Page:Translations from Camoens; and Other Poets.pdf/9



HIS mountain-scene, with sylvan grandeur crowned; These chestnut-woods, in summer verdure bright; These founts and rivulets, whose mingling sound Lulls every bosom to serene delight;

Soft on these hills the sun's declining ray; This clime, where all is new; these murmuring seas; Flocks, to the fold that bend their lingering way; Light clouds, contending with the genial breeze;

And all that Nature's lavish hands dispense, In gay luxuriance, charming every sense, Ne'er, in thy absence, can delight my breast; Nought, without thee, my weary soul beguiles; And joy may beam, yet, midst her brightest smiles, A secret grief is mine, that will not rest.