Him Famine hath not tamed, -- Him Winter hath not quelled; When man by man his veteran troops sunk down, Frozen to their endless sleep, He held undaunted on. Him Pain hath not subdued; What though he mounts not now The fiery steed of war, Borne on a litter to the field he goes. Go, iron-hearted king! Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast; The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawned! Proud Swede! the sun hath risen That on thy shame shall set! Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest! For over that relentless Swede Ruin hath raised his unrelenting arm; For ere the night descends, His veteran host destroyed, His laurels blasted to revive no more, Impatiently that haughty heart must bear That sleepless soul must brook. The ineffaceable reproach is fixed, Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest! WESTBURY, 1798. THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. SWEET to the morning traveller And cheering to the traveller The gales that round him play, And, when beneath the unclouded sun Full wearily toils he, The flowing water makes to him A soothing melody. And when the evening light decays, There is sweet music to his ear In the distant sheep-bell's sound. But, oh! of all delightful sounds The sweetest is the voice of Love, That welcomes his return. WESTBURY, 1798. THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM. “You are old, Father William," the young man cried; "The few locks which are left you are gray ; You are hale, Father William, - a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray." "In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigor at first, That I never might need them at last.” "You are old, Father William,” the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away; And yet you lament not the days that are gone: Now tell me the reason, I pray." "In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth could not last; I thought of the future, whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past." "You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death: Now tell me the reason, I pray." “I am cheerful, young man,” Father William replied; "Let the cause thy attention engage: In the days of my youth, I remembered my God; And he hath not forgotten my age." WESTBURY, 1799. TRANSLATION OF A GREEK ODE ON WRITTEN BY S. T. COLERIDGE, FOR THE PRIZE AT CAM- 1. HAIL, venerable NIGHT! O first-created, hail! Thou who art doomed in thy dark breast to veil The dying beam of light, The eldest and the latest thou, Hail, venerable NIGHT! Around thine ebon brow Glittering plays, with lightning rays, The varying clouds with many a hue attire Holy are the blue graces of thy zone; But who is he whose tongue can tell The gorgeous Sun ascends his highest throne: Still watch thy constant car, immortal NIGHT! 2. For then to the celestial palaces Urania leads, — Urania, she The goddess who alone Stands by the blazing throne, Effulgent with the light of Deity; The host of Stars, a beauteous throng, |