How calm the sky! rest, ocean rest,
From storm and ruffle free,

Calm as the image on thy breast

Of her that governs thee!

And yet beneath the moon's mild reign

Thy broad breast heaves as one in pain, Thou dark and silent sea.

There are whom fortune vainly woos
With all her pageantry,

Whom every flattering bliss pursues,
Yet still they fare like thee;
The spell is laid within their mind,
Least wretched then when most resign'd,
Their hearts throb silently!

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

TAKE here the tender harp again,
O Muse! which thou hast lent to me;
I wake no more the joyous strain
To youthful love or social glee.

Forgive the weak and sickly shell
That could so ill my soul express ;
What most I wish'd I durst not tell,
And chose my themes from idleness.

Oft when I told of peace and pleasure,
I mark'd the hostile sabre shine;
And water, doled in scanty measure,
I drank, who wont to sing of wine.

Might peace, might love's auspicious fire
But gild at last my closing day,
Then, Goddess, then return the lyre
To wake perhaps a loftier lay.

BOW-MEETING SONG.

WE find it well observed by an ancient learned Rabbin, The man was raving mad who first to sea would go, Who would change the tented field for the quarter-deck and cabin,

And the songs of blooming beauty for a Yo! heave oh! Yet since your bard is bent to try

The fervours of an Eastern sky,

And where, across the tepid main, Arabian breezes blow, While yet the northern gale

Fans his cheek and swells his sail,

Accept his latest tribute to the British bow!

Dear scenes of unrepented joy, our nature's best physician, Canall Golconda's glittering mines so pure a bliss bestow? Oh deem not that for sordid gold he left you, or ambition, Or shall e'er forget your peaceful charms 'mid India's brightest glow!

Oft, oft, will he be telling

Of the glades of Nant-y-bellin,

Of the lilies and the roses that in Gwersylt blow, Oft, oft, recal the snow-white wall of yonder ancient dwelling, Whose lords, in Saxon Edwin's days, so nobly bent the bow!

Oh when the dog-star rides on high, how oft shall memory [throw;

wander

Where yonder oaks their aged arms 'mid blended poplars And hollies join their glossy shade, and the brook with cool Steals like a silver snake thro' the copse below! [meander Where many a mild and matron grace

Adorn the mother's gentle face,

And *

*

*

* in beauteous garland blow,

And proved in many a martial fray

Their sire holds sylvan holiday,

And flings his well-worn sword away

To bend the British bow!

The bardis gone, and other bards shall wake the call of pleasure That prompts to beauty's lip the smile, and lends her cheek

its glow,

And strike the sylvan lyre to a louder, livelier measure,
And wear the oaken wreath, which he must now forego!
But yet, though many a sweeter song
Shall float th' applauding tent along,

And many a friendly health to the Sons of Genius flow,
Forget not them, who, doom'd to part,

Will keep engraven on their heart

The sons and the daughters of the British bow!

FROM THE GULISTAN.

INSCRIPTION OVER THE ARCHED ALCOVE OF FERIDOON'S HALL.

BROTHER! know the world deceiveth!
Trust on Him who safely giveth!
Fix not on the world thy trust,
She feeds us-but she turns to dust,
And the bare earth or kingly throne
Alike may serve to die upon!

FROM THE GULISTAN.

THE man who leaveth life behind,
May well and boldly speak his mind :
Where flight is none from battle field,
We blithely snatch the sword and shield;
Where hope is past, and hate is strong,
The wretch's tongue is sharp and long;
Myself have seen, in wild despair,
The feeble cat the mastiff tear.

FROM THE GULISTAN.

WHO the silent man can prize,
If a fool he be or wise?

Yet, though lonely seem the wood,
Therein may lurk the beast of blood.
Often bashful looks conceal

Tongue of fire and heart of steel.

And deem not thou, in forest grey,

Every dappled skin thy prey;

Lest thou rouse, with luckless spear,

The tiger for the fallow deer!

IMITATION OF AN ODE BY KOODRUT.

AMBITION's voice was in my ear, she whisper'd yesterday, How goodly is the land of Room, how wide the Russian

sway!

How bless'd to conquer either realm, and dwell through life

to come,

Lull'd by the harp's melodious string, cheer'd by the northern

drum!'

But Wisdom heard; "Oh youth," she said, "in passion's fetter tied,

O come and see a sight with me shall cure thee of thy pride!"