« السابقةمتابعة »
FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF DIOGO BERNARDES.
Se quando vos perdi, minha esperança,
With hopes once fondly cherish’d,
Now quench'd in keen regret,
Oh, could I but forget-
The joy that might not last,
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
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,
WELL done, thou faithful servant! Of thy Lori ,
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,