That every fairest form eludes his grasp Poor soul! thou hast no interval of peace; Come, come, Eliza, let us quit this dark, SONG OF THE STARS TO THE EARTH. FROM THE GERMAN OF STOLBERG. SWEET be thy slumbers, Sister dear, The voice of Morning widely spread. Then may'st thou wake all fresh and gay, May no wild winds with furious wing And drown the gentle, soothing sound That rises from the heaving main; And may no thunders burst around, From Etna's womb, to blast the plain: And may the winged lightnings sleep Upon the high Alps' darksome breast; While now through air reigns silence deep, O Sister dear, to aid thy rest. No clouds now intervene to hide Now do the mild Moon's lovely beams O may thy children all partake The slumbers of this silent hour! While those who may their couch forsake, Toss'd by relentless sorrow's power, The moon shall sooth ;-her mild regard For when the storm of grief blows hard, Those now who sail the faithless sea, Nor quicksands, shoal, nor hidden rock, While we keep watch, no sudden shock Then sweetly slumber, Sister dear, THE DAWN. MISS OWENSON. THERE is a soft and fragrant hour- 'Tis when a ray Steals from the veil of parting night, And by its mild prelusive light Foretells the day. 'Tis when some ling'ring stars scarce shed O'er the mist-clad mountain's head Their fairy beam; Then one by one retiring, shroud, Dim glitt❜ring through a fleecy cloud, Their last faint beam. 'Tis when (just waked from transient death By some fresh zephyr's balmy breath), The unfolding rose Sheds on the air its rich perfume, While every bud with deeper bloom And beauty glows. 'Tis when fond Nature, (genial power!) Weeps o'er each drooping night-closed flower, While softly fly Those doubtful mists, that leave to view That charms the eye. 'Tis when the sea-girt turret's brow Receives the east's first kindling glow, And the dark wave, Swelling to meet the orient gleam, 'Tis when the restless child of sorrow, Nor day, nor night, this hour can claim, But fresh, reviving, dewy, sweet, It hastes the glowing hours to meet Of rising day. ODE TO MORNING. PENNINGTON. HAIL, roseate morn! returning light! And as she quits the dappled skies, To greet the dawning day. O'er tufted meads gay Flora trips; Her head with rose-buds crown'd; Mild Zephyr hastes to snatch a kiss, The dew-drops, daughters of the morn, And all the broider'd vales: While Nature, now in lively vest While blooming flowers, and blossom'd trees, '7 Shall I, with drowsy poppies crown'd, Ah, no! through yon embowering grove, And own thy cheerful sway! For short-liv'd are thy pleasing powers; And we no more shall trace |