And fancy's train, that shuns the daylight glare,

To wake when midnight shrouds the heavens in gloom;
Now tranquil joys, and hopes untouched by care,

Within my bosom throng to seek a home;
While far around the brooding darkness spreads,
And o'er the soul its pleasing sadness sheds.

Anonymous Translation.

IPPOLITO PINDEMONTE, 1753–1828.

EVENING.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.

Silent and cool, now freshening breezes blow
Where groves of chestnut crown yon shadowy steep,
And all around the tears of evening weep
For closing day, whose vast orb, westering slow,
Flings o'er the embattled clouds a mellower glow;
While pens of folded herds, and murmuring deep,
And falling rills, such gentle cadence keep,
As e'en might soothe the weary heart of woe.
Yet what to me is eve, what evening airs,
Or falling rills, or ocean's murmuring sound,
While sad and comfortless I seek in vain
Her who in absence turns my joy to cares,
And, as I cast my listless glances round,
Makes varied scenery but varied pain?

Translation of VISCOUNT STRANGFORD.

LUIS DE CAMOENS, 1524-1579.

SPRING EVENING.

FROM THE GERMAN

Bright with the golden shine of heaven, plays

On tender blades the dew;

And the spring-landscape's trembling likeness sways
Clear in the streamlet's blue.

Fair is the rocky fount, the blossomed hedge,
Groves stained with golden light;

Fair is the star of eve, that on the edge

Of purple clouds shines bright.

Fair is the meadow's green-the valley's copse-
The hillock's dress of flowers--

The alder-brook-the reed-encircled pond,
O'er-snowed with blossom-showers.

This manifold world of Love is held in one
By Love's eternal band;

The glow-worm and the fire-sea of the sun
Sprang from one Father's hand!

Thou beckonest, Almighty! from the tree
The blossom's leaf doth fall;

Thou beckonest, and in immensity

Is quenched a solar ball!

Anonymous Translation.

FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON, 1761-1831.

SONG.

The splendor falls on castle walls,

And snowy summits old in story
The long light shakes across the lakes
And the wild cataract leaps in glory:
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying.
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh hark! oh hear! now thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
Oh! sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing.

Blow; let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O Love, they die on yon rich sky,

They faint on hill, on field, on river;

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow; set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer dying, dying, dying.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

SONG.

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell

By slow Meander's margent green,

And in the violet embroider'd vale,

Where the love-lorn nightingale

Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair

That likest thy Narcissus are?

O, if thou have

Hid them in some flow'ry cave,

Tell me but where,

Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere!

So may'st thou be translated to the skies,

And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies. JOHN MILTON, 1608-1674.

LIFE.

Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are, "
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,

Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood—
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night,
The wind blows out; the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up; the star is shot;
The flight is past-and man forgot.

HENRY KING, Bishop of Chichester, 1591-1669.

The roses of the spring are ever fair,

'Mong branches green still ring-doves coo and pair, And the deep sea still foams its music old.

So, if we are at all divinely souled,

This beauty will unloose our bonds of care.

'Tis pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us bending,

Within old starry-gated Poesy,

To meet a soul set to no worldly tune,

Like thine, sweet friend! oh, dearer this to me
the sun, the moon,

Than are the dewy trees,
Or noble music with a golden ending.

ALEXANDER SMITIL

TWILIGHT.

There is an evening twilight of the heart
When its wild passion-waves are lull'd to rest,
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-dream in the rosy west.
"Tis with a nameless feeling of regret

We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet.

But Hope is 'round us with her angel lay, Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;

Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power.

In youth the cheek was crimson'd with her glow
Her smile was loveliest then; her matin song
Had heaven's own music, and the note of woe
Was all unheard her sunny bowers among.
Life's little world of bliss was newly born;

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die,
Flush'd with the cool breeze and the dews of morn,
With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky,
And mock'd the passing clouds that dimm'd its blue,
Like our own sorrows then, as fleeting and as few.

And manhood felt her sway too-on the eye,
Half realized her early dreams burst bright,

Her promised bower of happiness seem'd nigh,

Its days of joy, its vigils of delight.

And though at times might lower the thunder-storm,
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air
Was balmy with her breath, and her loved form,

The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there.

'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen,

Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green.

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress,

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now; That angel-smile of tranquil loveliness,

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow; That smile shall brighten the dim evening-star

That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart
Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hush'd the last deep beating of the heart;
The meteor bearer of our parting breath,
A moombeam in the midnight cloud of death.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK