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APPENDIX.

FROM A YOUNG LADY.

She had lost her silver thimble, and her complaint being accidentally overheard by him, her friend, he immediately sent her four others to take her choice of.

As oft mine eye with careless glance
Has gallop'd through some old romance,
Of speaking Birds, and Steeds with wings,
Giants and Dwarfs and Fiends and Kings;
Beyond the rest with more attentive care
I've lov'd to read of elfin-favor'd Fair-
How if she long'd for aught beneath the sky
And suffer'd to escape one votive sigh,
Wafted along on viewless pinions aery
It lay'd itself obsequious at her Feet!

Such things, I thought, one might not hope to meet
Save in the dear delicious land of Faery!

But now (by proof I know it well)
There's still some peril in free wishing-
Politeness is a licensed spell,

And you, dear Sir! the arch-magician.

You much perplex'd me by the various set,
They were indeed an elegant quartette!
My mind went to and fro, and waver'd long :
At length I've chosen (Samuel thinks me wrong)
That, around whose azure rim

Silver figures seem to swim,

Like fleece-white clouds, that on the skiey Blue,
Waked by no breeze, the self-same shapes retain ;

Or Ocean Nymphs, with limbs of snowy hue,
Slow-floating o'er the calm cerulean plain.
Just such a one, mon cher ami,
(The finger-shield of industry)

Th' inventive Gods, I deem, to Pallas gave
What time the vain Arachne, madly brave,
Challeng'd the blue-eyed Virgin of the sky
A duel in embroider'd work to try.
And hence the thimbled finger of grave Pallas
To th' erring needle's point was more than callous.
But ah the poor Arachne! She unarm❜d,
Blundering thro' hasty eagerness, alarm'd
With all a Rival's hopes, a Mortal's fears,

Still miss'd the stitch, and stain'd the web with tears.
Unnumber'd punctures small yet sore

Full fretfully the maiden bore,

Till she her lily finger found

Crimson'd with many a tiny wound;
And to her eyes, suffus'd with watery woe,
Her flower-embroider'd web danced dim, I wist,
Like blossom'd shrubs, in a quick-moving mist;
Till vanquish'd the despairing maid sunk low.

O Bard! whom sure no common Muse inspires,
I heard your Verse that glows with vestal fires :
And I from unwatch'd needle's erring point
Had surely suffer'd on each finger-joint

Those wounds which erst did poor Arachne meet:
While he, the much-loved object of my choice,
(My bosom thrilling with enthusiast heat)
Pour'd on mine ear with deep impressive voice
How the great Prophet of the Desart stood,
And preach'd of Penitence by Jordan's Flood:

On War; or else the legendary lays

In simplest measures hymn'd to Alla's praise;
Or what the Bard from his heart's inmost stores
O'er his Friend's grave in loftier numbers pours;
Yes, Bard Polite! you but obey'd the laws

Of Justice, when the thimble you had sent;
What wounds your thought-bewildering Muse might

cause,

'Tis well your finger-shielding gifts prevent.

SARA.*

1796.

TRANSLATION OF A PASSAGE IN OTTFRIED'S
METRICAL PARAPHRASE OF THE GOSPELS.

"This paraphrase, written about the time of Charlemagne, is by no means deficient in occasional passages of considerable poetic merit. There is a flow and a tender enthusiasm in the following lines (at the conclusion of chap. v.), which, even in the translation, will not, I flatter myself, fail to interest the reader. Ottfried is describing the circumstances immediately following the birth of our Lord."-Biog. Lit., vol. i., p. 203.

SHE gave with joy her virgin breast;
She hid it not, she bared the breast,
Which suckled that divinest babe!

Blessed, blessed were the breasts
Which the infant Saviour kiss'd;

And blessed, blessed was the mother
Who wrapp'd his limbs in swaddling clothes,

Singing placed him in her lap,

Hung o'er him with her looks of love,

There can be little doubt that this jeu d'esprit, notwithstanding its title and signature, was in whole or in part the production of the youthful poet to whom it was addressed. Arachne's thimble is represented as protecting the finger from the point, not the head of the needle. This at least is surely a masculine conception.-D. C.

D D

And soothed him with a lulling motion:
Blessed! for she shelter'd him

From the damp and chilling air ;-
Blessed, blessed! for she lay

With such a babe in one blest bed,
Close as babes and mothers lie!
Blessed, blessed evermore,

With her virgin lips she kiss'd,
With her arms, and to her breast,
She embraced the babe divine,
Her babe divine the virgin mother!
There lives not on this ring of earth
A mortal that can sing her praise,
Mighty mother, virgin pure,

In the darkness and the night

For us she bore the heavenly Lord.

1810.

"Most interesting is it to consider the effect, when the feelings are wrought above the natural pitch by the belief of something mysterious, while all the images are purely natural; then it is that religion and poetry strike deepest."-B. L., vol. i., p. 204.

ISRAEL'S LAMENT

ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES.

FROM THE HEBREW OF HYMAN HURWITZ,

MOURN, Israel ! sons of Israel, mourn!
Give utterance to the inward throe,

As wails, of her first love forlorn,
The virgin clad in robes of woe !

Mourn the young mother snatch'd away
From light and life's ascending sun!
Mourn for the babe, death's voiceless prey,
Earn'd by long pangs, and lost ere won!

Mourn the bright rose that bloom'd and went,
Ere half disclos'd its vernal hue!
Mourn the green bud, so rudely rent,
It brake the stem on which it grew !

Mourn for the universal woe,

With solemn dirge, and falt'ring tongue; For England's Lady is laid low,

So dear, so lovely, and so young!

The blossoms on her tree of life

Shone with the dews of recent bliss! Translated in that deadly strife

She plucks its fruit in Paradise.

Mourn for the prince, who rose at morn
To seek and bless the firstling bud
Of his own rose, and found the thorn,
Its point bedew'd with tears of blood.

Mourn for Britannia's hopes decay'd!
Her daughters wail their dear defence,
Their fair example, prostrate laid,

Chaste love, and fervid innocence !

O Thou! who mark'st the monarch's path,
To sad Jeshurun's sons attend!

Amid the lightnings of thy wrath
The showers of consolation send !

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