Far o'er the Sea.

Where are the vintage-songs

Wandering in glee?

Where dance the peasant-bands

Joyous and free?

Under a kind blue sky

Where doth my birth-place lic?

Far o'er the sea.

Where floats the myrtle-scent

O'er vale and lea,

When evening calls the dove

Homewards to flee?
Where doth the orange gleam

Soft on my native stream?-
Far o'er the sea.

Where are sweet eyes of love
Watching for me,
Where o'er the cabin-roof

Waves the green tree?

Where speaks the vesper-chime
Still of a holy time?-

Far o'er the sea.

Dance on, ye vintage-bands,

Fearless and free;

Still fresh and greenly wave

My father's tree;

Solo in litore secum.

O ubi, qvos celebrat felix vindemia, cantus,
Qvi per agros laeti perqve vagantur aqvas?
O ubi ruricolae gaudent titubare choreis,
Libertatis amans laetitiaeqve cohors?
Caeruleisqve almae radiantia risubus aurae
O ubi nativae stant mihi tecta domus?
Ah nimis illa mihi spatiis distantia longis
Invidet inmensum dissociatqve fretum.

O ubi melliflui myrti labuntur odores,
Perqve cavas valles prataqve laeta ruunt;
Vesper ubi revocat, Phoebo fugiente, palumbem,
Et monet arboreum rursus adire larem?
O ubi natalem tingentia suaviter undam
Frondibus in propriis aurea poma nitent?
Ah nimis illa mihi spatiis distantia longis
Invidet inmensum dissociatque fretum.

O ubi langventes oculi defessaqve longis
Me desideriis pectora cara manent,
Qva super exigvis adoperta mapalia tectis
Suscitat iliceas mobilis aura comas?
Hesperiasqve sonans longo campana per auras

Murmure adhuc sacrum tempus adesse monet?
Ah nimis illa mihi spatiis distantia longis
Invidet inmensum dissociatque fretum.

Ducere ne cesset laetum vindemia ludum:
Nectite paganos, libera turba, choros.
Undet adhuc felix redivivis frondibus arbor,

Qvam genitor curat, qvam vocat usqve suam.

Still smile, ye kind blue skies,

Though your son pines and dies

Far o'er the sea!

MRS. HEMANS.

The Braes of Yarrow.

O Yarrow fields, may never rain

Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my luve,

My luve, as he'd not been a lover.

Much I rejoyced that waefu' day;

I sang, my voice the woods returning :
But lang ere night the spear was flown
That slew my luve, and left me mourning.

Yet, oh, prepare the bed of luve,

With bridal sheets my body cover;

Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,

Let in the expected husband-lover.

But who the expected husband is?

His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter:

Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon

Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

Pale as he is, here lay him down;

Oh lay his cold head on my pillow;

Take aff, take aff these bridal weids,

And crown my careful head with willow.

HAMILTON.

Indue caeruleos, aether nitidissime, risus,
Et sit adhuc vultu, qvo fuit ante, polus;
Vester ego qvamvis vestrae dulcedinis exsors
Conqueror obiectis inmoriorque fretis.

Exspectatus Amans.

F. M.

Hos precor

infaustos nunqvam

cadat imber in agros,

Nec teneros flores roscidus humor alat:

Namqve amor indigna meus est hic morte peremtus,

Hic cecidit, tanqvam non meus esset amor.

Ut male sum laetata, die properante sinistro!
Ut cecini, numeris adsonuitqve nemus!
Sed nox multum aberat, puerumqve volatilis hasta
Straverat; et luctu mersa relinqvor ego.

Ast agite, O comites, genialem sternite lectum;
Membra maritalem sindona rite premant.
Festinate fores thalami reserare, puellae;
Exspectatus adest, ingrediatur amans.

Qvis tamen est hic sponsus, hic exspectatus amator?
Fallor an effusa dextera caede madet?
Qvae simul exsangvi iuxta venit umbra figura ?
Palla humeris nivea est, ater in ore cruor.

Palleat ah qvamvis, huc vos deponite corpus ;
Sustineam collo frigida colla meo:
Meqve meo simul ornatu spoliate iugali;

Laeta parum frons est; hanc tegat apta salix.

II. A. J. M.

The Sleep of the Brave.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest?
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

COLLINS.

Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke.

Underneath this marble hearse
Lies the subject of all verse;
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another
Fair, and good, and wise as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee!

BEN JONSON.