LINES A IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER. PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love To rest thine head beneath an olive tree, Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, Last night as I my weary head did pillow With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost, Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow, As though my breast entombed a pining ghost. "From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast, Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way; But leave me with the matin hour, at most! My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey." But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, "Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said. Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing When twanged an arrow from Love's mystic string, With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart. Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart? Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance? For straight so fair a Form did upwards start (No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance) That Sleep enamored grew, nor moved from his sweet trance! My Sara came, with gentlest look divine; Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme- He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with sleep did 'bide, That I the living image of my dream Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd- IMITATED FROM OSSIAN. HE stream with languid murmur creeps, THE In Lumin's flowery vale: Beneath the dew the Lily weeps Slow-waving to the gale. Cease, restless gale!" it seems to say, "Nor wake me with thy sighing! The honors of my vernal day On rapid wing are flying. "To-morrow shall the traveller come With eager gaze and wetted cheek Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek But I along the breeze shall roll And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul, THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA. HOW OW long will ye round me be swelling, O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea? Not always in caves was my dwelling, Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma In the steps of my beauty I strayed; The warriors beheld Ninathóma, And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid! A Ghost! by my cavern it darted! When they visit the dreams of my rest! To howl through my cavern by night. 9 CASIMIR. 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 one hundred and fifty years ago, by 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. AD LYRAM. SONORA buxi filia sutilis, Sollicitat levis aura frondes. Te sibilantis lenior halitus Perflabit Euri: me juvet interim Eheu! serenum quæ nebulæ tegunt Gaudia præteritura passu. *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. IMITATION. THE solemn-breathing air is ended— On thy wires, hovering, dying, In the forest, hollow-roaring, Parent of the soothing measure, IMITATED FROM THE WELSH. F, while my passion I impart, IF; You deem my words untrue, O place your hand upon my heart— Ah, no! reject the thoughtless claim That thrilling touch would aid the flame, |