Never on earth again Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear, Like some Æolian strain, Breathing at even-tide serene and clear; His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyes The unbroken seal of peace and silence lies. And from thy yearning heart, Whose inmost core was warm with love for him, A gladness must depart, And those kind eyes with many tears be dim; While lonely memories, an unceasing train, Will turn the raptures of the past to pain. Yet, mourner, while the day Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by, And hope forbids one ray To stream athwart the grief-discoloured sky, There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloom A trembling lustre from beyond the tomb. 'Tis from the better land: There, bathed in radiance that around them springs, Thy lov'd one's wings expand, As with the quoiring cherubim he sings; And all the glory of that God can see, Who said on earth to children, "Come to me." Mother! thy child is blest; And though his presence may be lost to thee, And vacant leave thy breast, And missed a sweet load from thy parent knee-- Though tones familiar from thine ear have passed, Thou'lt meet thy first-born with his Lord at last. ELEGY ON THE EXILE AND DEATH OF OVID. [_Translated from the Latin of Angelus Politianus._] BY FRANCIS ARDEN.--1821. A Roman Bard lies on the Euxine's side, Barbarian earth a Roman poet holds, Barbarian earth, wash'd by cold Isther's tide, The poet of the tender loves infolds. Excites not this, O Rome! a blush in thee, That to so great a nursling, harsh of mood, Reserv'st a bosom steel'd in cruelty, Surpassing the inhuman Getic brood? Had Scythian fields, ye muses, one to chase, His weary minutes of disease away, His frigid limbs upon the couch to place, Or with sweet converse to beguile the day. One who would mark the throbbing of his veins, The lotion's aid with ready hand apply, Would close his eyes 'midst dissolution's pains, Or with fond lips inhale his latest sigh. None could be found, not one, for warlike Rome, From Pontus far detains his early friends, Far stands his wife's and young descendants' home, Nor on her exil'd sire his daughter tends. But the wild Bessi of enormous limb, And the Coralli yellow hair'd, are there; Or, clad in skins, the Getic people grim, Whose bosoms hearts of flint within them bear. Yes, the Sarmatian boor, with aspect dread, His savage succours on the bard bestow'd; The fierce Sarmatian, from debauch oft led, Borne to his horse's back a reeling load. The fierce Sarmatian boor, with piercing eye Deep prison'd in his rugged forehead's bound, Whose temples, shiv'ring 'neath th' inclement sky, With clatt'rings of his frost-wrapp'd hair resound.