The child's heart bounds with glee,
At all the starry tapers-

His eyes grow bright to see

Through Heaven's transparent vapours That glorious Christmas tree!

Before his wondering eyes

A glorious vision shiftedA dream of Paradise!

For Angel hands uplifted The orphan to the skies.

Within that blessed sphere

A home he now hath gottenEven with his Saviour dear:

There soon is all forgotten That he hath suffered here.

THE SHADE OF THE LEAVES.

FROM THE SPANISH.

"Con el viento murmuran
Madre, las hojas.

Y al sonido me duermo
Bajo su sombra."

The wind murmurs round,
As the bough gently heaves;

And I sleep at the sound

In the shade of the leaves :

My thoughts gently glide

Where the sweet zephyr bloweth,
As a light vessel floweth

Away o'er the tide ;

And my senses are drowned

In the bright dews of heaven,
And the rapture is given

That so seldom is found
Where mortality grieves.

As I sleep at the sound

In the shade of the leaves.

ΙΙ.

Mid the flowers still I rest:
If by chance I awaken,
Pain and sorrow have taken
Their flight from my breast-
They cannot be found
In the heart of the dreamer.
There is nought but the tremor,
The tranquil rebound
Of the bough, as it heaves-
While I sleep at the sound
In the shade of the leaves.

THE BLIND OLD MAN.

AN IDYL.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ANDRE CHENIER.

"God of Claros, God of the Silver Bow-
Sminthean Apollo, if thou dost not show
Light to these wandering feet and sightless eyes,
Here must I perish beyond doubt!" With sighs
'Twas thus the old man ceased his piteous plaint,
And near a wood he walked, feeble and faint,
And there upon a mossy stone sat down ;-
Three shepherds, children of that soil, with brown
Cheeks, shaded o'er with clustering golden locks,
Followed him by the bleating of their flocks
And their loud-barking mastiffs, thither led.
Him they protected, as he feebly fled

From their rude dogs' inhospitable rage,

:

Restraining them and as they reached the sage,
And heard his voice, and saw his sightless eyes,
"Sure this must be some dweller of the skies!"
They cried aloud." His face is full of pride,
And, from the rustic girdle round him tied,
Hangs a rude lyre-and his deep voice doth seem

To move the air and the woods the heavens and the ocean stream."

He hears their steps-is troubled-in despair

Turns his quick ear, and lifts his hands in prayer:

"Fear not, unhappy stranger," they exclaim,
"If thou, indecd, beneath this earthly frame,
Art not some heavenly messenger of peace-
Some god-some patron deity of Greece;
Such god-like grace ennobles thy old age!
Or if but only mortal, thou dost wage
Unequal war with fate-the pitying wave
That saved you from a wild and unknown grave,
Has cast you among men who've learned to know,
And feel, not aggravate a brother's woe.

Strange that the destinies for ever blend

Some balanced ill with every joy they send!—
Heaven, that did give thee such a voice, denies
The light of day unto thy darkened eyes."

"Children-for child-like, tender, soft, and sweet,

Fall your young voices on my ear-discreet,
More than I could have hoped for from your years,
Are all your words: but the poor stranger fears
His woes can wake but outrage and disdain.
Do not compare me with the immortal train.

This endless night-these wrinkles-this white hair-
Is this a forehead for a god to wear?-

Ah! I am but a man, and one of those

Whose fate is wretchedness: If bent with woes,
Wandering and poor, some wretch has pass'd along,
With him you may compare me. Though in song
I never yet, like Thamyris, aspired
To vie with Phoebus: never yet, inspired
By the Eumenides, have I had cause
To punish on myself the offended laws

Of Heaven, like Edipus; and yet, malign,

The all-powerful gods visit my life's decline

With darkness, exile, and want, as if their crimes were mine."

"Take, and may soon thy destiny be changed!"

They said; and drawing what they had arranged

Within a goat's-skin, for their day's repast,

Out from the black and shining hairs they cast
(Emulous to serve him) on his heavy knees

Bread of pure wheat, sweet almonds, cream-white cheese,
Rich oily olives-figs so honey-sweet-

Nor was his dog, lying between his feet,
Without his share. Languid and wet he lay,

For, by the sailors, being borne away,

He, out at sea, escaped the pirate band,

And, swimming from the ship, rejoined him on the strand.

-"Not always iron is the rod of Fate,"

The old man said. "With heart almost elate,
I thank ye, gentle children, sent from Jove;
Happy the parents whose heaven-favoured love
Gave birth to such as you! But come, draw near,
My hands, at least, shall know you: bright and clear
Again I almost dream that I can see!

Ah! ye are beautiful as young, all three:

Sweet are your faces, for your voice is sweet!

How fair the forms where grace and virtue meet!
Grow, as I've seen Latona's palm-tree grow,
When o'er the waves I wandered, long ago,
To holy Delos, ere my sight had flown;
There, by Apollo's sacred altar-stone

These eyes beheld the beauteous palm-trees stand,
The gift of Heaven-the glory of the land-
Grow tall, revered, and fruitful, like that tree,

Since you have honoured misery in me.

Scarce have you seen your thirteenth birth-day morn—
Scarcely, my children, were your mothers born,
When I was almost old: Sit near to me

Thou who dost seem the eldest: unto thee
I trust me. Thou wilt tend with anxious care
The blind old man." "Oh, father, tell us where
Thou wanderest, and whence: for all around
Our stormy coasts bellow the waves profound."

"With merchants bound from Cumae, came I o'er
The dark blue billows from the Carian shore ;
Wishing to see if Greece had yet for me
A home-and Fate a better destiny.

