Then lady, be thou gentle still, Let pity sway thy breast; Accept for deeds the fervent will To honour thy behest.

_A Farewell._

Farewell! farewell! the parting hour Is come, and I must leave thee!

Oh! ne'er may aught approach thy bower That might of bliss bereave thee!

But ever a perennial rill Of joy, so brightly flowing, Keep each fair thought in fragrance still Within thy pure mind blowing.

For life all charm had lost for me, My thoughts were only sadness, When fortune led me unto thee To taste once more of gladness.--

I've seen the sullen shades of night Fair nature's face concealing, And marked how scattered rays of light Came morn's approach revealing.

The light increased, the orb of day Clomb to the mountain's summit; And vale and plain, and stream and bay, Drew life and lustre from it.

And as it towered in majesty, Light all around it shedding, It seemed a monarch, seated high, Bliss through his realms wide spreading.

All nature joyed; I felt my heart Distend, and fill with pleasure; For heavenly light and warmth impart A bliss we cannot measure.

This glorious sun to me art thou, Whose light all gloom dispelleth, Before whose majesty I bow When he his power revealeth.

Thy golden locks, thine eyes so blue, Thy smile so sweetly playing, Were those first shafts of light that flew, The gloom of night warraying.

But when, more intimately known, I found not only beauty, But genius, taste, and truth, thine own, Combined with filial duty:

Then rose the sun, o'er all my soul In full effulgence beaming, And tides of joy began to roll Beneath his radiance gleaming.--

Time still his noiseless course pursues With unremitting vigour, And lovely Spring each year renews The waste of Winter's rigour.

Were mine the power, thus, like Time, To wake again life's flowers, And days recall of youthful prime Passed in the Muses' bowers;

Then, lovely maiden! fancy-free, Rich in each mental treasure, In me thou wouldst a votary see-- Thy will would be my pleasure.

But while such bliss might not be mine, A friendship pure and holy I offered at the hallowed shrine, To which my heart turned solely.--

When distant from thee many a mile, High waves between us swelling, I'll think upon thy lovely smile, Of pure emotion telling.

The sky will show me thy blue eye; The whispering breeze of even Recall that voice, whose melody Oft lapped my soul in heaven!

The sinking sun thy ringlets' gold Will show; but memory only The treasures of thy mind unfold To me when musing lonely.

Oh! may I hope that memory, That power for ever changing, Will make thee sometimes think on me, O'er distant mountains ranging?

Say me not nay; let Fancy cheat My soul with bland illusion; And let not Doubt my vision sweet Dispel by rude intrusion.

_Verses_,

WRITTEN AT BATH IN 1840, FOR A LITTLE BOY WHO KEPT AN ALBUM, AND WAS A GREAT ADMIRER OF ROBIN HOOD AND HIS MERRY MEN.

Had the kind Muse, young friend, on me Her pleasing gifts bestowed, And taught to tread of poesy The smooth and flowery road;

Then should the deeds of Robin Hood, And Little John, so bold, And of the Friar, stout and good, In numbers high be told.

The merry greenwood should resound With feats of archery, And antlered deer along should bound So light and gracefully!

But vain the hopes: 'gainst Fate's decrees To struggle I must cease; I only can write histories Of England, Rome, and Greece.

_Father Cuddy's Song._

IN THE LEGEND OF CLOUGH NA CUDDY.

Quam pulchra sunt ova, Cum alba et nova In stabulo scite leguntur; Et a Margery bella, Quae festiva puella!

Pinguis lardi cum frustis coquuntur.

Ut belles in prato Aprico et lato Sub sole tam laete renident, Ova tosta, in mensa Mappa bene extensa, Nitidissima lance consident.

TRANSLATION.

Oh! 'tis eggs are a treat, When so white and so sweet From under the manger they're taken, And by fair Margery, Och! 'tis she's full of glee, They are fried with fat rashers of bacon.

Just like daisies all spread O'er a broad sunny mead, In the sunbeams so beauteously shining, Are fried eggs fair displayed On a dish, when we've laid The cloth and are thinking of dining.

_The Praises of Mazenderan._

FROM THE SHaH-NaMEH OF FERDOUSEE.

[The object of this version was to give a correct idea of the animated anapaestic measure in which the Shah-Nameh is written. Our knowledge of Persian was extremely slight; but a friendly Orientalist gave us a faithful line-for-line translation, which we versified, and he and Ram Mohun Roy then compared our version with the original.]

His hand from the lute hath its melody drawn, And thus rose the song of Mazenderan:-- May Mazenderan, the land of my birth, Its hills and its dales, be e'er famed o'er the earth: For evermore blooms in its gardens the rose, On its hills nods the tulip, the hyacinth blows; Its air ever fragrant, its earth flourishing, Cold or heat is not felt,--'tis perpetual spring.

The nightingale's lays in the gardens resound; On the sides of the mountains the stately deer bound, In search evermore of their pastime and food; With fragrance and colour each season's bedewed; Its streams of rose-water unceasingly roll, Whose perfume doth gladness diffuse o'er the soul.

In November, December, and January, Full of tulips the ground thou mayest everywhere see; The springs, unexhausted, flow all through the year; The hawk at his chase everywhere doth appear.

The region of bliss is adorned all o'er With dinars, with rich stuffs, and with all costly store; The idol-adorers with fine gold are crowned, And girdles of gold gird the heroes renowned.

Whoe'er hath not dwelt in that region so bright, His soul knows no pleasure, his heart no delight.

FOOTNOTES:

[599] As we have above given an etymon of _cobweb_, we will here repeat our note on the word _gossamer_ in the Fairy Legends.

"Gossamers, Johnson says, are the long white cobwebs which fly in the air in calm sunny weather, and he derives the word from the Low Latin _gossapium_. This is altogether unsatisfactory. The gossamers are the cobwebs which may be seen, particularly of a still autumnal morning, in such numbers on the furze-bushes, and which are raised by the wind and floated through the air, as thus exquisitely pictured by Browne in his Britannia's Pastorals (ii. 2),

The milk-white gossamers not upwards snowed.

Every lover of nature must have observed and admired the beautiful appearance of the gossamers in the early morning, when covered with dew-drops, which, like prisms, separate the rays of light, and shoot the blue, red, yellow, and other colours of the _spectrum_, in brilliant confusion. Of King Oberon we are told--

A riche mantle he did wear, Made of tinsel gossamer, Bestrew'd over with a few Diamond drops of morning dew.