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The plaintive Rowe, whose warbling breath
Yet not from these romantick shades,
ON SEEING A LADY'S DRESSING-ROOM.
BY R. FENTON, ESQ.
Whene'er, to guard some fertile mead
that the soil unsound
What artful folds the robe must take,
To fill her sofas all the loves From Cytherea's moulting doves, Have caught and treasur'd up the down, In softness something like her own ; And see in all her toilet's round, What smallest implement is found, Without some ornamental hint, In speaking, varnish, or in print; Which seems not loudly to proclaim, That hearts are there the lawful game, A Cupid here, with guileful look, Bends a heart-angler o'er a brook ; And tho' he practise various baits Success each stratagem awaits : Another, at his mother's lips, In fatal balm his quiver tips,
Then with the sweetly-venom’d darts
Ye silent counsellors, how vain
Written between Caernarvon and Bangor, Pleas'D have I travers'd that terrific vale, At which th' astonish'd traveller turns pale; Where Snowdon's form stupendous widely spread Props the high Heav'ns with his gigantic head, And Glyder's rocky sụmmit c'er sustains Fierce lightnings, warring winds, and dashing rains, Mountain of storms! and o'er the lake serene Dolbadern's solitary tow'r is scen. Yet, Menai, do I not thy haunts despise, Or view thy softer charms with careless eyes, Sweet wood and lawn, and Mona's tufted shore, By venerable Druids trod of yore; And here, fair stream, more glad would I abide, Than where dread Nature frowns in nobler pride, So, better far than proud ambition's strife Are the calm peaceful haunts of private life.
HORACE.ODE XVI. B. 11.
IMITATED BY THE LATE REV, W. B. STEVENS*.
The Seaman in some wild tempestuous night,
When Horror rides upon the wide-mouth'd wave, And stars deny the mercy of their light,
Longs for some peaceful port his shatter'd bark to
The soldier struggling in unequal war,
In search of wounds and death condemn'd to roam, Or crown'd with blood-stain'd spoils in Victory's car,
Pants to return in peace to his dear native home.
* “ The lovers of elegant literature are much indebted to Miss Seward, not only for her original productions, but for the very highlyfinished Version of some Ocies of Horace, which she has presented to the public. The striking superiority of her specimens must he felt and acknowledged by all persons of taste, who have looked into the attempts of Creech and Francis. I shail ventre to assert, in defiance of pedagogues and pedants, that Niss Seward's Translation of the Ode to Barine will not suffer from the strictest comparison with the original--that-indeed it is more beautiful. From this persuasion, and to bear testimony to her poeticai merit, I am induced to inscrib: 10 that lady the above version of the prior part of Horace's Ode to Grosplius, and likewise a translation uf a delicious morceau of a more ancient bard, the fourth Idyilium of Mofchus The version from Horace perhaps may be rather called an imitation than a translation; but that from Niosclaus will, I believe, be found to be as close a version as the idiom of English yersification will adınit”-STEVENS.