And the tired oxen from the furrow'd field
The genial freshness of their breath shall yield.

And thou, bright fount! ennobled and renown'd
Shalt by thy poet's votive song be made;
Thou and the oak with deathless verdure crown'd,
Whose boughs, a pendant canopy, o'ershade
Those hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many a
tale,

Thy chiming waters pour upon the vale.

TO FAUNUS.

BOOK 3D, ODE 18TH.

66 'Faune, Nympharum fugentium amator," &c.

FAUNUS, who lov'st the flying nymphs to chase,
O let thy steps with genial influence tread
My sunny fields, and be thy fostering grace,
Soft on my nursling groves and borders, shed.

If, at the mellow closing of the year

A tender kid in sacrifice be thine;

Nor fail the liberal bowls to Venus dear;
Nor clouds of incense to thine antique shrine.

Joyous each flock in meadow herbage plays,
When the December feast returns to thee;
Calmly the ox along the pasture strays,
With festal villagers from toil set free.

Then from the wolf no more the lambs retreat, Then shower the woods to thee their foliage round;

And the glad labourer triumphs that his feet
In triple dance have struck the hated ground.

THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH.

[The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in the southern hemisphere. The following lines are supposed to be addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South America.]

IN the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, Where savannahs, in boundless magnificence, spread, And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high, The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.

The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fire-flies' red light With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the night; And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth, How distant my steps from the land of my birth.

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn,
Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee
shine,

Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine.

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain,
And planted their faith in the regions that see
Its unperishing symbol emblazon'd in thee.

How oft in their course o'er the oceans unknown, Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone, Hath their spirit been cheer'd by thy light, when the deep

Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep!

As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,* When first his bright banner of faith was unfurl'd; Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou.

And to me, as I traversed the world of the west,
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest;
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride,
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide.

Shine on my own land is a far distant spot,
And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not;
And the eyes
that I love, though e'en now they may be
O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee!

But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazing shrine.
A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine;
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free,
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee.

• Constantine.

THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON.

I LAY upon the solemn plain,

And by the funeral mound,

Where those who died not there in vain, Their place of sleep had found.

'Twas silent where the free blood gush'd, When Persia came array'd

So many, a voice had there been hush'd, So many a footstep stay'd.

I slumber'd on the lonely spot
So sanctified by death:

I slumber'd but my rest was not
As theirs who lay beneath.

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour,
They rose- -the chainless dead-
All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power,
Up from their grassy bed.

I saw their spears, on that red field,
Flash as in time gone by—

Chased to the seas without his shield,
I saw the Persian fly.

I woke the sudden trumpet's blast
Call'd to another fight-

From visions of our glorious past,

Who doth not wake in might?

TO MISS F. A. L. ON HER BIRTHDAY.

WHAT wish can Friendship form for thee
What brighter star invoke to shine ?-
Thy path from every thorn is free,
And every rose is thine!

Life hath no purer joy in store,

Time hath no sorrow to efface; Hope cannot paint one blessing more Than memory can retrace!

Some hearts a boding fear might own,
Had Fate to them thy portion given,
Since many an eye by tears alone,
Is taught to gaze on Heaven!

And there are virtues oft conceal'd,
Till roused by anguish from repose,
As odorous trees no balm will yield,
Till from their wounds it flows.

But fear not thou the lesson fraught

With Sorrow's chast ning power to know;

Thou need'st not thus be sternly taught,

"To melt at others' woe."