;
And still thy little heart exults amid Elysian bowers,
And still thy little fingers pluck the sweetest, fairest flowers.

Oh! winter comes not there, to chill, with short and cheerless

day;

Nor summer suns are there, to scorch, with fierce and sultry

ray;

Nor hunger there, nor thirst, is known, to mar thine hours of

ease;

Nor, raging in his thousand shapes, the tyrant, fell Disease.

And shall I, though thou'rt torn from me, my precious one,

repine?

Alas! how poor life's best estate appears, compared with thineWith thine, who, far removed from all that dims its darkened

ray,

Dwellest amid the splendours pure of heaven's unclouded ray.

LOVE AND DEATH.

FROM THE LATIN OF ALOIATUS.

"Errabat socio Mors juncta Cupidine."

LOVE and death, odd cronies they,
Met once, on a summer's day:
Death, his wonted weapons bearing,
Little love, his quiver wearing;
This to wound, and that to slay,
Hand in hand, they took their way.

Night came on. The self-same shed
Furnished both with board and bed;
While, beneath a wisp of hay,
Heads and points, their arrows lay.

Ere the morning's faintest dawn,
Each had girt his armour on :
But with too much haste arranged,
Luckless chance! their darts were changed.

Death shot next; he pierced the core
Of a dotard, past threescore:

The cankered carle, his crutch threw by,

A lover now, with amorous eye.

"Ho!" cried young Love, "here's some mistake;

These darts of mine, sad havoc make."

"And mine," said Death, "instead of killing,

Serve but to set these bald-heads billing."

Reader, oft will wanton age
Bring to mind, our sportive page;
Oh! that youth's untimely fall,
Its sadder strain, should e'er recall!

TO DELIUS.

FROM THE LATIN OF HORACE.

Equam memento rebus in arduis.

THOUGH adversity should harm thee,
Still thy equal mind maintain;
Though prosperity should charm thee,
Be not insolently vain:

For whether clogged with sadness, life's brief moments pass us by,

Or winged with wine and gladness, still, my Delius we must die.

Where the pine and poplar blending,
Fling their hospitable shade,
And the limpid stream descending,

Gently murmurs through the glade,

Bring the wine, and perfume rare, with the rose's short-lived flower,

While the fatal sisters spare, and life lends a summer hour.

For soon the world resigning,

Thou shalt leave thy house and lands,

And the well-piled treasures shining,

To thy heir's delighted hands:

Nor shall fields, dear bought, avail thee, lashed by Tiber's

yellow wave,

Nor thy noble birth preserve thee, from the dark and narrow

Oh! think not then 'twill matter thee,

How low soe'er thy lot;

Nor deem that death would flatter thee,

Though royally begot!

Whether palace, rich and rare, should receive thy every breath, Or it flit in open air; it is all the same to Death.

To his rule, we all are destined

Whether soon or late our turn:

Nor may its lot be questioned-
That inexorable urn;

Nor the boat that wafts us over, to that undiscovered shore,
From whose eternal exile, we return again no more.

WHY WISH FOR LIFE?

FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASIO.

"Perché bramar la vita."

WHY wish for life? has this vain world,
One source of pure delight,
Whose every fortune has its pang,
And every age, its blight?

Trembling, in childhood, at a look,
In youth, with love's vain fears,
Man walks awhile, the sport of fate,
Then sinks, oppressed with years.

'Tis now the strife to win, that racks
His inmost soul with pain;
And now, far worse, the fear to lose
What cost so much to gain.

Thrones have their thorns, eternal war
Must gain them, and must guard;
And envy, still, and scorn are found,
Fair virtue's best reward.

VOL. I-40

Vain world! whose dreams and shadows mock,
Whose follies cheat the eye,

Till age, the base delusion, shows,

Just time enough-to die.*

1819-1825.

"Since, where thou art, I may not dwell,
'Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been."

FARE thee well, dearest, peace be thine,
Though my lone day be dark, with sorrow,
May each of thine, more brightly shine,
And happier still, thy every morrow.
Yes-round thy heart, may joy and peace,
Contentment's garland, greenly wreathe,
Its buds of peace, each day, increase,
And every floweret, sweeter breathe.
Farewell-thou goest to spread delight,
Where'er thy peaceful presence beams;
And tho' the light, that blessed my sight,
With warmest ray, no longer gleams;
Yet, fare thee well; in joy and woe,

The heart, that long has loved thee dearly,

No change can know, where'er it go,

But still must dote on thee, sincerely.

And, when no more, that soft blue eye,
Light of my way, life's beacon-star,
With cheering rays, around me plays,
Nor throws its moonlight smile, afar;
Oh, then, each loved and lonely scene,

I'll haunt, where thou wert wont to dwell;
And sweetly dream, and fondly deem;

I hear thee say, "Farewell,-Farewell!"
Sept. 4, 1819.

*These poems, in the order in which they are here (with a few others), appeared in the first edition of "Songs by the Way" published in New York, by E. Bliss and E. White, 128 Broadway, in A. D. 1824.