Works

By the walk of the willows I pour'd out my theme,
The breath of the evening scarce dimpled the stream;
By the waters I stood, like an image of Woe,
And my tears, like the tide, seem'd to tremble and flow.
...

[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine clear stream of rock-water.]


ORIGINAL.
...

Oh, Time! thy merits who can know?
Thy real nature who discover?
The absent lover calls thee slow, -
"Too rapid," says the happy lover.

With bloom thy cheeks are now refin'd,...

Just as a fawn, in forest shade,
Trembling to meet th' admiring eye,
I've seen thee try to hide, sweet maid!
Thy charms behind thy modesty.

Thus too I've seen at midnight steal...

Emma! 'tis early time for thee
To hear the sounds of minstrelsy,
That breathe around the rosy shrine
Of honest old Saint Valentine.

Too young art thou for strains of love;...

Think not, thou pride of Summer's softest strain!
Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom!
That thou hast flutter'd to the breeze in vain,
Or unlamented found thy native tomb.
...

Time, since thou gav'st this flow'r to me,
Has often turn'd his glass of sand;
Perchance 'tis now unknown to thee
That once its breath perfum'd thy hand.

Oh, lovely maid! that thou may'st see...

Dearer to me, thou pile of dust!
Tho' with the wild flow'r simply crown'd,
Than the vast dome or beauteous bust,
By genius form'd, by wit renown'd.

Wave, thou wild flow'r! for ever wave,...

[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.]


My poor heart flutters like the sea
Now heaving on the sandy shore;
It seems to tell me you shall be
Never again near Yarrimore.
...