SONG.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF DIOGO BERNARDES.

Se quando vos perdi, minha esperança,
A memoria perdèra juntamente-

WITH hopes once fondly cherish'd,
Now quench'd in keen regret,

Had all remembrance perish'd,

Oh, could I but forget

Forget the thoughts that haunt me,
The joy that might not last,

The present should not daunt me,
Though all with woe o'ercast.

But Love, in whom I trusted,

That treacherous bosom-guest,

When I, with life disgusted,

Court apathy for rest,—

Still mocks me with the vision

Of happy days that were,

To darken the transition,

To keep alive despair.

In barbarous succession

He bids past joys appear;

Recals the faint impression

Of raptures bought too dear.

This to the broken-hearted

The keenest anguish gives:

'Tis not that Hope's departed,

But Memory, Memory lives.

ON THE BIRTH OF F. R. C*.

DEAREST! Thyself comprised before

All my fond heart desired or needed.
The love that to my bride I bore,

Could not, I deem'd, be well exceeded.

But thou art now a happy mother,

And we are dearer to each other.

We married only to be one,

Nor wish'd, Love, for this little stranger.

Trembling, my bliss but just begun,

My heart foreboded pain and danger.

But Mercy heard the mutual prayer,

And our dear babe is smiling there.

* This poem was designed to be given among the Domestic Poems; but a copy could not at the time be recovered.

And thou art spared-to him-to me!

To him who feels thy warm caressing,
Oh, what a mother! What will be

His debt of love for such a blessing!

Spared! O may Heaven my heart forgive
That shudder'd at the alternative.

Away the thought! Joy! Dearest, joy!
We twain did not require this other :

But thou art happier for the Boy,

And thou art dearer as his Mother:

And happy parents shall we be,

If he loves us as I love thee.

Nov. 26, 1815.

1

TO THE

MEMORY OF EDWARD POWELL, ESQ.

[Ob. Oct. 10, 1823. Æt. 86.]

WELL done, thou faithful servant! Of thy Lord Partake the joy-inherit thy reward.

Oh, there is mercy-and that mercy, all
Are saved by-for the vilest who shall call
On Him who to redeem the lost was sent ;
Nor less than Heaven awaits the penitent.
The least among the saints to bliss shall rise;

The tardiest convert enter Paradise:

But there are thrones and crowns of joy on high,

And martyr-wreaths, and palms of victory,

An entrance more abundant, joys that bloom

With richer hues, and bliss more vast-for whom?

K