Far from the scenes that gave my being birth, From parents far, an outcast of the earth!

In youth's warm hours, from each restriction free, Left to myself in dangerous liberty.

Ah! scenes of earthly joy! ah, much-lov'd shades!

Soon may my footsteps tread your vernal glades.

Ah! should kind Heav'n permit me to explore Your seats of still tranquillity once more!

E'en now to Fancy's visionary eye, Hope shews the flattering hour of transport nigh, Blue shines the aether, when the storm is past; And calm repose succeeds to sorrow's blast.

Flourished, ye scenes of every new delight!

Wave wide your branches to my raptur'd sight!

While, ne'er to roam again, my wearied feet Seek the kind refuge of your calm retreat.

Now pale disease shoots thro' my languid frame, And checks the zeal for wisdom and for fame.

Now droops fond hope, by Disappointment cross'd; Chill'd by neglect, each sanguine wish is lost.

O'er the weak mound stern Ocean's billows ride, And waft destruction in with every tide; While Mars, descending from his crimson car, Fans with fierce hands the kindling flames of war.

Her gentle aid let Consolation lend; All human evils hasten to their end.

The storm abates at every gust it blows; Past ills enhance the comforts of repose.

He who ne'er felt the pressure of distress, Ne'er felt returning pleasure's keen excess.

Time who Affliction bore on rapid wing, My panting heart to happiness may bring; I, on my native hills, may yet inhale The purer influence of the ambient gale.

_Observer_, II-95, Aug. 8, 1807, Balto.

[Albrecht von Haller, _Sehnsucht nach dem Vaterlande_.]

Walter Scott, Esq., whose honoured name is now perfectly familiar to every lover of poetical description, has lately published a ballad which we are solicitous to preserve in this paper. The gayety of the beginning, contrasted with the solemnity of the conclusion of this terrifick ballad cannot fail to strike all who relish The Castle of Otranto, or The Romance of the Forest.

FREDERICK AND ALICE.

This tale is imitated rather than translated from a fragment introduced in Goethe's "Claudina von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti to engage the attention of the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvement, published it in his "Tales of Wonder."

[The poem follows.]

_Port Folio_, IV-134, Aug. 29, 1807, Phila.

[Goethe, _Claudine von Villa Bella_, Act II. Song by "Rugantino"

(Karlos von Castellvecchio).

M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Wonder_.]

THE La.s.s OF FAIR WONE.

From the German of Buerger.

_Charms of Lit._, p. 103, 1808, Trenton.

[Also in _Phila. Minerva_, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila.]

THE WOODEN LEG. [b].

A Swiss Idyll.

By GESSNER.

[Prose translation.]

_Charms of Lit._, p. 401, 1808, Trenton.

[S. Gessner, _Das holzerne Bein_.]

FROM THE GERMAN OF GESNER.

Hail, Morning, to thy rising beam That gilds with light the mountain's brow, And shines and glitters in the stream That winds along the vale below!

Joy, and health, and glad delight Await thy steps, thy march pursue; The Zephyr now that slept the night In flowers that weep beneath the dew,

His plumes with new-born vigour tries, And lifts him from his balmy bed; And dreams that round the wearied eyes Of mortals hover'd, now are fled.

Haste, ye Gales, and thro' the air Waft the sweets from every flower, And wave your wings around my Fair, What slumbers in yon rosy bower;

Paint o'er her lips and cheek's bright hues, And heave upon her heaving breast, And when yo've chas'd Sleep's balmy dews, And gently burst the bonds of rest,

Oh whisper to her list'ning ear, That e'er bright Morn had deck'd the sky, These streams beheld me shed the tear, And heard me pour for her the sigh!

_Lady's Weekly Misc._, VII-112, June 11, 1808, N. Y.

[S. Gessner, _Morgenlied_.]

MORNING SONG.

(Morgenlied) from the German of Gesner.

Welcome, early orb of morn!

Welcome, infant day!

O'er the wood-top'd mountain borne, Mark its coming ray!

Now o'er babbling brooks it beams; Sips from each flower its _dew_; Now with glorious gladdening gleams Wakes the world anew.

Zephyrs first, o'er flowers that slumber'd, Quit their couch, and play; Breathe o'er flowers in sighs unnumber'd, Breathe the scent of day.

Fancy now her reign gives o'er, Every vision flies; Chloe's cheek is wan no more, Cupids round it rise.

Hasten, Zephyr, waft from roses All their loveliest bloom!

Haste where Chloe now reposes, Wake her from her tomb!

To the fairest's couch repair, Wanton round her pillow; O'er her lip and bosom fair Bathe thy blandest billow!

She wakes the whispers to the gale, Wakes from her morning dream; Whilst so the stream, and thro' the vale, I er'st have breathed her name.

_Emerald_, n. s., I-562, Sept. 10, 1808, Boston.

[S. Gessner, _Morgenlied_.]

TRANSLATION OF Sh.e.l.lER'S "FORGET ME NOT."