At length upon the grass he threw him, Hid in his wing his beak and wept, There ceased his sorrows to pursue him, The little dove for ever slept. His mate, now sad abroad and grieving, Flies from a distance home again, Sits by her friend, with bosom heaving, And bids him wake with sorrowing pain. She sighs, she weeps, her spirits languish, Around and round the spot she goes, Ah! charming Chloe's lost in anguish, Her friend wakes not from his repose! LAURA'S PRAYER. As the harp's soft sighings in the silent valley, To high heaven reaching, lifts thy pious prayer, Laura, be tranquil! again with health shall nourish Thy loved companion. O! ye gods, behold fair Laura sunk in anguish, Kneeling, O! behold her on the grassy hill, Mild evening's sportive zephyrs gently embracing Her golden ringlets. Glist'ning with tears, her sad eyes to you she raises, Her fair bosom heaving like the swelling wave, Whilst in the solemn grove echo, clothed in darkness, Repeats her accents. "O! gods, my friend beloved give again health's blessings, Faded are her cheeks now, dull her once bright eye, In her heart no pleasure,--killed by cruel sickness, As by heat flowers. "But if your hard laws should bid her quit existence, Grant then my sad prayer, with her let me too die,"-- Laura, be tranquil! thy friend thou'lt see reviving Like spring's sweet roses. THE STORM. BY DERJAVIN. As my bark in restless ocean Mounts its rough and foaming hills, Whilst its waves in dark commotion Pass me, hope my bosom fills. Who, when warring clouds are gleaming, Quenches the destructive spark? Say what hand, where safety's beaming, Guides through rocks my little bark? Thou Creator! all o'erseeing, In this scene preserv'st me dread, Thou, without whose word decreeing Not a hair falls from my head. Thou in life hast doubly blest me, All my soul to thee's revealed, Thou amongst the great hast placed me, Be midst them my guide and shield! TO MY HEART. Why, poor heart, so ceaseless languish? Why with such distresses smart? Nought alleviates thy anguish, What afflicts thee so, poor heart? Heart, I comprehend not wrongly, Thou a captive art confest, Near Eliza thou beat'st strongly As thou'dst leap into her breast. Since 'tis so then, little throbber, You and I, alas! must part, I'd not be thy comfort's robber; To her I'll resign thee, heart. Yet the maid in compensation Must her own bestow on me, And with such remuneration Never shall I grieve for thee. But should she, thy sorrows spurning, This exchange, poor heart, deny, Then I'll bear thee, heart, though mourning, From her far and hasty fly.