« 이전계속 »
Here first I saw the morn appear
Of guiltless pleasure's shining day ; I met the dazzling brightness here,
Here mark'd the soft declining rayBeheld the skies, whose streaming light
Gave splendour to the parting sun; Now lost in sorrow's sable night,
And all their mingled glories gone! 'Till death, in pity, end my care, I must remember such things were.
Sir John Henry More, Bart, who died in the year 1780,
about the age of 25: His true poetical powers cannot
Compassion ever lov’d to dwell,
The cause I must not-dare not tell.
The grief that on my quiet preys,
That rends my heart, that checks my tongue,
A WINTER PIECE.
I was a winter's evening, and fast came down the snow, And keenly o'er the wide heath the bitter blast did blow, When a damsel all forlorn, quite bewildered in her way, Press’d her baby to her bosom, and sadly thus did say :
“Oh! cruel was my father, that shut his door on me! " And cruel was my mother that such a sight could see; “And cruel is the wint'ry wind that chills my heart with
cold, But crueller than all, the lad that left my love for gold!
“ Hush, hush, my lovely baby, and warm thee in my
breast, “ Ah! little thinks thy father how sadly we're distrest! “ For cruel as he is, did he know but how we fare, “ He'd shield us in his arms from this Ätter piercing air.
« Cold, cold, my dearest jewel! thy little life is gone! “Oh, let my tears revive thee! so warm that trickle down; My tears that gush so warm, oh! they freeze before Then down she sunk, despairing, upon the drifted snow, And, wrung with killing anguish, lamented loud her woe: She kiss'd her baby's pale lips, and laid it by her side, Then cast her eyes to heaven, and bow'd her head and died.
they fall, “ Ah! wretched, wretched mother! thou'rt now bereft
OF THE FOREGOING ELEGY.
Vesper erat; campis et nix hyemosa ruebat,
“ Heu! pater ille ferus, natæ qui tecte negavit,
“ Parvule m., taceas, gremio renovesque calorem;
“ Blandulæ væ! friges, friges; calor ossa reliquit;
Jam nive congesta misere prolabitur exspes
Friend of the wretch whose bosoin bleeds,
A prey to anguish and despair,
Oh! hither come, and smile on me,
To me how sweet life's early dawn,
And, oh! how sweet youth's rosy hours;
But manhood chany'd the scene of glee,
E'er, then, to wan despair a prey,
E'er sorrow's bitter cup runs o'er,
In pity come, and smile on me,
But if I court thine aid in vain,
If slow reluctance guides thine eye,
He sets the pining captive free,
THE TENDER WISH.
From her, alas ! whose smile was love,
I wander to some lonely cell ;
I bid the flatt'rer hope farewell!
Be all her little arts forgot,
That fill'd my bosom with alarms; Ah! let her crime-a little spot
Be lost amid her blaze of charins.
As on I wander slow, my sighs
At ev'ry step, for Cynthia mourn; My anxious heart within me dies,
And sinking whispers “ O return.”
Deluded heart! thy folly know,
Nor fondly nurse the fatal flame; By absence thou shalt lose thy woe, And only futter at her name.