APPENDIX. (continued 2)

As when a storm in vernal skies The face of day doth stain, And o'er the smiling landscape flies, With mist and drizzling rain; If chance the sun look through the shower O'er flowery hill and dale, Reviving Nature owns his power, And softly sighs the gale: So when, by anxious thoughts oppressed, My soul sinks in despair, When smiling hope deserts my breast, And all is darkness there; If chance Amanda's form appear, The gloom is chased away, My soul once more her soft smiles cheer, And joy resumes his sway. Then, dear Amanda, since thy smile Has power all gloom to charm, Oh! ever thus my cares beguile, And guard my soul from harm. Let Hymen's bands our fates unite, What bliss may then be ours!— Our days will glide, like streamlets bright, O'erhung with fragrant flowers.

Fair Tibur, once the Muses' home, Before us lay; around Was spread the plain which mighty Rome Oft saw with victory crowned. The sun rode high, the sky was clear, The lark poured forth his strain, And flowers, the firstlings of the year, Shed fragrance o'er the plain. A gentle lady turned on me Her bright expressive eyes, And bade the flame of poesy Within my bosom rise. 'Twas then I felt, I felt, alas! How Time has dealt with me, And how the rays of fancy pass, And vanish utterly. For time has been when such a view And mandate of the fair, With images of brightest hue, Had fill'd the land and air: While now I strive, and strive in vain, To twine poetic flowers, Since from me Time away has ta'en Imagination's powers. Then lady, be thou gentle still, Let pity sway thy breast; Accept for deeds the fervent will To honour thy behest.

Farewell! farewell! the parting hour Is come, and I must leave thee! Oh! ne'er may aught approach thy bower That might of bliss bereave thee! But ever a perennial rill Of joy, so brightly flowing, Keep each fair thought in fragrance still Within thy pure mind blowing. For life all charm had lost for me, My thoughts were only sadness, When fortune led me unto thee To taste once more of gladness.— I've seen the sullen shades of night Fair nature's face concealing, And marked how scattered rays of light Came morn's approach revealing. The light increased, the orb of day Clomb to the mountain's summit; And vale and plain, and stream and bay, Drew life and lustre from it. And as it towered in majesty, Light all around it shedding, It seemed a monarch, seated high, Bliss through his realms wide spreading. All nature joyed; I felt my heart Distend, and fill with pleasure; For heavenly light and warmth impart A bliss we cannot measure. This glorious sun to me art thou, Whose light all gloom dispelleth, Before whose majesty I bow When he his power revealeth. Thy golden locks, thine eyes so blue, Thy smile so sweetly playing, Were those first shafts of light that flew, The gloom of night warraying. But when, more intimately known, I found not only beauty, But genius, taste, and truth, thine own, Combined with filial duty: Then rose the sun, o'er all my soul In full effulgence beaming, And tides of joy began to roll Beneath his radiance gleaming.— Time still his noiseless course pursues With unremitting vigour, And lovely Spring each year renews The waste of Winter's rigour. Were mine the power, thus, like Time, To wake again life's flowers, And days recall of youthful prime Passed in the Muses' bowers; Then, lovely maiden! fancy-free, Rich in each mental treasure, In me thou wouldst a votary see— Thy will would be my pleasure. But while such bliss might not be mine, A friendship pure and holy I offered at the hallowed shrine, To which my heart turned solely.— When distant from thee many a mile, High waves between us swelling, I'll think upon thy lovely smile, Of pure emotion telling. The sky will show me thy blue eye; The whispering breeze of even Recall that voice, whose melody Oft lapped my soul in heaven! The sinking sun thy ringlets' gold Will show; but memory only The treasures of thy mind unfold To me when musing lonely. Oh! may I hope that memory, That power for ever changing, Will make thee sometimes think on me, O'er distant mountains ranging? Say me not nay; let Fancy cheat My soul with bland illusion; And let not Doubt my vision sweet Dispel by rude intrusion.

Had the kind Muse, young friend, on me Her pleasing gifts bestowed, And taught to tread of poesy The smooth and flowery road; Then should the deeds of Robin Hood, And Little John, so bold, And of the Friar, stout and good, In numbers high be told. The merry greenwood should resound With feats of archery, And antlered deer along should bound So light and gracefully! But vain the hopes: 'gainst Fate's decrees To struggle I must cease; I only can write histories Of England, Rome, and Greece.

Quam pulchra sunt ova, Cum alba et nova In stabulo scite leguntur; Et à Margery bella, Quæ festiva puella! Pinguis lardi cum frustis coquuntur. Ut belles in prato Aprico et lato Sub sole tam læte renident, Ova tosta, in mensa Mappa bene extensa, Nitidissima lance consident.

Oh! 'tis eggs are a treat, When so white and so sweet From under the manger they're taken, And by fair Margery, Och! 'tis she's full of glee, They are fried with fat rashers of bacon. Just like daisies all spread O'er a broad sunny mead, In the sunbeams so beauteously shining, Are fried eggs fair displayed On a dish, when we've laid The cloth and are thinking of dining.

His hand from the lute hath its melody drawn, And thus rose the song of Mazenderân:— May Mazenderân, the land of my birth, Its hills and its dales, be e'er famed o'er the earth: For evermore blooms in its gardens the rose, On its hills nods the tulip, the hyacinth blows; Its air ever fragrant, its earth flourishing, Cold or heat is not felt,—'tis perpetual spring. The nightingale's lays in the gardens resound; On the sides of the mountains the stately deer bound, In search evermore of their pastime and food; With fragrance and colour each season's bedewed; Its streams of rose-water unceasingly roll, Whose perfume doth gladness diffuse o'er the soul. In November, December, and January, Full of tulips the ground thou mayest everywhere see; The springs, unexhausted, flow all through the year; The hawk at his chase everywhere doth appear. The region of bliss is adorned all o'er With dinars, with rich stuffs, and with all costly store; The idol-adorers with fine gold are crowned, And girdles of gold gird the heroes renowned. Whoe'er hath not dwelt in that region so bright, His soul knows no pleasure, his heart no delight.