Streets and suburbs left behind,
A damsel meets him on the way;
How from innocence declined,
The leer and crimson'd cheek display-
"Damsel, good evening"-accents mild
"Good night," reply:" Pray enter here!".
"And who art thou, my beauteous child?”
"I am your humble Bayadere."
Beneath her hand the cymbal gaily sounds,
With nimble feet she winds the mazy rounds,
Then graceful bends, and to present fresh flowers draws near
With gentle force she leads him in;
"Come, fair stranger, come and see
These mysterious bowers within,
The house of Love adorn'd for thee.
Art thou weary? here repose;
My cares shall soften every pain;
Rest or revelry propose,
Here thou shalt not wish in vain."
All his feign'd sufferings kindly she relieves.
The Genius smiles; with pleasure he perceives
A heart, though sunk in vice, that sweet compassion knows.
Menial services required,
Well she play'd the practised part;
But cares, that first cold art inspired,
Touch the springs that move the heart;
When the fragile flower is shed,
The lasting fruit succeeds instead;
Affection's unbought feelings raise
The breast that willingly obeys.
The pitying Genius, all her heart to sound,
Leads her to rapturous joys and woes profound:
The last recesses of her soul his view surveys.
On her warm lip the kiss imprest,
Her veins with subtle poison glow;
And soon, upon her sighing breast,
Sharp tears involuntary flow;
Torments unknown her bosom tear,
Pleasure and gain have lost their sway;
Her limbs refuse their load to bear,
Down at his feet she sinks away.
Night round the couch her secret mantle threw,
Of heaven-wrought texture and celestial hue,
To veil those blissful hours from every mortal view.
In sportive pleasure closed, her eyes
Open from short late-taken rest;
Lifeless the lovely stranger lies,
Pale and cold upon her breast.
With piercing cries she rends the air;
Alas, her love no more can hear!
Soon his corse away they bear;
She sees him on the funeral bier.
Hark! 'tis the requiem chaunted for the dead!
Swift as an arrow to the place she fled.
Who art thou, maid ?" they said, "what do'st thou here?”
Wild with ungovernable pain,
On the rude ground her body thrown,
"Restore," she cries, " my spouse again!
I to the vault with him go down.
O place not on the burning hearth
Those limbs divine! Did Heaven but give
Him mine, and only mine on earth,
One blessed night alone to live?"
Meanwhile the dirge proceeds" Death's arrows strike
The tottering old and vigorous young alike;
Exempted from his power nothing of mortal birth!
"The priest's behest, sad damsel, hear
He was not thy wedded spouse;
Thou hast lived a Bayadere,
That estate no claim allows;
The shadow on the body waits,
The wife her husband follows still,
Fame the duty celebrates
That our holy rites fulfil.
Strike, strike amain the timbrel's sacred round,
That earth and skies may hear the awful sound,
While purified by flame the soul to heaven ascends!"
Deaf to her cries, they light the pile,
The fires are blown with Heaven's breath,
Darting around a radiant smile,
She springs upon the bed of death-
His godlike form the Genius rears;
Unhurt, the flames about him play;
Aloft the damsel lightly bears,
To realms of pure etherial day.
Repentant sinners are the joy of Heaven;
To the lost child a fonder portion given,
And all offences past for ever wiped away.
FROM METASTASIO.-BY A LADY.
LET no vain fear my Daphne move,
I turn not back to speak of love;
Enough, alas! enough for me,
To know the theme displeases thee.
Observe those threatenings in the sky,
They bode a storm approaching nigh;
Wouldst thou thy flock were safely penn'd
I only came my aid to lend.
What, wilt thou not the danger fear,
When Heaven obscured proclaims it near?
Mark how the wind in whirls upheaves
Those clouds of dust and fallen leaves.
The woods' hoarse sound, the wild affright
Of birds that skim in dizzy flight;
The heavy drops that singly fall,
Wet on the face-presages all:
But what avails it more to say,
Hark! thunder rolls-see lightnings play-
What canst thou now?-O, Daphne, come,
Hark-whither flyest thou, or to whom?
This is no time for flocks to care,
Haste! to yon cave with me repair.
Why this panting, why this fear,
Beauteous idol of my soul!
Trust me, thou'rt in safety here,
Dreadless hear the thunders roll.
Mid this tumult in the sky,
Here I'll watch nor speak of love;
When the clouds to distance fly,
Thankless Daphne, I'll remove.
O let my love securely rest
Within this cavern's rocky breast;
Here never reach'd the forked glare,
No rending peals its concave tear:
The laurel's hallowed shade around
To angry heaven prescribes a bound;
Then freely breathe, my lovely maid-
Still, little trembler, still afraid!
Hail, vernal joy and vernal cheer,
Renew'd with each renewing year,
The bloom of nature's boyhood gay,
That hastes to manhood and decay.
In pious nature's golden prime,
When truth was law and justice sway,
Spring only knew the happy clime,
And breathed one universal May.
She ceaseless o'er the teeming ground
Diffused her quick'ning gales around;
And fields perpetual harvest bare,
That knew no seed nor tiller's care.
And thus, throughout the happy isles,
Where joy and youth for ever stray,
Serene the fabled region smiles,
Temper'd with one immortal May.
And thus by Letbe's sullen strand,
That laves Oblivion's silent land,
Soft airs with feeble murmur move,
And thrill the drear funereal grove.
And thus, perchance, when final fire
Has purged this ball at heaven's command,
Such gales shall new-born life inspire,
And fan the blest regenerate land.
Hail, month of pleasure and of prime,
That gladst short while our mortal clime;
Relique of nature's sinless bloom,
Foretaste of fairer springs to come!
THE POET RELEASED FROM THE LAW.
BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT.
Believed to be written on the occasion of Mr Walter Scott's retiring from the Bar.
THE captive bird from irksome durance freed,
Its heart quick-throbbing as in mirthful mood,
Cutting the liquid air with joyous speed,
Regains the covert of its native wood;
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