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النشر الإلكتروني

ON A LADY

DYING OF A CONSUMPTION.

VIEW yon pale flower, surcharg'd with dew,

That bends its lonely head to earth,
And seems, in fancy's eye, to woo
The sod beneath that gave it birth.

Its stem which now can scarce sustain
The drops that on its blossom weigh,
Shall soon its wonted strength regain,
Beneath the sun's reviving ray.

But thou, lost maid! whose fading frame
So slowly verges to the tomb,
And seems, in silent woe, to claim
A refuge in its darksome womb,

What sun shall rise thy griefs to cheer,
Or o'er thy cloud of sorrow break?
What kindly warmth shall dry the tear
That falls adown thy pallid cheek?

What though thy words will not unfold

The cause that prompts the frequent sigh,

Too well, alas! those looks have told

That treach'rous love has bid thee die.

Oh! yes, that pow'r that gave thee breath,
Shall view thy woes with pitying eye;
Shall bid each sorrow cease in death,
And call thee to thy kindred sky.

Maunde.

TRANSLATION

FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER.

(Die Ideale.)

COMPANIONS of my earlier years,
For ever faithless, will ye fly

With all your train of hopes and fears,
Aspiring thoughts, and warm desires,

Creative Fancy's magic fires,

That warm'd my opening mind with distant scenes of joy? Imagination's airy train,

Can nought your hasty flight restrain ?

Ah! never, never shall I see

Those visions of my early prime;

Swept by the ruthless storms of time,

Lost in the ocean of eternity.

And are those suns for ever set in night,

That spread their lustre o'er my dawning day?
Those cherish'd visions of supreme delight,
So oft invok'd, no longer will they stay?

Each wish that fir'd my inexperienc'd mind,
And promised bliss and purity below,
Say, must it still in reason find a foe,
And leave a dull and dreary void behind?

As once the sculptured image fir'd
Pygmalion with an am'rous flame,

Till breath and genial life inspir'd

The marbles cold and senseless frame;
So Nature to my opening soul

Appear'd in all her charms array'd,
Imagination lent her aid,

And mimic life inspir'd the wond'rous whole.

Responsive to my ardent mind,

The magic influence spread o'er all, The tree, the flower, the water-fall, The forest wild, the lawn, the grove,

All seem'd to life and sense refin'd, To echo back the song of boundless love.

Methought an influence divine

Rul'd with Almighty pow'r my mind,

And urg'd to ev'ry great design,

Form'd by the love of human kind! How vast, how fair, appear'd this wond'rous scene, When hope at first its op'ning buds display'd! How dull and comfortless, how poor and mean, Has reason since this mighty world portray'd!

When first life's journey I began,
Unburden'd by the load of care,
In thought with mighty strides I ran
To scenes that fancy painted fair;
Already would my wishes fly

To many a great and arduous height,
Nought was too distant, nought too high,
To tempt my fancy's daring flight.

How easy thence to snatch the prize

It seem❜d, amid the glorious strife,
While danc'd before my dazzled eyes

The forms that glitter in the morn of life.
Methought, obedient to my call,

That Love his roses in my path had strown,
That Fortune, with her golden crown,
And Fame, that hides in stars his lofty crest,
And Truth, in never-fading sun-beams drest,

On me had doom'd their choicest gifts to fall.

The fairy scenes are flown,

The bright enchantment vanished in air; Faithless, for ever are they gone,

Unmark'd, unheard my prayer.

On hasty wings has Fortune urg'd her flight,

Nor knowledge grants me yet her gifts to share, While hid in clouds of doubt is Truth's immortal light.

I saw the palm of high renown
The undeserving brow adorn;
I look'd-and lo! for ever flown

The op'ning sweets of life's delicious morn!
And deeper still, and darker, grew

The shades that gather'd round my lonely way,
While 'mid the dull and dreary view
Hope scarcely shed a feeble doubtful ray.

Of all the visionary train

That fancy erst was wont to raise,
O say, which faithful yet remain,
To cheer the evening of my days?
Thou, Friendship, who alone has power
To heal each deeply-rankling wound,
And cheer affliction's darkest hour-

To whom I early sought and found:
Employment, too, whose healing balm
Can still the passion's mad❜ning rage,
The tempest of the soul can calm,

And all life's ills assuage;
'Tis thou, who unappall'd by toil,

Canst to perfection bring each nobler aim,

And atoms upon atoms pile,

To form a system's mighty frame:

Led by thy hand in life's declining day,

Hours, minutes, months, and years, will softly steal away.

I. B.

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