TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF CARDINAL DE BERNIS. FRUIT of Aurora's tears, fair rose, On whose soft leaves fond zephyrs play, Since the same hour that bids thee blow But go! and, on Themira's breast Find, happy flow'r, thy throne and tomb, While, jealous of a fate so blest, How shall I envy thee thy doom! Should some rude hand approach thee there, Ah! punish those who rashly dare, Love shall himself thy boughs compose, To deck her bosom, not to hide : And thou shalt tell the cruel maid How frail are youth and beauty's charms, And teach her, ere her own shall fade, To give them to her lover's arms. Charlotte Smith. THE DYING KID. A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye, Erewhile, in sportive circles round She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound; From rock to rock pursue his way, And on the fearful margin play. Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell, She saw him climb my rustic cell; Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright, And seem'd all ravish'd at the sight. She tells, with what delight he stood To trace his features in the flood: Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze; And then drew near again to gaze. She tells me, how, with eager speed His ev'ry frolic, light as air, Deserves the gentle Delia's care; And tears bedew her tender eye, To think the playful kid must die. But knows my Delia, timely wise, How soon this blameless æra flies? While violence and craft succeed; Unfair design, and ruthless deed! Soon would the vine his wounds deplore, And yield her purple gifts no more : And soon eras'd from ev'ry grove Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love, No more these bow'rs might Strephon see, Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee; No more those beds of flow'rets find, Which for thy charming brows he twin’d...... Each wayward passion soon would tear Then mourn not the decrees of fate, Shenstone. THE COTTAGE MAID. LET town-bred belles, elate with pride, What tho' to op'ra, ball, and play, Be it theirs, with vain insiduous grace, To bid each feature move by rule, With borrow'd charms to deck the face, Or point the shafts of ridicule. Be it ours to breathe the healthful gale, Be it theirs to spread the wily snare, And play a light coquetish part; The cottage maid knows no such care, To gain the rustic's honest heart. Love flies the town on silken wing, Myrtle and Vine. THE PLEASURES OF SOLITUDE. WAFT me, oh! waft me to the shade, Oh! let me there for ever dwell, In the green grot, or mossy cell! There, hermit like, with pious care, In thoughtful mood there let me learn The vanity of life to mourn; Lament the dire effects of fate, And dreadful downfalls of the great; See pyramids and turrets high |