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 On tender blades the dew; 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 Of purple clouds shines bright. Fair is the meadow's green-the valley's copse- The alder-brook-the reed-encircled pond, 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, And snowy summits old in story 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, And in the violet embroider'd vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; 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 like a wind that chafes the flood, HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester, 1591-1669. The roses of the spring are ever fair, 'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair, And the deep sea still foams its music old. So, if we are at all divinely souled, This beauty will unloose our bonds of care. 'Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us bending, Within old starry-gated Poesy, To meet a soul set to no worldly tune, Like thine, sweet friend! oh, dearer this to me Than are the dewy trees, ALEXANDER SMITIL TWILIGHT. There is an evening twilight of the heart We gaze upon them as they melt away, But Hope is 'round us with her angel lay, Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour; Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power. In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow We knew not, cared not, it was born to die, And manhood felt her sway too-on the eye, Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh, Its days of joy, its vigils of delight. And though at times might lower the thunder-storm, The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there. 'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen, Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green. But though less dazzling in her twilight dress, There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now; That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness, Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; That smile shall brighten the dim evening-star That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart; FITZ-GREENE HALLECK |