The Bakchesarian Fountain and Other Poems | Page 7

my heart and soul, a prey to pain,
To love, to
be beloved, can never cloy,
But all on earth besides, alas! is vain!
THE LITTLE DOVE.
BY DMETRIEFF.
The little dove, with heart of sadness,
In silent pain sighs night and
day,
What now can wake that heart to gladness?
His mate beloved
is far away.
He coos no more with soft caresses,
No more is millet sought by him,

The dove his lonesome state distresses,
And tears his swimming
eyeballs dim.

From twig to twig now skips the lover,
Filling the grove with accents
kind,
On all sides roams the harmless rover,
Hoping his little friend
to find.
Ah! vain that hope his grief is tasting,
Fate seems to scorn his faithful
love,
And imperceptibly is wasting,
Wasting away, the little dove!
At length upon the grass he threw him,
Hid in his wing his beak and
wept,
There ceased his sorrows to pursue him,
The little dove for
ever slept.
His mate, now sad abroad and grieving,
Flies from a distance home
again,
Sits by her friend, with bosom heaving,
And bids him wake
with sorrowing pain.
She sighs, she weeps, her spirits languish,
Around and round the spot
she goes,
Ah! charming Chloe's lost in anguish,
Her friend wakes
not from his repose!
LAURA'S PRAYER.
As the harp's soft sighings in the silent valley,
To high heaven
reaching, lifts thy pious prayer,
Laura, be tranquil! again with health
shall nourish
Thy loved companion.
O! ye gods, behold fair Laura sunk in anguish,
Kneeling, O! behold
her on the grassy hill,
Mild evening's sportive zephyrs gently
embracing
Her golden ringlets.
Glist'ning with tears, her sad eyes to you she raises,
Her fair bosom
heaving like the swelling wave,
Whilst in the solemn grove echo,
clothed in darkness,

Repeats her accents.
"O! gods, my friend beloved give again health's blessings,
Faded are
her cheeks now, dull her once bright eye,
In her heart no
pleasure,--killed by cruel sickness,
As by heat flowers.
"But if your hard laws should bid her quit existence,
Grant then my
sad prayer, with her let me too die,"--
Laura, be tranquil! thy friend
thou'lt see reviving
Like spring's sweet roses.
THE STORM.
BY DERJAVIN.
As my bark in restless ocean
Mounts its rough and foaming hills,

Whilst its waves in dark commotion
Pass me, hope my bosom fills.
Who, when warring clouds are gleaming,
Quenches the destructive
spark?
Say what hand, where safety's beaming,
Guides through
rocks my little bark?
Thou Creator! all o'erseeing,
In this scene preserv'st me dread,
Thou,
without whose word decreeing
Not a hair falls from my head.
Thou in life hast doubly blest me,
All my soul to thee's revealed,

Thou amongst the great hast placed me,
Be midst them my guide and
shield!
TO MY HEART.
Why, poor heart, so ceaseless languish?
Why with such distresses
smart?
Nought alleviates thy anguish,
What afflicts thee so, poor
heart?

Heart, I comprehend not wrongly,
Thou a captive art confest,
Near
Eliza thou beat'st strongly
As thou'dst leap into her breast.
Since 'tis so then, little throbber,
You and I, alas! must part,
I'd not
be thy comfort's robber;
To her I'll resign thee, heart.
Yet the maid in compensation
Must her own bestow on me,
And
with such remuneration
Never shall I grieve for thee.
But should she, thy sorrows spurning,
This exchange, poor heart,
deny,
Then I'll bear thee, heart, though mourning,
From her far and
hasty fly.
But, alas! no pain assuaging,
That would but increase thy grief;
If
kind Death still not its raging,
Granting thee a kind relief.
TIME.
O! Time, as thou on rapid wings
Encirclest earth's extensive ball,

Fatal thy flight to worldly things,
Thy darts cut down and ruin all.
A cloud from us thy form conceals;
Enwrapt its gloomy folds among,

Thou mov'st eternity's vast wheels,
And with them movest us
along.
The swift-winged days thou urgest on,
With them life's sand
beholdest pass,
And when our transient hours are gone,
Thou
smilest at their exhausted glass.
Against Time's look, when he but frowns,
All strength, and skill, and
power, are vain;
He withers laurels, wreaths, and crowns,
And
breaks the matrimonial chain.
As Time moves onward, far and wide
His restless scythe mows all
away,
All feels his breath, on every side
All sinks, resistless, to
decay.

To youth's gay bloom and beauty's charms
Mercy alike stern Time
denies,
Like vernal flowers o'erwhelmed by storms,
Whate'er he
looks at droops and dies.
Huge piles from earth his mighty hand
Sweeps to oblivion's empire
dread,
What villages, what cities grand,
What kingdoms sink
beneath his tread!
Heroes in vain, his gauntlet cast,
Oppose his stern and ruthless sway,

Nor armies brave, nor mountains vast,
Can thwart the devastator's
way.
Thought strives, but fruitless, to pursue
The traces of Time's rapid
flight,
Scarce Fancy gains one transient view,
He disappears and
sinks in night.
Think, thou whom folly's dazzling glare
Of worldly vanities may
blind,
Time frowns and all will disappear,
Nor gold a vestige leave
behind.
And thou whom fierce distresses sting,
Thou by calamities low
bowed,
Weep not, for Time the day will bring
That ranks the
humble with the proud.
But, Time, thy course of ruin stay,
The lyre's sweet tones one moment
hear,
By thee o'er earth is spread dismay,
Grief's sigh called forth,
and pity's tear.
Yet, Time, thy speed