[S. Gessner, Lycas, oder die Erfindung der Gärten.]
For the Port Folio.
MYRTILLO.
An idyl, attempted from the German of Gessner.
At peaceful eve, Myrtillo sought the lake,
Whilst the moon's beams upon its bosom played;
The silent tract, illumin'd by its rays,
The nightingale's enchanting tender note,
Had held him bound in rapture's soothing trance.
At length, arous'd, he homeward took his steps,
And in the verdant bower, where clust'ring vines
Before his lonely dwelling formed a porch
Of simple structure, deeply slumbering found
His venerable parent—his grey head
Supported by his arm, while through the leaves
The moon-beams pour'd their lustre on his face.
With arms enfolded, and with swelling heart,
He stood before his father—long he stood,
His pious eyes fix'd fondly on the sage,
Then rais'd them, swimming with his filial tears,
And thro' the illumin'd leaves look'd up to heaven,
Whilst grateful drops roll'd down his moisten'd cheek.
Oh thou! at length he cried, whom, next the gods,
I reverence, my father—ah, how soft
Thy peaceful slumbers! Of the just and good
How placid is the sleep! Thy tottering steps
Were, doubtless, hither bent, in silent prayer
To spend the hour of eve; but, at thy task
Of duty, slumber seiz'd thee, whilst, for me,
Thy prayer of love was wing'd into the skies,
How happy is my lot! the fav'ring gods
Must hear thy fond petition; else, why stands
Our cot secure, amid the branches, bent
With ripening fruit? why, else, such blessings shower'd
Upon our healthy, fast increasing herd?
Upon the golden produce of our fields?
When oft the tear of joy bedew'd thy cheek,
To see me, anxious, cherish and support
Thy feeble age; when, towards the vault of heaven,
You turn'd your swimming eyes, and blest your son;
Ah! then, what words his blessings could express!
My bosom swell'd with transport, and the tears
O'erflow'd my glowing cheeks—
When yester morn, reclining on my arm,
You left our cot to feel the quickening beams
Of the warm sun, and saw about thee sport
The frolic herd, the trees, with fruit o'ercharg'd,
And all the fertile country blooming round,
"My hairs grow grey in peace," were then thy words;
"Fields of my youth, be ever, ever blest!
"My eyes, grow dim, shall not much longer view
"Your heart-delighting scenes, for happier plains
"Must I exchange you—plains beyond the skies."
Ah, father, best belov'd, must I so soon
Lose thee! my nearest friend!—distressing thought!
Close to thy tomb, with filial love, I'll raise
A modest altar, and with ardour seek
Each blest occasion to relieve the woes
Of the oppressed and wretched; on each day,
That gives the happy chance of doing good,
I'll pour sweet milk upon a parent's grave,
And strew with flowers the ever sacred spot—
He paus'd but kept his eyes, suffus'd with tears,
Fix'd on the good old man; then, sighing; said,
How still he lies, and smiles amidst his slumbers!
Some of his virtuous deeds must hover o'er,
In peaceful dreams, and fill his cheerful soul;
Whilst the moon pours her rays upon his bare
And shining temples, and his silver beard;
Oh may the breeze, and dewy damps of eve—
Do thee no harm. Then gently did he kiss
His aged forehead, gently wak'd him up,
And led him to his cot, in lighter sleep,
On softest furs, to slumber out the night.
—P. D.
Port Folio, I-70, Feb. 28, 1801, Phila.
For the Port Folio.
MYRTIL AND DAPHNE
An Idyl.