THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG, IN A FOREIGN

LAND.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

O, WHEN shall I visit the land of my birth,
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,
Our forests, our fountains,

Our hamlets, our mountains,

With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?
O, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,
In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed?

When shall I return to that lowly retreat,
Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet, —
The lambs and the heifers that follow my call,
My father, my mother,

My sister, my brother,

And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?

O, when shall I visit the land of my birth?

-'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.

THE OAK.

IMITATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASIO.

THE tall Oak, towering to the skies,
The fury of the wind defies,
From age to age, in virtue strong,
Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.

O'erwhelm'd at length upon the plain,
It puts forth wings and sweeps the main;
The self-same foe undaunted braves,

And fights the wind upon the waves.

THE DIAL.

THIS shadow on the Dial's face,
That steals from day to day,
With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,
Moments, and months, and years away;
This shadow, which, in every clime,
Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime; -

What is it? Mortal Man!

It is the scythe of TIME:

- A shadow only to the eye; Yet, in its calm career,

It levels all beneath the sky;

And still, through each succeeding year,

Right onward, with resistless power,

Its stroke shall darken every hour,

Till Nature's race be run,

And TIME's last shadow shall eclipse the sun.

Nor only o'er the Dial's face,

This silent phantom, day by day,

With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,

Steals moments, months, and years away;

From hoary rock and aged tree,

From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls,

From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,
From every blade of grass it falls;
For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,
The scythe of Time destroys,
And man at every footstep weeps
O'er evanescent joys;

Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn,
Fair for a moment, then forever shorn :

- Ah! soon, beneath the inevitable blow, I too shall lie in dust and darkness low.

Then Time, the Conqueror, will suspend
His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb,
Whose moving shadow shall portend
Each frail beholder's doom:

O'er the wide earth's illumined space,

Though Time's triumphant flight be shown, The truest index on its face

Points from the churchyard stone.

THE ROSES.

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND ON THE BIRTH OF HIS FIRST CHILD.

Two Roses on one slender spray

In sweet communion grew, Together hail'd the morning ray,

And drank the evening dew;

While sweetly wreath'd in mossy green,

There sprang a little bud between.

Through clouds and sunshine, storms and showers,

They open'd into bloom,

Mingling their foliage and their flowers,

Their beauty and perfume;

While foster'd on its rising stem,

The bud became a purple gem.

But soon their summer-splendor pass'd,

They faded in the wind,

Yet were these roses to the last

The loveliest of their kind,

Whose crimson leaves in falling round,

Adorn'd and sanctified the ground.

When thus were all their honors shorn,

The bud unfolding rose,