CUPID, if storying Legends tell aright,
Once framed a rich Elixir of Delight.
A Chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd,
And in it nectar and ambrosia mix'd :
With these the magic dews, which Evening brings,
Brush'd from the Idalian Star by faery wings:
Each tender pledge of sacred Faith he joined,
Each gentler pleasure of th' unspotted mind--
Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow,
And Hope, the blameless Parasite of Woe.
The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise,
The steamy Chalice bubbled up in sighs;
Sweet sounds transpired, as when th' enamored Dove
Pours the soft murm'rings of responsive love.
The finished work might Envy vainly blame,
And Kisses" was the precious compound's name;
With half the God his Cyprian Mother blest,
And breathed on Sara's lovelier lips the rest.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
SISTER of love-lorn poets, Philomel!
How many bards in city garret pent,
While at their window they with downward eye
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud,
And listen to the drowsy cry of watchmen,
Those hoarse, unfeathered nightingales of time!
How many wretched bards address thy name,
And her's, the full-orbed queen, that shines above,
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,
Within whose mild moon-mellowed foliage hid,
Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.
O, I have listened, till my working soul,
Waked by those strains to thousand fantasies,
Absorbed, hath ceased to listen! Therefore oft
I hymn thy name; and with a proud delight
Oft will I tell thee, minstrel of the moon,
"Most musical, most melancholy" bird!
That all thy soft diversities of tone,
Though sweeter far than the delicious airs
That vibrate from a white-armed lady's harp,
What time the languishment of lonely love
Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow,
Are not so sweet, as is the voice of her,
My Sara-best beloved of human kind!
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness,
She thrills me with the husband's promised name!
WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM.
THUS far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
Elaborate and swelling;-yet the heart
Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
I ask not now, my friend! the aiding versc
Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
From business wand'ring far and local cares,
Thou creepest round a dear-loved sister's bed
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
Soothing each pang with fond solicitude,
And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
I, too, a sister had, an only sister
She loved me dearly, and I doted on her; To her I poured forth all my puny sorrows, (As a sick patient in a nurse's arms,)
And of the heart those hidden maladies
That e'en from friendship's eye will shrink ashamed.
O! I have waked at midnight, and have wept
Because she was not !-Cheerily, dear Charles!
Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year;
Such warm presages feel I of high hope!
For not uninterested the dear maid
I've view'd-her soul affectionate yet wise,
Her polished wit as mild as lambent glories
That play around a sainted infant's head.
He knows, (the Spirit that in secret sees,
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Aught to implore were impotence of mind!)*
That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,—
Prepared, when He his healing rays vouchsafes,
Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart,
And praise him gracious with a brother's joy!
If we except Lucretius and Statius, I know no Latin Poet, ancient or modern, who has equalled Casimir in boldness of conception, opulence of fancy, or beauty of versification. The Odes of this illustrious Jesuit were translated into English about 150 years ago, by a G. Hils, I think. I never saw the translation. A few of the Odes have been translated in a very animated manner by Watts. I have subjoined the third Ode of the Second Book, which, with the exception of the first line, is an effusion of exquisite elegance. In the imitation attempted, I am sensible that I have destroyed the effect of suddenness, by translating into two stanzas what is one in the original.
SONORA buxi filia sutilis,
Pendebis alta, barbite, populo,
Dum ridet aer, et supinas
Sollicitat levis aura frondes.
Te sibilantis lenior halitus
Perflabit Euri me juvet interim
Collum reclinasse, et virenti
Sic temeret jacuisse ripa.
* "I utterly recant the recant the sentiment contained in the lines
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Aught to implore were impotence of mind,—
it being written in Scripture, Ask, and it shall be given to you! and my human reason being convinced, moreover, of the propriety of offering petitions as well as thanksgivings to Deity. S. T. C., 1797.
The Odes of Casimir, translated by G. H. (G. Hils.) London, 1646, 12mo. H. N. C.
Had Casimir any better authority for this quantity than Tertullian's line,
Immemor ille Dei temere committere tale-- ?
In the classic poets, the last syllable is, I believe, uniformly cut off. H. N. C
Eheu serenum quæ nebulæ tegunt
Repente cœlum! quis sonus imbrium !
Surgamus-heu semper fugaci
Gaudia præteritura passu.
THE solemn-breathing air is ended-
Cease, O Lyre! thy kindred lay!
From the poplar branch suspended,
Glitter to the eye of day!
On thy wires, hovering, dying,
Softly sighs the summer wind;
I will slumber, careless lying,
By yon waterfall reclined.
In the forest, hollow-roaring,
Hark! I hear a deep'ning sound—
Clouds rise thick with heavy lowering!
See the horizon blackens round!
Parent of the soothing measure,
Let me seize thy wetted string!
Swiftly flies the flatterer, Pleasure,
Headlong, ever on the wing!
THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN.
(Composed during Illness and in Absence.)
DIM Hour! that sleep'st on pillowed clouds afar,
O rise, and yoke the turtles to thy car!
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove,
And give me to the bosom of my Love!
My gentle love! caressing and carest,
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest;
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes,
Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs;
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,
Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek.
Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May
Mourns the long absence of the lovely Day:
Young Day, returning at her promised hour,
Weeps o'er the sorrows of the fav'rite flower,-
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs,
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.
New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels:
His pitying mistress mourns, and mourning heals!
HOARSE Mævius reads his hobbling verse
To all, and at all times;
And finds them both divinely smooth,
His voice as well as rhymes.
Yet folks say " Mævius is no ass;"
But Mævius makes it clear,
That he's a monster of an ass-
An ass without an ear.
ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.
THIS day among the faithful-placed,
And fed with fontal manna,
O with maternal title graced―
Dear Anna's dearest Anna !—
While others wish thee wise and fair,
A maid of spotless fame,
I'll breathe this more compendious prayer-
May'st thou deserve thy name!
Thy mother's name—a potent spell,
That bids the virtues hie
From mystic grove and living cell
Confess'd to fancy's eye-—
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