She ends the Fates, that will no more reveal, Fix on her closing lips their sacred seal. 'Return, sweet shade!' I wake, and fondly say, 'O, cheer my gloom with one far-beaming ray! Return: thy charms my sorrow will dispel, And snatch my spirit from her mortal cell; Then, mix'd with thine, exulting she shall fly, And bound enraptur'd through her native sky.' She comes no more: my pangs more fierce return: Tears gush in streams, and sighs my bosom burn. Ye banks, that oft my weary limbs have borne, Ye murmuring brooks, that learnt of me to mourn; Ye birds, that tune with me your plaintive lay; Ye groves, where love once taught my steps to stray; You, ever sweet and ever fair, renew Your strains melodious, and your blooming hue: But not in my sad heart can bliss remain, My heart the haunt of never-ceasing pain! Henceforth,-to sing in smoothly-warbled lays The smiles of youth, and beauty's heavenly rays; To see the morn her early charms unfold, Her cheeks of roses, and her curls of gold; Led by the sacred Muse, at noon to rove O'er tufted mountain, vale, or shady grove; To watch the stars, that gild the lucid pole, And view yon orbs in mazy order roll; To hear the tender nightingale complain, And warble to the woods her amorous strain:No more shall these my pensive soul delight, But each gay vision melts in endless night. Nymphs! who in glimmering glades by moon

light dance,

And ye, who through the liquid crystal glance,
Who oft have heard my sadly-pleasing moan;
Behold me now a lifeless marble grown.
Ah! lead me to the tomb where Laura lies;
Clouds! fold me round; and, gather'd darkness rise;
Bear me, ye gales! in death's soft slumber laid;
And, ye bright realms, receive my fleeting shade.

AN ODE OF PETRARCH,

To the Fountain of Valchiusa.

YE clear and sparkling streams!

(Warm'd by the sunny beams)

Through whose transparent crystal Laura play'd;
Ye boughs, that deck the grove,
Where Spring her chaplets wove,
While Laura lay beneath the quivering shade;
Sweet herbs! and blushing flowers!

That crown yon vernal bowers,
For ever fatal, yet for ever dear;
And ye, that heard my sighs
When first she charm'd my eyes,
Soft-breathing gales! my dying accents hear.
If Heaven has fix'd my doom,
That Love must quite consume

My bursting heart, and close my eyes in death;
Ah! grant this slight request,-

That, here my urn may rest,

When to its mansion flies my vital breath.

This pleasing hope will smooth

My anxious mind, and soothe

The pangs of that inevitable hour;

My spirit will not grieve

Her mortal veil to leave

In these calm shades, and this enchanting bow'r.

Haply, the guilty maid

Thro' yon accustom'd glade

To my sad tomb will take her lonely way;
Where first her beauty's light

O'erpower'd my dazzled sight,

When love on this fair border bade me stray:

There, sorrowing, shall she see,

Beneath an aged tree,

Her true, but hapless, lover's lowly bier;

Too late, her tender sighs

Shall melt the pitying skies,

And her soft veil shall hide the gushing tear.

O! well-remember'd day,

When on yon bank she lay,

Meek in her pride, and in her rigour mild;

The young and blooming flowers,

Falling in fragrant showers,

Shone on her neck, and on her bosom smil'd:

Some on her mantle hung,

Some in her locks were strung,

Like orient gems in rings of flaming gold;

Some, in a spicy cloud

Descending, call'd aloud,

'Here Love and Youth the reins of empire hold.'

I view'd the heavenly maid;

And, rapt in wonder, said

'The groves of Eden gave this angel birth;'

Her look, her voice, her smile,

That might all Heaven beguile,

Wafted my soul above the realms of earth:

The star-bespangled skies

Were open'd to my eyes;

Sighing I said, 'Whence rose this glittering scene?" Since that auspicious hour,

This bank, and odorous bower,

My morning couch, and evening haunt have been. Well may'st thou blush, my song,

To leave the rural throng,

And fly thus artless to my Laura's ear;

But, were thy poet's fire

Ardent as his desire,

Thou wert a song that Heaven might stoop to hear.