Less jealous gods, and days more gladsome bright,
For hope will shine, till death conceals its light-
But poor, and without money for my fare,
They threw me on the shore-I know not where."

"O sweet-voiced old man, then thou didst not sing-
Such tones as thine could purchase everything."

"Children! the nightingale's pure spirit strain.
Falls on the bloody vulture's ear in vain:
The rich, the coarse, the grasping, and the strong
Ne'er ope their souls, nor feel the power of song:
Alone, in silence, on the slippery strand,
Beside the roaring sea, with staff in hand,

VOL. XXXII.-NO. CXCII.

3 A

I walked along, and heard from the near grass
The bleating flocks shaking their bells of brass.
Then I had ta'en this lyre, the flexile cords,
Even though my hand be weak, with fitting words,
Had sung the praises of the gods above,
And above all the hospitable Jove,

Had not enormous dogs, with baying throats,
Assailed me; then were hushed my rising notes.
And I was wretched-heaving fearful sighs—
Until you drove them off with stones and cries."

-"Alas! my father, then the world has grown
Worse than it was. There was a time, the tone
Of a rich, eloquent lyre-divinely sweet

Like thine had drawn the wolf from his retreat,
And with the vanquished tiger, humbled him at thy feet."

"The barbarians !-I was seated near the poop-
Blind vagabond,' exclaimed the mocking troop,
Sing if thy wit has still survived thine eyes-
Amuse our languor-thank the favouring skies.'
I, to confound them, though my heart was wrung,
Silenced its throbbings, and constrained my tongue.
They heard me not-my curbing hand represt
The angry god that struggled in my breast:
And thou, O Cuma! since 'twas sons of thine
Outraged Mnemosyne, the nymph divine,
May dark oblivion hide their whole career,
And may thy very name vanish and disappear!"

"Come to our village, father, it is near,
And loveth those who to the Muse are dear;
A chair with silver nails-beneath the tree
Where hangs an ivory lyre, we'll place for thee;
And then with wine and honey, every day,
We'll drive the memory of thy ills away;
And, if thou wilt, O rhapsodist divine!

Sing some celestial melody of thine,

Upon the way; we'll own Apollo near,

And say 'tis he who breathes the enchantment on our ear.”

"Hail, lovely Sicos!-twice am I thy guest; For once before, the happiest of men,

I trod thy shores. Your fathers knew me then.
They grew like you; mine eyes could then behold
The Sun, the Spring, the Morning's rosy gold;
Then I was young, and bold, and took my place
First in the dance, the combat, and the race.

I have seen Corinth, Argos, Crete, and the hundred towns,
And the rich fertile plains the Egyptian river drowns:
But sea, and land, and age, and woes, at length
Have sapped away this aching body's strength:
My voice remains 'tis thus, with folded wings,
The small cicada sits-consoles herself, and sings.
Let us begin with heaven. Hail! sovereign Jove,
And thou, O Sun, that from thy throne above,

Seest and hearest all things! Mighty Seas,
Rivers, and Lands, and ye dark Deities,
Too slow for needed vengeance-hail! all hail!
Come all ye dwellers in the Olympian vale-
Muses! who look mysterious Nature through

While we, poor mortals, know nothing except from you."

He sings, while trees with boughs of shadowy brown,
In gentle cadence bend their branches down-
And shepherds, heedless how their flocks may stray,
And travellers, abandoning their way,

Run towards him. He their many steps doth hear
Round his young guide and him. With greedy ear,
Thronging in crowds, and bearing many a wreath,
Wood-nymphs, and sylvan gods, listen and scarcely breathe.
For in wild, wandering strains, he sweetly sings
The fruitful seeds of all created things-
Water and fire-the earth-the air above-
The rivers flowing from the breast of Jove-
The banded cities-oracles and arts-

And Love, the immortal fruit of human hearts.
The King divine-Olympus and the skies-
And the world shaken by his angry eyes-
And gods, who other gods in fight withstood-
And the earth, red with more than mortal blood.
The assembled kings-the dust that hides the stars-
Raised by the warrior's feet and murderous cars-
The steel-clad heroes, flashing through the fight,
Like a vast fire upon a mountain's height-
The long-maned courser, spurning all controul,
And, with a human voice, stirring the warrior's soul.
From these his song the peaceful town regains,
And laws, and orators, and fertile plains.
But soon he sings the ramparts, warrior-filled-
The porch wherein the victim's blood is spilled-
The siege, that makes the plaintive wife afraid-
The mourning mother and the captive maid.
He sings the corn, the flocks that roam the meads
Bleating or bellowing-the rustic reeds-
The frolic crowds that to the vintage throng,
The flute, the lyre, the dancing notes of song.
Then, too, the winds he wakens from their sleep,
And sinks the struggling sailor in the deep.
Or, on an azure rock, melodiously,

He calls in crowds the Daughters of the Sea;
Who with loud cries emerge from out the tide,
And to the Trojan shore the vessel guide.
Then he lays bare the Stygian shores of Hell—
The demigods-the fields of Asphodel-

The countless shades the old men's lonely sighs—
The young men ravished from their parents' eyes-
The child, whose cradle terminates its life-

The virgin struck by death, ere she becomes a wife.

But, woods! and streams! hard rocks, and mountains tall!
What gentle horror trembles through you all,

When, soon, at Lemnos, on the forge divine,
He welds the wondrous woof, so strong and fine
(Such subtle net Arachne never wove),
And chains within the rosy Queen of Love!
And when he girdles with a marble zone,
And sudden turns proud Niobe to stone.