Puslapio vaizdai
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XXXIV.

Europe is given a prey to sterner fates,

And writhes in shackles; strong the arms that chain To earth her struggling multitude of states;

She too is strong, and might not chafe in vain Against them, but shake off the vampyre train That batten on her blood, and break their net. Yes, she shall look on brighter days, and gain The meed of worthier deeds; the moment set To rescue and raise up, draws near—but is not yet.

XXXV.

But thou my country, thou shalt never fall,
But with thy children-thy maternal care,
Thy lavish love, thy blessings shower'd on all-
These are thy fetters-seas and stormy air
Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where,
Among thy gallant sons that guard thee well,
Thou laugh'st at enemies: who shall then declare
The date of thy deep-founded strength; or tell
How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell!

TO A WATER-FOWL.

WHITHER, 'midst falling dew,

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or maze of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chaf'd Ocean side?

There is a Power whose care,
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-
The desert and illimitable air,-

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd,

At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

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And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,

And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou 'st gone, the abyss of heaven

Hath swallow'd up thy form; yet, on my heart,
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.

TRANSLATION

OF A

FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES.

THE night winds howl'd-the billows dash'd

Against the tossing chest ;

And Danaë, to her broken heart

Her slumbering infant prest.

My little child!-in tears she said

To wake and weep is mine;

But thou canst sleep-thou dost not know
Thy mother's lot, and thine.

The moon is up, the moonbeams smile,

And tremble on the main;

But dark within my floating cell,
To me they smile in vain.

Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm,
And thy long locks are dry;
Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust,
Nor breakers booming high.

Yet thou, didst thou but know thy fate,
Wouldst melt, my tears to see;
And I, methinks, should weep the less,
Wouldst thou but weep with me.

Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep ye winds,
That vex the restless brine;

When shall these eyes, my babe, be seal'd
As peacefully as thine?

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE

ENTRANCE INTO A WOOD.

STRANGER, if thou hast learnt a truth which needs
Experience more than reason, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery; and hast known
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,

To tire thee of it-enter this wild wood

And view the haunts of nature; the calm shade

Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze

That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here
Of all that pain'd thee in the haunts of men,
And made thee loathe thy life: the primal curse
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,

But not in vengeance. Misery is wed

To guilt; and hence these shades are still the abodes
Of undissembled gladness; the thick roof

Of green and stirring branches, is alive
And musical with birds, that sing and sport
In wantonness of spirit; while, below,
The squirrel, with rais'd paws and form erect,
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the glade
Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam
That wak'd them into life. Even the green trees
Partake the deep contentment; as they bend
To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky
Looks in, and sheds a blessing on the scene.
Scarce less the cleft-born 'wild-flower seems to enjoy
Existence, than the winged plunderer

That sucks its sweets: the massy rocks themselves,
And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees,
That lead from knoll to knoll a causeway rude,
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots
With all their earth upon them, twisting high,

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