More can no mortal effect, work with what ardour he will.
——-
I WOULD compare to the land this anvil, its lord to the hammer,
And to the people the plate, which in the middle is bent.
Sad is the poor tin-plate's lot, when the blows are but given at random:
Ne'er will the kettle be made, while they uncertainly fall.
——-
WHAT is the life of a man? Yet thousands are ever accustom'd
Freely to talk about man,—what he has done, too, and how.
Even less is a poem; yet thousands read and enjoy it,
Thousands abuse it.—My friend, live and continue to rhyme!
——-
MERRY'S the trade of a poet; but somewhat a dear one, I fear me
For, as my book grows apace, all of my sequins I lose.
——-
Is' thou'rt in earnest, no longer delay, but render me happy;
Art thou in jest? Ah, sweet love! time for all jesting is past.
——-
ART thou, then, vex'd at my silence? What shall I speak of? Thou markest
Neither my sorrowful sigh, nor my soft eloquent look.
Only one goddess is able the seal of my lips to unloosen,—
When by Aurora I'm found, slumbering calm on thy breast.
Ah, then my hymn in the ears of the earliest gods shall be chaunted,
As the Memnonian form breath'd forth sweet secrets in song.
——-
IN the twilight of morning to climb to the top of the mountain,—
Thee to salute, kindly star, earliest herald of day,—
And to await, with impatience, the gaze of the ruler of heaven,—
Youthful delight, oh oft lur'st thou me out in the night!
Oh ye heralds of day, ye heavenly eyes of my mistress,
Now ye appear, and the sun evermore riseth too soon.
——-
THOU art amazed, and dost point to the ocean. It seems to be burning,
Flame-crested billows in play dart round our night-moving bark.
Me it astonisheth not,—of the ocean was born Aphrodite,—
Did not a flame, too, proceed from her for us, in her son?
——-
GLEAMING the ocean appear'd, the beauteous billows were smiling,