SOLIMA,

An Arabian Eclogue. Written in 1768.

E maids of Aden! hear a loftier tale

'YE

Than e'er was sung in meadow, bower, or dale.

-The smiles of Abelah, and Maia's eyes,

Where beauty plays, and love in slumber lies;

The fragrant hyacinths of Azza's hair,

That wanton with the laughing summer-air;
Love-tinctur'd cheeks, whence roses seek their bloom,
And lips, from which the Zephyr steals perfume;
Invite no more the wild unpolish'd lay,

But fly like dreams before the morning ray.
Then farewell, love! and farewell, youthful fires!
A nobler warmth my kindled breast inspires.
Far bolder notes the listening wood shall fill:
Flow smooth, ye rivulets; and, ye gales, be still.
'See yon fair groves that o'er Amana rise,
And with their spicy breath embalm the skies;
Where every breeze sheds incense o'er the vales,
And every shrub the scent of musk exhales!
See through yon opening glade a glittering scene,
Lawns ever gay, and meadows ever green;
Then ask the groves, and ask the vocal bow'rs,
Who deck'd their spiry tops with blooming flow'rs,
Taught the blue stream o'er sandy vales to flow,
And the brown wild with liveliest hues to glow?
Fair Solima! the hills and dales will sing;

Fair Solima! the distant echoes ring.
But not with idle shows of vain delight,

To charm the soul, or to beguile the sight;
At noon on banks of pleasure to repose,
Where bloom intwin'd the lily, pink, and rose;
Not in proud piles to heap the nightly feast,
Till morn with pearls has deck'd the glowing east;-
Ah! not for this she taught those bowers to rise,
And bade all Eden spring before our eyes:
Far other thoughts her heavenly mind employ,
(Hence, empty pride! and hence, delusive joy!)
To cheer with sweet repast the fainting guest;
To full the weary on the couch of rest;
To warm the traveller numb'd with winter's cold;
The young to cherish, to support the old ;
The sad to comfort, and the weak protect;
The poor to shelter, and the lost direct:-
These are her cares, and this her glorious task;
Can Heaven a nobler give, or mortals ask?

Come to these groves, and these life-breathing glades,
Ye friendless orphans, and ye dowerless maids,
With eager haste your mournful mansions leave,
Ye weak, that tremble; and, ye sick, that grieve;
Here shall soft tents, o'er flowery lawns display'd,
At night defend you, and at noon o'ershade;
Here rosy health the sweets of life will shower,
And new delights beguile each varied hour.
Mourns there a widow, bath'd in streaming tears?
Stoops there a sire beneath the weight of years?
Weeps there a maid, in pining sadness left,
Of tender parents, and of hope, bereft ?
To Solima their sorrows they bewail;
To Solima they pour their plaintive tale.
She hears; and, radiant as the star of day,
Through the thick forest gains her easy way:
She asks what cares the joyless train oppress,
What sickness wastes them, or what wants distress;
And, as they mourn, she steals a tender sigh,
Whilst all her soul sits melting in her eye:
Then with a smile the healing balm bestows,
And sheds a tear of pity o'er their woes,
Which, as it drops, some soft-eyed angel bears
Transform'd to pearl, and in his bosom wears.

'When, chill'd with fear, the trembling pilgrim roves
Through pathless deserts and through tangled groves,
Where mantling darkness spreads her dragon wing,
And birds of death their fatal dirges sing,
While vapours pale a dreadful glimmering cast,
And thrilling horror howls in every blast;
She cheers his gloom with streams of bursting light,
By day a sun, a beaming moon by night;

Darts through the quivering shades her heavenly ray, And spreads with rising flowers his solitary way. 'Ye heavens, for this in showers of sweetness shed Your mildest influence o'er her favour'd head! Long may her name, which distant climes shall praise,

Live in our notes, and blossom in our lays!