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PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love To rest thine head beneath an olive tree, I would that from the pinions of thy dove One quill withouten pain yplucked might be! For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee, And fain to her some soothing song would write, Lest she resent my rude discourtesy, Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, But broke my plighted word—ah! false and recreant wight!

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!
As night-closed floweret to the orient ray,
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey."

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contrived a too successful wile, I ween:
And whispered to himself, with malice fraught—
"Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen:
To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien !"
He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen,
When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head-
"Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing
Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;
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 fàir 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;
Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam:
I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!
Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme-
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,

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"O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide!"


HE stream with languid murmur creeps,
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
Who late beheld me blooming:
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin."

With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,

Thus, faithful Maiden! thou shalt seek
The Youth of simplest song.

But I along the breeze shall roll
The voice of feeble power;
And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul,
In slumber's nightly hour.


HOW 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 !
In moon-beams the Spirit was drest—
For lovely appear the departed

When they visit the dreams of my rest!
But disturbed by the tempest's commotion
Fleet the shadowy forms of delight—
Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean!
To howl through my cavern by night.


Ir 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.


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.

Eheu! serenum quæ nebulæ tegunt
Repente cœlum! quis sonus imbrium!
Surgamus-heu semper fugaci

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.


'HE 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!


F, while my passion I impart,
You deem my words untrue,
O place your hand upon my heart-
Feel how it throbs for you!

Ah, no! reject the thoughtless claim
In pity to your Lover!

That thrilling touch would aid the flame, It wishes to discover.

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