I had a sense in dreams of a beauty rare, Whom Fate had spell-bound, and rooted there, Stooping, like some enchanted theme, Over the marge of that crystal stream, Where the blooming Greek, to Echo blind, With Self-love fond, had to waters pined, Ages had waked, and ages slept, And that bending posture still she kept: For her eyes she may not turn away, 'Till a fairer object shall pass that way-- 'Till an image more beauteous this world can show, Than her own which she sees in the mirror below. Pore on, fair Creature! forever pore, Nor dream to be disenchanted more: For vain is expectance, and wish in vain, 'Till a new Narcissus can come again. TO LOUISA M----, WHOM I USED TO CALL "MONKEY." Louisa, serious grown and mild, I knew you once a romping child, Obstreperous much and very wild. Then you would clamber up my knees, And strive with every art to tease, When every art of yours could please. Those things would scarce be proper now, But they are gone, I know not how, And woman's written on your brow. Time draws his finger o'er the scene; But I cannot forget between The Thing to me you once have been; Each sportive sally, wild escape,-- The scoff, the banter, and the jape,-- And antics of my gamesome Ape. TRANSLATIONS. FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE. * * * * * I. THE BALLAD SINGERS. Where seven fair Streets to one tall Column[1] draw, Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw; Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace, And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race: With cloak loose-pinn'd on each, that has been red, But long with dust and dirt discolored Belies its hue; in mud behind, before, From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er. One a small infant at the breast does bear; And one in her right hand her tuneful ware, Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken, When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken, Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt, Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns, Cherish'd the gift of _Song_, which sorrow quells; And, working single in their low-rooft cells, Oft cheat the tedium of a winter's night With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight.-- Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid, Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid To miss a note, with elbows red comes out. Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout Thrusts in his unwash'd visage. _He_ stands by, Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees, But pricks his ears up with the hopes of song. So, while the Bard of Rhodope his wrong Bewail'd to Proserpine on Thracian strings, The tasks of gloomy Orcus lost their stings, And stone-vext Sysiphus forgets his load.