Ah,—could your pow'r avert the blast
Which threatens Bliss!—could passion last!
Ye dear enchanters tell;
What purer joy could Heaven bestow,
Than when with shar'd affection's glow
Our panting bosoms swell?
Sweet spirits wave the airy wand,
Two faithful hearts your care demand;
Lo! bounding o'er the plain,
Led by your charm, a youth returns;
With hope, his breast impatient burns;
Hope is not always vain.
"Wake, Leonora!—wake to Love!
For thee, his choicest wreath he wove;"
Death vainly aim'd his Dart.
The Past was all a dream; she woke—
He lives;—'twas William's self who spoke,
And clasp'd her to his Heart.
Balto. Weekly Mag., I-280, Apr. 29, 1801, Balto.
[G. A. Bürger, Lenore. The last eight stanzas are an invention of the translator.]
For the Portfolio.
Mr. Old School,
If you permit a truant to peep into your literary seminary, he will venture to present you with the inclosed hastily written lines, as a peace offering; but shall not be irritated beyond measure, should you choose to convert it into a burnt offering, as a just punishment for time misspent.
At any rate, the sentence you shall pass, shall not be appealed from.
Your sincere well-wisher,
The Author.