And every creature blest, All hush their ills to rest, No end to my unceasing sorrows find: 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- Why from my yoke no respite must I know? When, fixed in fond surprise, On her angelic face I gazed, and on my heart each charm impress'd? 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 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 : Rise up the hill, lay low the frowning grove, WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. NIGHT. FROM THE ITALIAN. Night dew-lipped comes, and every gleaming star The moon walks forth, and fields and groves afar, How deep the quiet of this pensive hour! 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; Within my bosom throng to seek a home; Anonymous Translation. IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE, 1753-1828. EVENING. FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS. Silent and cool, now freshening breezes blow Translation of VISCOUNT Strangford. LUIS DE CAMOENS, 1524–1579 SPRING EVENING. FROM THE GERMAN Bright with the golden shine of heaven, plays And the spring-landscape's trembling likeness sways Fair is the rocky fount, the blossomed hedge, Fair is the star of eve, that on the edge Fair is the meadow's green-the valley's copse- The alder-brook-the reed-encircled pond, O'er-snowed with blossom-showers. This manifold world of Love is held in one The glow-worm and the fire-sea of the sun Thou beckonest, Almighty! from the tree Thou beckonest, and in immensity Is quenched a solar ball! Anonymous Translation. FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON, 1761-1831. SONG. The splendor falls on castle walls, Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Oh hark! oh hear! now thin and clear, The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing. Blow; let us hear the purple glens replying, 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, ALFRED TENNYSON. SONG. Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen By slow Meander's margent green, Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; That likest thy Narcissus are? 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, HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester, 1591-1669. ON HOPE. Reflected on the lake, I love To see the stars of evening glow, Thus heavenly Hope is all serene; BISHOP HEBER. SONNET. Beauty still walketh on the earth and air, |