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Wye! by thy brink—at Order's birth,
While fire-born vapours heav'd the earth—
In act on Albion's soil to trace
A theatre of sylvan grace,
Presiding Nature chose her stand;
There high she waved her plastic wand.
Swift spreads the level, sinks the dell,
And rude emerging masses swell.
Fair thought on thought to being sprung,
Fond o'er her toil the Sov'reign hung;
Last smote the rock, and bade Thee roll,
The Spirit of the perfect whole!
Then fled yon steep thy gushing tide,
And wheel'd far off his concave side:
O'er glooms unpierc'd pil'd crags ascend,
Dark o'er the deeps tall forests bend,
Slow steals the wave in silence by,
O'erawed as though a God were nigh ••

Unscar'd by war, unstain'd by blood,
Through ages, Vaga! roll thy flood;
Nor e'er broad oak, that shrouds thy side,
Fell deed of midnight spoiler hide.
Cool in thy groves, a frequent guest,
May Innocence, uninjur'd, rest;
Untarnish'd, Beauty, round thy bed.
Her rural bland enchantments spread;
There on the Muse's wandering child,
Burst unimagin'd visions wild.
There he who shuns a brother's eye,
Sad Outcast! and himself would fly;
Own some sweet moments of repose-
There breathe, deluded of his woes.

* Note. The middle paragraph alludes to that theory of the earth which teaches that the present land was once the bottom of the sea, and that it was raised by subterraneous fires.

SONNET.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.

Waters of Tejo, gentle stream, that flow
Thro' these fair meads, refreshing as ye go
Herbage and flowers, and flocks, and with delight
Soothing the nymphs and shepherds on your shore,
I know not, gentle river, when my sight
Shall linger on your pleasant waters more.
And now I turn me from you, sad at heart,
Hopeless that fate my future lot will bless;
That evil fate which bids me now depart,
Converts remembered joy to wretchedness.
The thought of you dear waters oft will rise;
And Memory oft will see you in her dreams,
When I on other airs shall breathe my sighs,
And drop far off my tears in other streams.

SONNET.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.

Is there who says that Love is like the wind
Fickle, ungrateful, full of fraud and lies?
That wretched man hath sure deserved to find
From Love all vengeance, and all cruelties!
Gentle, benignant, merciful is Love;
Believe not him who says Love is not so!
Let the vile slanderer live by men below
Despised, and hated by the gods above.
If ever Love work'd misery, in me
May man the sum of all his evils see,
Me whom he seems delighted to oppress;
The utmost rigour of his power I prove,
Yet would not change the miseries of Love
For all the world beside calls happiness.

SONNET.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.

When I behold you lady! when my eyes

Dwell on the deep enjoyment of your sight,

I give my spirit to that one delight,

And earth appears to me a Paradise.

And when I hear you speak, and see you smile,

Full, satisfied, absorbed, my centered mind

Deems all the world's vain hopes and joys the while

As empty as the unsubstantial wind:

Lady, I feel your charms, yet dare not raise

To that high theme, the unequal song of praise,

A power for that to language was not given;

Nor marvel I, when I those beauties view,

Lady, that he whose power created you,

Could form the stars, and yonder glorious heaven.

SONNET.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.

Delightful fields, and thickets gay and green,
Ye woods that shadow o'er the mountain's scene,
Ye rocks grotesque, ye fountains cold and clear,
Who, as ye murmur down the sparkling steep,
Your concord with the waving woodlands keep,
And send sweet music to the traveller's ear.

0 lovely scenes! unsatisfied my sight

Dwells on your beauties now, your ancient shade, Clear fountains, gleaming through the opening glade, Rocks, thickets, fields, and all your green delight! Me, other than I was, ye now behold,

1 gaze around, and tears suffuse my eyes; Ye tell me, lovely scenes, of days of old, And thoughts of former happiness arise.

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