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Could gold thy truant fancy bind
A faithful heart would still content me;
Seek not the fragile dreams of love:
Such fleeting phantoms will deceive thee; They will but transient idols prove,
In wealth beguile, in sorrow leave thee. Ah! dost thou hope the sordid mind,
When thou art poor, will feel sincerely? Wilt thou in such the friendship find,
Which warm'd the heart that lov'd thee dearly?
Though fickle passions cease to burn
For her, so long thy bosom's treasure, Ah! think that reason may return,
When far from thee my paths I measure:
Or who will bid thy heart beat cheerly?
When war shall rouse the brooding storm,
Borne on the wild and restless billow;
Whose heart, like mine, shall throb sincerely? Or who thy heart in spells shall bind, When hers is broke that lov'd thee dearly?
When thou contending throngs shall court,
Where party zeal has often crown'd thee; Perchance, of Fortune's frowns the sport,
Caprice or cold neglect may wound thee! Then wilt thou find no gen'rous heart
To bid thee bear misfortune cheerly; No friend, in grief, to share a part
Like her who lov'd thee long and dearly!
Could I to distant regions stray,
From thee my thoughts would never wander; For, at the purpling close of day,
By some lone vagrant rill's meander, Each wand'ring bee, each chilling wind, Would tell the heart that's broken nearly,
In them, where'er they rove, to find
I will not court thy fickle love;
Soon shall our fates and fortunes sever: Far from thy sight will I remove,
And, smiling, sigh "adieu for ever!" Give to the sordid friends thy days;
Still trust that they will act sincerely,And when the specious mask decays, Lament the heart that lov'd thee dearly!
For time will swiftly journey on,
And age with sickness haste to meet thee, Friends prov'd deceitful will be gone,
When they no more with smiles can cheat thee: Then wilt thou seek in vain to find
A faithful heart that beats sincerely,-
A passion, cent'ring in the mind,
Which, scorning interest, lov'd thee dearly!
When in the grave this heart shall sleep,
And in despair my sorrows number!
My shade will haunt thine aching eyes,
Which lov'd thee long, and lov'd thee dearly!
TRANSLATED FROM CAMOENS.
THOU pride of the forest! whose dark branches spread
To the sigh of the south-wind their tremulous green, And the tinge of whose buds is as rich, and as red, As the mellowing blushes of maiden eighteen!
O'er thee may the tempest in gentleness blow,
Because in thy shade, as I lately reclin'd,
The sweetest of visions arose to my view; 'Twas the swoon of the soul-'twas the transport of mind
'Twas the happiest minute that ever I knew.
For this shalt thou still be my favourite tree,—
Compare the above with Mr. Sheridan's "Uncouth is this moss cover'd grotto of stone," Vol. 1. p. 57.
WHO fed me from her gentle breast,
When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who sat and watch'd my infant head,
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who drest my doll in clothes so gay,