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Star of the dark and stormy sea,

When wrecking tempests round us rave, Thy gentle virgin form we see

Bright rising o'er the hoary wave.

The howling storm that seems to crave Their victims, sink in music sweet;

The surging seas recede to pave

The path beneath thy glistening feet.

Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the desart waters wild,

Who pitying hears the seaman's cry,

The God of mercy, as a child,

On that chaste bosom loves to lie; While soft the chorus of the sky Their hymns of tender mercy sing, And angel voices name on high, The mother of the heavenly King.

Ave Maris Stella.

Star of the deep! at that blest name
The waves sleep silent round the keel,

The tempest wild their fury tame

That made the deep's foundations reel:
The soft celestial accents steal
So soothing through the realms of wo,
The newly damned a respite feel
From torture, in the depths below.

Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the mild and placid seas,
Whom rainbow rays of mercy crown,
Whose name thy faithful Portuguese,
O'er all that to the depths go down,
With hymns of grateful transport own:
When gathering clouds obscure their light,
And heaven assumes an awful frown,

The Star of Ocean glitters bright.

Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the deep! when angel lyres
To hymn thy holy name essay,
In vain a mortal harp aspires

To mingle in the mighty lay!
Mother of God! one living ray
Of hope our grateful bosoms fires,
When storms and tempests pass away,
To join the bright immortal choirs.

Ave Maris Stella!

MR OLDSCHOOL,

I send you, for publication in the Port Folio, a Persian Ode of Hafiz, translated by the late Sir WILLIAM JONES. The translator, who was as much distinguished for good taste, as he was for great learning and extensive research, observes—“The wildness and simplicity of this Persian song pleased me so much, that I have attempted to translate it in verse: the reader will excuse the singularity of the measure which I have used, if he considers the difficulty of bringing so many eastern proper names into our stanzas.

I have endeavoured, as far as I was able, to give my translation the easy turn of the original; and I have, as nearly as possible, imitated the cadence and accent of the Persian measure; from which every reader, who understands music, will perceive that the Asiatic numbers are capable of as regular a melody as any are in Metastasio."

As many

of your

readers are not versed in Persian literature, nor familiar with all the works of our learned translator, I presume this elegant little piece will not be an unacceptable pre

sent.

A PERSIAN SONG.

Yours, &c.

J. C.

Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight,

And bid these arms thy neck infold;

That rosy cheek, that lily hand

Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bakhára's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
What'er the frowning zealots say:
Tell them their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Roenabad,
A bower so sweet as Mosselláy.
Oh! when these fair perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display,
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destined prey.
In vain with love our bosoms glow;
Can all our tears, can all our sighs
New lustre to those charms impart?
Can cheeks where living roses blow,
Where Nature spreads her richest dies,
Require the borrowed gloss of art?
Speak not of fate-ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flowers that round us bloom:
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream:
To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom:
Beauty has such resistless power,
That e'en the chaste Egyptian damet
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy:
For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!

But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear;
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders sage)
While music charms the ravished ear,
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age.

A melted ruby is a common periphrasis for wine in the Persian poetry. See Hafiz, ode 22. † Zoleikha, Potiphar's wife.

+ Joseph.

What cruel answer have I heard!

And yet, by heaven, I love thee still:
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?
Yet say, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which nought but drops of honey sip?
Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,
Like orien peals at random strung;
Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say,
But, oh, far sweeter, if they please

The nymph for whom those notes are sung!

It is known to most of our readers that when the prize for an address on the opening of Drury-lane theatre, was awarded to lord Byron, the town was for a long time amused by the complaints of disappointed candidates, and the raillery of all the wits of London. Among the latter were two young lawyers by the name of Smith, who imagined the plan of parodying the manner of all the distinguished poets of England, in a collection of addresses supposed to have been rejected. From this merry volume, we select the follow ing parody of Walter Scott, which is much superior to Colman's, and indeed bears more the character of Scott's style than any of the burlesque imitations of him. After an introduction in the ancient manner, and a description of the night, for which we have not room, the poet proceeds to the burning of the theatre.

THE BURNING.

As chaos which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise,

When light first flash'd upon her eyes:
So London's sons in nightcap woke,

In bedgown woke her dames,

For shouts were heard mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke,

"The Playhouse is in flames."

And lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tale its lustre lends

To every window pane:

.

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,
And Barbican, moth eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennel sport,

A bright ensanguin'd drain:

Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height
Where patent shot they sell:
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,
The ticket porters' house of call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson's Hotel.

Nor these alone, but far and wide
Across the Thames's gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne,
And daisy white and hoary thorn
In borrow'd lustre seem'd to sham
The rose or red sweet-Wil-li-am.

To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,
As from a lofty altar rise;

It seem'd that nations did conspire,
To offer to the god of fire

Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summon'd firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all.
Starting from short and broken snoose,
Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd shoes,
But first his worsted hosen plied,
Plush breeches next in crimson died,
His nether bulk embraced,

VOL. I.

Then jacket thick of red or blue,
Whose massy shoulder gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,
In tin or copper traced.

3 H

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