| They say the Swan, though mute his whole life long, Pours forth sweet melody when life is flying, Making the desert plaintive with his song, Wondrous and sad, and sweetest still while dying; Is it for life and pleasure past he's sighing, Grieving to lose what none can e'er prolong? Oh, no! he hails its close, on death relying As an escape from violence and wrong: And thus, dear lady! I at length perceiving, The fatal end of my unhappy madness, In thy oft broken faith no more believing, Welcome despair's sole comforter with gladness, And mourning one so fair is so deceiving, Breathe out my soul in notes of love and sadness. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
EPIGRAMME FRANCAISE.
| Lit de mes plaisirs; lit de mes pleurs; Lit on je nais; lit on je mours; Tu nous fais voir combien procheins Sort nos plaisirs de nos chagrins. |
TRANSLATION.
| Couch of Sorrow; Couch of Joy; Of Life's first breath, and Death's last sigh; Thou makest us see what neighbors near Our pleasures and our sorrows are. |
The above was the execution of a task proposed by a French gentleman, who, boasting the piquant terseness of his language, said that the original could not be rendered into English.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.