Ἐκ δὲ λύρων χέεται γλυκερὸν μέλος, ἠὲ συρίγγων.
Αλλ' ὁ ξεῖνος ἔνερθε καθίζεται αχνύμενος κῆρ
Δίφρῳ ἀεικελίῳ κλιθείς, κενεῇ τε τραπέζα,

Χείλεσιν οὔτ ̓ ἐπὶ δεῖπνον ἔχων, οὔτ ̓ ὄμμασιν ὕπνον.

K. T. λ.

Lyrarum vero effunditur dulcis sonus aut tibiarum— Advena verò infra sedet dolore-affectus cor

Sedili inhonesto reclinans, vacuâque mensâ,

Labris neque cibum habens, nec oculis somnum, &c.

NOTE.

V. 522. Non in infernis regionibus, ut insomniavit bonus vir, Editor Glasguensis, ut inferiori camerâ, pedibusque saltantium subjectâ.

V. 524. Observandum est quam mirâ arte Poeta sui viatoris patrium innuit pudorem. Si nempe Scotus fuisset Hibernusve, mirum esset, ne innatâ fretus audaciâ, Anglicè, "sporting a face," cœnam sibi, et gratis, comparasset. Cum vere et Anglus sit, et ingenui pudoris puer, manet immotus avóμvós eg dum empto tardoque coquorum auxilio sibi cibus paratur. De Anglorum modestiâ vide cl. Marklandum in hunc locum.

R. W. HAY, ESQ.

ALL SOULS, 1807.

Zum Hoch-und wohlgeboren Herrn von Hay, des Collegium Christi gradüatirtem Studente, des Kais: Russisch: Ordens des Bär und des

Schlüsselblume Ritter, &c. &c. &c

KOMм mein Freund, ich bitte, mit miram Montag zu speisen,
Aber, ich muss dir sagen dass kein ausländisches Essen
Gebe ich dir; mit Schinken-Geschmack die säuere Kräuter,
Nicht die herrliche Fische, die kostbare Suppe des Sterlet,
Oder mit salzem Butter den Barsch, den wassergekochten.
Und, ach, leider des Armuths! den guten vortrefflichen
Rheinwein

Hier bekommest du nicht aus grünen Gläser getrunken,
Und das dickes Bier, was liebt der durstige Deutscher !
Hier sind bloss Kartoffeln, und nur ein gewältiges Beefsteak,
Oder ein Schöpsenbraten, und ein Paar Küchlein mit Zunge,
Und ein Salat, und Englisches Bier, und Wasser von Schweppe,
Und Wallnüsse nach Tisch, mit röthlichem Wein von Oporto,
Also bleib ich indessen,

Mit einer wahren Hochachtung,

Lieber Herr Hay,

Euer unterthänigster,

REGINALD HEBER.

Die Zeit ist halb sechs-die Local meine eigene Stube.

A FRAGMENT.

AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER.

AND by that mansion's western side there stoode
An ancient bowre enwrapte in darkest shade
Of sacred elde, and wide-encircling woode,
Seemed it was for saintlye abbesse made.
Strong were the doors with yron barrs arraide
For fear of foe that them enharmen myghte,
Ne any durst that fort for to invade,

For by the wicket grate, bothe daye and nyghte,
A snowy guardian sate; of old that Bunny highte.

And all withinne were books of various lore,
St. Leon's toils, and Bible nothinge newe,
And needle-work, and artists' busie store
Of crumbling chalke, and tyntes of everie hue;
And on the ground, most terrible to view,
Dame Venus' mangled limbs were strewed around;
For soothe to tell, the goddess envyous grewe
When here she saw myght fairer forms be found,
And dash'd in pieces small her statue on the ground.

Such is that bowre, but who shall dare pourtraye
What sister fairies there their spells combine;
She, whose younge charms the rugged harte cold
Of prelate olde, and never tamed divine.

swaye

She, limneresse of Spenser, (maister mine,)
Angelic limneresse, in whose darke eye

Dothe wit's wilde glance and playful beauty shine
And she of shapeliest form and stature highe,
And meeke unconscious state and winning majestie.

TRANSLATION OF AN ODE OF KLOPSTOCK'S.

HE.

АH Selma! if our love the fates should sever,
And bear thy spirit from the world below,
Then shall mine eyes be wet with tears for ever,
Each gloomy morn, each night of darker woe;
Each hour, that pass'd so soon in thy embracing,
Each minute keenly felt shall force a tear;
The long, long months! the years so slowly pacing!
Which all were swift alike, and all were dear.

SHE.

My Selmar! ah, if from thy Selma parted,

Thy soul should first the paths of darkness tread, Sad were my course, and short, and broken-hearted, To weep those lonely days, that dismal bed! Each hour that erst in converse sweet returning, Shone with thy smile, or sparkled with thy tear; Each lingering day should lengthen out my mourning, The days that pass'd so swiftly and so dear!

HE.

And did I promise, Selma, years of sorrow?
And canst thou linger only days behind?
Few minutes, few, be mine from fate to borrow,
Near thy pale cheek and breathless form reclined,
Press thy dead hand, and, wildly bending o'er thee,
Print one last kiss upon thy glazed eye.

SHE.

Nay, Selmar, nay-I will not fall before thee;
That pang be mine; thou shalt not see me die;
Some few sad moments on thy death-bed lying,
By thy pale corpse my trembling frame shall be ;
Gaze on thy alter'd form, then, inly sighing,
Sink on that breast, and wax as pale as thee."

SONG TO A SCOTCH AIR.

I LOVE the harp with silver sound,
That rings the festal hall around;
But sweetest of all

The strains which fall,

When twilight mirth with song is crown'd.

I love the bugle's warbling swell,
When echo answers from her cell;

But sweeter to me,

When I list to thee,

Who wak'st the northern lay so well.