For the Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his Sheaves,

O, what would they be to my tale of Two Thieves?

The one, yet unbreeched, is not three birthdays old, His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told; There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather

Between them, and both go a pilfering together.

With chips is the carpenter strewing his floor?
Is a cart-load of turf at an old woman's door?
Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide!
And his Grandson 's as busy at work by his side.

- and his eye,

Old Daniel begins; he stops short,
Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly:
'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own,
But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.

He once had a heart which was moved by the wires
Of manifold pleasures and many desires:
And what if he cherished his purse? 'T was no

more

Than treading a path trod by thousands before.

'T was a path trod by thousands; but Daniel is one Who went something farther than others have gone; And now with old Daniel you see how it fares, You see to what end he has brought his gray hairs.

The pair sally forth hand in hand: ere the sun Has peered o'er the beeches, their work is begun: And yet, into whatever sin they may fall,

This child but half knows it, and that not at all.

They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread, And each, in his turn, becomes leader or led; And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles, Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.

Neither checked by the rich nor the needy, they

roam;

For the gray-headed Sire has a daughter at home, Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done; And three, were it asked, would be rendered for one.

Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have eyed,
I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side:
Long yet mayst thou live! for a teacher we see
That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.

1800.

V.

ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY.

THE little hedgerow birds,

That peck along the road, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,

His gait, is one expression: every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak

A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought. He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom

All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given,
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect, that the young behold
With envy what the Old Man hardly feel.

1798.

EPITAPHS AND ELEGIAC PIECES.

EPITAPHS

TRANSLATED FROM CHIABRERA.

I.

WEEP not, beloved Friends! nor let the air
For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life
Have I been taken; this is genuine life

And this alone,

the life which now I live

In peace eternal; where desire and joy

Together move in fellowship without end.-
Francesco Ceni willed that, after death,

His tombstone thus should speak for him. And surely

Small cause there is for that fond wish of ours

Long to continue in this world; a world

That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a hope
To good, whereof itself is destitute.

II.

PERHAPS Some needful service of the State Drew TITUS from the depth of studious bowers,

And doomed him to contend in faithless courts,
Where gold determines between right and wrong.
Yet did at length his loyalty of heart,

And his pure native genius, lead him back
To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses,
Whom he had early loved. And not in vain
Such course he held! Bologna's learned schools
Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and hung
With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains.
There pleasure crowned his days; and all his
thoughts

A roseate fragrance breathed.* O human life, That never art secure from dolorous change! Behold a high injunction suddenly

To Arno's side hath brought him, and he charmed
A Tuscan audience: but full soon was called

To the perpetual silence of the grave.
Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood
A Champion steadfast and invincible,
To quell the rage of literary War!

O THOU who movest onward with a mind
Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste!
"T will be no fruitless moment. I was born
Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood.

* Ivi vivea giocondo e i suoi pensieri

Erano tutti rose.

The Translator had not skill to come nearer to his original.