Αλλ' ότε δη κνημες προσεβαν πολυπιδακος Ιδης
Αυλικ ̓ αρα δρυς υψικομους ταναηκεϊ χαλκω
Ταμνον επειγομενοι· ται δε μεγαλα κτυπεουσαι
Lo, where the axe hath hewn away
The hoary fathers of the wood,
They who sustain'd, without decay,
The lapse of Time's destroying flood
Thro' rolling seasons, while each gale,
That cross'd the hill's rough craggy side,
Told how the streams of age prevail
O'er human grandeur, human pride.
Oaks, ye beheld Time's withering might,
Rush, in the waste of years array'd, -
The grey cliffs shook in pale affright,
And echoing moans the rocks pervade.
Against yon pile now dark, forlorn,
Tho' high its turrets then arose,
He struck-soon low the turrets borne,
Fall, as in spring, the crumbling snows.
While ye, aloft in bolder sweep,
Stretch'd your wild branches to the sky;
Your center-seeking roots more deep
Implanted, and his rage defy:
Still undecay'd, and beauteous still,
Your "Sov'reign Planters" power bespeak,
And mock the works of human skill,
Like those who made them frail and weak,
Of good unfruitful: to destroy
In skill not impotent or vain,
When sought the price of vicious joy,
When greatness can be built on gain:
Then wide are Nature's realms explor'd,
The desart trod, and stem'd the flood,
Rocks pierc'd to swell the glittering hoard,
And hewn the fathers of the wood.
The mountain's heath-impurpled brow,
Now bare to each inclement hour,
Gone all his shades, is forc'd to know
The wind how keen, how cold the show'r:
Like some poor outcast on the waste
Of Life's inhospitable deep;
Doom'd, Friendship's bitter loss to taste,
And still to live, and still to weep.
Beneath those once wide-spreading shades
No more shall sport the Lare, the fawn;
Nor heard those sounds which thro' the glades
Ran sweetly at the waking dawn;
When hid within her dewy bower,
The throstle's mellow measures flow,
Or scatter'd red-breasts softly pour
Responsive notes from many a bough.
Oaks, sounds to these ah, how unlike,
Will soon your trembling planks dismay,
When rude th' opposing billows strike
As the swift vessel speeds her way,
When Commerce bids the seaman steer,
Thro' tides which drink meridian light,
Or War, (thrice heard th' inspiring cheer,
Unfurls her signal to the fight.
If such thy destiny-regret
No longer should indulge in woe;
Your service pays the sacred debt,
Which all her sons their country owe:
Whether from climes the Ganges laves,
Ye India's spicy wealth convey;
Or else ye ride the vassal waves,
A nation's bulwark on the sea.
FROM THE FRENCH OF MELLINET.
HERE lies a fat parson, who, free from all care, Gamed, tippled, and sported with brown and with fair: He, in doubt if aught good in next world he should
Made prudently sure of the good things below.
WHEN the night winds rock the sea bird's nest,
And shake the rude cliff's pallid flowers,
I wake from dreams of golden rest,
That soothe me in my moon-light bowers.
On gliding feet unseen I rove
Thro' gelid grots of whitening spar,
O'ershadow'd by the emerald grove,
That sparkles to the western star.
I love to wreath my humid brow
With flowers that bloom in lucid caves,
While unsunn'd dew from every bough
Falls dimpling in the crystal waves.
Where many a wide transparent wing
O'er canopies the lunar sphere,
That gilds the floating cloud of spring,
The cradle of the infant year,
I hail the spirit of the breeze
That sings to rest the trembling tide,
When o'er the clear Venetian seas
The fairy barks of Pleasure glide.
I gem the myrtle's vernal bowers
That blossom on Italian shores,
With the white foam of the silver showers
That sparkle round the dashing oars.
I hear, from clouds of fluid gold,
The evening music of the west,
While the light gondolas unfold
Their silken sails on Ocean's breast.
From moon-light decks the golden string
Sounds, while the conscious waters heave,
And o'er the shrouds I love to sing
The requiem of the dying eve.
I steal the soft voice of the gale,
That pensive beauty weeps to hear;
While the foldings of her snowy veil
Are moisten'd with a falling tear.
She lifts Devotion's beaming eye,
Rapt with the music of the main,
Till the breathing of a mortal's sigh
Recalls her to the world again,
When the day-star rushes from on high,
My sanguine coral's branching tree
Warms with its boughs of roseate dye,
The liquid lustre of the sea.
My wild harp charms the listening night
With tones that ministering angels breathe,
When glows the blush of pure delight,
To warm the pallid cheek of death.
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