EXTRACT

From the Corona Trajica, a Poem on Mary Queen of Scots, with a Translation. By the same.

Thanks for your news, illustrious lords, she cried;

I greet the doom that must my griefs decide :

Sad though it be, though sense must shriek from pain,
Yet the immortal sonl the trial shall sustain.

But had the fatal sentence reach'd my ears

In France, in Scotland, with my husband crown'd, Not age itself could have allayed my fears,

And my poor heart had shudder'd at the sound. But now immur'd for twenty tedious years,

Where nought my listening cares can catch around But fearful noise of danger and alarms,

The frequent threat of death, and constant din of arms,

Ah! what have I in dying to bemoan?

What punishment in death can they devise For her who living only lives to groan,

And see continual death before her eyes?
Comfort's in death, where 'tis in life unknown;

Who death expects feels more than he who dies :-
Though too much valour may our fortune try,
To live in fear of death is many times to die.

Where have I e'er repos'd in silent night,

But death's stern image stalk'd around my bed?
What morning e'er arose on me with light,
But on my health some sad disaster bred?

Did fortune ever aid my war or flight,

Or grant a refuge for my hapless head? Still at my life some fearful phantom aim'd,

My draughts with poison drugg'd, my towers with treachery flamed.

And now with fatal certainty I know

Is come the hour that my sad being ends,

Where life must perish with a single blow;

Then mark her death whom steadfast faith attenās:
My checks unchang'd, my inward calm shall show,
While free from foes, serene, my generous friends,

I meet my death-or rather I should say,
Meet my eternal life, my everlasting day.

LOVE

LOVE AT FIrst sight,

BY THE SAME,

Translated by the same.

NOdigan que es menester

Mucho tiempo para amar;
Que el amor que ha de matar
De un golpe ha de ser.
Amor que comienza ingrato
Y el trato le da valor,
No se ha de llamar amor
Sino costumbre de trato.
El que vió quiso y mató
Esse es amor verdadero,
Y mas quando es el primero
Como el que te tengo yo.
Mirar,escribir, y hablar
Años un galan y dama,
Es hacer amor con ama
Que se lo han dado á criar.
Hombre ha de nacer Amor,
Luego andar, y ser galan ;
Que el Amor que no es Adan
No ha de tener valor.

Marques de las Navaş.

Let no one say that there is need

Of time for love to grow; Ah no! the love that kills indeed Dispatches at a blow.

The spark which but by slow degrees Is nursed into a flame,

Is habit, friendship, what you picase; But love is not its name.

For love to be completely true,
It death at sight should deal,
Should be the first one ever knew,
In short, be that I feel.

To write, to sigh,and to converse,
For
years to play the fool;

'Tis to put passion out to nurse, And send one's heart to school.

'Tis she alone shall glad my sight, Whose absence leaves me no delight.

Laura Winter's gloom can charin,
And his piercing blast disarm;
Hence, steru parent of the year,
I love thy solemn season drear ;
If thy snows deform the earth,
Thou, Winter, gav'st my Laura birth.

TO FANCY,

AN ODE, BY THE SAME.

APTUROUS Fancy! lend thy lyre,

Aptly to strike the deep-ton'd shell,
And bid its trembling echos swell,
Resounding far, in living lays,

Thee, goddess, and thy wand'ring ways.

Untaught by thee, what Poet
wooes,
Or wooes to win the wayward Muse?
By thee unaided in his flight,

How dares attempt Parnassus' height?
But should the child of rapture view,
Thee rob'd in light of varying hue ;
Led by the flight, his course he wings,
To gain the verse inspiring springs,
Of Hippocrene or Arethuse,

Belov'd and welcom'd by the Muse;
Nor ever thither dares to stray,
When thou disdain'st to mark the way..

Twas when the steed th' Aonian mount
First struck, and op'd the sacred fount,
Whence Hippocrene's clear waters ran,
Thy sway o'er mortals first began ;
As issuing from th' enchanted stream,
Thy magic influence 'gan to beam.
Rapt the tuneful nine admire,
How thy voice improves the lyre;
Fairer flowers adorn the ground;
Sweeter notes re-echo round;
The streams in softer murmurs run;
Their waves reflect a brighter sun.

Fear