And every creature blest,

All hush their ills to rest,

No end to my unceasing sorrows find:
And still the sad account swells day by day;
For, since these thoughts on my lorn spirit prey,
I see the tenth year roll;

Nor hope of freedom springs in my desponding soul.

Thus, as I vent my bursting bosom's pain!

Lo! from their yoke I see the oxen freed-
Slow moving homeward o'er the furrowed plain :
Why to my sorrow is no pause decreed?

Why from my yoke no respite must I know?
Why gush these tears, and never cease to flow?
Ah, me! what sought my eyes,

When, fixed in fond surprise,

On her angelic face

I gazed, and on my heart each charm impress'd?
From whence nor force nor art the sacred trace
Shall e'er remove, till I the victim rest

Of Death, whose mortal blow

Shall my pure spirit free, and this worn frame lay low. Translation of LADY DACRE.

FRANCESCO PETRARCA, 1304-1874

NIGHT SONG.

FROM THE GERMAN.

The moon is up in splendor,

And golden stars attend her;

The heavens are calm and bright;

Trees cast a deepening shadow,

And slowly off the meadow

A mist is rising silver-white.

Night's curtains now are closing
'Round half a world reposing
In calm and holy trust:
All seems one vast, still chamber,
Where weary hearts remember

No more the sorrows of the dust.

Translation of C. T. BROOKS

MATTHIAS CLAUDIUS, 1740-1818.

PROGRESS OF EVENING.

From yonder wood mark blue-eyed Eve proceed :
First through the deep, and warm, and secret glens,
Through the pale-glimmering, privet-scented lane,
And through those alders by the river-side:
Now the soft dust impedes her, which the sheep
Have hollow'd out beneath their hawthorn shade.
But ah! look yonder! see a misty tide

Rise up the hill, lay low the frowning grove,
Enwrap the gay, white mansion, sap its sides,
Until they sink and melt away like chalk.
Now it comes down against our village tower,
Covers its base, floats o'er its arches, tears
The clinging ivy from the battlements-
Mingles in broad embrace the obdurate stone
All one vast ocean! and goes swelling on
Slow and silent, dim and deepening waves.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

NIGHT.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

Night dew-lipped comes, and every gleaming star
Its silent place assigns in yonder sky;

The moon walks forth, and fields and groves afar,
Touched by her light, in silver beauty lie
In solemn peace, that no sound comes to mar;
Hamlets and peopled cities slumber nigh;
While on this rock, in meditation's mien,
Lord of the unconscious world, I sit unseen.

How deep the quiet of this pensive hour!
Nature bids labor cease-and all obey.

How sweet this stillness, in its magic power

O'er hearts that know her voice and own her sway! Stillness unbroken, save when from the flower

The whirring locust takes his upward way; And murmuring o'er the verdant turf is heard The passing brook-or leaf by breezes stirred. Borne on the pinions of night's freshening air, Unfettered thoughts with calm reflection come;

And fancy's train, that shuns the daylight glare,

To wake when midnight shrouds the heavens in gloom;
Now tranquil joys, and hopes untouched by care,

Within my bosom throng to seek a home;
While far around the brooding darkness spreads,
And o'er the soul its pleasing sadness sheds.

Anonymous Translation.

IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE, 1753-1828.

EVENING.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.

Silent and cool, now freshening breezes blow
Where groves of chestnut crown yon shadowy steep,
And all around the tears of evening weep
For closing day, whose vast orb, westering slow,
Flings o'er the embattled clouds a mellower glow ;
While pens of folded herds, and murmuring deep,
And falling rills, such gentle cadence keep,
As e'en might soothe the weary heart of woe.
Yet what to me is eve, what evening airs,
Or falling rills, or ocean's murmuring sound,
While sad and comfortless I seek in vain
Her who in absence turns my joy to cares,
And, as I cast my listless glances round,
Makes varied scenery but varied pain?

Translation of VISCOUNT Strangford.

LUIS DE CAMOENS, 1524–1579

SPRING EVENING.

FROM THE GERMAN

Bright with the golden shine of heaven, plays
On tender blades the dew;

And the spring-landscape's trembling likeness sways
Clear in the streamlet's blue.

Fair is the rocky fount, the blossomed hedge,
Groves stained with golden light;

Fair is the star of eve, that on the edge
Of purple clouds shines bright.

Fair is the meadow's green-the valley's copse-
The hillock's dress of flowers--

The alder-brook-the reed-encircled pond,

O'er-snowed with blossom-showers.

This manifold world of Love is held in one
By Love's eternal band;

The glow-worm and the fire-sea of the sun
Sprang from one Father's hand!

Thou beckonest, Almighty! from the tree
The blossom's leaf doth fall;

Thou beckonest, and in immensity

Is quenched a solar ball!

Anonymous Translation.

FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON, 1761-1831.

SONG.

The splendor falls on castle walls,
And snowy summits old in story
The long light shakes across the lakes
And the wild cataract leaps in glory :

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying.
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh hark! oh hear! now thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
Oh! sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing.

Blow; let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O Love, they die on yon rich sky,

They faint on hill, on field, on river;

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer dying, dying, dying.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

SONG.

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell

By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet embroider'd vale,
Where the love-lorn nightingale

Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likest thy Narcissus are?
O, if thou have

Hid them in some flow'ry cave,

Tell me but where,

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere!

So may'st thou be translated to the skies,

And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies.

JOHN MILTON, 1608-1674.

LIFE.

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood-
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night,
The wind blows out; the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up; the star is shot;
The flight is past-and man forgot.

HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester, 1591-1669.

ON HOPE.

Reflected on the lake, I love

To see the stars of evening glow,
So tranquil in the heaven above,
So restless in the wave below.

Thus heavenly Hope is all serene;
But earthly Hope, how bright soe'er,
Still flutters o'er this changing scene,
As false and fleeting as 'tis fair.

BISHOP HEBER.

SONNET.

Beauty still walketh on the earth and air,
Our present sunsets are as rich in gold
As ere Iliad's music was outrolled;