Wild, snorting fire, the courser rear'd, As wrapp'd in smoke he disappear'd, Poor Leonora fell; The hideous spectres hover round, Deep groans she hears from under ground, And fiends ascend from hell. They dance, and say, in dreadful howl, "She asks no mercy for her soul; "Her earthly course is done. "When mortals, rash and impious! dare "Contend with God, and court despair, "We claim them as our own." "Yet," thus was heard, in milder strains, "Call on the Lord, while life remains, "Unite your heart to his; "When man repents and is resign'd, "God loves to soothe his suff'ring mind, "And grant him future bliss." "We claim as ours, who impious dare "Contend with God, and court despair;" Again the spectres cry'd. "Fate threats in vain, when man's resign'd, "God loves to soothe the suff'ring mind," The gentler voice reply'd. Leonora, e'er her sense was gone, Thus faint exclaim'd,--"thy Will be done, "Lord, let thy anger cease." Soft on the wind was borne the pray'r; The spectres vanish'd into air, And all was hush'd in peace. Now redd'ning tints the skies adorn, And streaks of gold, proclaim the morn; The night is chas'd away. The sun ascends, new warmth he gives, New hope, new joy; all nature lives, And hails the glorious day. No more are dreadful fantoms near; Love and his smiling train, appear; They cull each sweetest flow'r, To scatter o'er the path of youth, To deck the bridal bed, when Truth And Beauty own their pow'r. Ah,--could your pow'r avert the blast Which threatens Bliss!--could passion last! Ye dear enchanters tell; What purer joy could Heaven bestow, Than when with shar'd affection's glow Our panting bosoms swell? Sweet spirits wave the airy wand, Two faithful hearts your care demand; Lo! bounding o'er the plain, Led by your charm, a youth returns; With hope, his breast impatient burns; Hope is not always vain. "Wake, Leonora!--wake to Love! For thee, his choicest wreath he wove;" Death vainly aim'd his Dart. The Past was all a dream; she woke-- He lives;--'twas William's self who spoke, And clasp'd her to his Heart. _Balto. Weekly Mag._, I-280, Apr. 29, 1801, Balto. [G. A. Bürger, _Lenore_. The last eight stanzas are an invention of the translator.] For the Portfolio. Mr. Old School, If you permit a truant to peep into your literary seminary, he will venture to present you with the inclosed hastily written lines, as a peace offering; but shall not be irritated beyond measure, should you choose to convert it into a _burnt offering_, as a just punishment for time misspent. At any rate, the sentence you shall pass, shall not be appealed from.