WHAT YOU PLEASE. 285 



What doth he see by yon blasted tree ? 

 A gallant knight armed cap-a-piS 

 Jesu Maria i how fiercely he rides, 



And the foam rolls down from his charger's sides. 



******** 



The storm is gone like April rain. 



The sunshine and calm are come again ; 



But the storm is not gone, the clouds are not fled, 



That darken'd the brow of King Ethelred. 



It is a mournful thing to trace 



A tear upon our sister's face, 



Or keep watch by the weak and old, 



And feel their warm hands growing cold ; 



These are bitter griefs which throw 



A shadow on the bosom's glow ; 



Thoughts of fire and pain which roll 



A burning tunic on the soul ; 



And such I ween were passing thro' 

 The monarch's breast, as he sat beside 

 The couch where his dying daughter lay. 

 While the shadow of the twilight gray 

 Upon her face did glide. 



And here I am compelled to break off abruptly. The foregoing poem I 

 ought to have premised, is translated from a singular black-letter 

 manuscript, in the Bodleian library at Oxford, and must be considered 

 a treasure, as an example of a very peculiar species of poetry which was 

 cultivated with much success by our Saxon ancestors. Probably, you 

 will notice the resemblance of the metre and manner of my version to 

 Mr. Coleridge's Christabel, a circumstance readily accounted for, if we 

 remember that the style of that poem is framed upon the ancient ballad. 

 Next month, I propose continuing my translation, and by way of esta- 

 blishing the authenticity of the manuscript, I will, if you like, furnish 

 you with some verses of the original Saxon. 



I conclude with a little imitation from the sweet Spanish of Garcilasso 

 de la Vega. 



TO A LADY GATHERING FLOWERS. 



WHILE the spirit of sweet youth 



About thy head its garland wreatheth, 

 And the music of thy heart 



Through those lips of perfume breatheth : 



While the wind of summer time 



Thy raven tresses shaketh, 

 And not a thought of grief or care 



With thine opening eyes awaketh : 



Gather in thy harvest, Lady, 



Before the autumn rain doth flow ; 

 Ere the winter storm doth cover 



Thy tree of life with snow. 



The myrtle blossoms shall decay, 



The pale moss in its place shall be ; 

 Lady, time is hastening on, 



And it waiteth not for thee. 



