XXII.

IMITATED FROM CAMOENS.

THESE hills that lift their verdant heads so high, These towering palms that form a cooling shade, These moss-grown banks for peaceful slumbers made,

This lingering stream that flows in silence by, The distant-murmuring main, the zephyr's sigh, The sun that sinks behind yon dusky glade,

The nibbling flocks that crop their evening blade, Those glittering clouds that fringe the western Each various beauty, which the vernal year [sky; Pours out profuse on woodland, vale, or plain, Each pastoral charm, since thou no more art near, Smiles not to these sad eyes, or smiles in vain ; Even scenes like these a cheerless aspect wear, And pleasure sickens, till it turns to pain.

XXIII.

IMITATED FROM CAMOENS.

WEEP, nymphs of Tagus, weep the hapless doom Ordain'd by fate, and death's severe decree, Severe to all, but most, alas! to me,

In youth's gay pride, in beauty's early bloom To sink the lov'd Ophelia to the tomb. [roll'd, Heavens! that such eyes, whose orbs so sweetly Such lips of rubies, and such locks of gold, So soon should moulder in eternal gloom! Tremble, ye lesser stars! if nought could save,

Charms, such as her's, from the foul shades of night, How soon shall fade your glories in the grave! Yet cease my soul to grieve; her heaven-born sprite, Too pure to linger in its earthly cave,

Wing'd its free passage to the realms of light,
VOL. XXXVII.
Bb

ROBERT LOVELL.

SONNETS.

TO FAME.

On the high summit of yon rocky hill,

Proud Fame! thy temple stands; and see around What thronging thousands press; and hark! the That fires ambition: 'tis thy clarion shrill. [sound Amid thy path the deadly thorn is strew'd,

And oft entwin'd around the wreath they claim; And many spurn at justice' sacred name, And wade to glory through a sea of blood! Be mine to leave thy path, thy motley crowd, And, while to hear their names proclaim'd aloud Upon the brazen trump, the throng rejoice, I'll court fair Virtue in her humbler sphere, More pleas'd in calm reflection's hour to bear The' approving whispers of her still small voice.

WRITTEN ON A JOURNEY.

As o'er the lengthen'd plain the traveller goes,
Weary and sad, his wayward fancy strays
To scenes which late he pass'd, haply to raise
The transient joy which memory bestows;

And oft, while hope dispels the gathering gloom, He paints the' approaching scene in colours gay: So I, to cheer me in life's rugged way,

Or glance o'er pleasures past, or think of bliss to

come.

But ah! reflection vainly we employ

On pleasures past, and fugitive the joy When the mind rests on hope's delusive power; Bless'd only they who present joys can taste, Nor fear the future, nor regret the past, But happy, as it flies, enjoy the present hour.

TO HAPPINESS.

SAY, lovely fugitive, where dost thou dwell?
Desir'd of all, and sought through every scene,
In pomp of courts, and in the rural green,
Life's public walk, and hermit's lonely cell,
Thee, goddess! sought of all, but found by few,
We seek in vain, bewilder'd as we go;
Tir'd of the chase, man ceases to pursue,
And sighing, says, "thou dwellest not below."
Does he not after fairy shadows run?

Follows he not some wild illusive dream?
As children who would catch the radiant sun,
Grasp at its image in the glittering stream.
If right he sought, then man would meet success,
For surely "virtue leads to happiness."

MARK'ST thou yon streamlet in its onward course? Mark'st thou the reed that on its surface floats? Lightly it drifts along, and well denotes

The light impression on the youthful breast, Which in life's summer, transiently impress'd, Glides o'er the mind, unfix'd by stable force : But o'er the fading year, when winter reigns, Chill sleeps the stream, its wonted current stay'd, And on its bosom, where of late it play'd, Frolic and light the reed infix'd remains. Thus, when life's wintry season, cold and hoar, Freezes the genial flow of mental power,

The mind, tenacious of its gather'd store, [hour. Detains each thought belov'd, conceiv'd in vernal

TO SENSIBILITY.

I'LL court thy lone bower, Sensibility!

And mark thy lovely form, wild waving hair, Thy loosely flowing robe, thy languid eye,

[fair.

And all those charms which blend to make thee

Far from the madding crowd thou lov'st to stray
Recluse, and listen at the silent hour,
When, wildly warbling from her secret bow'r,
The pensive night-bird pours her evening lay.
'Tis thine own minstrel's melody is heard,

And as her sad song, by the moon's still beam,
Dies softly on mine ear, more sweet I deem

Her mournful note than song of blither bird: So, more than beauty's cheek of vermeil dye, Charms thy soft downcast mien and tear-dew'd eye.