[S. Gessner, _Lycas, oder die Erfindung der Gärten_.]
For the Port Folio. MYRTILLO. An idyl, attempted from the German of Gessner.
At peaceful eve, Myrtillo sought the lake, Whilst the moon's beams upon its bosom played; The silent tract, illumin'd by its rays, The nightingale's enchanting tender note, Had held him bound in rapture's soothing trance. At length, arous'd, he homeward took his steps, And in the verdant bower, where clust'ring vines Before his lonely dwelling formed a porch Of simple structure, deeply slumbering found His venerable parent--his grey head Supported by his arm, while through the leaves The moon-beams pour'd their lustre on his face. With arms enfolded, and with swelling heart, He stood before his father--long he stood, His pious eyes fix'd fondly on the sage, Then rais'd them, swimming with his filial tears, And thro' the illumin'd leaves look'd up to heaven, Whilst grateful drops roll'd down his moisten'd cheek. Oh thou! at length he cried, whom, next the gods, I reverence, my father--ah, how soft Thy peaceful slumbers! Of the just and good How placid is the sleep! Thy tottering steps Were, doubtless, hither bent, in silent prayer To spend the hour of eve; but, at thy task Of duty, slumber seiz'd thee, whilst, for me, Thy prayer of love was wing'd into the skies, How happy is my lot! the fav'ring gods Must hear thy fond petition; else, why stands Our cot secure, amid the branches, bent With ripening fruit? why, else, such blessings shower'd Upon our healthy, fast increasing herd? Upon the golden produce of our fields? When oft the tear of joy bedew'd thy cheek, To see me, anxious, cherish and support Thy feeble age; when, towards the vault of heaven, You turn'd your swimming eyes, and blest your son; Ah! then, what words his blessings could express! My bosom swell'd with transport, and the tears O'erflow'd my glowing cheeks-- When yester morn, reclining on my arm, You left our cot to feel the quickening beams Of the warm sun, and saw about thee sport The frolic herd, the trees, with fruit o'ercharg'd, And all the fertile country blooming round, "My hairs grow grey in peace," were then thy words; "Fields of my youth, be ever, ever blest! "My eyes, grow dim, shall not much longer view "Your heart-delighting scenes, for happier plains "Must I exchange you--plains beyond the skies." Ah, father, best belov'd, must I so soon Lose thee! my nearest friend!--distressing thought! Close to thy tomb, with filial love, I'll raise A modest altar, and with ardour seek Each blest occasion to relieve the woes Of the oppressed and wretched; on each day, That gives the happy chance of doing good, I'll pour sweet milk upon a parent's grave, And strew with flowers the ever sacred spot-- He paus'd but kept his eyes, suffus'd with tears, Fix'd on the good old man; then, sighing; said, How still he lies, and smiles amidst his slumbers! Some of his virtuous deeds must hover o'er, In peaceful dreams, and fill his cheerful soul; Whilst the moon pours her rays upon his bare And shining temples, and his silver beard; Oh may the breeze, and dewy damps of eve-- Do thee no harm. Then gently did he kiss His aged forehead, gently wak'd him up, And led him to his cot, in lighter sleep, On softest furs, to slumber out the night.