TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF

VICTOR HUGO.

JE Poëte, inspiré lorsque la terre ignore, Ressemble á les grands monts que la nouvelle aurore

Dore avant tous á son réveil,

Et qui, longtemps vainqueur de l'ombre,

Gardent jusque dans la nuit sombre
Le dernier rayon du soleil.

Moorland and meadow slumber

In deepest darkness now,

But the sunrise hues of the wakened day
Smile on the mountain's brow.

And when eve's mists are shrouding
Moorland and meadow fast,

That mountain greets day's sunset light,
Her loveliest and her last.

And thus the God-taught minstrel,

Above a land untaught,

Smiles lonely in the smiles of heaven

From his hill-tops of thought.

W

ALBUM VERSES.

ITHIN a rock, whose shadows linger,

At moonlight hours, on Erie's sea,

Some unseen, Indian spirit's finger

Woke in far times sweet minstrelsy.

'Twas in the summer twilight only,

When evening winds the green leaves stirred, And all beside was mute and lonely

Its wild aërial tones were heard.

So I that fabled rock resembling,

With heart as cold, and head as hard-
Appear, although with fear and trembling,
At Beauty's call, as Beauty's bard.
Yet why despair if winds can summon
Minstrels and music when they please?
For who but deems the lips of woman
More potent than an evening breeze?

Her lips the magic word have spoken,
That bids me call from far and near
Each minstrel-pen, to leave its token
Of fealty and of friendship here.
These consecrated leaves are given
To you, ye rhyme-composing elves;

To poets who were taught by Heaven, And poets who have taught themselves.

To wits, whose thistle-shafts by flowers Are hid, their points in balsam dipped; To humor, in his happiest hours,

And punsters-if their wings are clipped. But friendship, with her smiling features, Will come, 'tis hoped, without a call; For though your wits are clever creatures, One line of hers is worth them all.

Let names of heroes and of sages,
On history's leaf eternal be;
A few brief years on Beauty's pages
Are worth their immortality.
At least this charmed book permits us

To brave oblivion's withering power,
Till she who summons us, forgets us;

And who would live beyond that hour?

M

ODE TO GOOD-HUMOR.

JAID of the sweet, engaging smile!

Companion of our hours of peace!
Whose soothing arts can care beguile,
And bid discordant passions cease;
Virtue in thee her favorite hails,

And dwells where'er thy sway prevails,
Life's fairest charms to thee we owe,

The source of pure delight, the healing balm of woe!

Can rapture thrill congenial hearts,

Entwined by Friendship's wreath divine?

If aught of bliss its bond imparts,

The praise, enchanting maid! be thine.
Can we a soft attractive grace

In the bright beam of Beauty trace?

'Tis only when with thee combined,

Her powers can justly claim the homage of the mind!

When the first pair in Eden's bower
Enjoyed the favoring smile of Heaven,
Thy influence brightened every flower,
And blessed the balmy breeze of even.
And since in Love's connubial ties,
We best can learn thy sweets to prize,

'Tis in affection's fond domain,

Where still unruffled joys denote thy golden reign.

Deprived of thee, does earth possess

One charm to bind us here below?
In vain may pomp and power caress,
Or wealth its glittering gifts bestow.
Lost is their worth when thou art fled,
When Discord lifts her sceptre dread,
And pallid Envy, Care, and Strife

Unite their darkening clouds to veil the noon of life.

But when thy welcome steps appear,

This dreaded train of evil flies,

Gay Cheerfulness is ever near,

And calm Content with placid eyes;

And all that to the soul endears

This dreary wilderness of years,

All that our happiest hours employ,

When beats the willing heart to transport and to joy.

Where'er I tread this varied scene,
Good-Humor! on my path attend;
Alike when pleasure smiles serene,

Or pain and grief my bosom rend,
Do thou infuse thy sovereign power,
In youth's gay morn, in manhood's hour,
Or when, in age, life's parting ray

But faintly lingers low ere yet it fades away!

1811.