From banishment these heralds bring, Scud swift, and bear Glad tidings of the merry spring. April, the hawthorn and the eglantine, Streak'd pink, and lily-cup, and rose, And their sweet eyes for thee unclose. The little nightingale sits singing aye And in her fitful strain doth run A thousand and a thousand changes, Through every sweet division. April, it is when thou dost come again, With gentlest breath the fires to wake When winter's chill our veins did slake. Sweet month, thou seest at this jocund prime The hives pour out their lusty young, Murmuring the flowery wilds among. May shall with pomp his wavy wealth unfold, His fruits of gold, His fertilizing dews, that swell In manna on each spike and stem, And, like a gem, Red honey in the waxen cell. Who will may praise him; but my voice shall be, Sweet month, for thee; Thou that to her dost owe thy name, Who saw the sea-wave's foamy tide Whence forth to life and light she came. ANONYMOUS. THE MOUNTEBANK. FROM THE FRENCH OF MESLIN ST. GELAIS. AT market once a Mountebank aloud Proclaim'd, he'd show the devil to the crowd: The wondrous news straight through the village flew ; Men, women, children, round the booth it drew: Not one there was, though old or lame were he, Who did not hurry the foul fiend to see. Forth stalk'd the Mountebank with gravest look; An open purse, with downward mouth, he shook. 'Now stretch your eyes, my friends; look sharp;' he cried 'And, tell me truly, see you aught inside?' 'There's nought!' they bawl'd,' there's nothing in the bag.' 'I've kept my promise, then,' exclaim'd the wag: 'For 'tis the devil, you all must own this minute, One's purse to open, and find nothing in it.' R. A. DAVENPORT. ODE. FROM THE FRENCH OF RONSARD. WHY dost thou tremble, peasant, say, Of him who plies the woodman's trade? Those who hurl war's thunder round In arms, as where the battle glow'd. By him with equal eye are seen Thy dusty raiment, rude and mean, Around the forms of monarchs dead! R. A. DAVENPORT. VOL. VI. 3 B ODE ON THE RETURN OF SPRING. FROM THE FRENCH OF RONSARD. GOD shield ye, heralds of the spring, That make your hundred chirpings heard God shield ye, Easter daisies all, God shield ye, bright embroider'd train And ye, new swarms of bees, that go A hundred thousand times I call- This season how I love! For winds and storms, whose sullen roar Forbade my steps to rove. ANONYMOUS. ODE TO M. MENARD. FROM THE FRENCH OF RACAN. Now that Winter, with gloomy and rigorous sway, Hurls his tempests, his sleet, and his snow all the And keeps us besieged by the fire, [day, Let us drown in the glass all our cares as we ought, Nor give taxes and parties and statesmen a thought, Nor who fights and who conquers inquire. I know, dear Menard, all the works that you write, Fruits immortal of many a slumberless night, Will live till the world meets its doom: But what will it boot you, dear friend, that your name Shall surely be read in the temple of Fame, When you feed the worms of the tomb? Quit, quit then a toil which in vain you bestow! Of our nectar delicious in torrents shall flow The ruby red sparkling stores. More ruddy and bright will our nectar be found Than that which young Ganymede, passing around, In the cups of the deities pours. 'Tis wine that so swiftly speeds onward the years, That each scarce a day to our fancy appears: 'Tis wine makes us youthful once more: 'Tis wine that alone from the bosom bids fly The regret and remembrance of things now gone by, And the dread of the sorrows in store. Let us drink, dear Menard, let us fill high our glasses; For Time, stealing on, imperceptibly passes; |