TO THALIARCHUS.

BEHOLD yon mountain's hoary height, Made higher with new mounts of snow; Again behold the winter's weight

Oppress the laboring woods below; And streams with icy fetters bound, Benumbed and cramped to solid ground.

With well-heaped logs dissolve the cold,
And feed the genial hearth with fires;
Produce the wine that makes us bold,

And sprightly wit of love inspires.
For what hereafter shall betide,
Jove, if 't is worth his care, provide !

Let him alone, with what he made,

To toss and turn the world below; At his command the storms invade;

The winds by his commission blow; Till with a nod he bids them cease,

And then the calm returns, and all is peace.

To-morrow and her works defy

Lay hold upon the present hour, And snatch the pleasures passing by,

To put them out of Fortune's power. Nor Love, nor Love's delights, disdain; Whate'er thou gett'st to-day is gain.

Secure those golden, early joys,

That youth, unsoured by sorrow, bears, Ere withering Time the taste destroys With sickness and unwieldy years. For active sports, for pleasing rest, This is the time to be possest; The best is but in season best.

Th' appointed hour of promised bliss,
The pleasing whisper in the dark,
The half-unwilling, willing kiss,

The laugh that guides thee to the mark When the kind nymph would coyness feign, And hides but to be found again:

These, these are joys the gods for youth ordain. HORACE (Latin.)

Translation of JOHN DRYDEN.

WELCOME, WELCOME.

Welcome, welcome, do I sing,
Far more welcome than the Spring;
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever.
LOVE that to the voice is near,
Breaking from your ivory pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
Far more welcome than the Spring;
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever.

Love, that still looks on your eyes,
Though the Winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,
Shall not want the Summer's sun.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
Far more welcome than the Spring;
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,

Is a fool if e'er he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
Far more welcome than the Spring;
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,
All the odors of the fields

Never, never shall be missing.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
Far more welcome than the Spring;
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever.

Love, that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,

And a brief of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
Far more welcome than the Spring;
He that parteth from you never,
Shall enjoy a Spring for ever.

WILLIAM BROWNE

THE might of one fair face sublimes my love, For it hath weaned my heart from low desires;

Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires.
Thy beauty, antepast of joys above,
Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve;
For O! how good, how beautiful, must be
The God that made so good a thing as thee,
So fair an image of the heavenly Dove.
Forgive me if I cannot turn away

From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven,

For they are guiding stars, benignly given

ΤΟ

ONE word is too often profaned

For me to profane it,

One feeling too falsely disdained

For thee to disdain it.

One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother, And pity from thee more dear Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above

And the Heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

THE GIRL OF CADIZ.

I.

Он, never talk again to me

Of northern climes and British ladies; It has not been your lot to see

Like me, the lovely Girl of Cadiz. Although her eyes be not of blue,

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses', How far its own expressive hue

The languid azure eye surpasses!

II.

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole The fire that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll,

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes; And as along her bosom steal

In lengthened flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, And curled to give her neck caresses.

III.

Our English maids are long to woo,
And frigid even in possession;
And if their charms be fair to view,

Their lips are slow at Love's confession; But, born beneath a brighter sun,

For love ordained the Spanish maid is, And who, when fondly, fairly won,Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz?

IV.

The Spanish maid is no coquette,
Nor joys to see a lover tremble;

And if she love, or if she hate,

Alike she knows not to dissemble. Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely; And, though it will not bend to gold, 'T will love you long, and love you dearly.

V.

The Spanish girl that meets your love
Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial;
For every thought is bent to prove
Her passion in the hour of trial.
When thronging foemen menace Spain

She dares the deed and shares the danger;
And should her lover press the plain,
She hurls the spear, her love's avenger.

THE heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow;
I dare not think upon thy vow,

And all it promised me, Mary.
No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught!
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary!
And if returned from conquered foes,
How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose

To my young bride and me, Mary!

SIE WALTER SCOTT.