ENEAS AND THE SIBYL. (From VIRG. Æn. vi. 255.) BUT look, where first the God of Day And come in darkness on!” She spoke, and through the cavern led : They went, unseen, through cold and cloud, Mirk was the air, as when through night All things and colours fade. "Ye Gods, whom destiny hath made I look upon your privacy, And rend the sulphurous canopy (MAY, 1822.) THE HOOPOE'S INVOCATION TO THE NIGHTINGALE. (From the Birds of ARISTOPHANES, 1. 209.) WAKEN, dear one, from thy slumbers; Of a mother's agony; Echo, ere the murmurs fade, Bears them from the yew-tree's shade To the throne of Jove; and there, Peals from the immortal throng. (SEPTEMBER, 1826.) FROM LUCRETIUS, Bk. ii. 1 1–33. On, sweet it is to listen on the shore When the wild tempest mocks the seaboy's cry; And sweet to mark the tumult and the roar Is happiness to us!-oh, rather deem That the mind loves, in its own fantasy, To wield the weapons and to scream the scream, And then to wake from death, and feel it was a dream. But naught is sweeter than to hold our state, Who, in their sackcloth or their purple, creep Beneath the summit of the viewless steep: They dare the deserts, and they tempt the waves, And serve, and monarchize, and laugh and weep, While Fortune scoffs alike at lords and slaves, And decks the perilous path with sceptres, and with graves. Oh, wretched souls! oh, weak and wasted breath, Painful in birth, and loathsome in decay! Eternal clouds are round us: doubt and death Lie dark between to-morrow and to-day; And thus our span of mourning flits away! If the veins glisten and the pulses glow, If the free spirits innocently play, Say, wilt thou seek for more? vain mortal, no! What more can Dust demand, or Destiny bestow? Yet Nature hath more blessings, her own joys, Unearned by labour, and unsought by prayer: Be wise to-day!-perhaps no golden boys O'er the thronged banquet fling the torches' glare, No rich aroma loads the languid air, In dazzling whiteness, no fond lute is there To wreathe the sweetness of its magic thrall O'er listening ears, rapt hearts, at some high festival; Yet Nature's fondest sons and fairest daughter What do they reck beneath their tranquil bowers sky Laughs in the glad spring-dawning, and the hours Dress every hill and vale in herbs and odorous flowers! (1826.) |