TRANSLATION

FROM THE FRENCH OF CARDINAL DE BERNIS.

FRUIT of Aurora's tears, fair rose,

On whose soft leaves fond zephyrs play,
Oh! queen of flow'rs, thy buds disclose,
And give thy fragrance to the day;
Unveil thy transient charms-ah, no!
A little be thy bloom delay'd,

Since the same hour that bids thee blow
Shall see thee droop thy languid head.

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,
Guard the sweet shrine thou wilt adorn,

Ah! punish those who rashly dare,
And for my rivals keep thy thorn.

Love shall himself thy boughs compose,
And bid thy wanton leaves divide;
He'll shew thee how, my lovely rose,

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,
To think you playful kid must die;
From crystal spring, and flow'ry mead,
Must, in his prime of life, recede!

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
He flew, to hear my vocal reed;
And how, with critic face profound,
And stedfast ear, devour'd the sound.

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
Her bosom, now so void of care;
And, when they left his ebbing vein,
What but insipid age remain?

Then mourn not the decrees of fate,
That
gave his life so short a date;
And I will join my tend 'rest sighs,
To think that youth so swiftly flies!

Shenstone.

THE COTTAGE MAID.

LET town-bred belles, elate with pride,
Our humble rustic joys despise,
We in our turn can theirs deride,
And, artless, simpler pleasures prize.

What tho' to op'ra, ball, and play,
A stranger is the cottage maid,
She, at the close of parting day,
Trips lightly o'er the dewy glade.

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,
And at Aurora's summons rise,
To bear the milk-pail through the dale,
And feel the glow of exercise.

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,
He sickens at their gay parade;
With virtue blooms perpetual spring,
And smiles upon the cottage maid.

Myrtle and Vine.

THE PLEASURES OF SOLITUDE.

WAFT me, oh! waft me to the shade,
By close embow'ring branches made!
Beneath yon gently rising hills
Where purling brooks, and tinkling rills,
In soft harmonious cadence play,
And sweetly murmur all the day!

Oh! let me there for ever dwell,

In the green grot, or mossy cell!
And, free from hurry, care, and strife,
Enjoy a lonely peaceful life;

There, hermit like, with pious care,
Find out my God, for God is there!

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
In piles of mighty ruins lie;