FROM THE GREEK OF MELEAGAR.*
FILL high the cup of liquid flame,
And speak my HELIODORA's name!
Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,
And let the sound my lips adore,
Sweeten the breeze, and mingling swim
On every bowl's voluptuous brim!
Give me the wreath that withers there,
It was but last delicious night,
It hung upon her wavy hair,
And caught her eyes' reflected light! Oh! haste, and twine it round my brow; It breathes of HELIODORA now!
The loving rose-bud drops a tear,
To see the nymph no longer here,
No longer, where she used to lie,
Close to my heart's devoted sigh!
Εγχει, και παλιν ειπε, παλιν, παλιν, Ηλιοδώρας
Είπε, συν ακρητω το γλυκυ μισγ' ονομα.
Και μοι τον βρεχθεντα μύροις και χθιζαν εοντα,
Μναμοσυνον κείνας, αμφιτιθει σεφανον
Δακρύει φιλεραςον ιδε ροδον, ένεκα κειναν
Αλλοθι και κόλποις ήμετέροις εσορα.
Brunck. Analect. Tom. I. p. 28.
WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA
That sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow
Of her he loves-
The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh
That rapture moves.
Yet do I feel more tranquil now
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,
In this dark hour,
Than when, in transport's young emotion,
I've stol'n, beneath the evening star,
To Julia's bower.
Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
To rapture's thrill;
'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,
And the soul, listening to the sound,
'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow
In the cold deep,
Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
But all must sleep!
Well!-there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure!
Oh most to him,
Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey drop to shed
Round misery's brim.
Yes-he can smile serene at death:
Kind heaven! do thou but chase the weeping
Of friends who love him;
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
No more shall move him.
NEA TYPANNEI.
Euripid. Medea. v. 967.
Nay, tempt me not to love again,
There was a time when love was sweet;
Dear NEA! had I known thee then,
Our souls had not been slow to meet!
But, oh! this weary heart hath run,
So many a time, the rounds of pain,
Not ev'n for thee, thou lovely one!
Would I endure such pangs again.
If there be climes, where never yet
The print of beauty's foot was set,
Where man may pass his loveless nights,
Unfever'd by her false delights,
Thither my wounded soul would fly,
Where rosy cheek or radiant eye
Should bring no more their bliss, their pain,
Or fetter me to earth again!
Dear absent girl, whose eyes of light,
Though little priz'd when all my own,
Now float before me, soft and bright
As when they first enamouring shone !
How many hours of idle waste,
Within those witching arms embraced,
Unmindful of the fleeting day,
Have I dissolv'd life's dream away!
O bloom of time profusely shed!
O moments! simply, vainly fled,
Yet sweetly too-for love perfum'd
The flame which thus my life consum'd
And briliant was the chain of flowers,
In which he led my victim hours!
Say, NEA, dear! could'st thou like her,
When warm to feel and quick to err,
Of loving fond, of roving fonder,
My thoughtless soul might wish to wander,
Coulds't thou, like her, the wish reclaim,,
Endearing still, reproaching never.
Till all my heart should burn with shame,
And be thine own, more fix'd than ever?
No, no on earth there's only one
Could bind such faithless folly fast:
And sure on earth 'tis I alone
Could make such virtue false at last! NEA! the heart which she forsook,
For thee were but a worthless shrineGo lovely girl, that angel look
Must thrill a soul more pure than mine. Oh! thou shalt be all else to me,
That heart can feel or tongue can feign; I'll praise, admire, and worship thee, But must not, dare not love again.
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