English

THE FINDING OF MOSES .

Slow glides the Nile: amid the margin flags,
Closed in a bulrush ark, the babe is left,
Left by a mother's hand. His sister waits
Far off; and pale, 'tween hope and fear, beholds
The royal maid, surrounded by her train,
Approach the river bank, approach the spot
Where sleeps the innocent; she sees them stoop
With meeting plumes; the rushy lid is oped,
And wakes the infant, smiling in his tears,
As when along a little mountain lake,
The summer south-wind breathes with gentle sigh,

THE FIRST SABBATH

Six days the heavenly host, in circle vast,
Like that untouching cincture which enzones
The globe of Saturn, compass'd wide this orb,
And with the forming mass floated along,
In rapid course, through yet untravell'd space,
Beholding God's stupendous power, — a world
Bursting from Chaos at the omnific will,
And perfect ere the sixth day's evening star
On Paradise arose. Blessed that eve!
The Sabbath's harbinger, when, all complete,
In freshest beauty from Jehovah's hand,

SCENE THE SECOND.

A Room. Supper-party at Laura's.

FIRST GUEST .

I swear, I never yet have known thee play
With taste so finished and so natural,
Each little detail of the part well seized.

SECOND GUEST .

How well developed! with what force and fire!

THIRD GUEST .

And with what grace and art

LAURA

SCENE THE SECOND.

A Room. Supper-party at Laura's.

FIRST GUEST .

I swear, I never yet have known thee play
With taste so finished and so natural,
Each little detail of the part well seized.

SECOND GUEST .

How well developed! with what force and fire!

THIRD GUEST .

And with what grace and art

LAURA

SCENE THE FIRST.

Night A Cemetry near Madrid.

DON JUAN .

Here will we wait the night. At last, thank God,
Before us lies Madrid. And soon, once more,
Its streets and squares familiar I shall roam,
In cloak my face concealed and cap down drawn;
What sayst? Methinks, I shall be here unknown.
LEPORELLO .

To know Don Juan here discernment needs!

EFFUSION X. CERRIG-ENION:

W HY , on the mouldering tomb of other Times,
Sits my lorn wanderer, in the muffled robe,
Vailing her pensive brow, and to the winds
Giving, on such bleak height, the unshelter'd form
Of feminine softness! Broods her thoughtful mind
Some legendary fiction? or some tale
Of Tragic record, pregnant with the woes
Of virtue vainly brave? Or does she mourn
Time's changeful progress, thro' these desolate Realms
Too sadly mark'd? — where oft the enquiring eye

EFFUSION IX.

T RANSIENT , alas! and faint, what cheerful gleams
Relieve my bosom's sadness — whether, bent
On studious thought, I range thy lonely haunts,
Sequester'd Vaga, or explore the page
Of ancient Wisdom, or perchance, inspir'd
With love of sacred Freedom, yet unquench'd,
I " build the lofty rhyme, " and twine the wreath
Of civic virtue, for the honour'd brow
Of Albion's earliest Hope — or if, impell'd
By hard necessity, with careful hand
(To toil of late accustom'd) from the womb,

EFFUSION VIII.

W HY , from imperfect slumber as I start,
Shake my jarr'd nerves with terror? Why should thus
The pale reflection of the waterish moon
Gleam with ideal phantoms — bodying forth
The shapes of things that are not? Bows the mind
To second infancy? or cling the tales
Of beldame Superstition to the heart,
Scoffing the sceptic Reason? Time has been
I slept and fear'd not; and, amidst the gloom
Of tombs and sepulchres, could walk, unmov'd,
At Midnight's darkest hour. But now the couch

EFFUSION VII.

W ELL thou art gone — gone to the City's throng,
My soul's sad partner! mid the generous cares
And kind solicitudes of pitying friends
To sooth thy bosom's anguish. Be they blest
Who in the wounds of thy affliction seek
To pour the healing balm! and may they not
The task of Love ply vainly. Me, the while,
Here shall heart-eating Solitude consume —
O'er saddest thoughts still brooding; or asar
(Call'd by life's busy turmoil) over heights
Of Alpine dreariness, my feet shall climb,

EFFUSION VI.

TO my once cheerful home, at evening hour,
Sad I return, and weary; from my brow
Wiping the painful sweat-drops, for afar,
Over thy heights, Farinioch, I have climb'd,
With lonely tread; and, from the blaze of noon,
Till now that Hesper rises, borne the thirst
And turmoil of the day. Yet not for this
Droop I despondent, or, with faltering step,
Pause on the threshold of my lonely cot,
Checking the starting tear. Not this I moan.
It is the doom of man with toil to earn,